you know what, fuck it be free, keep reading that bad fan fiction, keep writing that bad fanfiction, keep using y/n, keep staying up to 4 a.m reading x reader, to be cringe is too be free
Summary: you don’t tell him your last name. By the time Dean finds out, he’s too far gone to do anything but brace for impact. Falling for the ice-cold, vodka-drinking Russian freshman is one thing. Falling for Ilya Rozanov’s little sister is a death wish. Dean decides he doesn’t care
Warning: 18+ content
Read part two here
The 2000s hits blasting from the speakers are so loud they rattle the floorboards, but Dean is undeniably bored.
He leans against the doorframe of the living room, a red Solo cup dangling loosely from his fingers. The party is packed, a sweaty sea of grinding bodies, spilled beer, and bad decisions, but it’s the exact same crowd as last weekend. And the weekend before that. Dean is a guy who thrives on variety, and lately, the scenery is getting repetitive. Money is no object, and usually, neither are women. He rarely spends a night alone. But tonight? Nothing is catching his eye.
“You look miserable,” Garrett remarks, bumping Dean’s shoulder as he passes by with a fresh keg of beer.
“I’m not miserable,” Dean corrects him smoothly. “I’m uninspired.”
Logan snorts from his spot on the ratty couch. “Uninspired? You literally took twins home on Tuesday.”
“That was Tuesday, Logan. It’s Friday. I’m a growing boy. I need fresh stimulation.” Dean sighs, pushing off the doorframe. “I’m going to the kitchen to find something stronger than this watered-down piss.”
“Good luck,” Tucker calls out over the music. “I think the football team raided the liquor cabinet an hour ago.”
Dean navigates the crowded hallway with the effortless grace of a guy who owns the place. He dodges a couple making out against the thermostat and sidesteps a puddle of questionable origin. As he rounds the corner into the kitchen, the noise level shifts. It’s less thumping bass and more rowdy, escalating shouts.
A crowd is gathered around the center island. Specifically, a crowd of massive, tank-like senior football players. And right in the middle of them is you.
Dean stops dead in his tracks.
You are perched on one of the barstools, looking entirely out of place and yet completely in control. Your hair falls over your shoulders in messy waves, and you’re wearing a cropped leather jacket over a tight top that leaves exactly the right amount to the imagination. But it isn’t just the way you look — though you are undeniably, breathtakingly stunning. It’s the way you’re holding court.
“You are slowing down, big guy,” you say, your voice carrying over the chanting. It’s smooth, slightly raspy, and laced with a heavy, unmistakable Russian accent.
You push a brimming shot glass of clear liquid toward a guy Dean recognizes as Meathead Mike, a defensive lineman who weighs close to three hundred pounds.
“I’m not slowing down,” Mike grunts, looking slightly green around the gills. “I’m pacing myself.”
“Pacing,” you repeat, a smirk playing on your lips. It’s a wicked, self-assured smirk. You pick up your own shot glass. “In Moscow, pacing is for the weak. We drink, or we go home to sleep. Which one are you doing, Mishka?”
Dean is instantly fascinated.
“I’m drinking,” Mike growls, snatching the glass.
You tap your glass against his. “Na zdarovye.”
You toss the vodka back effortlessly, not even a flinch crossing your features. You set the glass down with a sharp clack against the granite. Mike follows suit, but he gags halfway down, coughing violently into his elbow. His buddies groan and slap his back.
“Alright, alright, he’s done,” one of the other linebackers laughs. “Jesus, girl. What are you made of?”
“Mostly spite,” you reply, your face deadpan, though your eyes gleam with amusement.
You glance over your shoulder at a blonde girl standing nervously by the fridge. Your roommate, Morgan, the quintessential all-American girl next door whom you dragged here because you were bored.
“Morgan,” you say, snapping your fingers lightly. “Pass the bottle. I think the offense wants a turn.”
Morgan looks terrified. “Um, I think maybe we should stop? That’s, like, a lot of vodka.”
“It is barely a warm-up,” you insist, reaching over to grab the handle of Smirnoff yourself. You look at the bottle with a mix of pity and disgust.
Dean watches you, completely captivated. He knows the type of girls who hang around Briar parties. They giggle, they flirt, they bat their eyelashes at the hockey players. You are doing none of that. You look like you could buy and sell everyone in this room, and honestly? You probably could.
Six years younger than Ilya Rozanov, the infamous, cocky Boston Bruins center, you are practically a miniature version of him. Ilya brought you to the United States the second you turned eighteen, pulling you out of Moscow and away from your emotionally abusive father and older brother. He bought you a luxury apartment just off the Briar campus, filled your bank account, and told you to get an education — mostly because, in Ilya’s words, “hockey players are dumb, and we need at least one brain in the family.” Ilya spoils you rotten and guards you like a dragon hoarding gold. But right now, nobody in this kitchen knows that.
Dean takes a step forward, sliding into the gap left by one of the retreating football players.
“I don’t think you should waste your time with the offense,” Dean says, leaning his hip against the counter right next to you. He flashes you his trademark, million-dollar smile — the one that usually has girls melting into puddles. “They drop the ball when it counts.”
You pause, the vodka bottle hovering over a glass. You turn your head slowly, raking your eyes up and down Dean’s frame. You take in his messy blond hair, his sharp jawline, the casual but expensive fit of his casual sweater.
Your expression doesn’t change. You don’t melt. You don’t even blink.
“And who are you?” You ask, your tone bordering on bored. “The waterboy?”
A few of the remaining football players snicker. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. Okay. Not the usual reaction.
“Dean Di Laurentis,” he says, offering his hand. “I live here. Play hockey.”
You look at his hand, then back up to his face. You don’t shake it. “Congratulations on paying rent, Dean Di Laurentis. But as you can see, I am busy.”
Dean lets his hand drop, entirely unbothered. The chase is the best part, and you just handed him a massive head start.
“Busy giving the entire offensive line alcohol poisoning,” Dean notes, glancing at the bottle. “You know, that’s cheap shit. It’ll eat straight through your stomach lining.”
You snort, pouring yourself another shot anyway. “Please. I am Russian. This,” you tap the bottle of Smirnoff, “is practically flavored water.”
“A Russian,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “That explains the accent. What brings you to a sweaty college basement in Massachusetts? Boston isn’t exactly Moscow.”
“Thank God for that,” you mutter under your breath. You pick up the shot glass, twirling it between your fingers. “I go to school here. First semester. Which means I am currently trying to enjoy a party, but people keep talking to me instead of drinking.”
Dean laughs, a genuine, startled sound. “You’re a freshman? Could’ve fooled me. You’re holding court like a senior.”
“Age is a number,” you say dismissively. “Maturity is knowing when a man is trying to hit on you with terrible opening lines.”
“Terrible?” Dean clutches his chest in mock offense. “Ouch. I’ll have you know my opening lines have a very high success rate.”
“Then the women here have very low standards.” You toss the shot back. Again, no chaser. No wince.
Dean shakes his head in amazement. “Okay, color me impressed. You’re completely unbothered by that.”
“I am unbothered by most things,” you reply. You slide off the barstool, landing lightly on your feet. You’re a few inches shorter than Dean, but the way you hold yourself makes you seem taller. You have this undeniable, gravitational pull.
You turn to your roommate. “Morgan. Are we having fun yet, or do you want to go?”
Morgan jumps, startled to be addressed. “Um! I’m having fun! But, uh, maybe no more shots?”
“Fine. No more shots.” You look back at Dean. “See? I am very compromising. A delight to be around.”
“I can tell,” Dean says, his eyes tracking the movement of your mouth. “But you know, you never told me your name.”
“I did not,” you agree.
Dean waits a beat. “Are you going to?”
“No.”
Dean laughs again. He loves this. He is completely, hopelessly intrigued. You are stunning, sharp-tongued, and just the right amount of a bitch. It’s a breath of fresh air. “Come on. Give me something. A fake name? A nickname?”
“You can call me when you have better vodka,” you deadpan. You step around him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his chest. The contact sends a sudden, sharp jolt of electricity straight down Dean’s spine.
“Hey, wait,” Dean says, turning to follow you as you start walking toward the living room. “At least tell me what you’re studying. Let me guess. Business? Political science?”
You don’t stop walking, but you glance back over your shoulder, a patronizing smile on your lips. “Do I look like I want to wear a pantsuit and argue in a boardroom?”
“You look like you’d win every argument,” Dean fires back effortlessly.
“Obviously. But I don’t need a degree for that.” You weave through the crowd with expert precision.
Dean keeps pace, ignoring the people calling his name. “So what is it then? Art history? Bio?”
“You ask too many questions for a hockey player,” you tell him. “Aren’t you supposed to just grunt and hit things?”
Dean grins, stepping directly into your path to force you to stop. “I can do that too, if you’re into it.”
You look up at him, your eyes narrowing slightly. It’s a purely assessing gaze, like you’re weighing his worth on a scale and finding him somewhat lacking, but not entirely useless.
“You are very confident,” you note.
“I have reason to be,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction of an octave, turning rougher, more intimate. “I’m a good guy to know around here. I throw the best parties. I know the best places to eat. I can get you out of that dorm and into places you actually want to be.”
“I do not live in a dorm,” you say smoothly. “And I go wherever I want to go.”
A shadow crosses your face so fast Dean almost misses it. The mention of your father in Moscow hits a nerve, pulling at the dark memories Ilya dragged you away from. Your jaw tightens.
“Not my father,” you say, your voice suddenly cold enough to freeze hell over. “My brother.”
Dean instantly realizes he stepped on a landmine. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just making conversation.”
“You are making assumptions,” you correct him sharply. You take a step back, the playful banter completely evaporating from your posture. You look at Morgan, who is hovering a few feet away. “We are leaving.”
“Wait,” Dean says, reaching out instinctively. He catches your wrist, his fingers wrapping around the warm, soft skin.
You freeze. You look down at his hand on your wrist, and then slowly bring your eyes back up to meet his. The look you give him is so lethally calm it actually makes Dean’s heart skip a beat.
“Remove your hand,” you say softly.
Dean lets go immediately, holding both hands up in surrender. “My bad. I’m sorry. Seriously.”
You brush off your sleeve, even though he barely gripped you. You are Ilya’s sister through and through, you don’t take shit from anyone, especially not pretty-boy athletes who think they own the world.
“Do not touch me again,” you say.
“I won’t,” Dean promises, and he means it. He watches as you turn on your heel and stalk toward the front door, Morgan trailing anxiously behind you.
“Hey!” Dean calls out, unable to help himself. He takes a few steps after you. “Can I at least get your number? To apologize properly?”
You stop at the front door and look back at him. The coldness has receded a bit, replaced by that same haughty, amused superiority from the kitchen.
“You do not need my number, Dean Di Laurentis,” you call back over the thumping bass of the music. “You are clearly used to girls making things easy for you.”
“And you’re not going to?” Dean asks, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
You smile — a full, devastatingly gorgeous smile that hits Dean like a physical blow to the chest.
“I do not make anything easy for anyone,” you say.
With that, you open the front door and step out into the cool September night, pulling it shut behind you.
Dean stands in the hallway for a long, silent moment. The party rages on around him, people bumping into his shoulders, girls laughing in his direction, but he doesn’t notice any of it. He is staring at the closed front door, his mind completely blank except for the echo of your heavy Russian accent and the sharp, burning realization that he needs to see you again.
Garrett appears out of the crowd, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Hey man, who was that? She completely ghosted you.”
“I don’t know,” Dean murmurs, still staring at the door. “But I’m going to find out.”
Garrett laughs. “Looked like she was about to rip your throat out.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, a slow, entirely genuine smile spreading across his face. He finally turns to look at his teammate, his eyes bright with a sudden, fierce energy. “I think I’m in love.”
***
Outside, the air is crisp, biting at your exposed skin. You pull your leather jacket tighter around yourself as you walk down the sidewalk, the rhythmic click of your boots echoing in the quiet street.
“Oh my god,” Morgan gasps, rushing to keep up with your long strides. “Are you insane? Do you know who that was?”
“Some guy named Dean,” you say dismissively, checking your phone. A text from Ilya sits on the lock screen: Are you home? Drink water. Lock door. Love you.
“Not just some guy!” Morgan insists, practically vibrating with anxiety and awe. “That’s Dean Di Laurentis! He’s, like, Briar hockey royalty. He’s gorgeous, he’s rich, and he literally never gets turned down. You just rejected the hottest guy on campus!”
“He is arrogant,” you reply, typing a quick reply to Ilya: I am fine. Going home now. Do not be annoying.
“Well, yeah, they all are!” Morgan huffs. “But he was so into you! Why did you blow him off?”
You slide your phone back into your pocket and look at Morgan. You like her — she’s sweet and harmless — but she clearly doesn’t understand how the world works. At least, not your world.
“Because, Morgan,” you say patiently, your Russian accent softening in the quiet night air. “Men like that are used to getting what they want the moment they want it. They think the world is a vending machine. You put in a little charm, and a woman falls out.”
“And you’re not a vending machine,” Morgan finishes, nodding slowly.
“Exactly.” You smile, looking ahead down the dimly lit street toward your luxury apartment building. “I am the prize. If he wants me, he is going to have to work for it. And I am going to make him work very, very hard.”
You know exactly what you’re doing. You saw the look in Dean’s eyes when you walked away. The shock, the frustration, the desperate, clawing hunger. It’s the exact reaction you wanted.
Ilya taught you a long time ago that on the ice, you never let the opponent know your next move. You make them chase you. You make them exhaust themselves trying to figure you out, and then, when they’re completely off balance, you strike.
Dean Di Laurentis thinks he’s a player. He thinks this is a game he knows how to win.
But as you walk back to your apartment, a small, triumphant smile playing on your lips, you know one thing for absolute certain.
He has absolutely no idea who he is playing with.
***
The sharp, scraping sound of steel biting into ice is the first thing that actually makes you feel like you can breathe since you landed in America.
You sit in the third row of the arena, the chill of the rink seeping through your designer sweater, and you close your eyes for just a second. The smell of the cold, the faint metallic tang of sweat and Zamboni fumes — it’s universal. It smells like Moscow. It smells like the freezing, dilapidated local rinks where you used to sit huddled in a thick coat next to your mama, her gloved hands wrapped around a paper cup of awful coffee, watching a scrawny, angry little Ilya learn how to check kids twice his size into the boards.
Hockey is in your blood just as much as it is in Ilya’s. Before your mother passed away, the rink was your sanctuary. It was the only place your father didn’t care to go, which meant it was the only place you, Ilya, and your mama were truly safe. Now, there are very few things in this world you genuinely love: Ilya, expensive clothes, fast cars … and this.
“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Morgan complains loudly over the roar of the crowd, pulling you out of your memories. She is shivering beside you, holding a foam finger she bought at the concession stand. “Why are they hitting each other so much? Isn’t the puck over there?”
“It is a forecheck,” you say, not taking your eyes off the ice. “They are establishing physical dominance to force a turnover in the defensive zone. Keep up.”
“I thought we were just here to look at hot guys,” she mutters, taking a sip of her hot chocolate.
“You are here to look at hot guys,” you correct her smoothly. “I am here because I appreciate the sport.”
And you do. But as you watch the Briar Hawks cycle the puck in the offensive zone, your eyes inevitably track back to number sixty-six. Dean Di Laurentis.
You haven’t seen him since the party last weekend. You haven’t texted him, and since you didn’t give him your number, he hasn’t texted you. But on the ice, he is impossible to ignore. For a guy who spends his weekends trying to charm freshmen out of their clothes, he is undeniably lethal on the blue line. He’s a defenseman, playing right side, and his skating is fluid, almost effortless.
“Oh, look,” Morgan gasps, pointing. “It’s Dean! He’s the guy you yelled at!”
“I did not yell at him,” you say calmly. “I simply declined his unsolicited advances. There is a difference.”
“He’s really good, isn’t he?”
You narrow your eyes as Dean receives a pass at the point. He fakes a slap shot, dragging the puck around a sliding defender, and fires a wrist shot through traffic. It clangs hard against the post and deflects out.
“He is decent,” you allow, your voice flat. “But his gap control is inconsistent, and he relies too heavily on his forehand.”
Morgan stares at you blankly. “Is that English?”
“It is hockey,” you reply, leaning back in your seat. “Which is better.”
The buzzer sounds a few minutes later, the scoreboard flashing a 4-3 victory for Briar. The crowd erupts into a deafening cheer, the student section banging on the glass. You offer a polite, golf-clap level of applause. It was a sloppy third period. Briar let up on the gas, allowing two unanswered goals in the final ten minutes. Ilya would have been screaming on the bench if his team played like that.
“Okay, they won! Can we go now?” Morgan begs, teeth chattering. “I can’t feel my toes.”
“We can go,” you agree, standing up and brushing invisible lint off your jeans. “Your toes are weak.”
You navigate the crowded concourse, weaving through the sea of Briar hockey jerseys and drunken college students. You are halfway to the main exit, your mind already jumping ahead to the heated seats in your car, when a voice cuts through the noise.
“Hey! Moscow!”
You don’t stop walking. You know exactly who it is, but you are not a dog to be called.
“Hey, wait up! Come on, I know you hear me!”
Footsteps jog up behind you, and suddenly Dean is stepping right into your path, forcing you to stop or physically walk into his chest.
You pause, looking up at him slowly.
Dean is slightly out of breath, his chest heaving under a crisp, perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His blond hair is still damp from the post-game shower, pushed back casually, and his tie is already loosened at the collar. He looks ridiculously, unfairly handsome, and the smug, triumphant grin on his face tells you he knows it.
“You know,” you say, your accent thick and unbothered, “usually, the players wait until they have left the arena to harass the fans.”
Dean laughs, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “I saw you walking out. Had to run to catch up. I didn’t peg you for a hockey fan.”
“I am full of surprises,” you reply dryly. “Now, if you will excuse me, my friend is freezing to death.”
Morgan, standing a few feet away, gives a tiny, terrified wave. Dean shoots her a dazzling smile that makes her blush furiously, before immediately turning his full attention back to you. The laser-focus in his eyes is intense. It’s the same look he had on the ice.
“So you came to watch me play,” Dean says, his voice dropping into that smooth, confident purr. “I’ve gotta say, I’m flattered. You played hard to get at the party, but you show up to my game? That’s a mixed signal, sweetheart.”
You let out a soft, patronizing laugh. “I came to watch a hockey game, Di Laurentis. You just happened to be on the ice. Do not flatter yourself.”
“Ouch,” Dean says, though his grin doesn’t waver. “You’re killing me here. But hey, we won. You can’t deny we put on a good show.”
“A good show?” You tilt your head, crossing your arms over your chest. You look him up and down, your expression perfectly deadpan. “Is that what you call that third period?”
Dean blinks, the smugness faltering for a fraction of a second. “Uh. Yeah. We got the win.”
“You got lucky,” you correct him seamlessly. “Your team played a neutral zone trap for the first two periods, which was effective against a slower offensive line. But in the third, they adjusted their breakout, and your defense collapsed. You were scrambling.”
Dean is staring at you now. The playful, flirtatious energy completely drains out of him, replaced by genuine, unadulterated shock. “Wait. You actually … you know the systems?”
“I know when a team stops moving their feet,” you say, stepping a fraction closer. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but the hockey analysis is completely taking over. “Your forwards stopped backchecking, which left you and your partner hung out to dry on odd-man rushes. You were playing on your heels for the last ten minutes.”
Dean’s mouth opens slightly. He looks like he’s just been hit by a truck. “I … yeah. Garrett was pissed on the bench. We gave up the blue line way too easily.”
