being an adult is a weird combination of wanting to sleep all the time but also reacting to it being your bedtime a little like a toddler who doesn’t want to take a nap
“hey this dog looks to be struggling to perform very basic functions and that is very worrying” “well ACTUALLY if you STUDIED THE BREED STANDARD you’d see that this dog is actually the IDEAL ______” YEAH. THIS TOO IS THE PROBLEM. WHAT ARE YOU NOT GETTING.
“you can’t blame breeders for breeding to standard :/“ i actually find it very easy to blame them. they are the ones creating the dogs on purpose, you see
some of y’all bout to be real mad at me. but it must be said. some of the shit u call corny/cringy is actually just genuine/cute/sweet and y’all r just afraid of expressing any type of positive emotion
i work with youth and they loooooooove to go “ew that’s so cringe” the moment anything earnest even grazes their orbit.
my general line that i send back to them is “hm. not sure i really believe in ‘cringe.’ it kind of sounds like you’re choosing to be embarrassed right now.”
a mutation led you to the path of a vigilante. you expected to run into spider-man at some point. what you didn’t expect was that you’d fall in love with him.
CW/TW: fem! reader, reader is a bat mutant, mentions of mutations, being bitten by a bat, mentions of rabies, blood, injuries, reader stitches peter up, brief mentions of nausea and a concussion, medical inaccuracies, slow burn, not proofread lol, lmk if i forgot anything!!
dividers from @hatoslay
it began with the sensitivity to light. you started to wonder if the rabies shots were administered too late, or if you developed some other disease from the mammal. a small bat, no larger than your hand, decided to sink its teeth into your shoulder blade one night. the pain was minimal, like a pin pricking your flesh. yet, you still went through with the standard procedure of getting rabies shots and monitoring the symptoms.
while the terrifying hydrophobia never occurred, you did notice other things beginning to arise. aside from light sensitivity, you realized you were able to “see” in the dark. the noise you were now able to produce would echo back in your overly keen ears, and you’d easily locate anything you were searching for. you’d even been able to find the pesky fly that hadn’t left your apartment in a week.
these symptoms never bothered you, until they became a physical condition. you swiftly took notice of the aches in your jaw, your ears, even your arms. the aches grew, and in time, changed your body. your teeth grew long and sharp. it forced you to nearly relearn speech and adjust to eating with what appeared to be fangs. your ears shifted to be more rounded in the center and pointed at the tips, matching the creature who inflicted the changes upon you. the worst of it was your arms. the pain erupted one night, searing and hot beneath your skin. from dusk to dawn, the process nearly killed you as wings slowly sprouted from your limbs. they ripped through flesh and splattered blood onto hardwood floors as they expanded. once they were finally grown out, your vision went dark.
it was an agonizing process that you proceeded to go through on a nightly basis, until you learned how to cope. you learned the feeling of when they’d appear, and you eventually learned how to halt the transformation. it was controllable, something you could manage without inflicting more pain.
with your newfound abilities, you began researching. you were no stranger to mutations, especially when you lived in the same area as spiderman. however, you weren’t at all familiar with the details and what it meant for you. in the end, you decided to be similar to spiderman, yet completely different.
the spider helped at all times of the day, zipping by in a flashy blue and red suit. you only emerged at night. you were always clad in black, with your face completely covered by a mask matching your animalistic features. you managed to coexist with the spider, never crossing paths and remaining a whisper among the public. you never stuck around long enough to be spotted, and you weren’t friendly enough to be a topic for those you saved. you enjoyed the simplicity of it, until he finally got you in his web.
“oh, uh, i didn’t realize someone else had it covered,” came a boyish voice in the night.
you were atop a roof, stopping a man who was clearly attempting to pry open a window on a fire escape. you’d dragged him to the rooftop, given him a flurry of punches you’d deemed appropriate for whatever he was attempting to do to his potential victim, and tied him up for the police to find. just as you were about to take your leave, the unitard clad man appeared beside you.
“don’t worry about it,” you mumbled, voice slightly distorted by your mask and modulator.
“don’t bats eat spiders? should i be worried?” he joked, although the awkward back and forth on his feet showed he wasn’t too sure how to navigate the conversation.
you tilted your head at his comment. you thought the neighborhood spiderman was friendly, not a dorky man who clearly had no clue what to say.
“bats typically don’t eat something so small. besides, there’s species of spiders that eat bats, too,” you couldn’t help the knowledge that spewed from your mouth. “anyways, if you want to hand him off to the cops, be my guest. you can have the credit for it.”
before you could take off, a hand came to wrap around your wrist. you let out a disgruntled hiss, which caused the grip to immediately vanish.
“sorry, sorry! didn’t mean to touch you without asking. i just, uh, didn’t want you to go yet,” he shrugged in a sheepish manner.
“and why is that? i’m sure we both have better things to do,” you said. you were apprehensive, to say the least. just because he was the neighborhood hero didn’t mean you had any desire to hang around him. spiderman brought the public eye, something you purposely avoided.
although you couldn’t see it, you were sure he was grinning beneath the mask. “well, it’s not every day i find someone in the same line of work.”
you huffed, “i guess. i just do this for fun, not to play hero for everyone.”
“well, you’re someone’s hero. you just saved a person from whatever that guy had planned,” he jerked his thumb towards the unconscious figure of the perpetrator. you scoffed at his cheesy line, but couldn’t deny the truth in it. rather than acknowledge his statement, you decided to scope out the area. being reminded of the man you just detained also reminded you of what comes next.
you let out two chirps, startling the hero beside you and informing you of the approaching police cruisers way before their sirens could.
“yeah, sure. is there anything else? i’m trying to get out of here before the cops show up,” you grew antsy at the thought of being seen.
“seriously? you expect me to ignore that? you have echolocation! c’mon, you gotta tell me more, are the wings real too?” he practically jumped for joy at the discovery.
his childish behavior would be more amusing if not for the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs of the apartment building.
“look, i gotta go. nice meeting you, spider,” you approached the ledge of the roof, moving to step off completely.
“wait, wait! what’s your name?” he called out.
you hesitated for a moment. nobody had ever really asked you before. you either vanished before they could, or they were too panicked from their ordeal to bother asking.
“i don’t really have one,” you replied.
once again, you could feel the smile on his lips. “well, see you around, echo.”
you blinked at the nickname. it was awfully obvious, even a bit stereotypical, but it fit. it almost made you grin in return. it was oddly comforting to be acknowledged for once.
the moment was quickly brought to an end at the sound of pounding at the rooftop door. the shouts of “NYPD!” gave you your cue, and you allowed yourself to fall from ledge. you spread your wings, rapidly flapping them in order to take off. you looked back briefly, just in time to see spiderman offering a sly wave.
unfortunately for you, the gesture did cause a little stutter in your heartbeat.
it had been a couple of weeks since that day, since you’d met spiderman himself. you were thankful he never told the police about you. your name stayed out of any articles and reports about the incident. apparently the man you’d captured had been on police radar for quite some time, so it was a relief for all that he’d been captured. it was an even bigger relief that you’d manage to escape unknown despite the publicity surrounding the capture.
you’d continued on with your vigilante work, capturing smaller scale criminals and laying low. you found yourself resting on yet another rooftop to take a small break from your nightly activities. the last perpetrator did a number on you, causing you to stop earlier than you normally would. he was a well built man and fought well despite the liquor in his system. he definitely busted your lip and you could feel the bruises forming across your skin. you definitely injured something in your ankle during the scuffle, but you were reliant on your decent ability to recover.
a series of chirps left your lips, mostly to ensure the surrounding area was safe and that you could actually afford to rest for the time being. a distinct shape became known to you as the sound waves reached your ears. it was a figure you’d only seen once, and partially hoped you wouldn’t see again. your hopes dwindled as the noticeable red and blue spandex appeared beneath the moonlight.
