The One With The Honey Crullers
Connor Bedard x fem!reader
description: Rule number one: don't date a twenty-one-year-old NHL rookie.
Rule number two: definitely don't date the twenty-one-year-old NHL star who keeps bringing you flowers, remembers your favourite fruit, befriends your dog, and somehow makes your entire hospital think he's charming.
Connor Bedard is convinced you'd be perfect together. You're convinced he's completely out of his mind. One of you is about to be proven wrong.
P.S. the-burning-list fuck-up-story is mine. Found it way too hilarious and rom-com-coded to not use it somewhere, so here we go :D
Sunday mornings belonged to Pilates, overpriced coffee and the same corner table by the front window of Café Luna in Budlong Woods. It had become an unspoken ritual - first move your body, then complain about it over breakfast. Then gossip, drink a few mimosas and pretend Monday wasn't already lurking around the corner.
Outside, Chicago looked exactly like a city trying to decide whether spring was actually happening. People walked by with sunglasses perched on their heads and scarves still wrapped around their necks, just in case. The sun was out, but nobody trusted it completely.
"You know..." Ava said, dragging her fork through a stack of blueberry pancakes, "I actually think you're being unfair."
You didn't even have to ask who she meant.
"No."
"You don't even know what I was going to say."
"I absolutely do."
She smiled into her coffee.
"He just wants to take you to dinner."
"He wanted to take me to dinner."
"And?"
"I said no."
"You said no because.."
"Because he's twenty."
"Twenty-one."
"That isn't helping your argument."
Ava rolled her eyes so dramatically you were surprised they didn't get stuck.
"He's nine years younger than you." She leaned back in her chair. "That isn't some scandalous age gap."
"It is when one person is still figuring out where to buy furniture without calling their parents."
"You are making him sound like he's twelve."
"I'm making him sound exactly his age."
"You know what I think?"
"I have a horrible feeling you're about to tell me."
"I think you're hiding behind the age gap."
You laughed.
"I'm not hiding behind anything."
"Oh?"
"He asked me out."
"Mhm."
"I said it was a bad idea."
"Mhm."
"He respected that. Mostly. He stopped asking me on dates."
"But?"
You sighed.
"But he still texts. And sends flowers. Occasionally."
"And he still calls you Princess."
You physically cringed.
"Exactly."
Ava laughed.
"I hate that nickname."
"You absolutely don't."
"I absolutely do."
She pointed her fork at you.
"Then why are you smiling?"
Your smile vanished immediately.
"I wasn't."
"You were literally smiling."
"I was thinking about something else."
"Mhm."
She reached for her coffee.
"Look, I'm not saying you have to marry him."
"I'd certainly hope not."
"I'm saying have dinner with him."
"No."
"One dinner. If you still think it's a terrible idea afterwards, fine. Tell him no again."
You shook your head.
"I'm almost thirty."
"So?"
"I want different things."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"You've never even given him a chance to tell you."
You stared out the window. People hurried across the intersection, clutching paper coffee cups against the cold.
"It doesn't matter."
"It does."
"He is literally every single thing on your list."
You laughed.
"So?"
She looked genuinely confused.
"You spent two hours writing that stupid list."
"I know."
"And now someone shows up who somehow checks every box..."
She spread both hands.
"...and you're pretending it means absolutely nothing."
You took a sip of your latte.
"I also almost burned down my downstairs neighbours and had to ring their doorbell and explain why flaming relationship expectations had just landed on their windowsill."
She burst out laughing.
"Maybe the universe was trying to tell you something."
"Yeah." You smiled despite yourself. "It was probably telling me to stop playing with fire."
The truth was... The list had mattered. Way more than you ever admitted.
⸻
Six months earlier.
You'd written it after the breakup. Not because you believed the universe rewarded manifestation or because some influencer on Instagram swore it worked. Mostly because your therapist had suggested writing down what you actually wanted instead of focusing on everything that had gone wrong.
So you did.
- Kind. - Patient. - Emotionally available. - Funny. - Good with children. - Loves dogs. - Remembers little things. - Brings flowers for no reason. - Makes ordinary days feel exciting. - Someone who feels like home.
You read it twice and folded the paper. Then decided the whole exercise was unbearably cheesy, so you lit the corner with a candle. Unfortunately, burning paper floated. And apparently so did your terrible luck.
The flaming page drifted neatly onto your downstairs neighbor's windowsill. You'd never run down three flights of stairs faster in your life. Thankfully, it singed the paint more than anything else.
The relationship gods, however, had apparently witnessed the whole disaster. Because less than a month later, Connor Bedard walked into the children's hospital.