“You specifically,” you point out, tapping a finger lightly against his expensive suit jacket. “You pinched on the boards with four minutes left. It was a stupid risk. If their winger had been half a second faster, that was a breakaway, and the game goes to overtime.”
Dean swallows hard. He’s looking at you like you just sprouted a second head, but more importantly, he’s looking at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen in his entire life. His eyes track the movement of your finger on his chest, then snap back up to your lips.
“You saw that,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly sounding a lot rougher.
“I have eyes,” you say dismissively. “But the real problem is your transition game. You are fast, I will give you that. But you are predictable.”
“Predictable?” Dean echoes, his competitive streak flaring up. He steps closer, closing the distance between you so that you have to crane your neck slightly to maintain eye contact. “I’m the leading scoring defenseman in the conference.”
“Because you play against college boys,” you fire back, unimpressed. “But you rely entirely on your forehand. Every time you pick up the puck behind the net, you pivot right. Every single time. You never transition to your backhand to make the breakout pass up the left wing.”
“Because my forehand is stronger,” Dean argues, a defensive edge creeping into his tone. “The pass is more accurate.”
“Because your backhand is weak,” you correct him bluntly.
Silence falls between you.
Even the dull roar of the crowd leaving the arena seems to fade into the background. Dean just stares down at you, his green eyes wide, his chest rising and falling visibly under his shirt.
He is completely silent.
For a defenseman who prides himself on his skill, being called out like that should infuriate him. It should make him defensive, angry, or at least dismissive. But you watch as a slow, dark flush creeps up his neck. You watch the way his jaw tightens, and the way his gaze drops to your mouth again, heavy and hot.
Holy shit, Dean thinks. His brain has short-circuited.
He’s spent his entire life surrounded by puck bunnies. Girls who wear his jersey, girls who tell him he played great even when he knows he played like garbage, girls who only care about the post-game parties and the status of hooking up with a Briar hockey player.
And then there is you. Standing in the middle of a crowded lobby, ripping apart his blue-line transitions and calling his backhand weak with a heavy Russian accent and an expression that says you couldn’t care less if you bruised his ego.
He has never been so incredibly turned on in his entire life. It’s actually a little terrifying. His pants suddenly feel uncomfortably tight, a heavy knot of pure lust coiling in his gut.
“My backhand is weak,” Dean repeats slowly, his voice dropping an octave, practically vibrating with tension.
“Very weak,” you confirm, completely oblivious to the internal crisis you are causing him. Or maybe you aren’t oblivious. Maybe you just don’t care. “If you ever make it to the pros, a smart forechecker will notice that in the first period and shut down the right side of the ice. You will be useless in your own zone.”
“Useless,” Dean whispers. He licks his lips, stepping even closer. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the faint, lingering smell of his body wash hits you. “God, you are brutal.”
“I am honest,” you reply, though your breath catches slightly as he invades your personal space. You hold your ground, refusing to back up. “Do you want me to stroke your ego and tell you that you are perfect, Di Laurentis?”
“No,” Dean says immediately, and he means it. “I want you to tell me everything else I did wrong.”
You pause, caught off guard for the first time. You expected him to get mad. You expected him to puff up his chest and rattle off his stats. You did not expect him to look at you like he wants to drag you into the nearest broom closet and let you dissect his entire life.
“You missed a wide-open pass to Graham on the power play in the second period,” you say, your voice a fraction softer, the air between you suddenly thick and electric.
“Keep going,” Dean murmurs, his eyes dark, his body angled entirely toward you.
“You … you over-commit on the penalty kill.” You feel a flush rising to your own cheeks now, furious at yourself for losing your composure. Why is he looking at you like that? “You chase the puck instead of holding the box.”
“What else?” Dean asks, his voice practically a gravelly whisper. He reaches out, and for a second you think he’s going to touch you, but he just rests his hand on the wall next to your head, leaning in. “Tell me my gap control is shit again.”
You swallow hard. Ilya warned you about American boys. He did not warn you about this.
“Your gap control is shit,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady. You lift your chin, meeting his intense gaze head-on. “And if you do not fix it, you are going to cost your team the championship.”
Dean lets out a harsh breath, shaking his head slightly as a slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. “Jesus Christ. Who are you?”
“I am the girl who is leaving,” you say, ducking swiftly under his arm.
The spell breaks. You grab Morgan by the sleeve of her coat, practically dragging her toward the glass doors.
“Wait!” Dean spins around, his dress shoes slipping slightly on the tile. “Seriously! What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Moscow!”
You push through the double doors, the freezing night air hitting you like a physical wall. You don’t stop, but you look over your shoulder one last time. Dean is standing inside the lobby, framed by the bright fluorescent lights, looking after you with a mixture of desperation and awe.
“Fix your backhand, Di Laurentis,” you call back, a smirk finally breaking through your icy exterior. “Maybe then you will earn my name.”
You turn away, letting the doors swing shut behind you.
“Oh my god,” Morgan gasps as you speed-walk toward the parking lot. “What just happened? What was that? Was that flirting? Because it sounded like you were insulting him, but he looked like he wanted to eat you alive.”
“It was hockey analysis,” you say firmly, though your heart is hammering against your ribs in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the sport.
“No, that was … that was aggressive sexual tension disguised as hockey analysis,” Morgan insists, pulling her keys out of her pocket. “Y/N, I am not joking. I think you just broke Dean Di Laurentis.”
You reach your car, leaning against the cold metal door as you wait for Morgan to unlock it. You think about the look in Dean’s eyes when you called out his play. The sudden shift from arrogant playboy to entirely, intensely captivated. You didn’t expect him to care about the sport as much as the glory. You didn’t expect him to listen to you.
And you certainly didn’t expect to feel this sudden, terrifying urge to see him again.
“I did not break him,” you say softly, mostly to yourself as you pull open the passenger door. You stare out at the darkened arena one last time, the cold air biting at your cheeks.
“But I think I might.”
***
Inside the arena lobby, Dean is still standing exactly where you left him.
He feels like he’s just been hit by lightning. His heart is pounding against his ribs, his blood rushing hot and fast through his veins. He replays the last five minutes in his head on a loop. The way your eyes flashed when you criticized his transition game. The heavy, intoxicating purr of your Russian accent. The absolute, unshakeable confidence radiating off you.
Garrett walks out of the locker room hallway a minute later, dressed in his own suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. He spots Dean standing completely still in the middle of the empty concourse.
“Hey,” Garrett says, walking over and waving a hand in front of Dean’s face. “Earth to Dean. You good, man? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
Dean slowly turns his head to look at his captain.
“Garrett,” Dean says, his voice totally deadpan.
“Yeah?”
“I need to run drills.”
Garrett frowns, confused. “What? Now? We just played a game, dude. We’re going to Malone’s to celebrate.”
“No,” Dean says, shaking his head. He looks back at the doors you just walked through, that wicked, determined smile returning to his face. He has never wanted a challenge more in his entire life. He has never wanted a girl more in his entire life. “I need ice time. Right now.”
Garrett stares at him. “Are you sick? Are you concussed? What drills do you even need to run?”
Dean adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket, his eyes gleaming.
“Backhand passing,” Dean says simply. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
***
The Briar University quad is a rare picture of New England perfection today. The sun is shining, the sky is a crisp, cloudless blue, and the temperature is hovering right around seventy degrees — an absolute miracle for early October.
Because of this, half the student body has decided that classes are optional. The sprawling green lawns are covered with students lounging on blankets, throwing Frisbees, and pretending to study.
You are one of the people pretending to study.
You sit on a plaid blanket under the shade of a large oak tree, a heavy microeconomics textbook propped open on your lap, and a pair of oversized, dark sunglasses resting on your nose. You have a highlighter in one hand, but you haven’t marked a single page in twenty minutes.
It is entirely too loud to focus, mostly because of the pickup soccer game happening fifty yards away.
Normally, you would just pack up and go back to the quiet luxury of your off-campus apartment. But there is a reason you are still sitting here, pretending to read about supply and demand curves.
Dean Di Laurentis is playing soccer.
He is running around the makeshift field with his teammates along with a guy you recognize from a party as Beau, the star quarterback of the Briar football team. They are loud, obnoxious, and taking the game far too seriously for a Thursday afternoon.
“Pass it, Di Laurentis, you puck hog!” Beau shouts, jogging backward as Dean weaves the black-and-white ball between his feet.
“It’s a ball, Beau, not a puck,” Dean fires back, his footwork surprisingly nimble for a guy who spends his life on ice skates. “And maybe I’d pass if you knew how to finish a play!”
“I throw seventy-yard bombs for a living,” Beau laughs, trying to steal the ball. “I finish plenty.”
“Yeah, but your footwork is trash,” Logan calls out from across the grass. “Stick to using your hands, golden boy.”
You watch them over the top of your textbook, hidden safely behind the dark lenses of your sunglasses. Dean is wearing a grey Briar Hockey t-shirt and athletic shorts, his blond hair sticking up in sweaty, messy spikes. He is laughing, completely in his element, shouting trash talk at his friends.
And then, he turns around to jog backward, scanning the perimeter of the quad.
His eyes sweep over the crowds of students, past the girls clustered on a nearby blanket who have been practically drooling over him for the last hour, and land squarely on the oak tree.
He stops. He actually trips over the soccer ball, stumbling forward a few steps before catching his balance.
“Hey, watch it!” Tucker yells as he steals the abandoned ball. “Head in the game, Di Laurentis!”
Dean completely ignores him. He is staring straight at you. Even from fifty yards away, you can see the exact moment the cocky, playful grin melts off his face, replaced by that sharp, predatory focus he had in the arena lobby.
You do not wave. You do not smile. You simply flip a page in your textbook, pretending you haven’t noticed him at all.
“Man, it’s hot out here, isn’t it?” You hear Dean say loudly a moment later.
You glance up just in time to see Dean grab the hem of his grey t-shirt and pull it over his head in one smooth, practiced motion. He tosses the shirt onto the grass, running a hand through his damp hair, and stands there in the dappled sunlight.
He is built exactly the way a Division I athlete should be built. Broad shoulders, a sculpted chest, and a torso lined with sharp, defined abdominal muscles that disappear down into the waistband of his shorts. He looks like a centerfold for a fitness magazine, and he absolutely knows it.
The group of girls on the blanket nearby actually let out a collective gasp.
You, however, slowly raise an eyebrow behind your sunglasses. Really? “What are you doing?” Logan demands, hands on his hips. “Put your shirt back on, nobody wants to see that.”
“I’m cooling down,” Dean says easily, though he is looking directly at you. “Gotta let the skin breathe, right?”
“You’re an idiot,” Garrett mutters.
Dean ignores them. He leaves the soccer game entirely, jogging across the grass at a slow, deliberate pace. He is making sure you have plenty of time to look. You make sure your eyes are glued firmly to the page about market equilibrium.
“Hey there, Moscow,” a smooth, slightly out-of-breath voice says a minute later.
A shadow falls over your textbook. You wait three full seconds before you slowly tilt your head up. Dean is standing at the edge of your blanket, his chest rising and falling from the run, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his stomach. He has his hands planted on his hips, flashing you that million-dollar, dimpled smile.
“You are blocking my light,” you state plainly.
Dean’s smile widens. He drops down onto the grass, sitting directly across from you on the edge of your blanket, completely uninvited.
“You’re studying,” he observes, leaning back on his elbows. He stretches his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “Econ. Boring.”
“It is only boring if you lack the intelligence to understand it,” you reply, picking up your highlighter. “Which, I suppose, explains your opinion.”
Dean barks out a laugh, entirely unoffended. “God, I missed you. Where have you been hiding? I’ve been checking the stands at practice every day.”
“I do not hide,” you say smoothly, turning a page. “And I do not attend practices. I have a life.”
“A life that involves sitting on the quad, reading a textbook, and secretly watching me play soccer?”
“I was not watching you.”
“Right. You were just staring intently in my general direction.” Dean shifts closer, the scent of fresh air, grass, and masculine sweat washing over you. It is entirely distracting. “Did you enjoy the show, at least?”
You pause. You look up from the book, sliding your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose so you can look him directly in the eyes. You let your gaze drop down his chest, over his abs, and back up to his face.
“You took your shirt off in seventy-degree weather,” you say dryly. “It was the most obvious display of male ego I have ever witnessed.”
“Did it work, though?” Dean challenges, a teasing spark in his green eyes.
“I am not a fan of theatrics.” You push your sunglasses back up. “Put your shirt on, Di Laurentis. You look ridiculous.”
“You’re lying,” Dean murmurs. His voice drops into that low, gravelly register that he used at the arena, the one that makes the hair on the back of your arms stand up. He leans forward, closing the distance between you. “I saw the way you looked at me just now. You like the theatrics.”
Your breath hitches slightly, but before you can fire back a cutting remark, a sharp, loud ringing cuts through the tension.
Your phone, sitting on the blanket beside your leg, is vibrating. The caller ID flashes brightly in the sunlight.
You let out a soft sigh, breaking eye contact with Dean. “I have to take this.”
“Boyfriend?” Dean asks, his voice suddenly losing its playful edge. His jaw tightens, a flash of genuine territorial annoyance crossing his face.
“None of your business,” you say smoothly. You pick up the phone and swipe to answer, bringing it to your ear.
Dean doesn’t move. He sits right there, completely invading your personal space, watching you intently. He clearly expects you to get up and walk away, or lower your voice.
Instead, you lean back against the trunk of the oak tree and slip effortlessly into your native tongue.
“Hello, Ilyusha,” you say in Russian, your voice softening just a fraction, the sharp consonants and flowing vowels rolling off your tongue perfectly.
Across from you, Dean practically stops breathing.
His eyes widen, locking onto your mouth. He doesn’t understand a single syllable of what you just said, but the sound of it hits him like a physical blow. Your voice is huskier in Russian, deeper, and the cadence is incredibly intimate.
“Y/N. Little bird,” Ilya’s booming voice comes through the speaker, loud enough that you have to pull the phone away from your ear for a second. “Why did it take you three rings to answer? Are you safe? Is someone bothering you?”
You roll your eyes, though a fond smile touches the corner of your lips. “I am sitting on the grass at school, Ilya. I was reading. Nobody is bothering me.”
You glance at Dean. He is staring at you with an intensity that is bordering on feral.
“Well, except maybe one idiot,” you add, a smirk forming.
Dean shifts his weight, leaning closer. “What did you just say?” He whispers, his voice thick. “Are you talking about me?”
You ignore him.
“An idiot?” Ilya demands, his protective instincts instantly flaring. “What kind of idiot? A boy? Do I need to fly back to Massachusetts and break someone’s kneecaps? Because I have a game in Dallas tomorrow, but I can make the flight tonight.”
“Do not be dramatic,” you sigh, switching your phone to the other ear. “It is just a hockey player. He thinks he is charming.”
“A hockey player?” Ilya groans. “God, Y/N. I told you to stay away from them. They are stupid. They only want one thing. Trust me, I know. I am one.”
“I know you are,” you laugh softly. “I am handling it.”
“You better be,” Ilya grumbles. “But listen to me. You are in college. You are beautiful. You are going to have boys chasing you. I do not like it, but I cannot stop it.”
“You are remarkably self-aware today.”
“Shut up and listen,” Ilya says, though there is warmth in his voice. “I am your brother, so it is my job to threaten to kill them. But I am also realistic. If you find a boy you actually like — which is highly unlikely because your standards are terrifying — you have fun. Do you hear me? Have fun. Use protection. Make him buy you dinner.”
You feel a flush creeping up your neck. Having your older brother give you sex-positive dating advice is always a bizarre experience.
“I am hanging up now,” you tell him, embarrassed.
“Wait, wait! Let me finish,” Ilya laughs. “If he crosses a line, you break his heart. If he makes you cry, I break his legs. It is a very simple system.”
“I understand the system, Ilyusha.”
“Good. Give them hell, little bird.”
“I always do. Good luck with the game tomorrow. Love you.”
“Love you too. Call me this weekend.”
You hang up the phone, tossing it back onto the blanket. You let out a breath, centering yourself, and then you turn your attention back to Dean.
You fully expect him to have a smug comment ready. You expect him to ask who you were talking to, or tease you about the foreign language.
Instead, Dean is staring at you like a starving man looking at a feast.
His pupils are blown wide, almost entirely swallowing the green of his irises. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and there is a dark, heavy flush high on his cheekbones. He is leaning so far forward that his face is only inches from yours.
“Di Laurentis?” You ask, frowning slightly. “Are you having a stroke?”
“What the fuck was that?” Dean asks, his voice so raw and raspy it barely sounds like him.
“It was a phone call.”
“In Russian.”
“Yes,” you say slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “I am Russian. I speak Russian to my family. This is not a new development.”
“You didn’t sound like that when you spoke English,” Dean breathes, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips. “Your voice … it dropped. It was completely different.”
“It is a different language,” you point out. “The inflection changes.”
“Do it again,” he demands softly.
You raise an eyebrow, your heart suddenly giving a hard, erratic thump against your ribs. The sheer, overwhelming wave of lust rolling off him is palpable. It is thick enough to choke on.
“Do what again?” You ask, keeping your tone carefully neutral.
“Speak it,” Dean says. He reaches out, and this time you don’t pull away when his fingers lightly brush against the side of your knee. The touch sends a jolt of pure electricity straight up your thigh. “Say something else. Anything.”
You look at him, really look at him. You see the desperate curiosity, the absolute fascination. But beneath that, you see exactly what he is thinking.
Dean doesn’t just want to hear you speak Russian. He wants to hear you speak it in his bed. He wants to hear you whisper it in his ear when the lights are out. He wants to know what you sound like when you lose that rigid, icy control.
The realization makes the breath catch in your throat. It is intoxicating. The power you hold over this guy right now is absolute, and you both know it.
You lean forward, mirroring his posture. You let your sunglasses slide down your nose slightly, locking eyes with him.
“You are completely out of your mind,” you say in Russian, your voice a soft, husky murmur.
Dean lets out a ragged exhale, his eyes slipping shut for a fraction of a second. “God. I have no idea what you just said, but say it again.”
“No,” you say, slipping back into English. You sit back against the tree, pulling your leg away from his touch. The sudden loss of contact leaves a cold spot on your skin. “The show is over.”
“Come on,” Dean groans, running a hand over his face. He genuinely looks pained. “You can’t do that to a guy and just stop. It’s cruel and unusual punishment.”
“I told you at the party,” you remind him, picking up your highlighter and turning back to your textbook. “I do not make things easy for anyone.”
“I don’t want it to be easy,” Dean says. The playfulness is completely gone from his voice. It is replaced by a quiet, fierce sincerity that makes you look up again.
He is staring at you, not with the smug arrogance of a playboy, but with the focused, unwavering determination of a D1 athlete who has his eyes on the championship.
“I don’t care how hard you make it,” Dean tells you, his voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You hold his gaze for a long moment, your pulse hammering a frantic rhythm in your ears. Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. If you find a boy you actually like … give them hell.
A slow, wicked smirk curves your lips.
“We will see, Di Laurentis,” you murmur.
“Yo, Dean!” Garrett’s voice echoes across the quad, breaking the heavy tension. “Are you playing or are you just going to sit there and bother the girl all day?”
Dean doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I’m busy!” He yells back.
“We’re down a man!” Beau shouts. “Get your ass back over here!”
Dean finally tears his gaze away, looking over his shoulder at his friends. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Duty calls. But this isn’t over.”
“It has not even begun,” you correct him.
Dean smiles. It’s a softer smile this time, smaller and much more dangerous. He pushes himself up off the grass, grabbing his discarded t-shirt. He doesn’t put it back on, much to the delight of the girls on the nearby blanket, but simply slings it over his shoulder.