“hey, echo! i was hoping i’d find you again. we didn’t exactly get to chat much last time,” his excitement was obvious even beneath his masked facade.
you grumbled indignantly, not exactly wanting his presence or attention. wherever spiderman went, the eyes of many followed. it was something you desperately wanted to avoid.
“you’re aware you’re very noticeable, right?” you asked.
“so you noticed me?” he chuckled.
your eye twitched at the response. was that the only thing he picked up from your question?
“as in, you draw a lot of attention from people. attention i don’t want,” you explained.
he waved you off, even taking it upon himself to plop down right beside you on the ledge.
“spiderman is currently off duty. all crime has been solved, for now, so the only attention i should be getting is yours,” he smiled. “isn’t that why you’re taking a break up here?”
you shook your head at his words, “i guess so. you try to get the attention of every vigilante you meet?”
“hm, no. just the ones i find interesting,” he grinned, but there was a hint of nervousness in his voice.
you chuckled at that. “i thought you said you don’t know many people in this line of work.”
“I don’t! which makes you all the more fascinating to me,” spiderman confessed.
it was almost endearing how he bounced between confident and nervous. it felt like you were getting two sides of him, two sides that didn’t fully match up.
“well, ask away, i guess. just don’t expect me to spill my guts to you,” you opted to indulge him for the time being.
his posture immediately straightened and you swore you could see the fireworks going off in his eyes. suddenly, you weren’t so sure about opening up the conversation to him.
“amazing! so what are you, exactly? was it a mutation from a bite or were you born like this? are the wings real? how does the echolocation work? do you have advanced hearing? are you a vampire bat or a fruit bat?” he rattled on, making your head spin.
you held up a hand before he could continue. “relax, spidey. one thing at a time,” you nearly faltered at the way he deflated like a sad puppy.
“look, to make a long story short, it’s a mutation. i was bitten by a bat about a year ago, and here we are. the wings are attached to me, they’re part of the mutation. they’re retractable. same with the echolocation and it functions like a normal bat’s would. i do have increased hearing, so your heartbeat is much louder than it should be, are you okay?” you attempted to answer all the questions he threw at you.
spiderman perked back up at your willingness to answer him. “wow, that’s incredible. you’re incredible! i’ve met a few other mutants, but none that were willing to talk about it. usually i just end up being forced to hand them over to the cops. i never get to sit and talk with them.”
he neglected to answer your own question, but you let it slide. you’d seen spiderman’s feats online, whether it be saving a cat from a tree or stopping a mutant from destroying the city. you figured it was pretty interesting to meet another mutant, even if it wasn’t the biggest deal to you.
“well, does yours function the same?” you asked.
“not exactly. i got mine from a spider bite, but i don’t get to make natural webs. they’re artificial. it would be a lot cooler if it was a natural ability like yours,” he explained.
that caught your attention. “you make your webs?”
“uh, yeah! took some trial and error, but we got there,” he extended his wrist, giving you full access to the gear he made.
you gently took his wrist in your hand, eyeing up the web shooter attached to it. the contraption was fascinating, to say the least. while you were busy examining the piece of equipment, he was occupied with you. his eyes flickered over your entire being, from the scuffed, clawed boots on your feet to the bat themed mask covering your face. spiderman found himself wanting to know the story, and the woman, behind all of it.
the sound of a distant scream and a gunshot seemed to catch both of your attention at once. you shared a glance, along with a mutual chuckle. the two of you stood, though not without a slight struggle on your part. your nearly forgotten injuries reared their ugly heads at the movement. it would’ve been imperceptible to anyone, except for him.
“if you don’t mind, I’ll take this one. i think you deserve the rest of the night off. i’ll see you around, right?” he asked.
this time, you agreed. “yeah, i’ll see you around.”
with that, spiderman shot his webs and he was off. you chirped, feeling his presence fade, but something else rapidly approaching. you shot a hand out to catch whatever projectile was sent your way. a paper bag, sticky with web residue, appeared.
you looked down at the contents of the bag in your hand.
tylenol, along with a very cheesy spiderman themed pack of bandages.
a smile tugged at the corner of your lips and you knew there was no way you weren’t going to see him again.
it became a bizarre habit for the two of you. during the lulls in the night, spiderman and you would meet atop the same abandoned building in queens. it started small. you’d discuss simple things, such as your abilities, stories of your vigilante activities, and basic information about one another. over a few months, something shifted. you began sharing personal details with each other. you’d talk about your lives outside of your vigilantism. spiderman shared stories of his family, his day job, and his interest in photography. you’d tell him about your own life, bits of your past, and your passion for drawing. the two of you bonded, despite your initial hesitation. the constant of spiderman in your life became something you looked forward to. you could feel something developing in your heart, something that both excited and scared you. it was a feeling you weren’t ready to name or explore, too afraid to taint the friendship you somehow established.
continuing your usual routine, you sat down beside spiderman on the ledge of the roof. he’d gotten there before you, which was not a common occurrence. it made you uneasy, as he only got there before you on days he was struggling. during those times, he’d disclose to you about his family, the loss of his parents, the death of his uncle, and the toll being a hero took on him.
a beat of silence passed before you chose to speak up. “hey, you alright, spidey?”
he glanced at you then, and you could feel his eyes boring into you through the mask. “it’s not spidey.”
for another moment, neither of you spoke. you weren’t sure what to say. was he considering dropping his role as spiderman? did he no longer want you calling him by that name? did he want to put distance between the two of you? the uncertainty caused your heart to race.
spiderman reached out gently, almost hesitantly, and placed his hand on your wrist. he rubbed small circles on the area, burning your skin through the material of your suit. his eyes remained there, even when he began to speak again.
“i think we’ve known each other long enough,” he said. “my name is peter.”
a smile you couldn’t help immediately spread across your lips.
“peter,” you repeated back.
spiderman, or peter, visibly relaxed at the sound of his name in your voice.
it was then you decided to say your name. he repeated it just the same, and you could feel a shift in the relationship you’d built over the last few months.
“peter, please hold on,” you begged.
a noise of confirmation came from his mouth, immediately followed by a pained whimper. his body was battered, his suit was ripped, and his consciousness was fading in and out. you’d never seen peter like this. he was spiderman. he felt almost untouchable, until he wasn’t. now, he was just peter. he was just an injured man being cradled in your clawed grasp. you carried him to the only place you could think of, your home. it was a boundary that hadn’t been crossed between the two of you, but there was no time to consider that now. you knew you had to get peter cleaned and stitched up as soon as you could.
you practically barreled into your home at the speed you were flying. you set peter down as gently as possible on your couch, though not without flinching at his groans from the sudden movement.