He wasn't there as a patient - he was volunteering with his team. The kids adored him immediately.
He spent three hours playing floor hockey in the hallway, signing jerseys, sitting on tiny plastic chairs during arts and crafts and somehow convincing a stubborn eight-year-old to take his medication while making 6-7 jokes. It was annoyingly attractive.
Then he introduced himself. Then he started talking to you. Then talking turned into coffee breaks after volunteer days. Then one afternoon, while you were walking him toward the elevators, he'd smiled and asked.
"So... would you let me take you to dinner sometime?"
You remembered smiling back. A genuine smile.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
His smile hadn't disappeared.
"Can I ask why?"
"Because you're younger than my youngest cousin."
"You know that's not true." He laughed. "So that's the only reason?"
"It's a pretty big reason."
He nodded.
"I don't agree."
"I figured."
"But..." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'll respect it."
And to his credit... He had. He never asked you out again. Not directly at least.
Instead, he became strangely... present.
Your coworker Emily - after asking you first - passed along your number because Connor wanted to thank you for helping organise another hospital visit.
The first text really had just been a thank-you. The second asked how one of the little patients was doing. The third was a picture of a golden retriever wearing a Blackhawks bandana because, apparently, "he looked exactly like your dog."
Sometimes flowers showed up at your office after particularly difficult weeks. Nothing over the top. Always with the same tiny card.
Thought today might've been a long one. Hope tomorrow's easier. – C
He invited you to his games. You declined. He accepted it without arguing and still would invite you again and again.
A week later he'd send you a picture of an ugly airport sandwich with the caption:
This should be illegal. Paid 30 bucks for this abomination.
You'd roll your eyes and then laugh anyway.
He had also developed a deeply unfortunate habit of calling you Princess.
The first time, you'd nearly thrown a pen at him.
"You should stop."
"I'll think about it."
He never did.
⸻
"...Hello?"
Ava snapped her fingers in front of your face.
"You disappeared."
You blinked.
"What?"
"I asked if he's still volunteering on Thursdays."
You groaned.
"Every Thursday."
"And?"
"And somehow he always finds an excuse to stop by my office."
"He probably likes talking to you."
"He definitely likes talking to me."
"And you like talking to him."
"I never said that."
"You didn't have to."
You stabbed a piece of avocado toast with perhaps a little more force than necessary.
"This Thursday I'm telling him again."
"Telling him what?"
"That he should stop waiting around."
Ava sighed.
"I think you're making a mistake."
You looked down into your coffee.
Maybe.
But sometimes liking someone wasn't enough. Sometimes timing mattered just as much. And no matter how much Connor made you laugh... You couldn't convince yourself that this wasn't a bad idea.
⸻
You'd fully intended to have that conversation on Thursday but turns out your immune system had other plans.
It started Sunday evening with nothing more than an annoying scratch in your throat. The kind you always tried to ignore because admitting you were getting sick somehow made it worse. You made yourself a mug of herbal tea, put some honey in it, took an aspirin and convinced yourself you'd be fine by morning.
You weren't.
You spent most of the night coughing.
By six o'clock Monday morning your voice sounded like sandpaper, your head was pounding, and simply standing up felt like an unreasonable amount of work. Calling in sick wasn't optional anymore.
So Monday blurred into Tuesday and Tuesday into Wednesday.
The cough dug deeper into your chest, fever settled in like an unwelcome roommate and refused to leave. Everything hurt. Even your hair somehow managed to hurt.
You stopped looking at your phone after the first day - work emails piled up, messages from coworkers, a voicemail from Ava telling you to answer your damn phone and a handful of texts from Connor. You never opened them. Looking at a screen made your eyes burn.
By Thursday evening you had reached the stage of being sick where time barely existed anymore.
Friends played quietly on Netflix. You'd seen every episode at least six times, yet somehow Rachel and Monica arguing over an apartment still made the room feel less empty. At some point you drifted off on the couch.
Knock.
Your eyes opened halfway. Probably a package. Whatever.
Knock. Knock.
Your dog lifted his head from the rug but didn't even bark this time. He only looked at the door before dropping his chin back onto his paws.
Another knock - longer, persistent. You groaned into the blanket.
"Coming..."
Getting up felt like climbing Mont Blanc. You shuffled toward the front door, one hand dragging along the wall for balance, and unlocked it.
Connor stood outside - light pink peonies in one hand and a grocery bag hanging from the other.
The moment he saw you, his expression changed.
"...Jesus."
You leaned against the frame.
"What?"