“Have dinner with me,” Dean says, looking down at you.
It isn’t a question. It is a demand.
“I am busy tonight,” you reply without missing a beat.
“Tomorrow, then.”
“I have plans.”
“Saturday.”
“I study on Saturdays.”
“Sunday night,” Dean counters, refusing to back down. “My treat. Any restaurant in the city. You pick.”
You tap your highlighter against the page of your textbook, pretending to consider it. You are pushing him, testing the limits of his patience. Most guys would have walked away by now, their egos bruised.
Dean just stands there, waiting.
“Sunday,” you finally say, your tone conceding an inch. “But I pick the place, and you pay.”
“Deal,” Dean says instantly, looking like he just won the Stanley Cup. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“You do not know where I live.”
“I’ll figure it out,” Dean promises, taking a step backward toward the soccer game. “See you Sunday, Moscow.”
“Do not call me that,” you call after him.
“Then give me your real name!” He shouts back over his shoulder, jogging backward.
You smile, looking back down at your textbook. You wait until he is halfway across the quad before you answer, your voice carrying easily over the grass.
“It’s Y/N.”
Dean stops. He turns around, a massive, genuine grin breaking across his face. He points a finger at you, backing away toward his friends.
“Y/N,” Dean repeats, testing the sound of it on his tongue. He nods slowly. “Sunday, Y/N. Be ready.”
You watch him turn and jog back to the game, immediately tackling Beau to the ground in a mess of limbs and laughter.
You let out a long, shaky breath, closing your textbook. Studying is officially impossible now. You pull your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on your arms as you watch the group of boys on the grass.
Dean is laughing, shoving Logan out of the way to steal the ball. He looks carefree, happy, and entirely out of your league when it comes to emotional availability. He is exactly the kind of guy Ilya warned you about. A player. A distraction.
But as Dean suddenly looks over his shoulder, catching your eye from across the field and shooting you a quick, blazing wink, you know exactly what is happening.
You are giving him hell.
And you are enjoying every single second of it.
***
The date is, annoyingly, perfect.
You expected Dean to stumble. You picked an upscale, impossibly hard-to-book French-Asian fusion restaurant in the heart of Boston — the kind of place with a six-month waiting list that you only bypassed because Ilya knows the owner. You expected Dean to look out of place, or complain about the portion sizes, or act like the typical, uncouth college athlete he pretends to be.
Instead, he showed up at your apartment building right on time, wearing a tailored black button-down that made his shoulders look impossibly broad, and a pair of dark jeans that hugged his legs in all the right ways. He opened the car door for you. He ordered wine in flawless, unaccented French. He kept up with your sharp, biting banter effortlessly, matching you insult for insult with that constant, devastating smirk on his face.
He didn’t just survive the test. He passed it with flying colors.
“You look annoyed,” Dean observes as he steers his sleek black SUV off the highway, taking the exit back toward the Briar campus.
“I am not annoyed,” you say, looking out the passenger window at the passing streetlights.
“You’re a little annoyed,” he teases, glancing over at you. The dashboard lights cast a warm glow across his sharp jawline. “You thought I was going to embarrass myself. You thought I’d order chicken fingers and ask for ketchup.”
“I thought you would be a hockey player,” you correct him, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Instead, you were surprisingly tolerable.”
Dean laughs, a rich, genuine sound that fills the quiet interior of the car. “Tolerable. Wow. I’ll have to add that to my resume right under top scoring defenseman.”
“Do not let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” Dean reaches across the center console. He doesn’t ask. He just slides his hand over yours where it rests on your thigh, lacing his long, warm fingers through yours.
Your breath catches slightly, but you don’t pull away. His palm is rough with calluses from his hockey stick, a stark contrast to the soft leather of the car seats and the smooth fabric of your slip dress. The casual intimacy of it sends a sudden, sharp jolt of heat straight to your core.
“So,” Dean murmurs, his thumb brushing a lazy circle against your skin. “The date is over. I paid. I was charming. I didn’t embarrass you in front of the waiter.”
“Barely.”
“Where to now, Y/N?” He says your name softly, testing the weight of it. “I can take you back to your ivory tower. Or …”
He lets the sentence hang in the air, thick and heavy with implication.
You look at his hand holding yours, and then up at his profile. You can feel the electric tension radiating off him. You know exactly what he’s asking, and you know exactly what the answer is. You made up your mind somewhere between the second glass of wine and the way his eyes darkened when you laughed at one of his jokes.
“Your house is on the way,” you say, your voice perfectly steady, though your heart is suddenly hammering against your ribs. “It would be inefficient to drive all the way to my apartment.”
The SUV actually swerves a fraction of an inch as Dean’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. He exhales a harsh, shaky breath.
“My house,” he repeats, as if making sure he heard you correctly.
“Unless you are scared your roommates are awake.”
“I don’t give a fuck if my roommates are awake,” Dean says instantly. He hits the turn signal, taking a sharp left onto the residential street that leads to the off-campus hockey house. “My door has a lock.”
The drive takes less than five minutes, but it feels like an eternity. The air in the car is so thick with anticipation you can barely breathe. When Dean finally throws the SUV into park in the driveway, he doesn’t wait for you. He is out of the car in a flash, opening your door and offering you his hand.
The house is surprisingly quiet. The usual thumping bass and smell of stale beer are absent. As Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside, you see exactly one person.
Logan is sprawled on the ratty living room couch, a bowl of cereal balanced on his chest, watching SportsCenter on low volume.
He looks up as the door clicks shut. He sees Dean. Then he sees you.
Logan’s spoon freezes halfway to his mouth. His eyes dart between the two of you, taking in Dean’s dark, focused expression and your thoroughly unimpressed, perfectly manicured appearance.
“Di Laurentis,” Logan says slowly, lowering the spoon. “You brought a girl home.”
“Astute observation,” Dean says, not stopping as he guides you toward the stairs by the small of your back.
“No, I mean, you brought a girl home,” Logan insists, sitting up slightly. “Not a puck bunny. Not a sorority girl. You brought an actual woman who looks like she could murder you and hide the body.”
“I will not hide the body,” you tell Logan calmly over your shoulder as you start up the stairs. “I will leave it in the living room for you to clean up.”
Logan’s eyes widen. He looks at Dean with pure, unadulterated respect. “Good luck, man. You’re going to need it.”
“Shut up, Logan,” Dean snaps, though he is smiling as he pushes you gently up the final few steps and down the narrow hallway.
He opens the door at the end of the hall, pulling you inside, and kicks the door shut behind him. The heavy click of the lock sliding into place echoes in the quiet room.
Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly clean. The bed is large and freshly made, there are no clothes on the floor, and the faint scent of his expensive cedar and citrus cologne lingers in the air.
You barely have a second to take it in before Dean is right in front of you.
The playful banter is completely gone. The energy shifts so fast it gives you whiplash. He crowds you against the heavy wooden door, his hands coming up to bracket your head. He looks down at you, his green eyes completely dilated, dark and hungry.
“I’ve been wanting to do this since you yelled at me in the kitchen,” Dean whispers, his voice rough and vibrating with need.
“I did not yell at you,” you breathe.
“Shut up,” he murmurs, and then his mouth crashes down onto yours.
It is a devastating kiss. There is nothing hesitant or gentle about it. It is pure, unfiltered demand. His lips are hot, his tongue immediately parting your lips, tasting the expensive wine and sweeping inside to claim every inch of your mouth.
A sharp, electric shock rips through your body. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands flying up to grip the lapels of his black shirt. He lets out a low, guttural groan, sliding his arms around your waist and pulling your hips flush against his.
He is hard. Achingly, brutally hard against your stomach.
The realization sends a thrill of pure power straight to your head. Ilya taught you to never let anyone dictate the pace of the game. You pull your mouth away from his, leaving him chasing your lips with a frustrated sigh.
“My turn,” you say smoothly.
Before Dean can process what you mean, you grab the collar of his shirt and push. He stumbles backward, completely caught off guard. You advance, pushing him again until the back of his knees hit the edge of his mattress, and he falls backward onto the bed with a soft thud.
Dean looks up at you, his chest heaving, his dark hair messy from your hands. He looks completely thoroughly derailed. “What are you doing?”
“Taking control,” you tell him. You step between his spread thighs, looking down at him with a wicked, predatory smile. “You are very used to running the show, Di Laurentis. But you are playing my game now.”
Dean swallows hard. He leans back on his elbows, watching you with wide, fascinated eyes. “Okay. Show me your game, Moscow.”
You climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. He groans instantly at the friction, his hands twitching at his sides, but he doesn’t touch you. He lets you set the pace.
You reach down, your fingers deliberately slow as you start undoing the buttons of his tailored shirt. You watch his face as you work, taking in the rapid pulse at the base of his throat, the way his jaw tightens with every agonizingly slow brush of your knuckles against his bare skin.
Once the shirt is fully unbuttoned, you push it off his shoulders, letting it fall onto the sheets. You run your hands flat over his sculpted chest, feeling the heavy, frantic thud of his heart beneath his ribs.
“You are impatient,” you murmur, leaning down to press a soft, teasing kiss to the center of his chest.
“I’m dying,” Dean corrects roughly. His hands come up, gripping your hips tightly. “Y/N. Please.”
“Please what?” You ask, your voice dropping into a sultry, teasing purr. You shift your weight, grinding down against his hard length right through his jeans.
Dean’s head throws back, his hips automatically bucking up against you to chase the friction. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Take it off. All of it.”
You smile. You reach down, finding the hem of your slip dress, and pull it up over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor. You are wearing nothing but a matching set of sheer, black lace lingerie.
Dean stares at you. He actually stops breathing for three full seconds.
“Holy shit,” he whispers reverently. “You are … you are perfect.”
“I know,” you say confidently.
You lean down, capturing his lips again. The kiss is deep, wet, and incredibly hot. You move your hips in a slow, rhythmic grind that has Dean cursing into your mouth. He is letting you ride him, letting you dictate the rhythm, his large hands resting on your waist, guiding your movements but not forcing them.
You reach for the buckle of his belt, your fingers completely steady, but before you can even undo the clasp, the dynamic shifts.
Dean’s patience completely snaps.
“Okay. You’ve had your fun,” Dean growls softly against your lips.
Before you can even react, his hands tighten on your waist. He lifts you effortlessly — like you weigh absolutely nothing at all — and in one fluid, powerful motion, he flips you.
You let out a startled gasp as your back hits the mattress. Suddenly, Dean is hovering over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the overhead light. His eyes are entirely black now, the playful, indulgent boy completely gone, replaced by something dark, dominant, and terrifyingly hot.
“You think you’re the only one who likes control?” Dean murmurs, leaning down so his mouth is a breath away from your ear. “You think you can just climb on top of me, grind against me like that, and I’m just going to lay there and take it?”
“You were doing a very good job of it,” you try to say haughtily, but your voice is suddenly a little breathless.
“I was letting you win the first period,” Dean corrects, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your earlobe. “But the game is mine now.”
He doesn’t give you a chance to argue. His hands are everywhere. He unclasps your bra with a single, practiced flick of his fingers, tossing it aside. He takes your mouth again in a bruising, dominant kiss, swallowing your soft gasp as his warm, rough palm cups your breast. His thumb drags firmly over your nipple, and a jolt of pure pleasure shoots straight down to your core.
You arch your back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. The icy, untouchable Russian princess act is rapidly melting under the sheer, scorching heat of his attention.
Dean breaks the kiss, moving his mouth down your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. At the same time, his hand slides down your stomach, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your lace panties and pulling them down your legs.
He steps off the bed for exactly three seconds. The sound of his zipper dragging down, his jeans hitting the floor, and the tear of a foil wrapper are deafening in the quiet room.
When he comes back over you, he is completely bare, beautiful, and completely focused. He settles between your thighs, his knees pressing your legs wider.
He reaches down, his fingers finding your slick, aching center. He strokes you once, two fingers pressing deep inside, and you let out a sharp, genuine cry.
“You’re so fucking wet for me,” Dean groans, his voice dark with triumph. He leans down, his mouth hovering over yours. “Tell me you want this.”
“I want it,” you breathe, your accent heavy. “Do not make me wait, Dean.”
He doesn’t. He grips your hips, aligning himself with your wet heat, and pushes forward.
He fills you completely in one long, agonizingly slow thrust. You gasp, your nails digging half-moons into the hard muscles of his back as he buries himself to the hilt. It’s incredibly deep, stretching you so perfectly it makes your vision swim.
Dean freezes, a low shuddering groan tearing from his throat. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched tight as he fights for control.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, his body trembling over yours. “You are so tight. So incredibly tight.”
“Move,” you demand softly, your hips instinctively arching up to take him deeper.
Dean’s eyes snap open. “Yes, ma’am.”
He starts to move. He pulls back almost completely before driving his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you again. The friction is immediate and explosive.
“Oh!” You gasp, your head throwing back against the pillows.
Dean sets a brutal, relentless pace. He isn’t rushing, but he isn’t being gentle either. Every thrust is deep, hard, and perfectly angled. He hits the exact spot that makes your toes curl with every single stroke. The skin-on-skin slap of his hips meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room, a dirty, incredibly erotic sound.
“Is this good?” Dean asks, his voice thick, thrusting hard into you. “Is my form okay for you, Moscow?”
“Shut up,” you moan, your hands gripping his shoulders desperately.
“You had a lot of opinions about my performance on the ice,” Dean taunts darkly, dropping his head to bite lightly at your neck as he pounds into you. “Critique this.”
“Dean-”
“Say my name again,” he demands, his grip on your hips tightening. He angles his hips differently, grinding hard against your clit with his pelvis as he thrusts deep inside you.
The sensation is so sharp, so overwhelming, that your brain completely short-circuits. The English language entirely evaporates from your mind.
“Bozhe moy,” you cry out, your voice fracturing.
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second, his head snapping up. His eyes are wide, wild with sudden, explosive heat.
“What did you just say?” He breathes, thrusting back into you with sudden, renewed ferocity.
“Da,” you gasp, completely unable to stop yourself. The pleasure is mounting too fast, spiraling out of control. “Da, pozhaluysta.”
“Russian,” Dean groans, the sound completely animalistic. “Fuck, yes. Keep doing that. Talk to me in Russian.”
He speeds up, his thrusts becoming a rapid, punishing rhythm. You are completely lost in it, clinging to his broad shoulders as the world spins around you.
“Sil’neye,” you beg, your nails scratching down his back. Harder. “I don’t know what that means,” Dean rasps, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your collarbone. “But I fucking love it. Tell me you’re mine. Tell me in Russian.”
“Tvoya,” you sob, the word slipping out as the tension in your core finally snaps. “Ya tvoya.”
The climax hits you like a freight train. You cry out loud, your back bowing off the mattress as wave after wave of intense, blinding pleasure rips through your body. Your inner muscles clamp down hard around his thick length, milking him perfectly.
Dean lets out a loud, raw shout. He drives into you two more times, impossibly deep, and then completely falls apart. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his body shaking uncontrollably as he empties himself inside the condom, completely surrendering to you.
For a long time, the only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate sound of both of you fighting to catch your breath.
Dean’s heavy weight is crushing you into the mattress, but you don’t care. You feel thoroughly, beautifully wrecked.
Slowly, the haze begins to clear. Dean shifts his weight, pulling out of you with a soft, wet sound, and carefully rolls off to the side to dispose of the condom. When he comes back, he drops onto the mattress beside you, throwing one heavy arm and a leg over your body, pulling you flush against his side.
You rest your head on his bare chest, listening to his heart still hammering against his ribs.
“Wow,” Dean breathes into the quiet room.
“Yes,” you agree softly, your voice still a little raspy.
Dean presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his fingers lazily tracing the curve of your hip. “You completely lost your mind there at the end, didn’t you?”
You feel a flush creeping up your neck. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
“Liar,” Dean laughs softly. “You lost your English entirely. It was the hottest fucking thing I have ever experienced in my entire life.”
You turn your head, resting your chin on his chest so you can look up at him. His eyes are soft now, completely completely devoid of the cocky arrogance he usually wears like armor. He just looks entirely, thoroughly captivated by you.
“You played a good game, Di Laurentis,” you tell him, your accent soft and thick in the quiet room.
Dean smiles, reaching up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Good enough for a second round?”
You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “Do not flatter yourself. Let us see if you can handle the conditioning drills first.”
Dean throws his head back and laughs, a bright, happy sound that makes something warm and completely foreign bloom in the center of your chest. He pulls you up slightly, capturing your lips in a soft, lazy kiss that tastes like contentment and the promise of a very long night.
“Whatever you want, Moscow,” Dean murmurs against your mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”
***
The house living room smells like stale pepperoni, cheap beer, and the distinct, aggressive musk of four college athletes who have been yelling at a television for the past two hours.
Dean is sprawled in the worn armchair, a long-necked bottle of Corona resting on his stomach. On the ratty couch, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are packed shoulder-to-shoulder, their eyes completely glued to the sixty-inch screen mounted on the wall.
It is a Tuesday night, which means the Boston Bruins are playing the Toronto Maple Leafs, and in this house, an NHL game is basically a religious event.
On the screen, Ilya Rozanov, the Bruins’ star center and arguably the most terrifying, arrogant, and talented player in the league, intercepts a pass at center ice. With a burst of speed that defies the laws of physics for a man of his massive size, he blows past two Toronto defensemen, dekes the goalie out of his crease, and casually roofs the puck on his backhand.
The goal horn blares through the TV speakers, shaking the floorboards of the living room.
“Holy shit,” Garrett breathes, leaning forward so fast he almost knocks over his beer. “Did you see that edge work? The guy is an absolute machine.”
“It’s disgusting,” Logan agrees, shaking his head in awe. “He makes NHL defensemen look like Pee-Wee players. It’s physically embarrassing for them.”
“And there are still idiots out there who claim Shane Hollander is a better player,” Tucker snorts, reaching for a slice of cold pizza from the box on the coffee table. “Hollander is great, sure. He’s got the golden boy reputation. But Rozanov? Rozanov is a killer. He has zero conscience on the ice.”
“Hollander has better defensive metrics,” Garrett points out, ever the captain. “But yeah, offensively, Rozanov is in a league of his own. If I ever meet him, I think I’d actually ask him to sign my chest.”
Dean laughs, taking a slow sip of his beer. “You literally have a poster of him in your bedroom, Garrett. It’s creepy. You’re twenty-two years old.”
“It’s not a poster, it’s a framed print,” Garrett corrects defensively. “And it’s about respecting greatness, Di Laurentis. Try it sometime.”
Dean just grins, leaning his head back against the armchair. He feels relaxed. Better than relaxed, actually. He feels completely, terrifyingly anchored. It’s been three weeks since that first date with you, and his life has practically flipped upside down. He spends half his nights sneaking into your luxury apartment, and the other half trying to convince you to stay at his place. You are demanding, brilliant, ruthlessly critical of his defensive zone coverage, and the best thing that has ever happened to him.
He hasn’t looked at another girl since the night you called his backhand weak.
On the TV, the broadcast cuts away from the Bruins’ bench celebrating the goal.
“An unbelievable individual effort from Ilya Rozanov,” the play-by-play commentator announces over the roar of the TD Garden crowd. “His tenth goal of the season already, and we’re not even fully into November.”
“And you know who’s loving it up there?” the color commentator chimes in. “Let’s take a look up at the Bruins’ friends and family suite.”
The camera cuts from the ice to the luxury boxes high above the lower bowl. The shot zooms in on two young women sitting in the plush front-row seats, leaning over the glass barrier to look down at the ice.
Dean’s brain instantly short-circuits.
He stops breathing. The bottle of Corona slips dangerously in his grip.