“stay awake, i’ll be right back,” you reassured him as you scurried off to grab your medical supplies.
upon returning, you were able to get a good look at peter’s injuries. the most notable were the gash across his chest and the one splitting the side of his head. blood was soaking into the spandex of his suit, and swiftly spreading to the fabric of your couch.
“peter, i have to take this off, is that okay?” you asked, patting the non-injured space on his arm.
a nearly imperceptible nod was all the confirmation you needed. you cut away at the material, removing it from his upper half entirely. you unfortunately had to shift him once again to fully rid him of the suit, causing another wave of pain to course through peter’s body. hushed apologies were whispered in the air as you worked. you were now able to see the cut in its entirety. it sliced from his collarbone all the way to the opposite side of his ribcage. while it wasn’t life threatening, he’d need stitches.
“hey, peter, stay with me, please. i have to stitch this up. we don’t really have time for medication. please, please forgive me,” you tried to explain yourself.
a gut-wrenching cry left his mouth as you began sealing the wound. you couldn’t help the flurries of apologies spilling from your lips. you continued on, despite the guilt of inflicting more pain, and stitched the wound closed. you cleaned the area before neatly wrapping it in gauze. with that injury out of the way, you were forced to address the next one.
“i…peter, can we call your aunt or your friend or something? your head injury looks bad,” you explained.
“take it off,” peter whispered.
you froze. you were sure you heard him right, but the pain must be making him delirious. “what? peter, just give me your phone. i’ll call one of them over here.”
“no,” he groaned. “no time. please, i trust you.”
your heart skipped a beat at his admission. peter trusted you. he trusted you enough to reveal his face and his identity. had it not been for the panic and anxiety coursing through your veins, you’d be enamored with his faith in you.
with his permission, you slowly peeled away the mask. you hesitated, giving him enough time to stop you if he wanted. yet, he nodded, giving you the go ahead to continue. the mask was finally removed, giving you a full view of peter’s face.
he was beautiful. with fluffy locks of brown hair and chocolate eyes that rivaled the prettiest amber stones, he was an absolute beauty. your admiration was short-lived, as you were forced back to the task at hand. a nasty gash extended from the back of his skull to his jaw. it looked a lot worse than it truly was, although you were sure the force used to make the cut gave him a concussion. you unfortunately had to snip away at some of his hair surrounding the slice, and began the process of stitching him back together.
after another round of agonizing cries, peter was fully stitched and cleaned up. you’d attended to any other superficial injuries he’d received, along with forcing him to comply with a concussion test.
you finally allowed him to rest after taking medication for his headaches. only when you were sure he was asleep did you finally breathe a sigh of relief. you stepped away, leaving him in the darkness of your living room. meanwhile, your own mask was stripped away in the privacy of your bathroom. upon looking in the mirror, you couldn’t help but allow a choked cry to escape. the tears came faster than you could anticipate, and you sobbed quietly in the safety of that little room.
never did you think you’d see peter so vulnerable, and you absolutely despised it. you never wanted to see him that injured again. you never wanted to be the one to inflict pain on him in order to heal him. and yet, you’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. his trust meant the world to you. being able to help him, to help peter, meant everything to you. it was never, and would never, be about spiderman. this was about peter, and the love you had for him.
with a startled gasp, you realized it. you truly loved peter. you never even needed to see his face to fall for him. you loved the man beneath that mask regardless of what he looked like. he was kind, intelligent beyond belief, and selfless to a fault. he was an enigma, and the first person you felt truly saw you. you saw the real people beneath the masks without ever needing to take them off.
after breaking down and coming to this realization, the fatigue finally caught up to you. you quietly checked on peter before curling up in your arm chair beside him. you’d be there whenever he needed you. for now, you allowed yourself to escape into much needed sleep.
a resounding groan woke you out of your sleep.
“peter..? peter, don’t move. what do you need? i can grab you more water, more medicine. hold on,” you scrambled at his sudden awakening.
before you could go anywhere, a gentle hand wrapped around your wrist.
“please, don’t go yet,” his voice was barely a whisper.
“i’m here, i’m here,” you reassured him.
“your mask,” he mumbled.
you reached up to touch your face, only to be greeted by skin. you’d fallen asleep without putting your mask back on. now peter could see you, the real you. it caused your mouth to go dry. fear plagued your heart, although it was different than the fear you experienced hours ago. you were afraid peter would regret his decision to show you his face. you were afraid you crossed a line showing your own face. most of all, you were afraid of his reaction to you.
“let me grab your medicine, i’ll be right back,” you skittered away like a feral cat.
out of fear and what was deemed a necessity, your body went on autopilot. you grabbed all the necessities for peter and made your way back to the couch. you didn’t say a word as you forced him to open up and knock back two tylenol pills. you encouraged him to drink up and eased him back to rest on the bloodied cushions. his eyes followed you the entire time. the warm irises never left you for a second as you tended to his needs. neither of you spoke until you tried to make your escape. you were attempting to scurry off again, but his voice stopped you in your tracks.
“you’re stunning,” peter said.
“what?” you couldn’t help but spit out.
he chuckled, even though it caused a wave of nausea to course through his skull. “you’re stunning. even prettier than i imagined.”
“peter,” you whispered.
you sat back down beside him, drawn in by those honey eyes and the genuine emotion behind them.
“thank you. thank you for saving me, and being here for me. thank you for showing me your face,” peter’s voice was still light, but the weight behind it remained the same.
“no, thank you for trusting me,” you replied.
peter shook his head slightly. “i’ve always trusted you. i was just afraid to push you away.”
you laughed in disbelief. “peter, you could never push me away. i..”
it almost slipped out, but you hesitated. so much had happened within the last few hours. you didn’t want to overwhelm him, or push him into something he wasn’t ready for. showing yourselves beneath the masks was enough of a breakthrough for one day. you’d save your confession for another time, when he was fully recovered.
“thank you for everything,” peter grabbed your hand and squeezed it lightly.
“always,” you squeezed it back. “now get some rest. i’ll be here when you wake up.”
he agreed. as much as he’d love to continue the conversation, and to explore this newfound territory with you, his fatigue still weighed on him. peter reluctantly laid back down in the comfort of your couch.
“peter?” you asked.
he hummed, staring up at you with something you couldn’t put a finger on.
“you’re beautiful, too.”
you smiled, and he gave you the sweetest smile in return.
i hope you guys enjoyed :) please like, reblog, and comment if you’d like a part 2!!
connor teaches you how to skate again before shooting a video
summary: after your dad decides the company needs to embrace the world of digital content, you’re put in charge of filming and interviewing young athletes across every major league - against your own will.
pairing: connor bedard x sneakylink!reader
warnings: none. swearing. close proximity. talks of bloody injury as kid. connor being a jerk at the end again!