"You look..." He winced. "...really sick."
A tired laugh escaped you.
"Well, thank you."
"I didn't mean-"
"I know."
Your voice came out rough enough that you barely recognized it.
"What are you doing here?"
He lifted the grocery bag slightly.
"I stopped by the hospital."
Your stomach sank.
"They told me you'd been out all week. I was worried. You weren't answering your phone... So..."
He glanced down at the flowers.
"I brought soup."
Then the bag.
"And fruit. And flowers."
The peonies looked almost ridiculous against the gray hallway. Soft pink and fresh - entirely too cheerful.
"You shouldn't have."
"I know."
Silence stretched between you.
"...Connor."
"Hm?"
"I'm okay."
"No."
"I will be."
"I know."
"So..." You gave him what you hoped looked like a convincing smile. "You can go."
You started to close the door as the hallway tilted. Your hand slipped from the doorframe, not dramatically but just enough for Connor to notice. Apparently, the hockey players' reflexes are truly good because he caught your elbow before you could stumble.
"Whoa."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're dizzy."
His hand stayed lightly around your arm - not pulling, just making sure you were steady.
"You've got a fever."
"You figured that out from looking at me?"
"I figured it out because you're basically radiating heat."
You sighed.
"I don't need rescuing."
"I know."
"You really don't have to do this."
"I know." He hesitated. "But can I come in for five minutes?"
You looked from him to the grocery bag, then to the flowers and finally back at him.
"...Five."
He smiled.
"I'll take five."
Your dog immediately wandered over and sniffed Connor's shoes before deciding he approved.
"Traitor," you muttered.
Connor laughed quietly.
"I knew he liked me."
By the time you reached the couch, you were breathing harder than you should've been. Connor noticed.
Of course he noticed.
"Sit."
You practically collapsed into the cushions. He placed the peonies on the coffee table before disappearing toward the kitchen. You heard cupboards opening and running water.
A minute later he came back carrying a glass.
"When did you last take something for the fever?"
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to remember.
"...Ten?" A pause. "Maybe noon."
Connor looked at the clock on the microwave.
"It's after seven."
"...Oops."
"You were supposed to take another one an hour ago."
"I know."
"You don't."
You pulled the blanket higher.
"I am a strong, independent woman."
"Mhm."
"I don't need your help."
"Mhm. I'll get your medication anyway, strong independent woman."
You wanted to tell him you could do it yourself. Instead you closed your eyes for what felt like one second. Darkness won immediately.
⸻
Something warm brushed gently against your cheek.
"...Princess."
You frowned. A quiet laugh.
"Come on."
Another light touch.
"You only have to be awake for thirty seconds. Then you can come back to sleep."
You forced one eye open - Connor was sitting beside the couch. One hand held a glass of water and the other a fever medication.
"There you are."
"You've got terrible timing."
"I've been told."
"You should've let me sleep."
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.
"There it is."
"What?"
"I missed that."
You rolled your eyes, immediately regretting it because even that made your head hurt.
Only then did you notice the apartment - The Friends episode was still playing on the TV, the peonies now stood in one of your glass vases, he must've found somewhere in the kitchen.
The grocery bag had been unpacked - soup, tea, honey, electrolyte drinks, a loaf of sourdough. And peaches.
Of course, he'd brought peaches. You'd only mentioned loving peaches once - at Douglas Café where they made the best peach cobbler in the city. Apparently it was enough to burn its way into his memory.
"You remember everything, don't you?"
He shrugged like it wasn't unusual.
"Only important stuff."
For some reason that made your chest feel strangely tight. There was no universe, where the fact of you loving peaches should be considered as 'important stuff'.
He held out the pill.
"Medication first."
Swallowing felt like dragging broken glass down your throat. You made a face.
"You happy now?"
"Very."
"You are unbelievably annoying."
"I've also been told that."
He took the empty glass and set it on the coffee table. Then... Stayed. He didn't reach for his jacket and didn't stand. He'd just leaned back into the couch as if he'd settled in for the evening. You looked over.
"...Connor."
"Hm?"
"You can go home."
"No."
"I'll be fine."
"I know you will."
"So..."
"I'm still not leaving."
You let out the smallest groan.
"I really don't need a babysitter."
"No, but you need someone who'll remind you to eat, drink water and take medicine on time."
"I'm capable."
"I don't doubt that."
"You seem to."
"I think you're capable."
He reached over and gently tucked the blanket back over your shoulder where it had slipped.
"I also think you're exhausted."
You didn't argue because he wasn't wrong. He lowered the TV volume another notch.