It’s you.
You are right there on the sixty-inch screen, wearing a flawless black leather jacket over a form-fitting white top. Your hair is styled in perfect waves, and you are currently in the middle of an animated, laughing conversation with the woman sitting next to you.
“Whoa,” Logan says, leaning forward. “Who are they? The one on the left is gorgeous.”
“Shut up, John,” Dean croaks, his voice cracking horribly.
The broadcast graphics flash at the bottom of the screen, highlighting the two of you.
“That’s Svetlana Vetrova on the right,” the commentator explains cheerfully. “Daughter of the legendary Soviet goaltender Sergei Vetrov. She and Rozanov grew up together in Moscow.”
The camera pans slightly, focusing entirely on your face as you laugh at something Svetlana says.
“And with her is Ilya Rozanov’s younger sister,” the broadcaster continues, the words echoing through the dead silent living room like gunshots. “She just moved to Boston this fall to attend university locally. The Rozanov siblings are famously close. Ilya practically raised her, and rumor has it he is incredibly protective.”
The TV screen shows Ilya skating back to the bench. He looks up toward the suite, pointing a gloved finger directly at you. You smile, rolling your eyes affectionately, and give him a small, sarcastic golf clap.
In the house, the silence is so heavy it could shatter glass.
Garrett’s jaw is practically on the floor. He slowly, mechanically turns his head to look at Dean.
Logan and Tucker follow suit, their eyes wide with absolute, unadulterated horror.
Dean is frozen in the armchair. All the blood has rushed out of his face, leaving him pale and dizzy. His heart is hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm against his ribs.
He thinks about the way he pushed you against his bedroom door. He thinks about the sheer, insane volume of highly explicit texts he has sent to your phone in the last forty-eight hours. He thinks about the massive, bruised hickey he left just below your collarbone two days ago — a hickey that Ilya Rozanov could probably see with his naked eye from center ice.
“Dean,” Garrett whispers, his voice trembling slightly. “Is that …”
“Yes,” Dean says hollowly.
“That’s Moscow,” Tucker confirms, sounding like he’s at a funeral. “That’s your girl.”
“She didn’t tell me,” Dean gasps out, clutching the beer bottle like a lifeline. “She told me her brother paid for her apartment! She never said her brother was the most dangerous player in the National Hockey League!”
“You’re sleeping with Ilya Rozanov’s little sister,” Logan says, the reality of the situation finally crashing down on him. A slow, hysterical laugh bubbles up in his chest. “Dean. He is going to literally kill you. He is going to break your legs with his bare hands.”
“I have a poster of her brother in my room,” Garrett says, staring blankly at the wall. “I’ve been in the same room as you two while you were making out, and I have a poster of her brother on my wall.”
“What do I do?” Dean demands, panic finally settling in. He drops the beer onto the side table and runs both hands through his hair, gripping the blond strands tightly. “Do I text her? Do I ask why she didn’t tell me? Do I change my name and move to Mexico?”
“You can’t move,” Tucker says solemnly. “Rozanov has Russian mob connections. He will find you.”
“He does not have mob connections!” Dean yells, though his voice pitches up nervously. “Does he?”
“Dude, he led the league in penalty minutes for three consecutive seasons,” Logan points out, highly unhelpful. “He shattered a guy’s jaw last year just for looking at his goalie wrong. If he finds out you — Briar’s biggest, sluttiest defenseman — are hooking up with his baby sister? You’re dead. They’ll never find your body.”
Dean stares at the television screen. The broadcast has moved on, showing a replay of the goal, but Dean can’t see the puck. All he sees is his own impending doom.
He is so incredibly fucked.
***
Two hours later, you are sitting in a private booth at one of the most exclusive steakhouses in Boston.
The post-game adrenaline is still buzzing in the air. Ilya is sitting across from you, casually dressed in a dark designer sweater that stretches tight across his massive shoulders. He has a faint, purpling bruise on his jaw from a high stick in the second period, but his mood is absolutely electric.
“I told you,” Ilya says, cutting into a massive, rare ribeye steak. “Toronto defense is weak this year. They leave the middle of the ice wide open. It is insulting.”
“You showboated on the breakaway,” you point out, sipping your sparkling water. “You did not need to go to the backhand. The five-hole was open.”
“I am an entertainer, Y/N,” Ilya replies smoothly, chewing his steak. “The fans pay a lot of money to see me play. I must give them a show.”
You roll your eyes, picking at your truffle fries. You love him, but his ego takes up ninety percent of any room he walks into. Still, the dinner is nice. Sibling bonding time is rare during the NHL season, and you cherish the moments when it’s just the two of you, speaking Russian and acting entirely normal.
“Sveta looked well,” you say, changing the subject. “I hear she is thinking of taking a job with the Bruins.”
“She is good,” Ilya nods. “She asks about you. She says you are distracted lately.”
You pause, a fry halfway to your mouth. You lower it back to the plate, keeping your expression completely neutral. “I am not distracted. I am adjusting to a new country and a new curriculum. Economics is demanding.”
Ilya stops chewing. He swallows, rests his forearms on the heavy mahogany table, and pins you with a dark, intensely knowing look.
“Do not lie to me, little bird,” Ilya says softly, his heavy accent wrapping around the Russian words. “You have been living here for months. You were not distracted in September. But the last three weeks? You are checking your phone during the game. You are smiling at your screen.”
“I look at memes,” you lie smoothly.
“You do not understand American memes,” Ilya shoots back without missing a beat. “So, let us skip the part where you insult my intelligence. Who is putting that smirk on your face?”
You let out a slow sigh, leaning back against the leather booth. You knew this conversation was coming. Ilya is overprotective on a good day, and completely tyrannical when it comes to the men in your life. You intentionally haven’t told him about Dean because you wanted to enjoy the early stages without your brother accidentally ending Dean’s hockey career.
“It is nothing serious,” you say carefully, sticking to Russian so the waiter passing by won’t understand. “Just a boy from the university.”
Ilya’s eyes narrow instantly. “A boy. Does this boy play a sport?”
“That is irrelevant.”
“It is highly relevant. If he is a hockey player, I need to know immediately so I can arrange an accident on the ice.”
“Ilya.” You give him a sharp, warning look. “I am nineteen years old. I am allowed to have fun. You told me to have fun.”
“I told you to have fun with respectable men,” Ilya argues, jabbing his steak knife in your direction. “Not college athletes. They are animals. They do not know how to treat a woman.”
“He treats me very well, actually,” you fire back, defending Dean instinctively. The memory of Dean’s complete devotion — both in and out of the bedroom — flashes through your mind. “He takes me to nice places. He is polite.”
“Polite,” Ilya snorts, taking a large gulp of his red wine. “Sure. And what does this polite boy think is happening between you two? Does he know it is casual? Because men like that, they get attached. They get possessive.”
“He knows,” you say smoothly, though a tiny flicker of doubt sparks in your chest. Does Dean know it’s casual? He certainly hasn’t been acting casual lately. He acts like he owns you, and worse, you find yourself letting him.
“He knows,” Ilya repeats sarcastically. He shakes his head, cutting another piece of steak. “I worry about you, Y/N. You play these games, but eventually, someone gets hurt. You cannot just keep things casual forever. Eventually, you have to commit or walk away.”
You stare at your brother. The sheer hypocrisy of his statement actually leaves you speechless for a moment.
You slowly pick up your glass of wine, swirling the dark red liquid. You look at Ilya over the rim of the glass, a slow, lethal smirk curling the corners of your mouth.
“You are giving me advice on commitment?” You ask, your tone dangerously soft.
Ilya pauses, a flicker of unease crossing his features. “I am your older brother. It is my job to give you advice.”
“Interesting,” you note, leaning forward and resting your elbows on the table. “Because as far as I can tell, you have been in a situationship for the last six years, and you still refuse to put a label on it.”
Ilya’s jaw drops slightly. The smug, overprotective older brother act completely shatters. A dark, furious blush creeps up his neck, disappearing into his hairline.
“I do not know what you are talking about,” Ilya says rigidly.
“Oh, please.” You take a sip of your wine, enjoying the sudden shift in power. “How is Jane?”
Ilya actually chokes on his wine. He coughs, grabbing his napkin and pressing it to his mouth, his eyes watering.
You watch him without an ounce of pity. You have known about “Jane” for years. You know exactly who “Jane” is. You know that Jane is not a woman, and you know that Jane happens to be a certain golden boy captain of the Canadian national team who plays in Montreal. You know that Ilya and Shane Hollander have been hooking up in secret hotel rooms across North America for years, wrapped up in a bitter rivalry that is a very thin cover for a desperate, consuming obsession.
Ilya refuses to admit it out loud, but he knows that you know.
“Jane is fine,” Ilya grits out finally, glaring at you across the table.
“Good. Tell her I say hello,” you say pleasantly. “And tell her that if she ever breaks your heart, I will break her legs. That is the system, yes?”
Ilya stares at you. For a long, tense moment, the air between you crackles with unspoken threats and sibling stubbornness.
And then, slowly, the tension breaks.
Ilya lets out a low, rumbling laugh, shaking his head. He wipes his mouth with the napkin, looking at you with a mixture of immense pride and total defeat. You really are his exact replica.
“You are a menace, Y/N,” Ilya says softly.
“I learned from the best,” you reply smoothly.
Ilya sighs, raising his glass of wine toward you in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. You win. I will stop asking about the boy from university. For now. But if he hurts you, Y/N, I am serious. I will end him.”
“He will not hurt me,” you say confidently, clinking your glass against his. “I would never give him the power to do so.”
“Za zdarovye,” Ilya murmurs.
“Za zdarovye.”
You take a sip of the expensive wine, feeling a rush of affection for your brother. You handled him perfectly. He is backed off, your secret is safe, and your casual arrangement with Dean remains uninterrupted.
But as you set your glass down, your phone buzzes in your purse.
You pull it out, glancing at the screen under the table so Ilya can’t see.
It’s a text from Dean.
Actually, it’s six texts from Dean, sent in rapid succession.
Dean: Tell me right now you’re not actually Ilya Rozanov’s sister.
Dean: Holy shit.
Dean: They showed you on the broadcast.
Dean: Garrett is hyperventilating into a paper bag.
Dean: Why didn’t you tell me?
Dean: Are you with him right now? Don’t let him look at your neck.
You stare at the screen. Your carefully constructed, compartmentalized life is suddenly colliding in real-time.
You look up across the table. Ilya is casually cutting into his steak, completely oblivious to the absolute meltdown happening on your phone. He is relaxed, happy, and entirely unaware that his beloved little sister is sleeping with a hockey player.
You look back down at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard.
A tiny, wicked thrill races down your spine. The game just got a lot more interesting.
You: I am having dinner with him now.
You: Do not panic, Di Laurentis. He does not know about you. Yet.
You hit send, slide the phone back into your purse, and pick up your fork, completely unbothered.
Across town, Dean receives the text.
He stares at his phone screen for a full minute, the words burning into his retinas. The terrifying confidence of your reply does nothing to soothe his racing heart.
“Well?” Logan asks nervously from the couch. “What did she say?”
Dean slowly lowers his phone, looking at his three best friends. His expression is completely haunted.
“She told me not to panic,” Dean whispers.
“Oh, you’re dead,” Tucker nods sagely. “That’s exactly what people say right before they execute you.”
“Can I have your signed Marchand stick when you die?” Garrett asks, entirely serious.
Dean ignores them. He falls back against the armchair, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He is terrified. He is absolutely, completely terrified of Ilya Rozanov finding out that Dean has had his hands all over his little sister.
But beneath the terror, beneath the very real threat of physical violence, there is another feeling. A feeling that Dean can’t ignore, no matter how hard he tries.
He thinks about you sitting across from the most intimidating man in the NHL, calmly texting him, completely in control of the situation. He thinks about the way you challenge him, the way you speak Russian against his skin in the dark, the way you make him want to be better, faster, stronger just to earn a shred of your approval.
Dean drops his hands, staring blankly at the ceiling of the hockey house.
He is terrified. But he isn’t going to run.
“I’m keeping her,” Dean says suddenly, his voice quiet but incredibly firm.
The three guys on the couch stop talking. They stare at Dean like he has just lost his mind.
“Dean,” Garrett says slowly. “Did you hear what we just said? Her brother will end your career. He will end your life.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says, sitting forward. The panic is fading, replaced by that fierce, undeniable stubbornness that makes him the best defenseman in the conference. He grabs his beer, taking a long pull. “Let him try. I’m not letting her go.”
Logan sighs, rubbing his temples. “We’re going to need to buy so many deadbolts.”
Dean Di Laurentis x Hurricaneplayersister!Reader | word count: 1.9k
Summary: Managing a brutal pre-med workload while acting as the primary guardian for your younger brother, Leo, means practically living at the Briar rinks. When Briar’s notorious, effortlessly charming hockey star Dean Di Laurentis is assigned to coach Leo’s youth team, Hastings Hurricanes, you expect a front-row seat to a massive ego trip. Instead, he pleasantly surprises you.
Warning: fluffyyyyy, hot man = yes, hot man working well with kids = hell YES
Off Campus Masterlist
The ice rink at Briar smelled like wet gloves, stale coffee, and the unmistakable scent of ten-year-old boys who thought showering was optional.
I was halfway through highlighting an entire chapter on the Circle of Willis when Leo slammed himself against the glass in front of me hard enough to rattle my notes.
Leo: “Did you see that?”
You: “You missed the net by three feet.”
Leo: “It was a pass.”
You: “It was absolutely not a pass.”
Leo grinned, gap-toothed and unbothered, before skating backward toward the line again.
“Your sister’s brutal, man,” somebody called from the ice.
“Builds character,” I said without looking up.
A shadow stretched across my textbook a second later.
“Are you always this supportive?”
I glanced up and immediately regretted it a little.
Dean Di Laurentis leaned against the glass like he belonged in a hockey equipment ad. Sporting a Briar hoodie with a baseball cap shoved backward. An annoyingly amused expression plastered on his face.
Up close, he looked less polished than he did in the campus photos. Tired around the eyes. Hair curling slightly from the humidity of the rink.
Still irritatingly attractive, unfortunately.
“I support competence,” I replied.
Dean barked out a laugh. “Jesus. Remind me never to disappoint you.”
“You play hockey at Briar. I’m assuming disappointment isn’t something you experience often.”
“Wow,” he said. “You know, most people start with hello.”
I finally shut my textbook. “Most people don’t hover over me while I’m trying to study.”
“Fair.”
For a second, neither of us said anything. The sounds of skates scraping across the ice filled the silence.
Then Dean nodded toward Leo. “You were right last week, by the way.”
“About?”
“The shoulder thing.” He crossed his arms. “Kid practically announces his backhand before he even moves.”
I tried not to look too smug. “I’ve been telling him that for a year.”
“Yeah, well.” Dean shrugged. “You explained it better than his last coach.”
That caught me slightly off guard.
Not because he complimented me. Mostly because he said it like he actually meant it. Before I could respond, a puck slammed against the boards behind him.
“Coach Dean!” one of the kids yelled. “Mikey said a bad word!”
Dean closed his eyes briefly. “Fantastic.”
I snorted before I could stop myself.
His head turned toward me immediately, like he was surprised I’d laughed at all. Then he grinned.
Over the next couple weeks, Dean became weirdly unavoidable. Not in an aggressive way.
Just… present.
Sometimes he’d stop by the bleachers between drills to complain about the kids trying to fight each other. Sometimes he’d steal my highlighters. One time he sat next to me without asking and spent ten straight minutes trying to guess what I was studying based solely on diagrams.
“That one’s definitely the liver.”
“It’s the brain.”
“Well,” he said, frowning at the page. “That feels poorly drawn.”
Another time, he showed up with a caramel iced coffee and handed it to me casually.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“Yeah, but you looked miserable.”
“I always look miserable here.”
“That’s true,” he admitted. “But today looked worse.”
I tried very hard to stop the familiar feeling in my stomach.
It got worse after he started actually helping Leo. Not fake mentorship-program helping. Real helping.
Dean stayed late after practice fixing Leo’s shot mechanics. He chirped at him constantly, but he was patient about it. Never made him feel stupid. Halfway through one drill, Dean pointed toward the ice with his water bottle.
“Watch.”
Leo pushed forward into the line, shoulders level this time instead of dipping left before his backhand. The puck snapped cleanly into the top corner. Leo immediately turned toward the bleachers, both arms raised like he’d just scored a game winner.
Dean looked annoyingly pleased with himself.
“Okay,” I admitted reluctantly. “That was actually a good adjustment.”
“Thank you,” Dean said solemnly. “I’ll remember this compliment forever.”
Leo adored him almost immediately.
“You know he likes you, right?” Leo asked one night while I helped him untie his skates.
You: “Dean likes everybody.”
Leo: “No, like likes you.”
I nearly dropped the skate.
You: “He does not.”
Leo gave me a look that was far too knowing for a ten-year-old. “He asked if you were coming next Thursday.”
You: “That doesn’t mean anything.”
Leo: “He remembered your coffee order.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why are you paying attention to this?”
Leo: “Because it’s embarrassing watching both of you pretend.”
I stared at him.
You: “Who let you get this nosy?”
Leo: “You did. You raised me.”
The first time Dean and I really talked was because the rink vending machine ate my last five dollars. I smacked the side of it again.
Nothing.
“You know violence isn’t usually the answer.”
I looked over to find Dean walking into the lobby carrying his gear bag over one shoulder.
“This machine just stole from me.”
“Tragic.”
“I’m serious. That was the last of my cash.”
Dean crouched in front of the vending machine, inspecting it like it was a complex debate. Then he hit one specific spot with the side of his fist.
My granola bar dropped. My immediate thought was wow even a damn vending machine listens to him.
I blinked. “What.”
“Spent enough years in hockey rinks, you learn things.”
“You learn how to assault vending machines?”
“It’s a gift.”
He handed me the granola bar with a dramatic flourish before dropping into the chair across from me.
“You’re here late.”
“Organic chemistry.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It unfortunately isn’t.”
Dean leaned back in the chair. “Okay, explain one chemistry thing to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I failed a chem quiz last semester and I’m still bitter about it.”
A laugh slipped out. “You failed chemistry?”
“Relax. I’m just pretty and athletic.”
“That’s actually devastating news for women across campus.”
“I know.”
He smiled when he said it, but there was something loose about him tonight. Less performative.
A week later, Dean picked up one of my anatomy flashcards off the table during practice.
“CN Seven,” he read. “This sounds fake already.”
“It’s the facial nerve.”
“And you just know that immediately?”
“I’ve already had to memorize all twelve cranial nerves for three separate classes this past semester.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“You’re telling me.”
He flipped the card over. “Okay, wait. What does this one do?”
“Motor function for facial expression. Taste for the front two-thirds of the tongue.”
Dean stared at me for a second. “You people are terrifying.”
“You play hockey for fun.”
“Yeah, but concussions are different from homework.”
Somehow, he made being mocked feel like a compliment.
By the time the late-night skating happened, it didn’t feel random anymore. It felt inevitable in the way small things sometimes do before you realize they’ve become important.
Leo’s practice had ended almost an hour earlier. One of the other parents offered to drive him home, which left me alone in the nearly empty rink lobby with my laptop, a pile of flashcards, and a rapidly deteriorating mental state.
The overhead lights above the rink had been dimmed, leaving the ice washed in cool blue light that stretched long shadows across the empty surface.
Dean wandered out of the varsity locker room sometime after ten, hair damp from his shower and duffel bag hanging off one shoulder.
He slowed when he spotted me.
“You’re still here?”
“Anatomy exam tomorrow.”