YOU DIDN’T WANT TO do it when your dad had first said. you still didn’t want to do it the week before your first video. even after filming two already with the NBA’s 1st overall draft and the MBL previous first pick - you still felt out of your depth with this new side quest your dad had appointed.
you were studying finance. you were interned under your dad’s company to analyze contracts, monitor salary caps, scout future talent and spend your days buried in spreadsheets — at no point during your degree had anyone mentioned doing silly little videos with professional athletes with a microphone?!
even now, packing the equipment (which you had also been taught how to operate instead of giving you a small film crew) you couldn’t believe you were still at it - two months later after that dreaded meeting.
your dad had called you into one of his strategy meetings, you know, the kind where 8 people sit on either side of a table and he’s up front? yeah those.
usually, you keep quiet, only there to take down notes so it was nothing unusual. you arrived five minutes early, coffee in hand, sliding into your usual seat near the back of the conference room with your notepad and pen.
then he pulled up a powerpoint.
that was your first warning sign — your dad hated powerpoint.
if he’d gone to the effort of making slides, he’d been thinking about whatever this was for a while.
the first few were harmless enough: rise in figures, sponsorship renewals, new athlete acquisitions - the same old basics. then the next slide appeared:
THE NEXT TWELVE MONTHS.
your brows furrowed. your dad clasped his hands together. “we’ve spent twenty-five years building one of the strongest reputations in professional sports.”
everyone nodded.
“but reputation isn’t enough anymore.”
another slide: graphs. social media statistics. competitor comparisons. the words digital engagement appeared more times than you cared to count.
your dad continued explaining how the industry was changing - how younger athletes weren’t choosing representation the same way veterans had. they wanted personality, accessibility, behind-the-scenes insight. he wanted to humanize the company, show the people behind the athletes. “our partners are investing more heavily in digital activation - if we’re asking brands to invest six and seven figures in our athletes, we need to give them more than a logo on an instagram post. we need content they can publish across their own platforms, content our athletes are proud to share, and content that gives sponsors measurable value.”
even you sat up.
“the videos then have three jobs—” he clicked onto the next slides. “promote the athlete’s personality, fulfill sponsor partnership obligations, and showcase the agency as modern and connected.”
the plan was simple enough: one video a month for the next twelve months.
film them all in advance if scheduling made more sense — release them throughout the season; track engagement, sponsorship interest and client feedback, then decide whether it was worth continuing.
honestly? it wasn’t even a bad idea.
you were actually beginning to admire the presentation.
until he said– “and y/n will be leading the project.”
your face fell so quickly, you even dropped your pen.
he just kept clicking through the slides as though he hadn’t casually dropped a bomb in the middle of the meeting.
“—she already knows the athletes, she’s familiar with every league we work with, she’s comfortable traveling, and frankly — she’s the only person in this building under the age of forty who understands what people actually watch.”
a couple of people laughed. you didn’t, but as far as your dad was concerned, the decision had already been made.
as far as you were concerned — you needed to have a very serious conversation with him the second the meeting ended.
“dad, i’m not doing it,” you’d said immediately after the room had cleared, smiling despite being anything being funny. it anything, you were laughing out of pure disbelief that he’d volunteered you for an entirely new role without so much as asking.
“you are.”
“no, seriously.” you chased him to his desk where he sat down with a coffee.
“so am i.”
you stood in front of him, eyes wide. “dad — i’m not a media person. i’m not a content creator. i don’t even like being on camera!”
“you sure post an awful lot of pictures for someone who doesn’t like being on camera,” he looks over from his cup of coffee while taking a sip.
“yeah! on my personal account for my friends to see! i’m not doing a whole other job interviewing your athletes! that’s the opposite of my job role!”
he looked at you over the rim of his glasses. “you’re not doing interviews. you’re participating in their sport. i’m paying you to skate on some ice with a professional player; to shoot hoops with the latest overall pick; catch a football with some rookies.”
you want to shrink more and more into your skin. “why on earth would i be good at that?! i can’t do any of those things?!”
he just looks at you like he’s waiting for this conversation to be over.
you blink.
he blinks.
“dad, i’m not doing it. hire some media girls to do what they actually specialise in. this is degrading to my degree.”
“i’m not paying someone else to do a job you can so easily do - when you’re already familiar with players.”
“i’m not familiar!”
“they like you.”
“they don’t even know me!”
“they definitely like you more than they’d like some random media graduate shoving a camera in their face.”
you stared at him. “why aren’t you doing it?”
“i need to stay mysterious.”
you blinked. “mysterious?”
“mhm. i have an image to uphold.”
your face said enough.
“i don’t care what you say,” he gave a casual shrug, already opening emails on his computer. “you’re doing it because i pay you to.”
you stared at him. “that’s your final argument?”
“ya.”
a beat passes.
“dismissed.”
your mouth falls open.
“i’m making tortillas tonight.”
you blinked, eyes squinting. “what?”
“for dinner,” he looked up. “six-thirty. don’t eat beforehand.”
you forced yourself to leave, took a walk around the block on your break before you launched a tortilla at his head.
you’d filmed two videos since then, yet to be posted, though you’d received the final cut and were happy enough with the result. your dad loved it. it was exactly what he envisioned: placed products, the normality of it - you keeping it engaging whether with your natural chemistry with each player or the player’s nonchalance that brought the humaneness. you were still getting used to how you sounded on camera; when to call it a day and admit that you couldn’t be good at everything and let the athlete take the crown.
it was also fun, you could admit. you’d enjoyed what you’d participated in so far, whether batting baseballs across a playing field or doing your best to shoot as much hoops in under a certain amount of time. the players that joined you had been nothing short of sweet, and you understood why your dad wanted it to be you to be paired with the youngsters: it felt natural, being around the same age with an ability to easily bounce of one another, and you didn’t feel as embarrassed as you thought you’d be.
you were conscious however of how the videos might come across: just you and one athlete, close in age, stuck with each other for a few hours, laughing together — you became hyperaware of your body language, careful not to stand too close, touch unnecessarily or encourage anything that could be up for interpretation.
you’d been putting off hitting the rink more than you realized until your dad had sent through a list of the equipment you needed to feature in the video to get those specific brands and sponsors across - and a wave sickness hit you.
you’d even asked if he wanted to shoot the video, or if anyone else could, but he told you you’d be fine - just pick a ‘nice’ player who would be patient with you and not mind helping you find your feet.
you see, when you were around 10 years old . . . you’d involuntarily found yourself in a freak accident whilst ice skating during the holiday season.
nothing major - no death, no sliced-off fingers - but whilst skating around with your family, a group of older guys, high school age at the time, had been messing around, pushing and shoving each other, chasing each other around the rink. it was your luck that you’d been in the wrong spot so that when one of them was scrambling on his feet, trying to do everything but accept the fall while his friend continued to push and pull him — his right leg shot up behind him and met your face.
you don’t really know what happened or how to describe it, but the simplest way to explain it was you got kicked in the face.
the blade caught your lip first, slicing through it before the hard shell of the boot slammed into the rest of your mouth. the impact split your lip open and cracked against your teeth, chipping two at the top and two on the bottom. within seconds, your face was in agony: gums stinging, mouth pooling with the taste of warm, metallic blood. it poured over your tongue faster than you could spit it out, leaving you sobbing in shock, convinced every tooth in your mouth had shattered.
you didn’t close your mouth for a whole two hours.