"Just let me stay tonight."
You looked at him.
"Tomorrow, if you're feeling better, you can kick me out before breakfast."
A beat.
"But tonight..."
His voice softened.
"...just let somebody take care of you for a change."
You stared at him for a long moment. Maybe under normal circumstances you would've found another reason to tell him no.
Maybe.
But fevers have a funny way of stripping away your energy, including the energy it takes to be stubborn and fight over small things.
"...You're going to get sick."
"I've got a good immune system."
Silence settled comfortably over the apartment, Friends kept playing in the background. Connor reached for the remote.
"I don't think I've ever actually seen this episode."
You cracked one eye open.
"...Seriously?"
"They're going to London?"
You laughed - a tiny, raspy sound that immediately turned into a cough. He handed you your tea without saying a word. Afterward, you settled back against the cushions. Your eyelids were already growing heavy again.
The last thing you registered before sleep pulled you under was the familiar theme song drifting through the apartment... and Connor quietly asking,
"So Ross is really going to say the wrong name, isn't he?"
⸻
You woke because the sun had apparently decided your face was the perfect place to land.
For a second, you just lay there, blinking at the ceiling. The apartment felt... different. Quiet in a peaceful way, not the miserable kind that had filled the last four days. You reached for your phone.
9:17 a.m.
"...Jesus."
You hadn't slept that long in years.
Your body still felt heavy, but it wasn't the bone-deep exhaustion from yesterday. The fever seemed to have broken sometime during the night. Your T-shirt clung uncomfortably to your back, your hair was a tangled mess, and you suddenly realized just how badly you wanted a shower.
Then you heard dishes clinking, someone humming and grinding coffee. For one very confusing second, panic hit.
Someone's in my apartment.
Right.
Connor.
You pushed yourself off the couch and padded toward the kitchen. He looked up almost immediately.
"Morning."
He was already dressed.
Black puffer jacket zipped halfway up, baseball cap backwards, sleeves pushed to his forearms. Your dog sat next to him in his ridiculous little winter coat, staring so intensely at his breakfast bowl that it looked like a matter of life and death.
Connor scooped the last spoonful of kibble into the bowl.
"Okay, buddy. Don't pretend you've been starving."
The dog inhaled breakfast in roughly three seconds.
You couldn't help smiling.
"...You're still here."
Connor poured coffee into two mugs before answering.
"Yeah."
"You didn't have to stay."
"I know."
"No practice?"
He shook his head.
"Day off."
"Then that's even worse."
He frowned.
"Why?"
"Because you're spending your only day off taking care of someone who's been asleep for..." You checked your phone again. "...Apparently fourteen hours."
"You needed fourteen hours."
"That's not the point."
"It kind of is."
You leaned against the counter.
"And the dog?“
"Took him out around six.“
"You walked my dog?"
„Well, he walked me actually, I guess.“
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"I think every pigeon in Chicago personally offended him."
You laughed quietly.
"I swear he only behaves like that with other people."
"Good."
"Good?"
"Means he likes me."
"He also likes our UPS driver."
"I'll take the compliment anyway."
He slid one of the mugs toward you.
"I made coffee."
You wrapped your hands around it immediately.
Still hot. Perfect.
"The pills are on the coffee table," he added. "Just because you feel a little better doesn't mean you get to stop taking them."
You looked at him over the rim of the mug.
"...Were you always this bossy?"
"I prefer responsible."
"I prefer bossy."
"I'll survive."
He picked up dog’s leash.
"I'll take this menace for another walk."
The dog looked up immediately at the word walk and his tail started thumping against the cabinets.
"I'll grab breakfast from that bakery around the corner."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
"But I'm going to."
He reached for the doorknob.
"You."
He pointed at you.
"Shower."
"I was planning to."
"Good."
"And medicine."
"...Fine."
He smiled and added, "See you in twenty."
⸻
It took him forty.
Apparently the line outside the bakery stretched halfway down the block. He came back carrying two paper bags that smelled like butter and cinnamon. By then you'd already changed into the fresh clothes.
"You bought the whole bakery."
"I panicked."
"You panicked?"
"I couldn't remember what you liked."
"So naturally you bought everything."
"Exactly."
"...That's actually reasonable."
"I thought so."
Half an hour later you were back on the couch, the new episode of Friends was playing. A cardboard box filled with pastries sat between you - honey crullers, croissants, blueberry muffins, something covered in pistachios...
Connor had somehow managed to eat powdered sugar without getting any on himself.
You, meanwhile, already had a dusting of it on your sweatshirt.
He pointed.