“Bad?”
“I think my brain has started rejecting information on principle.”
Dean dropped into the chair across from me and picked up one of my flashcards before I could stop him.
“CN Ten,” he read. “This one sounds important.”
“The vagus nerve.”
“Huh?”
Despite myself, I grinned down at the table.
Dean noticed.
That was the issue with him lately. He notices things.
Dean grinned slightly before flipping the card over. “What’s it do?”
“Parasympathetic control of the heart, lungs, digestive tract—”
“Okay, hold on.” He held up a hand. “How are you remembering all of this?”
“I’m not,” I said flatly. “I’m actively dying.”
“Seems dramatic.”
“You failed chemistry.”
“That was one time.”
“Didn’t you just say you were still bitter about it?”
Dean pointed at me. “See? This is why I can’t stand pre-med students. You people remember everything.”
After a minute, he leaned back in his chair and nodded toward the rink doors.
“You need a break.”
“I really don’t.”
“You’ve been staring at flashcards for like three hours.”
“I have an exam.”
“And your eyes look crossed.”
“They are crossed.”
Dean stood up and grabbed two pairs of skates from beside the rental counter.
“Oh my god.”
“Ten minutes.”
“Dean—”
“Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“Well… Coach's orders, then.” he said, which honestly sounded more like a question.
I should’ve said no.
Instead, twenty minutes later, I was stepping out onto freshly zambonied ice in borrowed skates while Dean skated backward in front of me with entirely too much confidence.
The rink was quiet except for the soft scrape of blades cutting across the ice.
Better than anatomy, unfortunately.
Dean matched my pace easily. “You know, you’re less scary when you’re not holding flashcards.”
“That’s disappointing. Fear was all I had going for me.”
“Nah.” He glanced over at me briefly. “You’ve also got the judgmental staring thing.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
I opened my mouth to argue and immediately lost balance slightly on a turn.
Dean caught my waist automatically. For a second, neither of us moved.
Then he let go.
Not awkwardly per se.
Just aware. As usual.
“Oh my god,” I muttered. “Leo is never hearing about this.”
Dean chuckled quietly. “Your reputation survives another day.”
We skated another lap after that.
Then another.
At some point, I realized I wasn’t thinking about the exam anymore.
At the end of the day, I truly just feel horrible for the USA women’s hockey team, who were reduced to a joke by the president of the very country they won a gold medal for and whose anthem they sang proudly with American flags draped around their shoulders. Who were laughed at by their fellow Olympians and hockey players. Who have worked just as hard (if not harder) than the men to get to the point, because after the last Winter Olympics, many of them didn’t even know if they would be able to continue playing professional hockey on account of being women!
But I am so fucking proud of them and I refuse to let their win be overshadowed by this absolute garbage. They are gold medalists and always will be!
Summary: you’re covering your first NHL game when a player defends you from an asshole reporter in front of the entire locker room. Two weeks later, you literally crash into him at the mall and your Victoria’s Secret bag explodes everywhere. He helps you pick up your underwear, buys you lunch, and asks for your number. Now you’re secretly dating him while covering his team. This will definitely end well.
Based on this request
The press box at Ball Arena smells like stale popcorn and desperation — or maybe that’s just you, cramming three years of journalism school into your brain while the Zamboni makes its final pass before puck drop.
“You’ll be fine,” your editor, Jeff, had said over the phone two hours ago, his voice tinged with the kind of false confidence people use when they’re asking you to jump off a cliff. “Just ask some questions, get some quotes, file by midnight. Easy.”
Easy. Right.
You’ve covered high school football. You’ve covered city council meetings where the most exciting thing that happened was a debate about parking meters. You have not covered professional hockey, and you definitely haven’t covered the Colorado Avalanche, who are currently warming up on the ice below you like a pack of very expensive, very fast wolves.
Your phone buzzes. It’s Jeff again.
Remember to be assertive in the scrum. These guys will eat you alive if you’re not.
“Fantastic,” you mutter, shoving your phone into your bag next to your recorder, three pens (always bring backups), and a protein bar you’re too nervous to eat.
The game starts, and you do your best to keep up. You know hockey — grew up watching it with your dad, can explain offsides and icing without breaking a sweat — but knowing the sport and covering it professionally are two wildly different things. The reporters around you type with the casual confidence of people who’ve done this a thousand times, their eyes barely leaving their laptops as they capture every rush, every hit, every save.
You’re handwriting notes like some kind of medieval scribe, your fingers cramping around your pen.
The Avalanche score first. Then Calgary ties it. Then Colorado goes up again, and Calgary ties it again, and suddenly you’re in overtime and your heart is doing things that probably aren’t medically advisable.
That’s when number eighty-eight, Martin Nečas, picks up the puck in the neutral zone.
He’s fast. You knew he was fast from watching highlights, but seeing it in person is different. He blows past one defender, then another, then he’s in alone on the goalie and-
The puck goes high glove side.
The goal horn sounds.
Ball Arena loses its collective mind.
You’re scribbling frantically. Nečas OT winner, 3:47 into extra period, unassisted — check that, maybe assisted? Need to confirm. Your hand is shaking slightly, and you’re not sure if it’s from the adrenaline or the three cups of press box coffee you’ve consumed.
Twenty minutes later, you’re standing outside the Avalanche locker room with approximately thirty other media members, most of whom are men, and most of whom look like they’d rather be literally anywhere else. They’re checking phones, comparing notes, complaining about traffic.
You’re trying not to throw up.
The door opens, and a PR assistant — bright-eyed, clipboard-wielding, probably doesn’t get paid enough — waves everyone in. “Okay, folks, you know the drill. Bednar will be available in five, but players are good to go now.”
The scrum moves like a single organism, flowing into the room and immediately clustering around certain stalls. You can see Cale Makar’s number eight jersey hanging in one corner, surrounded by reporters. Nathan MacKinnon’s number twenty-nine is creating its own gravitational pull.
And Marty’s number eighty-eight? That’s where the real crowd is.
Of course it is. Two goals, including the overtime winner. That’s the story of the night.
You wedge yourself into the back of the pack, your recorder held up like a periscope, trying to catch anything useful. The guy in front of you is approximately six-two and apparently made of concrete. You can see roughly forty percent of Marty’s face and none of your future.
“-yeah, you know, I just tried to get to the net,” Marty is saying, his accent slight but present, the kind that makes certain words sound softer around the edges. “They gave me some space, so I took it.”
“Marty, can you walk us through the overtime winner?” Someone shouts.
“Sure, yeah. Lehki made a good play in our zone, got it out clean. I saw the defenseman cheat a little bit to the middle, so I went wide. After that, it was just me and the goalie, and I just tried to pick a spot.” He pauses. “Got lucky, I guess.”
The reporters scribble. You scribble. Everyone scribbles.
“Do you feel like you’re finding your rhythm? Third game with multiple points-”
“I mean, the team is playing well, you know? When everyone is doing their job, it makes my job easier. It’s not just about me.”
Standard athlete answer. Humble. Team-first. You’re not going to get a story out of that.
But you might get one out of something else.
You’ve been watching the game closely — or as closely as someone covering their first NHL game can watch — and you noticed something in the second period. Marty had changed his positioning on the power play, rotating higher in the zone instead of staying down low. It had opened up passing lanes, created chaos for the Calgary penalty kill. None of the reporters have asked about it yet.
You wait for a gap in the questions, your heart doing that thing again where it tries to escape through your throat.
Nothing.
More questions about the goals, about the team’s playoff positioning, about-
“Marty, your parents are visiting from Czechia this week, right? Did they-”
You’re formulating your question in your head, trying to make it sound smart and professional and like you absolutely belong here, when suddenly there’s a brief pause. Someone’s phone is ringing. Another reporter is checking his notes.
Marty’s eyes scan the crowd, and for just a second, they land on you.
You freeze.
He tilts his head slightly, the ghost of a smile crossing his face. “Yeah?” He says, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s talking to you. “You’ve been waiting. What’s your question?”
Oh God. Oh God, everyone is looking at you now.
You clear your throat, raising your voice to be heard over the ambient noise. “I noticed in the second period, on the power play, you started rotating higher in the zone instead of-”
“Hey, Marty,” a voice cuts in from your left — deep, male, impatient. You feel a hand on your shoulder, pushing. Not gently. “Follow-up about the first goal. You said you saw the space, but their defenseman had been playing you tight all night. What changed?”
You stumble slightly to the side, catching yourself on someone’s arm. The reporter — older guy, maybe fifty, with a press badge from some blog you’ve never heard of — has essentially shoved his way into your spot, his recorder thrust toward Marty’s face.
Your question dies in your throat.
The locker room continues on like nothing happened. Someone asks about goaltending. Someone else asks about line combinations.
Your face is burning. You’re angry, but more than that, you’re embarrassed. You finally work up the courage to ask something, and you get physically pushed aside like you’re not even here.
You’re about to give up, about to just take your partial quotes and your wounded pride and get the hell out, when Marty speaks again.
“Actually, hold on.” His voice is quiet but firm, and somehow it cuts through all the noise. “I want to hear her question.”
The locker room doesn’t go silent, there are still conversations happening in other corners, still the ambient sound of a hockey team winding down after a win, but the scrum around Marty’s stall definitely quiets.
Marty is looking directly at the reporter who cut you off. His expression hasn’t changed much — he’s still got that post-game calm, that professional athlete neutrality — but there’s something in his eyes that’s gone very, very flat.
“You pushed her,” Marty says. It’s not a question.
The reporter scoffs. “I didn’t—look, it’s a scrum, everyone’s trying to get questions in-”
“Yeah, and she was asking one.” Marty stands up, and suddenly the dynamic in the room shifts. He’s not a huge guy by hockey standards — six-foot-two, maybe — but he’s still in his gear minus the shoulder pads, and there’s something about the way he moves that makes you think of a coiled spring. “And you interrupted her. And pushed her.”
“It wasn’t-”
“I saw it.” Marty crosses his arms. “Everyone saw it.”
The reporter’s face is reddening now. “Look, kid, I’ve been covering this league since before you were born-”
“Great. Then you should know better.” Marty’s voice hasn’t risen, but it’s taken on an edge that makes you think he sounds like this on the ice right before someone makes a very bad decision. “You want to ask questions? Fine. Wait your turn. Don’t put your hands on people. And definitely don’t cut off-” He glances at your press badge, squinting slightly. “-Colorado Sports Network in the middle of a question.”
“It’s just an intern,” the reporter mutters, but he’s already backing up slightly.
“I don’t care if she’s the mascot,” Marty says, and there’s a ripple of surprised laughter from some of the other reporters. “She was asking something, and you interrupted. That’s rude. We don’t do that here.”
The PR assistant has materialized from nowhere, her expression torn between professional horror and barely suppressed glee. “Okay, gentlemen, let’s keep this professional-”
“I am being professional,” Marty says, not looking away from the reporter. “I’m telling him to be professional too.”
The reporter opens his mouth, closes it, then turns and pushes his way out of the scrum entirely. You catch a few muttered words that are definitely not appropriate for a family establishment.
Marty watches him go, then turns back to you. His expression softens immediately, like someone flipped a switch. “Sorry about that. You were saying? Something about the power play?”
Your brain has officially left the building. You’re running on autopilot now, some deep-seated journalistic instinct that survived three years of college and one Very Bad Breakup.
“I … yeah. I noticed you started rotating higher in the zone on the power play, creating more of an umbrella setup instead of staying down low. It seemed like it opened up passing lanes and gave you guys more flexibility. Was that a tactical adjustment, or something you read off Calgary’s penalty kill?”
Marty’s face lights up — an actual, genuine smile that makes him look about five years younger. “Yes! Okay, yeah, you noticed that. That’s a good question.” He leans forward slightly, his elbows on his knees. “Their PK was collapsing really hard down low, trying to take away the bumper and the net front. So me and Val talked about it on the bench, and we decided I’d rotate higher, pull one of their defenders with me. Creates more room for Nate to work in the middle, and if they don’t follow me up, I’ve got time and space to shoot or make a pass.”
You’re nodding, your recorder capturing every word. “So it was a read you made in-game?”
“Yeah, exactly. Their penalty kill is very aggressive, which is good for them most of the time, but if you can recognize it and adjust, you can take advantage.” He shrugs. “Plus, our coaches are really good about letting us make those changes on the fly. They trust us to see what’s happening and react.”
“That’s great,” you manage, and you mean it. This is actual analysis, actual insight into how the game works at this level. This is a real answer.
“You played hockey?” Marty asks suddenly.
The question catches you off guard. “What? No. I mean, I watched a lot growing up, but I never played.”
“But you know the game.” It’s not a question. “That was a smart thing to notice. Most people, they just see goals and hits. They don’t see the small adjustments.”
“I’m trying to learn,” you say, and it comes out more honest than you intended. “This is actually my first time covering an NHL game.”
His eyebrows rise. “Really? You seem like you know what you’re doing.”
“I’m very good at pretending.”
He laughs — a real laugh, bright and surprised. “Well, you’re doing better than some people who’ve been doing this for twenty years.” He shoots a pointed look in the direction the rude reporter went.
“Thank you,” you say, and you mean it for multiple reasons. “For answering the question. And for, you know. Standing up for me. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I did.” He says it simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That guy was being an asshole. Sorry—can I say that? Are you recording?”
You glance at your recorder. “I am, but I won’t use that part.”
“Okay, good, because he was.” Marty grins. “You have any other questions? I’ve got time.”
You do have other questions — about a dozen of them, actually, now that your brain is slowly coming back online. You ask about his chemistry with his linemates, about adjusting to Colorado’s system, about whether he misses playing in Carolina. He answers all of them thoughtfully, with the kind of detail that makes you think he actually enjoys talking about hockey when he’s not being asked the same five questions on repeat.
Other reporters are still hovering, waiting for you to finish, but Marty doesn’t seem to be in a hurry.
“Last question,” you say finally, partly because you’re running out of notebook pages and partly because you can feel the impatient stares of ten other media members. “The overtime winner—you went glove side on a goalie who’s been statistically one of the best in the league at stopping high shots. What made you choose that?”
Marty’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “Honestly? Gut feeling. I’d been watching him all game, and he was really good at tracking the puck down low, getting his pad down fast. But a couple times when there were high shots, he was just a little bit slow getting his glove up. So when I came in on that rush, I was already thinking glove side. And then I saw him cheat a little bit to his blocker side — just a tiny bit, maybe he thought I was going there — so I went upstairs glove.” He smiles. “Also, I got lucky. Let’s be honest.”
“Skill and luck,” you say.
“Best combination in hockey.”
You thank him again, clicking off your recorder and stepping back from the scrum. Your legs feel like jelly, and you’re pretty sure you’ve sweat through your shirt under your blazer, but you have quotes. Good quotes. Great quotes, actually.
As you’re turning to leave, Marty calls out, “Hey, Colorado Sports Network?”
You turn back. “Yeah?”
“What’s your name? I didn’t catch it.”
“Oh. Um. It’s Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N.”
He nods, like he’s committing it to memory. “Cool. Good questions, Y/N. I hope you cover more games.”
“Thanks,” you say, and then you flee before you can do something embarrassing like giggle or trip over your own feet.
You make it approximately fifteen feet down the hallway before you have to stop and lean against the wall, your heart pounding so hard you’re pretty sure it’s visible through your shirt.
Your phone buzzes. Jeff.
How’d it go???
You stare at the message for a long moment, then type back. Got the story. Filing in an hour.
What you don’t say: You also got defended by a professional hockey player, had your first real scrum experience, and possibly just developed a crush on someone you’re supposed to be covering objectively.
But that’s fine. That’s totally fine. You’re a professional.
You’re absolutely, completely, definitely fine.
(You’re not fine.)
***
The thing about Park Meadows Mall on a Monday afternoon is that it should be relatively empty. That’s what you’ve been telling yourself for the past hour, wandering from store to store with the kind of determined focus usually reserved for investigative journalism or defusing bombs.
You are not defusing a bomb. You are buying underwear.
“Just go in, get what you need, get out,” you’d muttered to yourself in the parking lot, gripping the steering wheel like it might offer moral support. “You’re an adult. Adults buy lingerie. This is normal.”
Except it doesn’t feel normal when you’re standing in Victoria’s Secret, holding a lacy burgundy bra up to the light and trying to remember what size you’re supposed to be, and whether it even matters because who’s going to see it anyway?
The sales associate — perky, blonde, probably doesn’t lie awake at night worrying about whether she’ll die alone with seventeen cats — had been aggressively helpful.
“That color would look amazing on you,” she’d said, appearing at your elbow like a lingerie-themed ghost. “And we’re doing a promotion: buy two bras, get two panties free.”
Which is how you ended up with a shopping bag containing one burgundy bra, one black bra (practical), two matching thong sets (aspirational), and a crisis about whether buying nice underwear when you’re single is empowering or just sad.
You’re going with empowering. It’s empowering.
The bag swings from your hand as you navigate the mall, trying to look like someone who buys thongs on a Tuesday and feels totally normal about it. You pass the Apple Store, catch a glimpse of your reflection in a window, and make the executive decision that you need a coffee before you can handle the rest of your day.
There’s a Starbucks on the second floor. You head for the escalator, already mentally composing your order (iced latte, oat milk, extra shot because your life is a circus), your mind drifting to the article you need to finish editing tonight.
You’re thinking about transition sentences and whether you used “however” too many times when you step off the escalator directly into what feels like a brick wall.
Except brick walls don’t say “Oof” and stumble backward.
Except brick walls don’t have arms that instinctively reach out to steady you.
And brick walls definitely don’t smell like expensive cologne and fresh laundry.
“Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t-” you’re saying, at the same time the brick wall is saying something in what sounds like Czech, and then you’re both stepping back, and your Victoria’s Secret bag — your very full, very pink Victoria’s Secret bag — chooses this exact moment to give up on life.
The bottom tears.
Everything goes flying.
The burgundy bra lands near a trash can. The black bra drapes itself over someone’s abandoned smoothie cup. And the thongs — Jesus Christ, the thongs — scatter across the floor like the world’s most embarrassing confetti.
“Oh my God,” you say, dropping to your knees immediately, your face already burning hot enough to power a small city. “Oh my God, oh my God-”
“Here, let me help-” the brick wall says, and that’s when you look up and realize the brick wall is Marty.
Martin Nečas. Number eighty-eight. Two-goal scorer. Professional hockey player.
Currently crouching down to help you pick up your underwear.
“No!” You practically shout, reaching out to stop him. “No, it’s fine, I’ve got it, you don’t have to-”
But he’s already picking up the black bra, and now he’s reaching for one of the thongs — the burgundy one with the little lace detail that the sales associate had described as “cheeky” — and you want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. You want to spontaneously combust.
Marty’s holding the thong by one tiny string, staring at it like it’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve. His ears are turning red.
“This is, um.” He looks at you. Looks at the thong. Looks back at you. “This is yours?”
“Yes,” you say, snatching it from his hand and shoving it into what’s left of your shopping bag. “Yes, it’s mine, thank you, I’ve got it, sorry, I’m so sorry-”
“No, no, I’m sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going-” He’s grabbing the other thong now (black, also “cheeky”), and the second bra, and somehow he’s managed to corral most of your escaped lingerie while you’re still frozen in a crouch, wishing for death.
A woman walking by gives you both a curious look. A teenager snickers.
You’re going to have to move to a different state. Maybe a different country.
“I think that’s everything,” Marty says, standing up and offering you the handful of lacy things he’s collected. His face is flushed, and he won’t quite meet your eyes, but he’s also trying very hard not to smile. “Unless, uh, there’s more?”