you remember crying so hard you couldn’t breathe properly, blood and tears mixing together until you couldn’t tell which was running into your mouth anymore. the ambulance ride felt two minutes long as paramedics asked you questions through a wad of gauze pressed against your lip, but you didn’t utter a word. you just cried with your mouth open, everything running out of it, in great pain but also terrified there’d be nothing left when you looked in the mirror.
since then - you’d never put a pair of skates on again.
which was a shame really, because beforehand, you’d been an exceptional little figure skater. you’d practically grown up on the ice. every winter, the lake behind your childhood home froze over, becoming your own personal rink where you, your dad, and your sister would skate before school, after school, and whenever you could squeeze in another hour before the sun disappeared.
you’d been fearless, but you didn’t love it enough to go back. set in your hot-headed ways, you swore to your mom and dad you would never skate on ice again, dropping lessons, dropping holiday tradition. raging at them like it was their fault.
oddly enough, it never put you off watching ice hockey. you’d think a sport where players routinely lost teeth, split lips and left trails of blood across the ice would’ve been enough to make your stomach turn — but it never did.
well, the only thing that still made you squirm was the niche sight of blood staining someone’s teeth. it probably would’ve made you squirm anyway, but every time you saw players flashing their teeth for reassurance at refs, you could almost feel it again—the nipping, stinging sensation pulsing across your upper gum; the disgusting taste of blood flooding your mouth.
ugh! yuck.
now, you were supposed to get on a rink and shoot a whole professor video using hockey equipment, trying to keep up with a professional after having not been in a pair of skates in over ten years.
you knew you weren’t going to experience the same horror you did when you were ten, but you also knew you wouldn’t be up to the standard you once were, and that almost hurt just as much (almost).
with the sicky feeling in your stomach, after doodling on your ipad the plan for the video, you began thinking of a candidate to film with.
so far, athletes had only been from chicago sports teams, keeping it easy for both parties to find a quick time of filming. now, you were racking your brain trying to think of the best fit blackhawks player - one that was especially not going to mind spending a little bit more time with you before you turned the camera on to get you standing straight. someone gentle. someone patient.
hard to find that in hockey players when you only see them during a game.
you go through the roster, trying to decide who’s best fit for the video so you can contact their management.
it’s 9PM when you text connor, unable to settle on a candidate. desperate for suggestions.
you
look, i didn’t want to have to ask but i need a favour. i’m scheduled to do a video with one of your teammates by the end of the month and i don’t know who to choose. ideally one of the younger guys?? someone who’s not gonna mind doing some boring, basic, baby stuff on the ice. it won’t take long, like an hour or two max. it’s for brand/sponsorships purposes so they can promote their own preference in products and use their own stuff. the brand will pay them for it. i’m lost on who to pick. can you maybe ask around in your little group chats? see if anybody volunteers?
connor is playing some video game when his phone buzzes. he sees your contact and the small paragraph-like message and pauses it, furrowing his brows as he lifts it.
when he re-reads it, he doesn’t know why - but he quickly catches himself slipping into a mood.
the more he thinks about it, the less he liked the idea.
you, spending a few hours alone with his teammate, probably joking around and laughing, letting them show you how to do stuff - having an excuse to get close. he knows exactly who’s getting their flirt on, who’s gonna boast about it in the locker room the next time they have training.
‘yeah, she was great.’
‘dude, she’s so fire.’
‘it was really fun.’
the thought of you spending an afternoon alone with one of his friends just felt wrong.
he hated the idea of not being there. not hearing the conversation, not knowing what was said - not knowing if you accidentally let something slip or worse — if one of the guys figured something out for themselves.
no.
before he could overthink it, he typed.
connor
i’ll do it
you
thanks. let me know what they say
connor
no
connor
i’ll do the video
you
yeah sure, lol. lmk when they get back to you
connor
i’ll do the video with you??
that made you furrow your brows.
you
connor i’m actually asking for help here.
connor
oh my god, i’m being serious, i’ll do it with you
you stared at the response, utterly confused and taken back. him? doing the video? the thought of you two on the ice doesn’t settle your nerves any less. if anything, it makes them worse.
he’s the last person you’d pick, and you mean that.
you don’t think you want him there.
you
you’re not doing it
connor
why???
you
because you’re the last person i’d choose to do it, you’ll find it boring af and complain the whole time
connor
i won’t
you
no. it involves a lot of patience
connor
i’m patient
you
not on the ice
connor
especially on the ice
you
YOU HAVE THE SHORTEST FUSE OF ANYONE I’VE MET ON THE ICE!!!
connor
that’s different
you
how??
connor
game.
you
honestly, just ask one of the guys. i’m sure one of them would rather do it. please.
connor
why are you trying so hard to get rid of me
you
i’m not, i just know you’re not gonna enjoy it
you
i’m trying to do you a favour and save you a long afternoon where you just get irritated the whole time
connor
you assume i’ll get irritated
you
i know you
connor
you don’t
wow.
before you can send another text, he messages first.
connor
i’m doing it
connor
what date
connor
and where
connor
and what equipment do i bring? full gear?
you facepalm, surprised there’d ever be a day where you seriously contemplated blocking connor’s number and ghosting him.
-
if you’d asked how filming went — you probably would have said it was really good - better than expected. if you’d asked connor, he might have even said the same thing.
what neither of you would’ve mentioned was the fact the actual filming happened on the second day.
because day one was spent trying to keep you standing on your feet in a set of skates for longer than 10 seconds without any support.
in fact, looking back, there was absolutely no chance you were filming a video on day one. you’d forgotten to bring up the one very important detail to connor on the way to the rink in his car:
how you actually need to learn how to skate before asking a professional hockey player to teach you hockey.
minor oversight. so instead of rolling cameras, capturing you both racing each other, fighting for the puck, trying to shoot and score - you’d involuntary signed connor up for an extra day he didn’t ask for, acting as your supervisor / teacher / skating aid.
well - the camera’s had been rolling since he picked you up, you just knew those clips were more than likely to end in the outtakes your dad planned on posting at the end of the year; a combination of all the funny, irrelevant moments captured across all your filming. “so i need to tell you something,” you looked out the window, your head on your hand as you watched other cars pass by.
connor already didn’t like the sound of that. “what?”
his voice was low, even deeper at this hour of the morning.
“so . . ” you closed your eyes, hating that you had to admit this to him. your ego taking a disheartening hit. “i’m gonna need like . . time to get used to the skates for the first while . . like . . maybe an hour to just get a feel of the ice again.”
connor didn’t find that so bad, although he was heavily suspicious of your tone. “ok . . . that’s fine. i’ll probably warm up with you.”
oh god, if he could see your face right now, this was actually paining you. “i’m probably gonna need you to help out.”
he was making faces you couldn’t see either, but you could hear the growing confusion (with a hint of irritation!) in his voice. “ . . . are you telling me you’ve never skated before?”
that makes you look at him, still weirded out that you guys are even spending time together outside of his bedroom. “no i’ve skated before, just not . . . in a really long time.”
“then it’ll come back to you.”