"You've got..."
"I know."
He reached over, brushing the sugar off your sleeve with the back of his fingers.
It was such a small gesture. Barely anything.
Still... You noticed. You noticed everything - the way he'd automatically refilled your coffee without asking, the fact he'd remembered you hated overly sweet tea, that he'd folded the blanket while you were showering, that he'd washed the mug you'd left in the sink days ago.
None of it was impressive on its own. But together... It felt strangely dangerous, not because he was doing too much, because it felt... normal. Comfortable. Like he'd always belonged in your apartment.
That scared you more than anything.
You'd spent months convincing yourself there was a sensible distance between your lives - you were almost thirty, your days revolved around paperwork, difficult conversations and trying to help families through impossible situations. He was twenty-one, an NHL star. His life consisted of airports, road trips, packed arenas and interviews.
Those worlds weren't quite supposed to fit together. So why did this feel so easy?
"...Ross is such an idiot."
You blinked.
"What?"
Connor nodded toward the TV.
"He keeps making terrible decisions."
You smiled absentmindedly.
"So do people."
He looked over.
"You okay?"
You stared at your coffee for another second.
Then set it down.
"...Okay."
He muted the television.
"What?"
"We should go on a date."
Silence, complete silence. He just... Looked at you.
"I..." He blinked once. "...Did I imagine that?"
"No."
"You actually said that?"
"I did."
"You want to go on a date."
"I'm agreeing to one date."
His eyebrows lifted and he leaned back, still looking suspiciously like he expected someone to jump out yelling gotcha.
"I've waited months for this."
"I know."
"So why now?"
You took a slow breath.
"Because if I keep saying no without ever giving you a chance, that's not exactly fair either."
A beat.
"But don't get excited."
"I'll try."
"I mean it."
"I'm listening."
"I still think this is a bad idea."
"I know."
"I'm older."
"I know."
"I have a normal job."
"I know."
"My idea of excitement is buying matching storage containers."
He laughed.
"I have a dog."
"Yea, I've noticed."
"I barely understand hockey."
"I can teach you."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
You looked at him.
"I'm not the glamorous hockey girlfriend people probably expect."
Something softened in his expression, he put the rest of his cruller back into the box and turned toward you completely.
"Can I tell you something?"
You nodded.
"I think you're one of the smartest people I've ever met."
You opened your mouth to interrupt.
"No." He smiled. "My turn."
You closed it again.
"You keep talking like your age is this massive problem."
"It is."
"It isn't."
"You haven't lived long enough to know that."
He laughed.
"Maybe... But I know this."
He gestured toward you.
"You spend your days making children smile on some of the worst days of their lives." He paused. "You remember every nurse's birthday, you cry over your patients. You carry dog treats in your coat pocket and buy the old man downstairs groceries when his knee acts up."
You stared.
"How do you even know all that?"
"Because I pay attention."
His voice stayed quiet.
"I don't think you're boring. I think you make ordinary things feel important." He smiled to himself. "I've never met anyone like you."
Your fingers twisted together in your lap.
"You really have no idea what you're getting yourself into."
"I think I do."
A small smile escaped you.
"I snore when I'm sick."
"I survived one night."
"I steal blankets."
"I noticed."
"I'll criticize your skating."
"I was counting on it."
"I'll probably embarrass you."
"I seriously doubt that."
You looked down, suddenly finding the stitching on the blanket incredibly interesting.
"So... We're really doing this?"
He didn't answer immediately, almost like he was afraid moving too quickly would scare you off.
Finally... He smiled and you could see it in his eyes as well.
"I'd really like that."
You looked back at him.
"So would I."
The words surprised you almost as much as they surprised him. Neither of you spoke for a moment, Friends continued playing in silence on the muted television. Eventually Connor reached for the remote and turned the volume back on.
"One condition though."
You raised an eyebrow.
"Our first date is after you're completely healthy."
"I wasn't planning on coughing through dinner."
"Good."
"And if you get me sick..." He sighed dramatically. "I'll expect homemade soup and we'd quarantine just a bit longer together."
"I don't cook."
"You'll learn."
"You sound very confident."
"I am."
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.
"This is going to end terribly."
He looked at you for a second, maybe a little longer than necessary.
"I don't think it will."
You wanted to tell him he was wrong. You really wanted. But you also had this strange feeling he was not referring to you learning how to make a soup. And in that case.. Maybe it won't end terribly after all.
Instead, you picked up another honey cruller.
For the first time in months the future didn't feel quite so predictable. And somehow, that wasn't nearly as terrifying as it had been yesterday.