“No. That’s it. That’s all of it.” You stand up too quickly, nearly lose your balance, and catch yourself on a nearby railing. Smooth. Very smooth. “Thank you. For helping. Even though you didn’t have to. And probably shouldn’t have. I mean—not that I don’t appreciate it, but-”
“It’s okay,” he says, and now he is smiling, just a little bit. “I’ve seen underwear before.”
“That’s … great? That’s great for you.”
He laughs, and it breaks some of the tension. “I’m sorry about your bag. I really wasn’t paying attention. I was looking at my phone and-” He gestures vaguely at the multiple shopping bags hanging from his arm. Apple, Lululemon, some place called Tumi that you’re pretty sure sells luggage that costs more than your rent.
“It’s fine,” you say, even though it’s not fine, nothing is fine, you just had a professional athlete handle your thong collection. “I should’ve been watching where I was going too.”
There’s a pause. You’re clutching your broken bag of lingerie. He’s holding what appears to be half of the Apple Store’s inventory. You’re both just standing there, in the middle of the mall, while the universe laughs.
“So,” Marty says slowly. “This is, uh. This is embarrassing.”
“You think?”
“For both of us.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s more embarrassing for me,” you say. “You’re not the one whose underwear just went on a public tour.”
“Yeah, but I’m the one who picked it up.” He shifts his bags from one hand to the other. “Which, in retrospect, maybe I should’ve just let you handle that yourself.”
“Probably,” you agree. “But you were trying to be helpful. In a mortifying, I’ll-never-recover-from-this kind of way.”
He grins. “You’ll recover. Give it, like, ten or fifteen years.”
“Oh good. So I only have to hide in my apartment until 2040.”
“Could be worse. Could’ve been your grandma walking by instead of me.”
You hadn’t thought of that. “Oh my God, don’t even put that image in my head.”
“Now I’m curious what your grandma would’ve said.”
“She would’ve asked why I was buying thongs when I don’t even have a boyfriend.” You say it without thinking, then immediately want to take it back because why, why did you just volunteer that information?
Marty’s eyebrows rise slightly. “No boyfriend?”
“Nope. No boyfriend. Just me and my extremely fancy underwear that no one will ever see.” You’re babbling now, the words just pouring out like your brain has disconnected from your mouth. “Not that I bought it for anyone to see. I bought it for me. Because women can buy lingerie for themselves. It’s empowering.”
“It is,” he agrees, but he’s definitely trying not to laugh. “Very empowering.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Little bit.”
“Great. Fantastic.” You’re backing toward the escalator now, ready to flee this conversation and possibly this dimension. “Well, this has been humiliating. Thanks again for the help. I’m going to go throw myself into traffic now.”
“Wait.” He takes a step forward. “Don’t throw yourself into traffic.”
“I’m open to alternative suggestions.”
“Let me buy you lunch.”
You stop. “What?”
“Lunch,” he repeats. “As an apology. For, you know, crashing into you. And seeing your underwear. And making this whole thing weird.”
“You want to buy me lunch.”
“Yeah.”
“Right now?”
“I mean, unless you have somewhere else to be. Or unless you really are going to throw yourself into traffic, in which case I should probably try to stop you first.”
You stare at him. He’s serious. Martin Nečas, professional hockey player, the guy you interviewed two weeks ago, the guy who defended you in a locker room full of reporters, is asking you to lunch.
“I can’t have lunch with you,” you say.
“Why not?”
“Because-” Because you’re a journalist and he’s a player and there are probably ethics rules about this, right? Except you’re not really a journalist, you’re an intern, and you’re not even covering the team regularly, and also you’re pretty sure the ethics rules don’t account for chance encounters at the mall involving airborne lingerie. “Because it would be weird.”
“Weirder than what just happened?”
He’s got a point.
“I’m buying,” he adds. “And I promise not to mention your underwear again.”
“You just mentioned it.”
“That was the last time. From now on, we pretend it never happened.”
You look down at your broken Victoria’s Secret bag, then back at Marty, who’s watching you with this hopeful expression that’s honestly unfair because how are you supposed to say no to that?
“Where did you have in mind?” You hear yourself asking.
His face lights up. “You like burgers?”
***
Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting across from Marty in a corner booth at some gourmet burger place on the ground floor, your reconstructed shopping bag (he found a paper one from one of his stores) tucked safely beside you, trying to act like this is a totally normal situation.
It’s not a normal situation.
“So,” Marty says, pulling a pickle off his burger and setting it on the edge of his plate. “You’re still at Colorado Sports Network?”
“Yeah. Still an intern.” You pick up a fry, then put it down again. “That game two weeks ago was actually my first NHL coverage. They’ve had me on high school sports mostly.”
“But you did a good job. Your article was really good.”
You blink. “You read my article?”
“Yeah, of course.” He says it like it’s obvious. “I wanted to see what you wrote. Especially after the whole thing with that asshole reporter.”
“He’s still mad at you, by the way. Someone told me he’s been complaining about you to anyone who’ll listen.”
Marty shrugs, biting into his burger. “Don’t care. He was being rude.”
“You didn’t have to stand up for me like that.”
“Yes, I did.” He sets his burger down, looking at you seriously. “He pushed you. That’s not okay. And even if he hadn’t pushed you, interrupting someone in the middle of a question is just … it’s bad manners. My mom would kill me if I did that.”
“Your mom sounds scary.”
“She’s not scary, she’s just Czech. There’s a difference.” He pauses. “Actually, no, she’s a little bit scary.”
You laugh, and it feels good, some of the tension from the mall incident finally starting to ease. “How long are your parents visiting?”
“They left last week. But they’re coming back for playoffs, hopefully.” He steals one of your fries and grins when you swat at his hand. “If we make it.”
“You’ll make it. You guys are, what, second in the Central?”
“Yeah, but it’s close. And I don’t want to jinx it.”
“Not superstitious at all, huh?”
“I’m a hockey player. We’re all superstitious.” He counts off on his fingers. “I eat the same breakfast before every game. I put my left skate on before my right. I have to tap the glass three times when I go out for warmups. And I never, ever say the word ’shutout’ during a game.”
“What happens if you do?”
“The universe explodes. Or the other team scores. One of those.”
You’re grinning now, relaxing into the conversation. “Do you really believe that?”
“Doesn’t matter if I believe it. It’s just what you do.” He leans back in the booth, his long legs stretching out under the table. “Everyone on the team has their things. Gabe has this pre-game nap schedule that he will not deviate from. Nate listens to the same pump-up playlist. Cale does this specific stick-taping pattern.”
“What happens if someone messes up their routine?”
“Panic. Chaos. General disaster.” He’s smiling. “One time, Nate’s headphones died right before a game. You would’ve thought someone cancelled Christmas.”
“Did you guys lose?”
“No, we won 5-1. But he was stressed the entire time.”
You take a bite of your burger — it’s good, really good, the kind of burger that makes you understand why people wait in hour-long lines — and watch Marty across the table. He’s different like this, away from the arena. More relaxed. Funnier. The media persona falls away, and what’s left is just a guy in his twenties who apparently has strong opinions about pickle placement and breakfast superstitions.
“Can I ask you something?” You say.
“Sure.”
“Why’d you ask me to lunch? Really?”
He’s quiet for a moment, dragging a fry through ketchup. “I don’t know. I thought it would be nice?”
“Nice.”
“Yeah. You seemed cool. At the game, I mean. You asked good questions, and you weren’t just going through the motions like some of the other reporters.” He looks up, meeting your eyes. “And then we literally crashed into each other today, and your underwear went everywhere, and I thought … I don’t know, I thought maybe the universe was telling me something.”
“The universe told you to ask me to lunch via flying lingerie?”
“The universe works in mysterious ways.”
You’re trying not to smile and failing. “That’s the worst logic I’ve ever heard.”
“Maybe. But you said yes, so it worked.”
He’s got you there.
Your phone buzzes on the table. You glance at it — Jeff, asking about a deadline for Friday — then flip it face-down. “Sorry. Work thing.”
“It’s fine. Are you busy? We can eat fast if you need to-”
“No, no, I’m good. I’ve got time.” You steal one of his fries in revenge for earlier. “What about you? Don’t you have practice or training or hockey stuff?”
“Day off. We played last night, so today’s recovery.” He flexes his arm dramatically. “As you can see, I’m recovering very hard. Buying electronics. Eating burgers. Really pushing my body to the limit.”
“The Apple Store bags make sense now.”
“New laptop. My old one died.” He grimaces. “Well, I maybe accidentally dropped it. And then maybe accidentally stepped on it.”
“How do you accidentally step on a laptop?”
“It was on the floor.”
“Why was it on the floor?”
“Because I dropped it.”
You’re laughing now, actually laughing, and Marty’s grinning at you like he’s won something. “You’re a disaster.”
“Little bit,” he agrees. “But I’m a disaster with a new laptop, so it’s fine.”
“What else did you buy? That’s a lot of bags.”
“Some clothes. A duffle bag. We have a road trip coming up and my other one broke. Oh, and I got my mom this fancy tea set thing from that kitchen store. For her birthday next month.”
“You’re mailing your mom a tea set to Czechia?”
“Yeah, why?”
“That’s just … that’s really sweet.”
He shrugs, but his ears go a bit pink. “She likes tea. And she’s always saying the tea here is better than Czech tea, which I think is just her being nice, but whatever. I wanted to get her something good.”
There’s something about the image of this professional hockey player carefully picking out a tea set for his mom that makes your chest feel warm. You take another bite of your burger to cover whatever expression is probably on your face.
“What about you?” Marty asks. “What were you doing at the mall? Besides, you know-”
“We said we weren’t going to mention it.”
“I didn’t mention anything specific. I’m just saying, besides shopping.”
“That was the whole thing. Just shopping.” You don’t mention that you’d been stress-shopping, that buying nice underwear had felt like taking control of something in a life that often feels like it’s happening to you rather than because of you.
“Do you like it? Your job?”
The question catches you off guard. “I … yeah. I do. I mean, it’s an internship, so a lot of it is grunt work. But I’m learning a lot. And I love writing.”
“You’re good at it.”
“You read one article.”
“It was a really good article.” He’s serious now, not joking around. “You made the game sound interesting. Like, you didn’t just report what happened. You explained why it mattered. That’s hard to do.”
“Thanks,” you say, and you mean it. You’ve gotten compliments on your writing before — from professors, from Jeff when he’s in a good mood — but something about hearing it from Marty feels different. “I’m trying to figure out what I want to do after I graduate. Like, do I want to do sports journalism specifically, or general news, or … I don’t know. I love sports, but I also like investigative stuff.”
“You’ve got time to figure it out.”
“Do I? Everyone else in my program already has it figured out. They have internships lined up at major papers, or they’re starting their own podcasts, or they’ve already got job offers. And I’m just-” You stop, realizing you’re oversharing to someone you barely know. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear me have a quarter-life crisis.”
“I don’t mind.” He steals another one of your fries, and this time you let him. “For what it’s worth, I think most people are just pretending they have it figured out. Like, I’m a professional hockey player, which sounds like I’ve got my shit together, but I literally just stepped on my laptop last week.”
“That’s different. You’re already doing what you’re supposed to be doing.”
“Yeah, but what happens when I’m not? Hockey careers don’t last forever. I’ll be, what, forty max when I retire? Then what? I have no idea.” He shrugs. “So maybe we’re both just figuring it out as we go.”
You look at him — really look at him — and realize that he’s being genuine. There’s no bravado, no performance. Just a guy admitting he doesn’t have all the answers.
“How did you end up in Colorado?” You ask. “I know you got traded from Carolina, but-”
“Yeah, last season. It was weird. I liked Carolina, I liked my teammates there. But sometimes things don’t work out, you know? And Colorado needed a winger, and they made the trade, and now I’m here.” He takes a sip of his Coke. “I really like it, though. The team is great. The city is great. The mountains are amazing, they remind me of home.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Sometimes. I miss my family. My friends. The food — American food is good, but it’s not the same.” He grins. “But I can go back and visit in the summer. And they come here sometimes. So it’s okay.”
“Does it ever get lonely? Being that far from home?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. “But you get used to it. And you make new friends. New routines. After a while, wherever you are becomes home too. Kind of.”
There’s something wistful in his voice, and you want to ask more, but before you can, your phone buzzes again. Then again. Then three more times in rapid succession.
“Sorry,” you mutter, grabbing it. It’s your best friend, Riley, sending a series of increasingly unhinged texts.
WHERE ARE YOU WHY ARENT YOU ANSWERING DID YOU DIE IF YOU DIED CAN I HAVE YOUR BOOTS THE BROWN ONES
You type back quickly. I’m alive. Having lunch. Talk later.
Riley’s response is immediate. WITH WHO
You don’t answer that one.
“Everything okay?” Marty asks.
“Yeah, sorry. My friend is having a crisis about my boots.”
“Your boots?”
“Don’t ask. It’s a whole thing.”
He laughs. “Friends are weird.”
“The weirdest.”
You’re both quiet for a moment, the comfortable kind of quiet that feels rare with someone you don’t know well. The restaurant has gotten busier — it’s lunchtime now, and there are families at nearby tables, business people on their laptops, a couple sharing a milkshake.
“Can I ask you something?” Marty says.
“Sure.”
“That reporter. The one from the game. Has he bothered you since then?”
“No. Why?”
“Just wondering. I heard he was talking shit, and I wanted to make sure he wasn’t giving you a hard time.”
“I haven’t seen him since that night. And honestly, I think after what you said, he’s probably avoiding me.” You pause. “You really didn’t have to do that, you know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true. You could’ve just let it go. Answered his question. Moved on.”
“I could have,” Marty agrees. “But that would’ve been letting him think it was okay to treat people like that. And it’s not.”
There’s a conviction in his voice that makes you believe he’d do it again, no matter the circumstances. It’s refreshing … and maybe a little dangerous to your heart.
“Well, thank you,” you say. “Again. For the hundredth time.”
“You’re welcome. For the hundredth time.”
Your phone buzzes again. TELL ME WHO YOURE WITH OR I WILL CALL YOUR MOTHER
“I should probably go,” you say reluctantly, gesturing at your phone. “Before my friend actually calls my mother.”
“Would she really?”
“Yes. She did it once when I didn’t answer for six hours because I was doing laundry. My mom called me crying, thinking I’d been kidnapped.”
Marty’s eyes widen. “That’s intense.”
“That’s Riley.” You gather your things — your purse, your phone, your reconstructed shopping bag with its mortifying contents. “Thank you for lunch. And for the bag repair. And for not running away screaming when my underwear attacked you.”
“It was the least I could do after causing the underwear attack.” He stands when you do, grabbing his shopping bags. “This was fun.”
“It was,” you agree, and you’re surprised to realize you mean it. Despite the mortifying beginning, lunch has been … nice. Really nice.
You walk out together, into the mall’s main corridor where shoppers are rushing past with bags and strollers and grande lattes. It feels surreal, standing here with Marty like you’re just two normal people who happened to have lunch, not a journalist and an athlete who probably shouldn’t be fraternizing.
“I’ll see you around?” Marty says, and it sounds like a question.
“Maybe. If you don’t run me over at the mall again.”
“I’ll try to be more careful.” He shifts his bags, looking like he wants to say something else, then just: “Enjoy your, uh. Your purchases.”
You’d almost forgotten. “Oh God. We’re not mentioning those, remember?”
“Right. Never happened.” But he’s grinning, and you’re fighting a smile, and this is ridiculous.
“Bye, Marty.”
“Bye, Y/N.”
You turn to leave, make it about five steps, then hear him call your name. When you turn back, he’s still standing there, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.
“Hey, um. Can I—would it be weird if I got your number?” He’s talking fast now, words tumbling over each other. “Not weird weird, just like, so we could maybe hang out again? As friends. Or not friends—I mean, as friends is fine too, I just meant-”
“Marty.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re rambling.”
“I know. Sorry. I’m not usually—this is not normally how I-” He stops, takes a breath. “Can I have your number?”
You should say no. You should absolutely say no. This is a terrible idea for approximately seventeen different reasons, most of which involve ethics and professionalism and not getting emotionally involved with people you might have to cover.
You give him your number.
He saves it in his phone, then sends you a text — just a simple “hey” — so you have his too.
“Cool,” he says. “Okay. Cool.”
“You already said cool.”
“I’m aware. I’m leaving now before I say it again.”
He does leave, finally, walking backward for a few steps and nearly colliding with a man carrying a giant teddy bear before course-correcting. You watch him go, then look down at your phone where his text is waiting.
Riley’s going to lose her mind.
You’re probably going to lose your mind.
But as you head toward the parking lot, your ruined Victoria’s Secret bag in hand and Marty’s number in your phone, you can’t quite bring yourself to regret any of it.
Even the thong incident.
Especially the thong incident.
***
The thing about covering your second-ever NHL game is that it should be easier than the first.
Should being the operative word.
You’re back in the press box at Ball Arena, three weeks after your first assignment, because apparently the universe has decided that the regular Avalanche beat reporter is cursed. First he got the flu. Now he’s somehow managed to break his foot while hiking — his actual words were “stepped wrong on a rock” — and is laid up for the next month.
Which means you’re getting more game coverage.
Which should be exciting.
Which is exciting, except for the part where you’ve spent the last three weeks texting Marty, and now you have to see him in a professional capacity and pretend like you don’t know that he sends terrible memes at two in the morning or that his favorite movie is The Princess Bride or that he once got scared by a chipmunk on a run and screamed loud enough that his neighbor called to check if he was okay.
“You’ve got this,” you mutter to yourself, laptop open, fingers poised over the keyboard. “You are a professional. You can be objective. You will not think about the mall incident.”
Except now you’re thinking about the mall incident.
Your phone buzzes. It’s Riley. Stop overthinking. Do your job. Try not to drool on your recorder.
You text back. I hate you.
You love me. Now go be a journalist.
The game starts, and you force yourself to focus. Avalanche versus Vegas — a big game, playoff implications, the kind of matchup that sells tickets and breaks hearts. You’re taking notes, tracking line changes, watching systems and strategies the way you’ve been teaching yourself to do.
Marty’s on a line with Artturi Lehkonen and Nathan MacKinnon tonight, which feels like putting a very fast sports car between two other very fast sports cars and just seeing what happens.
What happens is chaos.
Good chaos.
Marty gets an assist on the first goal — a beautiful feed to MacKinnon that makes the crowd lose its collective mind. Then he sets up Lehkonen in the second period with a pass that somehow threads through three defenders. And then, in the third period with the game tied 3-3, he takes a shot from the circle that goes bar down so fast the goalie doesn’t even move.
Goal and two assists.
The arena erupts.
You’re writing frantically as fans trail out, trying to capture everything, when your phone buzzes again.
It’s Marty. Told you you’re good luck
You stare at the text, then at the ice where Marty was being mobbed by his teammates just a few minutes ago, then back at your phone.
He’s texting you. Right after the game. Minutes after scoring.
You type back. Pretty sure that was skill, not luck.
Why not both?
You’re grinning at your phone like an idiot when the reporter next to you — Ted, who’s been covering the Avs for the Denver Post for approximately a thousand years — leans over. “You okay? You look flushed.”
“I’m fine,” you say quickly, shoving your phone away. “Just warm in here.”
“Press box is always freezing.”
“I run hot.”
He gives you a weird look but goes back to his laptop, and you go back to pretending your heart rate is normal.
The Avalanche won 4-3. Marty gets second star of the game. And you have twenty-five minutes before the locker room opens to figure out how to act like a professional when you’re pretty sure your face is going to betray you the second you see him.
***
The scrum is already forming when you walk into the locker room, reporters clustering around the usual suspects. You can see Makar in one corner, MacKinnon in another, and-
There.