“no, but,” you close your eyes and let out the defeated sigh. “i can’t. i can’t do this,” you finally confess - what feels more like to yourself as you go back to leaning against the window, avoiding his gaze at all costs. “i haven’t put skates on since i got booted in the face and i’m so scared and my head is getting sore i’m thinking about it too much. i don’t know what i’m supposed to do.”
you didn’t care how he felt. you were so unbelievably uncomfortable at the idea of skating on ice, you wanted to call your dad and beg him not to make you do this.
connor stayed quiet.
you waited for the sigh.
the eye roll.
the are you fucking serious? something that told you this was your problem to figure out.
instead, his face turns in confusion. “you got booted in the face?”
you furrow yours. “didn’t i tell you this before?”
“no?”
there’d been that night you stumbled back to his apartment after a night out—drunk, horny, already halfway on top of him before he’d paused, pulled away when something so clearly caught his eye - the faint scar on your face. it wasn’t obvious unless someone was close enough to notice it, but you were almost certain you’d explained where it came from - even if he didn’t ask, you’d rushed out the words like you were trying to defend the mark.
that clearly went in one ear and out the other.
“i got kicked in the face by some guy years ago at our local rink at christmas,” you tell him again slowly, like he’ll remember. he doesn’t. “i had to get stitches and everything. i’ve definitely told you this.”
he doesn’t recall.
“it was in vancouver?” you remember it being quite some news for your small town
“i don’t remember.” he shrugs, turning the corner.
“alright well i got kicked in the face and i haven’t been since so it’s gonna take me a really long time to find my feet again and you need to help me and not skate off and leave,” you cross your arms with a huff. it’s not that you’re annoyed at him, you’re annoyed that you’re actually admitting this stuff out loud for the first time - that you’re actually going to be a terrible skater when you were once snatching up first place medals.
connor let’s put a huff this time, like he’s finally acknowledged the day he’s in for. “alright. that’s fine.”
you look at him, feeling a little guilty as he looks out to the road ahead of him. “ . . i did warn you. i knew you were gonna get annoyed,” you mumble under your breath.
“i’m not.”
“well keep it that way.”
because honestly? he’s lucky if you don’t lose your temper first.
-
you set up the cameras by yourself while connor wastes no time getting into his skates. he’s not in gear. you’re both just in regular clothes - black hoodie, sweats, you have fluffy socks over your leggings. connor’s even wearing a snapback instead of his helmet, though he’s brought it anyway incase.
it’s strange, to see him skating around with just his gloves on — yet it’s one of the most attractive versions you’ve seen of him.
the skates were the first foreshadowing.
the moment you’d pulled them out of the bag, you were discouraged by the sight of them - thicker, bulkier, wider. yet they were the same brands players used, the best of the best, expensive, the exact same connor had on him now — yet, your face was twisting up at them.
that definitely was getting cut.
you slipped your feet into them anyway, the little camera you’d propped against the bench filming your struggle at a wonky angle from the floor as you wrestled the fresh boots onto your feet. “these already feel weird.”
“they’re new boots,” connor called from the ice, lazily gliding along the boards without so much as lifting his feet. “everything feels weird until you break it in.”
you frowned. “no, they—”
you couldn’t explain it. they just weren’t the type of skates you were used to but comparing them was gonna be your downfall. you started lacing them up, pulling each eyelet tighter than the last before standing experimentally.
instantly, your ankle wobbled.
you sat straight back down. “nope.”
connor coasted a little closer. “what?”
“they’re definitely not right.”
“they’re fine.”
“they feel loose.”
“so tighten them.”
“i did.”
“more.”
“i did.”
“tighter.”
you sighed dramatically before undoing the knot and yanking at the laces again until your fingers hurt.
better. maybe.
you stood.
wobble.
you sat straight back down. “wow!”
connor’s eyebrows lifted.
“no. these are definitely broken.”
“they’re not broken.”
“they’re faulty.”
“they’re not.”
you sighed, leaning over your knee as you pulled the laces with both hands. they bit into your fingers.
once.
twice.
a third time.
you tightened them as much as physically possible, yet every time you stood, they still felt wrong. too much movement around your ankle, too flexible where you wanted support, too stiff where you wanted them to move.
across on the ice, connor rested both forearms on the boards, watching in silence as you wiggled your ankle for what felt like the hundredth time.
eventually, he sighed. “come here.”
you looked up. “i can’t do this.”
you didn’t even sound frustrated anymore.
just defeated.
like you’d genuinely given it your best shot and were ready to call the whole thing off before it had even started.
you felt sick.
connor ignored you, pushing himself away from the boards. “move.”
he didn’t give you the option to doubt yourself, to spiral and freak out - he was throwing his leg over the boards and crouching in front of you, reaching for your skate with effortless strength, you almost fell off the bench with the height he lifted your leg. “you’re lacing ’em like figure skates.”
you blinked, looking up at him offended. “ . . i think i know how to lace skates.”
“clearly not,” he retorts back, flicking his gloves off before undoing what you’d been doing the last 10-15 minutes.
his fingers moved with practiced ease, not a second of hesitation - he’d done this thousands of times before.
he gave a strong pull that added what looked like an extra foot in length to your laces.
oh.
you watched in silence.
every pull was effortless. his forearms rested lightly against your shin as he worked, head bowed in concentration. his knuckles white as he brushed your skate with every pull, veins standing out across the backs of his freakishly large hands as he threaded the lace through another eyelet.
you kept glancing between his hands and his face, catching the slight furrow between his brows, the way his jaw tightened whenever he gave the laces another hard pull. how completely focused he was on something so ordinary.
he tugged again, tightening the plastic around your foot.
your eyebrows lifted.
woah.
he did it again, giving another sharp pull after the next eyelet, feeling your ankle lock into place so much that it felt like the boot was a part of you, not an extension.
“feel better?”
you nodded, meeting his eyes looking up at you.
“good.” he wrapped the lace around the hooks, gave one final tug that somehow made it feel even more secure and tied it off in one smooth movement. “next one.”
he repeated the process, locking your heel neatly into place, the boot hugging your ankle in a way it hadn’t before, tying a bow at the end. it still felt weirdly different from the last time you’d put a pair of ice-skates on, but they were secure nonetheless. “stand up.”
you stood up and felt the security, even with a slight wobble off balance, you felt the smallest bit of confidence creep in. “good?”
“yeah good,” you tucked some loose hair behind your ear, watching him already take one step back on the ice.
“ready?”
your head shot up.
connor stood a step onto the ice, watching you expectantly. he was already gliding backwards with effortless balance while you remained firmly planted on the rubber flooring.
“whoa.”
he stopped. “what?”
you actually laughed, your eyes widening at the assumption. “whoa, whoa, whoa.”
he stepped back towards the gate. “what?”
“if you think,” you snickered, shaking your head, “i’m getting onto that ice all by myself, you are seriously underestimating the situation.”
he frowned. “what?”
you held your hand out. “give me your hand.”
“what?” his eyebrows pinched together, “why?”
you grabbed it anyway, “because,” you said, wrapping your fingers around it, “i need it. and you are not letting go.”
a corner of his mouth twitched.
you instantly pulled him back towards you. “no.”
your grip tightened. “don’t.”
he blinked. “don’t what?”
“don’t smile like you’re about to do something funny.”
“i’m not.”
“connor.” you looked him dead in the eye. “i am warning you right now.”
“okay!”
“no, i don’t think you understand,” you squeezed his hand again threateningly. “this is a big deal to me. don’t piss me off!”
“i won’t!”
“don’t think it’d be funny to skate off.”
“i won’t.”
“don’t suddenly decide to ‘test my balance’.”
“i’m not going to.”
“and don’t let go because you think i’ve got it.”
he looked at you for a long second.
you weren’t smiling.
your expression had gone completely serious.
“i swear to god,” you said, your voice lowering, “if you let go, i will actually lose it.”
he let out a quiet laugh, and tried to stop when he saw your face. “i’m not laughing.”
“yes, you are?”
great, now you were the one already getting annoyed.
“‘cause we haven’t even stepped onto the ice yet!”
“’cause i mean it.” you tugged him another inch closer. “—if you push me, i will crack that hockey stick around your head, sherwood will have to send you splints.”
another beat.
he looked at you. really looked.
every threat, every warning, every over-the-top comment - none of it was bravado.
you were terrified.
“alright.”
“swear.”
he scoffed, throwing his head back with an eye-roll.
“swear!” you demand.
“i swear.”
“on what?”
he huffs through his nose, just wanting to get going already. “on whatever you want.”
you searched his face for another second, making absolutely sure he wasn’t about to ruin your life. “. . okay.”
you finally make your way to the ice, clinging to the boards the entire time, not knowing how you’re about to get through this day. you already don’t like the feeling of the blades on the ice. you already feel off balance.
connor watches you slowly pull yourself further along, knuckles white from your grip. “ok c’mere.”
you look up at the hockey player. “c’mere?!” you blinked rapidly, “you come here,” you snapped, looking him like he was out of his mind.
“just try.”
“you promised.”
connor hears the betrayal in your tone, the fear in eyes - so with a grumble, he skates back over.
he holds his hands out, both of them, palms faced up. you hesitantly took his left, then his right, heartbeat racing as he closes his fingers in on them — and the size difference strikes you immediately. his hands closed around yours with effortless strength, warm against the cold of the rink.
you try not to become knowledgeable that this is the first time you’ve ever held hands.
you begin moving, slowly and smooth. the second you glance down, he tugs you with a sharp jolt, scaring the living daylights out of you and breaking the little bit of trust you had in him to begin with. “DON’T DO THAT!”
“don’t look down,” he kept his grip firm, continuing to glide backwards.
he could see the rapid rise and fall of your chest, hear the faint panicked breathe exhaling from your nose. and you were so stiff. “you need to relax.”
“i can’t.”
for the next ten minutes, the dirty-blond’s only goal is for you to stay upright for a start.
you blamed the boots on a lot. you weren’t starting from scratch (as connor kept reminding you) but the whole thing felt equivalent to writing with your opposite hand.
two minutes in and you were already fucking up. “bend your knees.”
you didn’t bend your knees.
they locked instead, your skates drifted wider until— “CONNOR!”
before you could hit the ice, his grip tightened, hauling you back upright, the force carrying you straight into him, body slamming into him for the first time today.
the first of many.
a strong exhale left his nostrils.
you shot him a look.
neither of you said anything.
you tried.
again.
again.
and again.
he stood opposite you for a while, both of his hands wrapped securely around your forearms while yours clung to his, every tiny movement accompanied with another instruction.
“relax your knees.”
“i am.”
“you’re not.”
you huffed.
“put your weight here,” his hand slid down the outside of your thigh, stopping just above your knee as he shifted your centre of gravity over your left leg. “now move.”
you moved.
“no. other way.”
you sighed through your nose, shooting the camera a look that was really meant for your teacher.
connor taught you for twenty minutes, and so far, his method appeared to consist entirely of touching you whenever you did something wrong and telling you when you were doing something stupid.
he was consistent, at least.
your elbow was constantly being moved. your shoulders were repeatedly pulled back whenever they began creeping towards your ears. when your feet drifted too far apart, he simply stepped between them and nudged one boot inward with his own. “too wide.”
he began leading you both around the rink, both hands enfolding yours as he skated backwards the entire time so he could keep his eye on you. there was a slight pull through his grip before he moved, giving you enough warning to follow him.
it eventually got to the point you were able to take little baby steps, lifting the blade from the ground with soft, gentle clacks. it felt pretty familiar.
you didn’t realize how much you were relying on it until he stopped. “‘kay, your turn.”
you looked at him. “what?”
“skate.”
“i am skating.”
“you’re being dragged.”
you blinked up at him. “i’m moving.”
“because i’m moving you.”
you looked down at your joined hands. he followed your gaze, then looked back at you. “let go.”
“no.”
his eyebrows lifted. “you have to or this isn’t going to work.”
“no, i don’t.”
“you haven’t even tried.”
“i don’t need to.”
“you do, you can’t hold my hand the whole video!”
“beds, you swore.”
he sighed, already sounding tired of the argument as you gave your puppy-dog look. “push.”
you looked at him, “connor.”
“push.”
“i don’t want to!”
“then get off the ice,” he deadpanned, irritated.
you stared at him.
he stared at you.
you hated that he had an answer for everything. hated how you always did what he said anyway.
hated him and his stupid reverse psychology.
so you pushed. it was barely anything at first, more of a nervous little shove against the ice, but your blade caught and you moved - then again.
and suddenly you were gliding. not well, not confidently, but you were moving without him pulling you. your eyes widened.
“ok again.”
you pushed off once more.
a little harder this time.
you made it several feet before your confidence abandoned you completely - your gaze darted towards the boards, searching for something—anything—you could grab, head following where your eyes went.
that was your downfall, the panic.
connor’s hand caught you instinctively around the ribs before you’d even fully realized you were falling. the sudden momentum dragged him with you, the two of you turning together in an awkward half-circle before he planted his skates and brought you both to a stop.
you were pressed against him for a second, his arm still locked around your middle.
neither of you said anything, though you could feel the rise and fall of his chest with his breathing.
then, he let go. “jesus christ.”
you furrowed your brows at the irritation in his tone, sarcasm loaded in yours. “sorry i haven’t skated in ten years.”
“trust me, i know,” he nods, eyes wide passive-aggressively.
“so why are you acting like i should be good at it?”
“because you told me you used to be.”
“i was ten.”
“and you said you were good.”
“i was good.”
“then start actin’ like you remember something.” ” he scoffs, looking at you.
with no comeback, you just squint offended at him. “stop looking at me like that.”
he shakes his head, moving behind you, his hands settling on your hips as you fight to squirm. “don’t move.”
“i wasn’t.”
“you were.”
because the placement of your freakishly large hands is the same position you use when you’re about slam your cock into me.
“oh my god, stand still, y/n.” he huffs, his mouth hovering above your ear. his boots bracket yours as he adjusted the angle of your feet with his own, before his hands leave your hips.
one comes up beneath your chin, and your head is gently turned towards the boards. “look straight ahead.”
you blink. “what?”
his fingers lingered against your jaw for half a second before dropping. “i want you to skate the whole way over there without moving your head.”
you looked at the distance. “that’s it?”
“yup.” he crosses a leg over the other while folding his arms. he’s surprised you haven’t noticed he’s let you go.