Marty’s at his stall, still in most of his gear, running a towel through his hair. He’s talking to one of the equipment guys, laughing about something, and he hasn’t noticed you yet.
You’re trying to decide where to position yourself — close enough to hear, far enough to maintain plausible deniability about your rapidly developing crush — when Marty looks up.
His eyes scan the crowd, land on you, and his entire face lights up.
Not a small smile. Not a polite acknowledgment.
His face lights up like someone just told him Christmas came early and also he won the lottery.
“Y/N!” He calls out, loud enough that several reporters turn to look. “You’re here!”
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
Every reporter in a ten-foot radius is now staring at you, and you can feel Ted’s confused look boring into your back, and Marty is grinning at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen all day.
“Hi,” you manage, lifting your recorder in a wave that feels deeply awkward. “Good game.”
“You must be my good luck charm,” Marty says, still grinning. “Last time you were here, I got two goals. Tonight, goal and two assists. That’s not a coincidence.”
“That’s—I don’t think that’s how statistics work,” you say, very aware that everyone is listening.
“Sure it is. You show up, I play better. Science.”
A blogger from some Avs fan site is typing rapidly on his phone. Ted looks like he’s trying to solve a complicated math problem. Another reporter — woman from a local TV station — is smiling like she’s just stumbled onto a story.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
“Should we, um, start the scrum?” You suggest weakly.
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Marty settles back against his stall, but he’s still looking at you with this warmth that makes you want to either melt into the floor or possibly run away. “What do you want to know?”
The questions start — other reporters jumping in first because they’re more experienced, more aggressive, or maybe just less flustered. Marty answers everything professionally, talking about the game, the line chemistry, Vegas’s defensive structure.
But his eyes keep drifting back to you.
You’re not imagining it. Ted definitely isn’t imagining it, based on the way he keeps glancing between you and Marty like he’s watching a tennis match.
Finally, there’s a gap, and you clear your throat. “The assist on MacKinnon’s goal in the first period — you made that pass from a pretty tight angle while being pressured. Can you walk us through what you saw?”
Marty nods, leaning forward. “Yeah, so I knew Nate was driving the net, and their defenseman had committed to me because I think he thought I was going to shoot. But there was a small gap—like, really small, maybe this wide-” He holds his hands a few inches apart. “And I thought, if I can just thread it through there, Nate’s going to be in perfect position.”
“You weren’t worried about it getting picked off?” You ask.
“Little bit, yeah. But sometimes you have to trust the small gaps, you know? Like, everyone’s always looking for the big obvious play, but sometimes the small spaces are where the magic happens.” He pauses, and there’s this tiny smirk on his face. “It’s like … it’s like trying to fit through a crowd. Or getting thongs through tight spots. You just have to commit and hope it works out.”
The locker room continues on like normal.
The reporters keep scribbling.
No one reacts.
Because why would they? “Thongs” sounds like “things” with his slight accent, and the context makes perfect sense if you’re not having Vietnam-style flashbacks to a mall incident three weeks ago.
But you know.
You know what he just did.
Your face is on fire. Your ears are burning. You’re pretty sure you’ve achieved a shade of red previously unknown to science.
Marty’s looking at you with this innocent expression that is absolutely not innocent, and you want to kill him. Or kiss him. Or possibly both, in that order.
“That’s-” Your voice comes out strangled. You clear your throat, try again. “That’s a good point. About the small gaps.”
“I thought you’d appreciate that,” Marty says, and the bastard is trying not to smile.
Ted leans over again. “You feeling okay? You look really flushed now.”
“I’m fine,” you hiss. “Totally fine.”
Another reporter jumps in with a question about the third period goal, and you take the opportunity to try to get your face under control. You’re a professional. You can handle this. So what if Marty just made a joke that only you would understand? So what if he’s clearly enjoying your reaction? You are a grown woman with a journalism degree (almost) and a career to think about.
The scrum continues for another ten minutes. You ask two more questions — both perfectly professional, thank you very much — and Marty answers them normally, without any more coded references to your most embarrassing moment.
But he keeps looking at you.
And you keep noticing.
Finally, the PR assistant starts herding reporters toward the door. “Okay, folks, let’s wrap it up. Coach Bednar’s available in the media room if anyone needs him.”
The crowd disperses. You’re packing up your stuff, very focused on zipping your bag and not looking at Marty, when you hear your name.
“Y/N, wait up a sec?”
You turn. Most of the reporters have cleared out, but Ted’s still lingering near the door, and a couple of others are chatting by MacKinnon’s stall. Not private, but not exactly public either.
“Yeah?” You say, hoping you sound casual.
Marty’s standing now, and he’s so much taller than you remembered. Or maybe you’re just hyperaware of everything about him right now. “You doing anything after this?”
“I … what?”
“After this. Are you busy?” He’s got his hands shoved in the pockets of his joggers, and he looks almost nervous. “I thought maybe we could grab dinner or something.”
Your brain short-circuits. “Dinner.”
“Yeah. If you want. No pressure.”
“I have to file my story.”
“Right, yeah, of course. What if I wait? Or we could meet somewhere?”
You’re very aware of Ted still hovering by the door, definitely listening. “Marty-”
“I know it’s weird,” he says quickly, quietly. “The reporter thing. But we’re friends, right? Friends can have dinner.”
“Do you make friends with all the reporters?” You ask, and it comes out more pointed than you intended.
“No.” He holds your gaze. “Just one.”
Your heart does something complicated.
“I really need to file my story,” you say, because your brain has apparently given up on forming coherent arguments.
“Okay. File your story. I’ll text you a place, and you can meet me there if you want. If you don’t want to, that’s okay too. No pressure.”
He says it so earnestly that you almost believe there’s no pressure, except there is, because he’s looking at you like you’re the reason the sun comes up and you’re trying very hard to remember why this is a bad idea.
“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “Okay, yeah. Text me.”
His smile is blinding. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But I really do have to file first. Jeff will kill me if I’m late.”
“Right, yes, go file. I’ll text you.” He’s backing toward the showers now, still grinning. “And Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for coming to the game. Good luck charm.”
You flip him off, but you’re smiling, and he laughs as he disappears around the corner.
Ted’s suddenly at your elbow. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“That.” He gestures vaguely at where Marty was standing. “The whole … that.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Kid, I’ve been doing this for thirty years. That was not normal post-game interaction.”
“We’re friends,” you say, probably too defensively. “We ran into each other at the mall a few weeks ago. It’s not a big deal.”
Ted looks deeply skeptical. “Uh-huh.”
“It’s not.”
“If you say so.” But he’s smiling, and it’s not unkind. “For what it’s worth, I like the kid. He’s good people. Better than most of the guys in this league.”
“I’m not—we’re not-”
“I know, I know. You’re friends.” He claps you on the shoulder. “Just be careful, okay? This job’s hard enough without adding complications.”
He leaves, and you’re alone in the hallway outside the locker room, your recorder in one hand and your phone already buzzing with a text from Marty.
Angelo’s on 15th Street. 10:30? Or later if you need more time.
You should say no. You should definitely say no.
You text back: 10:30 works.
You file your story in forty-five minutes flat, a personal record. Jeff calls while you’re sitting in your car, psyching yourself up.
“Good work tonight,” he says without preamble. “The stuff about the line chemistry was solid. And that quote from Nečas about the small gaps? Gold.”
If he only knew.
“Thanks,” you manage. “I’m getting better at the post-game scrums.”
“You are. Keep it up.” He pauses. “Also, I heard from Ted that Nečas seemed pretty friendly with you.”
Oh God.
“We’re friends,” you say, and you’re going to wear that phrase out from overuse. “I ran into him a few weeks ago outside of work.”
“Friendly sources are good,” Jeff says carefully. “Just remember the ethics guidelines. No conflicts of interest, no relationships that could compromise your objectivity.”
“I know. I remember.”
“Good. Because I’m thinking about giving you more Avs coverage going forward. You’ve got a good feel for it.”
Your stomach flips. More coverage means more access, more opportunities, more reasons to be professional and objective and definitely not having dinner with players.
“That’s great,” you say. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. It’s a lot of work. But I think you can handle it.” He hangs up, and you’re left staring at your phone, trying to reconcile the excitement of more coverage with the reality of Marty texting you restaurant recommendations.
Your phone buzzes again. Riley. How’d it go??
Fine. Good. He asked me to dinner.
AND????
And I said yes.
OH MY GOD
It’s not a big deal.
IT’S A HUGE DEAL
Riley.
Fine fine fine. What are you wearing? Please tell me you’re not wearing your work clothes.
You look down at your slacks and button-down. “Fuck.”
***
Twenty-five minutes and a panicked stop at your apartment later, you’re walking into Angelo’s wearing jeans and a sweater that Riley once described as “effortlessly hot,” which you think might have been a compliment.
It’s a nice restaurant — not fancy fancy, but nice. Exposed brick, dim lighting, the smell of garlic and fresh bread making your stomach growl. The hostess looks up as you enter.
“Hi, I’m meeting someone? Reservation might be under Nečas?”
Her face lights up with recognition, and you realize she probably knows exactly who Marty is. “Oh yes! Right this way.”
She leads you through the restaurant to a corner booth where Marty’s already waiting, and he stands when he sees you, and this is definitely feeling like more than a friendly dinner.
“You made it,” he says, and he looks relieved, like maybe he thought you’d bail.
“I made it.” You slide into the booth across from him, and your knee bumps his under the table. “Sorry, I—sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He’s smiling. “I’m glad you came.”
“Me too.” And you mean it, even though your heart’s doing that thing again where it forgets how to beat normally.
A waiter appears, takes your drink orders — wine for you, water for him (“game night,” he explains) — and disappears again.
“So,” Marty says.
“So.”
“Thongs?”
You groan, dropping your face into your hands. “I cannot believe you did that.”
“I had to. Your face was too perfect.”
“I’m going to murder you.”
“No you’re not. You like me too much.”
He says it teasingly, but there’s a question under it, and when you look up, he’s watching you carefully.
“I do like you,” you admit. “Which is a problem.”
“Why is it a problem?”
“Because I’m covering the team now. Jeff just told me tonight — I’m getting more Avs assignments. Which means I need to be objective and professional, and having dinner with you is probably neither of those things.”
Marty’s quiet for a moment. “Do you want to leave?”
“What? No.”
“But you think you should.”
“I-” You stop, because he’s right. You do think you should leave. You think you should politely excuse yourself, go home, and maintain appropriate professional boundaries. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“But you don’t want to.”
“No.”
“Okay.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “So here’s what I think. I think we’re both adults. I think we like each other. And I think we can figure out how to make this work without compromising your job.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet. But we can figure it out.” He pauses. “Unless you don’t want to. If this is just a friend thing for you, that’s okay. I’ll back off. But I’m sort of hoping it’s not just a friend thing.”
Your heart is doing gymnastics. “When you say ’not just a friend thing’-”
“I mean I like you,” he says simply. “Like, like you like you. The way you ask questions. The way you get embarrassed about underwear. The way you text me at midnight complaining about your stories. All of it.”
“I’m going to be covering your games.”
“So you’ll have to be extra objective.”
“Marty.”
“Y/N.” He reaches across the table, and after a moment, you let him take your hand. His palm is warm, calloused. “I’m not asking you to compromise anything. I’m just asking if you want to see where this goes. And if you don’t, that’s okay. But I think you do.”
“This is a terrible idea,” you say.
“Probably.”
“I could lose my job.”
“You won’t. You’re too good at it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually. I’ve read everything you’ve written for the past three weeks. You’re really talented.”
You stare at him. “You’ve been reading my articles?”
“Yeah, of course. Did you think I was just saying that to be nice?”
“Maybe?”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.” His thumb is tracing circles on the back of your hand, and it’s extremely distracting. “So what do you think? Do you want to see where this goes? Or should I take you home and we pretend this conversation never happened?”
The waiter chooses this moment to reappear with bread and drinks, and you both lean back, the moment breaking. But Marty’s question hangs in the air between you.
What do you want?
You want to be smart. Professional. You want to protect your career, your reputation, your carefully planned future.
But you also want this. Him. The way he looks at you like you’re the most interesting person in the room. The way he makes you laugh. The way he stood up for you in a locker room full of reporters and just did it again at dinner.
“I want to see where this goes,” you say finally. “But we have to be careful.”
His smile could power a small city. “We’ll be so careful.”
“I’m serious. No special treatment in scrums. No inside information. Nothing that could compromise my objectivity.”
“Absolutely. You’ll be the most objective reporter in the building.”
“And we can’t tell people. Not yet. Not until we figure out if this is even a thing.”
“It’s a thing,” he says confidently. “But okay. Secret thing. I can do secret.”
“Can you though? You literally announced to an entire locker room that I’m your good luck charm.”
“That’s different. That’s just facts.”
“Marty.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll be more subtle.” He’s grinning now. “But for the record, you are my good luck charm.”
“That’s not how hockey works.”
“Isn’t it? You show up, I play better. Seems pretty clear to me.”
You’re trying not to smile and failing. “You’re impossible.”
“You like it.”
“Unfortunately.”
The waiter returns for your orders, and the conversation shifts to safer topics — the game, the team’s playoff chances, Marty’s upcoming road trip. But there’s an undercurrent now, an awareness that wasn’t there before.
This is a date.
You’re on a date with Martin Nečas.
Riley’s going to lose her entire mind.
“Can I ask you something?” Marty says later, after the food arrives and you’re both working your way through pasta that’s genuinely incredible.
“Sure.”
“Why journalism? Like, what made you want to do this?”
You twirl pasta around your fork, thinking. “I like stories, I guess. I like figuring out what makes people tick. And I like the idea that good journalism can make a difference — that you can shine a light on things that matter, or give people a voice, or just help people understand the world better.”
“That’s a good reason.”
“What about you? Why hockey?”
He shrugs. “It’s all I’ve ever known how to do. I started skating when I was three. By the time I was five, I knew I wanted to play professionally.” He pauses. “I’m lucky, you know? Most people don’t get to do their dream job. I do. Even when it’s hard, even when we lose or I play badly, I’m still doing what I love.”
“Does it ever feel like too much pressure?”
“Sometimes. But that’s part of it, I think. The pressure means it matters.” He looks at you. “Do you feel pressure? With your writing?”
“All the time. Like, what if I mess up a quote? What if I miss the story? What if I’m just not good enough?”
“You’re good enough,” he says firmly. “Better than good enough.”
“You have to say that. You like me.”
“I’d say it even if I didn’t like you. Well, maybe I wouldn’t, because then I wouldn’t have read your articles.” He grins. “But the point stands. You’re talented, Y/N. Don’t doubt that.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tight. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
You eat in comfortable silence for a minute, and it strikes you how easy this is. How natural. You barely know him — three weeks of texting, one mall incident, one lunch, one dinner — but it feels like more than that. It feels like the beginning of something real.
Which is terrifying.
“What are you thinking?” Marty asks.
“That this is scary.”
“Yeah.” He reaches across the table again, and this time you meet him halfway. “But good scary, right?”
You look at him — really look at him. At the way his hair’s still damp from his post-game shower. At the small scar on his chin that you’ve never asked about. At the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “Good scary.”
His smile is soft, private, just for you. “Good.”
The rest of dinner passes in a blur of conversation and laughter. He tells you about growing up in Czechia, about learning English from American TV shows, about the time he accidentally insulted his rookie season roommate in Carolina because he mixed up “excited” and “aroused.”
You tell him about your journalism classes, about your professor who once threw a pen at a student for using passive voice, about your disastrous attempt at covering a city council meeting where you accidentally called the mayor by the wrong name for an entire article.
By the time the check comes, you’ve been there for two hours, and you don’t want to leave.
Marty insists on paying, and you don’t fight him too hard on it. Outside, the Denver air is crisp and cool, and you can see your breath in the streetlights.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Marty says.
“You don’t have to-”
“I want to.”
So you let him. The parking lot isn’t far, and you walk slowly, neither of you in a hurry to end the night.
“Thank you for dinner,” you say when you reach your car. “This was … this was really nice.”
“Yeah?” He’s standing close now, and you have to tilt your head back to look at him.
“Yeah.”
“Can I see you again? Not at a game. Like this.”
“I’d like that.”
“Good.” He’s smiling, and then he’s leaning down, and then-
He stops, a breath away. “Is this okay?”
Your heart is thundering. “Yeah.”
He kisses you softly, carefully, like you’re something that might break. It’s sweet and gentle and over too soon, and when he pulls back, you’re pretty sure you’ve forgotten how to form words.
“I’ll text you,” he says, and his voice is slightly rough.
“Okay.”
“Drive safe.”
“You too.”
He waits until you’re in your car, until you’ve started the engine and given him a small wave, before he heads to his own car across the lot.
You sit there for a moment after he’s gone, your fingers pressed to your lips, your heart doing that complicated thing again.
Your phone buzzes. Riley. WELL????
You text back. I’m in so much trouble.
GOOD TROUBLE???
You think about Marty’s smile. His hand in yours. The way he kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered.
Yeah. Good trouble.
***
Three months into secretly dating a professional hockey player, you learn several important things:
One: Marty cannot cook anything more complex than scrambled eggs, and even those are questionable.
Two: He talks in his sleep, mostly in Czech, and once had an entire argument with someone named Pavel about whose turn it was to take out the trash.
Three: You are completely, irrevocably, terrifyingly in love with him.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Marty mumbles against your shoulder. It’s a rare off-day in April, and you’re tangled together on his couch, some movie playing that neither of you are watching.
“I’m not thinking.”
“You’re always thinking. I can hear the gears turning.” He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. His hair’s a mess, and he’s wearing the Avalanche hoodie you’ve basically stolen at this point. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Y/N.”
You sigh, tracing patterns on his arm. “I’m graduating in three weeks.”
“I know. I’m coming to the ceremony, remember?”
“You can’t come to the ceremony. Someone will see.”
“I’ll wear a disguise.”
“Marty.”
“A very good disguise. Sunglasses. Fake mustache.” He’s grinning now, and you want to kiss him and also possibly throttle him.
“I’m being serious.”
His expression softens. “I know. What’s actually bothering you?”
“Jeff offered me a full-time position.” You’ve been sitting on this for two days, trying to figure out how you feel about it. “Starting in June. Covering the Avalanche primarily, but also other Denver sports.”
Marty’s face lights up. “That’s amazing! That’s … wait. Why don’t you look happy?”
“I am happy. It’s just …”
“The us thing.”
“Yeah. The us thing.” You sit up, and he follows, his hand finding yours automatically. “We can’t keep sneaking around forever. And if I’m covering the team full-time, it’s going to be harder. Someone’s going to notice eventually.”
“So we tell people.”
“And then what? I lose my job? You get fined by the league? We both become a headline?”
Marty’s quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing circles on your wrist. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. I love my job. But I also love-” You stop, the word catching in your throat.
“Say it,” he says softly.
“I love you.” It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud, and it feels huge, like stepping off a cliff. “I love you, and I don’t want to choose between you and my career, but I might have to, and I don’t know what to do.”
He kisses you, slow and deep and thorough, and when he pulls back, he’s smiling. “I love you too. And we’re going to figure this out.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet. But we will.” He tugs you back down against him, your head on his chest where you can hear his heartbeat. “We’re smart people. We’ll think of something.”
***
Two weeks later, you’re sitting in a coffee shop with Riley, who’s looking at you like you’ve just announced you’re joining a cult.
“Let me get this straight,” she says slowly. “You’ve been secretly dating Martin Nečas for three months. You’re in love with him. You just got offered your dream job. And now you’re trying to figure out how to go public without destroying your career or his reputation.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me about any of this until now.”
“I’m telling you now!”
“Three months, Y/N. Three months of lying to your best friend.”
“I wasn’t lying, I was just … strategically omitting information.”
Riley throws a napkin at you. “I’m furious with you.”
“I know.”
“But also, this is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, and I’m living vicariously through you, so I’m also not that mad.”
You slump in your chair. “I don’t know what to do, Ri. I love him. But I also love my job. And I can’t have both, not like this.”
“What if you didn’t cover hockey?”
“What?”
“What if you took the job but asked to cover something else? Like, I don’t know, the Broncos. Or the Nuggets. Or literally any other sport that isn’t hockey.”
You stare at her. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m good at hockey coverage. Because Jeff hired me specifically for that. Because-”
“Because you love it,” Riley finishes. “But do you love it more than you love Marty?”
The question sits between you like a living thing.
“No,” you say finally. “I don’t.”
Riley reaches across the table, squeezing your hand. “Then maybe you have your answer.”
***
The conversation with Jeff happens on a Thursday, in his office that smells like coffee and newsprint and stress.
“You want to switch beats,” he says flatly.
“Yes.”
“You, who I’ve spent three months training on hockey coverage. You, who just wrote the best feature on line chemistry that I’ve read in years. You want to cover football instead.”
“Yes.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you. “This is about Nečas.”
Your heart stops. “What?”
“I’m not an idiot, Y/N. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in scrums. The way you try very hard not to look at him.” He pauses. “Ted told me about the dinner invitation. And the good luck charm comment. And, frankly, your writing about him has gotten suspiciously … detailed.”
“I can explain-”
“Are you dating him?”
There’s no point in lying. “Yes.”
Jeff is quiet for a long moment. “How long?”
“Three months.”
“Jesus Christ.” He runs a hand over his face. “You know this is a massive ethics violation.”
“I know. That’s why I’m asking to switch beats. I’ll cover the Broncos, or the Rockies, or high school field hockey, I don’t care. Just not the Avalanche.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll resign.” The words come out steadier than you feel. “I’m not going to compromise my integrity or the paper’s reputation. But I’m also not going to end my relationship.”
“You’d give up hockey coverage for this guy?”
“I’d give up hockey coverage for the person I love.” You meet his eyes. “And I think I can be just as good covering football. Maybe even better, because I’ll have something to prove.”
Jeff stares at you for what feels like an eternity. “The Broncos beat reporter is retiring in August.”
“What?”
“Jim. He’s sixty-five, been covering the team for thirty years, and his wife wants him to actually be home for dinner occasionally.” Jeff leans forward. “The position’s yours if you want it. But you have to tell people why you’re switching. I’m not going to let rumors start that you couldn’t hack it on the hockey beat.”
“I’ll tell them,” you say quickly. “I’ll be completely transparent.”
“And Nečas? How’s he feel about going public?”
“We haven’t talked about exactly how yet. But he wants to.”
“Of course he does. Kid wears his heart on his sleeve.” Jeff sighs. “For what it’s worth, I like him. He’s good people. And I respect that you came to me before this became a problem.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You’re going to get shit for this. From other reporters, from fans, from people who think you’re throwing away your career for a guy.”
“I know.”
“But if you’re sure-”
“I’m sure.”
He nods slowly. “Okay. Then let’s figure out how to do this right.”
***
Marty’s idea of “doing this right” involves approximately fifteen minutes of pacing around his living room, talking so fast his accent gets thicker.
“-and we could just post it on Instagram, or maybe Twitter, or we could do one of those cute photo things where we’re holding hands, or-”
“Marty.” You catch his arm as he passes. “Breathe.”
He stops, pulling you against him. “Sorry. I’m nervous.”
“You? Nervous? You play in front of eighteen thousand people every night.”
“That’s different. That’s just hockey. This is us.” He cups your face in his hands. “I want to do this right. I want people to know how much you mean to me.”
“They will.”
“But I also don’t want to make things harder for you. If you want to just quietly switch beats and not make a big thing of it-”
“No.” You’ve been thinking about this for days, turning it over in your mind. “I want to tell people. I want to own this decision. And I think I know how.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. But I’m going to need an interview.”
His eyes light up. “An exclusive?”
“The most exclusive. Think you can handle that?”
He kisses you, deep and slow and thorough. “For you? Anything.”
***
The article posts on a Friday morning in May, right after your graduation ceremony where Marty absolutely did not show up in a fake mustache (he wore a baseball cap and sat in the back, and your mom definitely noticed him but mercifully said nothing).
You’ve read it approximately four thousand times, tweaking sentences, adjusting quotes, making sure every word is perfect. Jeff approved it yesterday with a grin and a “this is either brilliant or career suicide, and I honestly can’t tell which.”
Riley’s response was more succinct. “Holy shit, you’re brave.”
Now it’s live, and your phone is already starting to buzz, and you’re sitting on Marty’s couch with your laptop, watching the view count climb.
“Are you going to read it to me?” Marty asks, appearing from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee.
“You’ve already read it.”
“I want to hear you read it.”
“That’s narcissistic. It’s an article about you.”
“It’s an article by you. That’s different.” He settles next to you, close enough that you can feel his warmth. “Please?”
You pull up the article, take a deep breath, and start reading.
***
EXCLUSIVE: Martin Nečas on Playoffs, Pressure, and What Comes Next By Y/N Y/L/N, Colorado Sports Network
May 16, 2025
DENVER – Martin Nečas is sitting in his downtown apartment on a rare day off, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that’s seen better days, and he’s talking about fear.
Not the kind of fear you might expect from a professional athlete in the middle of a playoff push. Not fear of failure, or injury, or letting down his teammates. Something more fundamental than that.
“I think everyone’s afraid of being known,” he says, his accent softening the edges of his words. “Really known. Not the version you show people, but the actual you. The messy parts. The parts that aren’t perfect.”
It’s an unexpectedly vulnerable answer to what started as a question about playoff pressure, but that’s Nečas in a nutshell. Ask him about hockey, and he’ll give you hockey. But push a little deeper, show genuine curiosity about what makes him tick, and he’ll give you something real.
Over the past three months, I’ve had the privilege of getting to know Nečas beyond the standard post-game scrums and media availabilities. What I’ve learned is this: the 26-year-old Czech forward is exactly the kind of player — and person — that makes you remember why you fell in love with hockey in the first place.
The Hockey Part
Let’s start with what happens on the ice, because that’s the easy part.
Nečas came to Colorado via trade last season, and while the transition from Carolina wasn’t always smooth, he’s found his stride with the Avalanche in a way that’s been exciting to watch. Playing primarily on a line with Nathan MacKinnon and Arrturi Lehkonen, he’s put up career numbers: 32 goals and 61 assists in 79 games, good for 93 points and a career high.
But statistics only tell part of the story. What makes Nečas special isn’t just his production — it’s how he produces. He’s a player who sees the game differently, who finds passing lanes that shouldn’t exist, who makes the difficult look effortless.
“I just try to play fast and make my teammates better,” he says when I ask about his approach. “That’s the job, you know? Find the open guy. Make the smart play. Work hard when you don’t have the puck.”
It’s a humble answer, almost frustratingly so. But his teammates paint a different picture.
“Marty’s special,” MacKinnon told me after a recent practice. “He’s got this ability to slow the game down in his head while his body’s still moving at full speed. That’s rare. That’s something you can’t really teach.”
Head coach Jared Bednar agrees. “Martin’s hockey IQ is elite. He processes the game at a very high level, and he’s willing to do the little things that don’t show up on the scoresheet. That’s what makes him so valuable.”
The Pressure Part
The Avalanche enter the playoffs as one of the favorites to contend for the Stanley Cup, and with that comes enormous pressure. I ask Nečas how he handles it.
“You have to embrace it,” he says. “The pressure means it matters. Means people care. That’s a gift, not a burden.”
But he admits it’s not always easy. “Some nights you can’t sleep. You’re thinking about the game, about what you could have done better, about what’s coming next. Your brain won’t shut off.”
What helps, he says, is perspective.
“Hockey is what I do, but it’s not who I am. I’m also a son, a brother, a friend. I have a life outside of this.” He pauses, considering his next words carefully. “And I have someone who reminds me of that. Someone who sees me as a person first, player second. That matters more than people might think.”
It’s the first hint of something personal, and when I press gently, he smiles.
“I’m not going to say too much, because that’s not my story to tell. But I will say this: having someone in your life who genuinely doesn’t care about your plus-minus or your ice time — that’s grounding. That’s important.”
The Human Part
Away from the rink, Nečas is surprisingly normal. He likes terrible action movies and good coffee. He’s teaching himself to cook with mixed results (“I made chicken last week that I think could have been used as a weapon”). He misses his family in Czechia but FaceTimes them constantly.
“My mom texts me after every game,” he says, laughing. “Doesn’t matter if it’s 2 a.m. her time. She’s watched, and she has notes.”
“Is she tough on you?”
“The toughest. But also my biggest supporter. She believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself.”
It’s clear that family is central to who Nečas is. He lights up when talking about his parents, about his childhood in Czechia, about the sacrifices his family made to support his hockey dreams.
“They gave up a lot,” he says quietly. “Time, money, stability. My dad worked extra jobs so I could play. My mom drove me to practices at 5 a.m. You don’t forget that. You don’t take that for granted.”
That gratitude extends to his adopted city. Nečas has embraced Denver in a way that feels genuine, from hiking in the mountains to exploring local restaurants to supporting other Denver sports teams.
“This city has been really good to me,” he says. “The fans are amazing. My teammates are amazing. I’m really happy here.”
What Comes Next
When I ask Nečas about the future, he’s characteristically diplomatic.
“I want to be here,” he says simply. “This is where I want to win. This is where I want to build something. This is where I’m signed for the next eight years.”
But beyond hockey, there’s a life taking shape. A life that includes the person he mentioned earlier, the one who keeps him grounded.
“I’m figuring out what matters,” he says. “Hockey is my career, my passion. But it’s not everything. At some point, the game ends for everyone. What matters is who you are when it does.”
It’s a mature perspective from someone who could easily get lost in the bubble of professional sports. But Nečas seems determined to stay connected to reality, to remain the kind of person who still gets nervous before games and still calls his mom and still sees hockey as a gift rather than a guarantee.
The Playoff Picture
As the Avalanche enter the postseason, expectations are sky-high. Nečas will be crucial to any deep playoff run, providing secondary scoring and playmaking alongside the team’s established stars.
“We have a special group,” he says. “The pieces are there. Now we just have to go out and do it.”
Does he think they can win the Cup?
He grins. “I think we’d better. Otherwise, I’m going to have a very long summer thinking about what we could have done differently.”
A Personal Note
This will be my final article covering the Colorado Avalanche. After three months of covering the team — first as an intern and now as a full-time reporter — I’m moving to a new beat. Starting in August, I’ll be covering the Denver Broncos for Colorado Sports Network.
This decision is both professional and personal. Over the past few months, I’ve developed a relationship with Martin Nečas that goes beyond journalist and subject. We’ve been dating since February, a fact we’ve kept private out of respect for both of our careers and the ethical standards of sports journalism.
I’m sharing this now because I believe in transparency. I believe readers deserve to know when a reporter’s objectivity might be compromised, even if I’ve worked hard to maintain professional standards in my coverage. I also believe that women in sports journalism shouldn’t have to choose between their careers and their personal lives, but sometimes we do have to make difficult decisions about how to navigate both.
Moving to the Broncos beat allows me to continue doing the work I love while being honest about my relationship. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s the right one for me.
To be clear: my relationship with Martin has not influenced my coverage of the team. Every article I’ve written, every question I’ve asked, every story I’ve pursued has been done with integrity and professionalism. I’m proud of the work I’ve produced, and I stand by every word.
I’m also deeply grateful to the Colorado Avalanche organization, to my colleagues in the hockey media, and to the readers who’ve supported my coverage. Hockey will always have a special place in my heart, and I’ll continue to watch and cheer for this team — just from the stands instead of the press box.
As for Martin, he’s been supportive of this decision even though it means our relationship will be public knowledge. “I just want you to be happy,” he told me. “Whatever that looks like.”
That’s the kind of person he is: thoughtful, kind, supportive. The kind of person who stands up for what’s right even when it’s uncomfortable. The kind of person who makes you believe in good things.
So this is goodbye to hockey coverage, but it’s not goodbye to storytelling. It’s not goodbye to Denver sports. And it’s definitely not goodbye to asking tough questions and demanding honest answers.
It’s just the next chapter.
And I can’t wait to see what comes next.
***
You finish reading, and there’s silence.
Then Marty says, “That’s really good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Really, really good.” He takes the laptop from you, setting it aside, and pulls you into his lap. “I love the part about me being thoughtful and kind.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. My head is huge now. Giant. I might need a bigger helmet.”
You’re laughing, and he’s kissing you, and your phone is still buzzing with notifications but none of that matters because you’re here, with him, and you made the right choice.
“Are you scared?” He asks after a moment.
“Terrified.”
“Me too.”
“Good. We can be terrified together.”
“Look at us, being brave.” He rests his forehead against yours. “I’m really proud of you, you know. That took guts.”
“I learned from the best. You did stand up to that asshole reporter for me.”
“True. I am very brave and noble.”
“And humble.”
“The humblest.” He’s grinning, and you love him so much it physically hurts. “So what happens now?”
“Now?” You check your phone — texts from Riley (seventeen), your mom (three), Jeff (one that just says “good job kid”), and approximately one hundred forty-eight notifications from Twitter. “Now I think we’re about to become a headline.”
“Think they’ll make us sound cool?”
“Definitely not.”
“Worth it anyway.”
“Yeah,” you say, kissing him softly. “Yeah, it really is.”
***
DENVER POST SPORTS: Avalanche’s Nečas Confirms Relationship with Former Hockey Reporter Y/N Y/L/N
MILE HIGH HOCKEY: Breaking: CSN Reporter Switches Beats After Revealing Relationship with Martin Nečas
THE ATHLETIC: On Ethics, Transparency, and Y/N Y/L/N’s Decision to Leave the Hockey Beat
The headlines roll in over the next few hours, and they’re mostly what you expected — some supportive, some skeptical, some downright hostile. But there are also texts from fellow reporters saying they respect your decision. Tweets from fans saying they appreciated your coverage. An email from a young female journalism student saying you inspired her to be honest about her own struggles balancing career and personal life.
Marty reads them all over your shoulder, his chin resting on your head.
“People are being nice,” he observes.
“Some people. Others think I’m throwing away my career for a man.”
“Are you?”
“No. I’m making a choice that lets me have both.” You turn to look at him. “There’s a difference.”
“I know.” He kisses your temple. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re going to be an amazing football reporter.”
“I don’t know anything about football.”
“You didn’t know anything about hockey three months ago, and look how that turned out.”
“Fair point.”
Your phone rings. It’s Jeff.
“The article’s doing really well,” he says without preamble. “Best traffic we’ve had in months. People are eating this up.”
“That’s good?”
“That’s very good. Controversial is better than boring.” He pauses. “Jim’s wife called me. She says Jim’s excited to meet you. Wants to take you to training camp in July, show you the ropes.”
“Really?”
“Really. You’ve got a long career ahead of you, kid. This is just the beginning.”
After you hang up, Marty pulls you back against him, and you sit there together, watching the sun set over Denver through his apartment windows.
“This is really happening,” you say.
“Yep.”
“We’re really doing this. Public relationship. No more sneaking around.”
“Yep.”
“You’re going to get chirped so hard by your teammates.”
“Oh, absolutely. Devon’s already texted me six times. Nate wants to meet you properly. Cale made a joke about good luck charms.” He shows you his phone, and you groan at the group chat messages.
But then there’s one from MacKinnon that makes you smile. Happy for you, man. She seems great. Don’t fuck it up.
“Think you can handle the chirping?” You ask.
“I’ll survive. What about you? Think you can handle dating a professional athlete?”
“I managed three months in secret. I think I can handle it in public.”
“Even when I’m annoying?”
“Especially when you’re annoying.”
He grins, pulling you closer. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Even though I made you change careers?”
“You didn’t make me do anything. I chose this. I chose you.” You twist to face him properly. “And I’d choose you again. Every time.”
He kisses you, soft and sweet and full of promise, and somewhere in the city below, people are reading your article and forming opinions and probably arguing on Twitter about ethics and relationships and whether you made the right choice.
But up here, in this moment, you know you did.
Because sometimes the best stories aren’t the ones you write.
Sometimes they’re the ones you live.
And this one? This one’s just getting started.
***
Three Months Later
“You’re doing it wrong,” Marty says from the doorway of your new house — your shared house, because apparently you’re the kind of person who moves in with her boyfriend after six months.
“I’m not doing it wrong. This is how you hang pictures.”
“That’s crooked.”
“It’s not-” You step back, level in hand, and realize he’s right. “Okay, it’s a little crooked.”
He comes over, taking the hammer from your hand and adjusting the frame — a photo from your graduation, both of you grinning at the camera while your mom took the picture. Next to it is a photo from the Avalanche’s playoff run (they made it to the Western Conference Finals before losing to Edmonton), and next to that is one from your first Broncos game, your press credential hanging around your neck.
“Better?” He asks.
“Better.”
He steps back, admiring the wall. “Our first place.”
“Our first place,” you agree, and it feels huge and terrifying and absolutely right.
Your phone buzzes. It’s Riley. Dinner tomorrow? Want to hear all about the new job.
You text back. Can’t. Broncos have a thing. Next week?
You and your fancy football life. Fine. But I want details.
“Riley wants details about my fancy football life,” you tell Marty.
“You have a very fancy football life now. Very important. Very serious.”
“Says the professional hockey player.”
“I’m not fancy. I’m just a simple Czech boy who happens to be extremely good at skating.”
You throw a pillow at him, which he catches easily, laughing.
The house is still mostly boxes and chaos, but it’s starting to feel like home. Your books mixed with his hockey equipment. Your coffee maker next to his protein powder. Your life and his life becoming just … life.
“Hey,” Marty says, suddenly serious. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For taking a chance on me. On us. I know it wasn’t easy.”
“Best decision I ever made,” you say honestly. “Even better than buying those thongs.”
He groans. “We’re never going to stop joking about that, are we?”
“Never. I’m going to tell our grandchildren about it.”
“Our grandchildren?”
You freeze, realizing what you just said. “I mean—hypothetically if we-”
He’s grinning now, that soft smile that’s just for you. “I like the sound of that. Hypothetically.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He pulls you close, kissing your forehead. “But first, we should probably finish unpacking.”
“Probably.”
You don’t finish unpacking. You end up on the couch instead, watching game film of the Broncos because that’s your life now — watching football with your hockey player boyfriend in your shared home in Denver, trying to learn offensive schemes while he makes increasingly incorrect guesses about what the plays are called.
It’s not what you planned. Not what you imagined when you started journalism school, or when you got that first internship, or even when you walked into the Avalanche locker room for the first time and had your life turned upside down by a two-goal scorer with kind eyes and a tendency to stand up for what’s right.
But it’s better.
It’s real and messy and complicated and perfect.
And when Marty falls asleep halfway through the third quarter, his head on your shoulder and his hand in yours, you think about that first night. About thongs flying through a mall. About good luck charms and small gaps and having the courage to choose what you want instead of what’s expected.
You pull out your phone, opening a new note.
Story idea: What happens when you let yourself be known
You’ll write it someday. Not now — now you’re too busy living it.
me when im on "x reader tag" looking for fics at 3 am BUT all i find is memes and all the funny posts under the world EXCEPT the fics abt the character :
romaincrisis
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
stormborns
turnnoffyourmind
pixelskylines