“quickly?”
“just . . whatever you think,” his hands returned to your hips, giving you a small, steady nudge. “go.”
your hands reach for his.
he pulls his off you before you can, “and don’t look anywhere else.”
you miraculously stride towards the boards, keeping your head straight like he instructed, coming to a steady stop at the boards due to your controlled pace. you looked over your shoulder, delighted. “oh my!”
“do it again.”
by the third time, you were subconsciously tilting your skates to a stop without even thinking, which is just what connor wanted.
“yes! just like that,” he smiled for the first time, watching your feet move.
“it’s still the boots,” you confessed, still not entirely comfortable.
“it’s been the boots since before we started.”
“because it is! they’re shit.”
“oh yeah, tell that one to the camera,” he pointed to the lens. “see how much the brand wants to hear you say that.”
you scowled, unable to do anything about his smart mouth. the last time you pushed him after making another snarky comment, you were the one who nearly fell, and when he pretended to push you back, you’d apologised immediately, taken it back, promising you wouldn’t do it again.
your confidence came and went, like when the blade caught a slit in the ice and your whole body lurched as you tripped towards the floor - but connor didn’t let you. using all his strength to hold you up, you never hit the ground.
you could see the fight on his face, the clenching of his jaw — the fight to not be done with this bullshit.
you also believe going back from ballet has fucked your mindset a bit, because you’re getting confused about the stuff you used to do on the dance floor and the stuff you were supposed to do on the rink, and any time you make a move that wasn’t meant for the ice, connor is quick to ask ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ you just shrug, because you know your mistake, and know not to do it again.
“ok, skate next to me. don’t copy my pace. just lift your foot when you need to,” he instructed next, watching you with such intensity in those blues, you could only nod.
you did a few laps with no mistakes, no wobbles. that was enough for the hockey player.
“okay,” he said. “middle.”
your stomach dropped.
“th—the middle?”
“yep. centre ice.”
“why?”
“because you’re not going to learn anything if you spend the whole time hugging the boards.”
you nervously looked over to the middle of the rink.
it suddenly felt enormous. without the barrier there beside you, every tiny wobble felt amplified.
“come on,” he tugged your hand to get you going, skating lazily to the middle.
when he came to a halt, you quickly realized you were still carrying too much momentum, and you realized it far too late. “connor—”
he watched, his arms immediately extending to meet you to catch you; grabbing to pull you to a stop.
except when your hands caught his, the rest of you had already committed to the collision — and you crashed straight into him, hips first.
the force carried you forward until your body knocked heavily against his, your skates scrambling beneath you as you instinctively tightened your grip around his hands.
connor barely moved.
he absorbed the impact like you’d thrown a pillow at him, without so much as a grunt, just an exhale as your crotches collided.
he just gave you a look as you both moved further down like he wasn’t surprised anymore.
at some point, the idea of filming anything today was scrapped as connor decided today was best to just get you used to the rink. he’d even pointed out if the camera was still charged with the amount of time gone by of you two just gliding around.
without the pressure and the promise from him he’d film with you this coming weekend, you almost relaxed more, and found the rest of your day on the ice more enjoyable.
it even got to the point where you could stand still and circle around the ice without feeling like you were going to panic and fall - you just allowed your body to drift.
a lot of it consisted of being able to skate freely, keeping your attention on anything other than your feet, and trying to push every button of connor’s without him pushing yours back - because he had the upper hand on ice and shoving and messing with him wouldn’t result the same way with your unstable legs.
the extra time gave you the chance for extra practice, the opportunity to be better for the video you had to submit by the end of the week.
you committed.
THE VIDEO
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊ • 0:00
the camera sat latched onto the bar of the goalie net where you stood in front of with your hair tied up, slicked from your face and you wore a tight, all black fit so that it was very clear to see the movement you were doing on the ice. connor stood next to you, sporting something similar in a comfortable, all black fit.
“hi everyone, i welcome you back to the company channel where today as you can tell, i will be joined on the ice by yet another professional who has kindly agreed to show insight to the small things that are part of their day to day routine whilst on the job,” you politely introduce the video, surprising connor by how easy you make it look, not even a wobble in your tone.
your posture is perfect, your voice measured, your expression relaxed as you address the main camera like you’ve been doing this for years rather than standing on an ice rink about to film something you’ve never done before.
connor, meanwhile, is watching you.
he’d expected you to be nervous, maybe stumble over the introduction. maybe laugh. maybe forget what you were supposed to say and have to start again.
instead, you sound like an experienced reporter. “today i’m joined by connor bedard who was the 1st overall pick back in the 2023 draft for the chicago blackhawks.”
your smooth introduction surprises him as he almost feels caught off guard by how you knock it put in the first take.
“thanks for havin’ me . .” his voice comes out slightly more awkward than yours. he even glances at you immediately afterwards, almost as though checking whether that was an acceptable answer.
he was the type of awkward you used to get when giving a presentation to the front of your class with your buddies, trying not to laugh with how serious you had to be.
“today we’re heavily focused on the equipment that goes into every day professional hockey, from the skates and helmet to the stick and everything in between. we’re going to have a look at what connor uses specifically, why he uses it, how he uses it and, more importantly—” you glance sideways at him, “—whether i can actually use any of it and keep up with him.”
his brow twitches and his shoulder lifts. “i mean going off the other day, we’re not exactly off to a good start.”
you look back to the camera, your polite facade dropping as you suddenly become real for a second, your age shining through. “yeah, alright –slight disclaimer– if we’re being honest - this has been a video in the making. i am probably not the best person to have sent on the ice, not to bore anyone with a sob story but i had a bit of a traumatic ice-skating incident in my youth so i wasn’t exactly ecstatic to do this one,” you squint your eyes. “it’s a big deal to even have me stand here today,” you subtly flex, clasping your hands, knowing it would be edited to zoom in on the action. “i’ve spent the last week trying to familiarize myself with the ice so please cut me some slack.”
“that’s not how it works around here,” connor decides to peek up, his lips tugging mischievously. “no excuses - no pity parties.”
you don’t even look at him, you just roll your eyes, more than likely wanting to cut every clip out of him opening his mouth. “with that being said, the equipment i’m using today, as always, will be identical to the athlete’s preference in equipment except for in this only instance - i won’t have bauer boots on.” it pans to your face as you speak the dreaded words.
then it zooms to connor’s who shakes his head.
“for the sake of the video needing to run smooth and probably a lot of complaining from both ends,” it pans to you both, “i grabbed some boots from the store— actually, just roll the clip, it should be fine.”
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊ • 2:20
the camera is in your hand as you sit in the passenger seat of a car, chicago traffic crawling past the windows. a large box sits across your lap, the brand-new pair of skates inside barely contained by the packaging.
“so, we started shooting the video when i decided that, for the sake of the video—and, more importantly, my wellbeing—it would probably be a good idea to go to the store and get myself a pair of figure skates,” you speak naturally to the lens as if you were on call to a friend. “i did have the bauer ones on and i did try—” you pause, furrowing your brows. “wai— your skates are bauer, right?”
connor glances over briefly from behind the wheel as you angle the camera towards him from your lap. “yeah.”
“yeah, so i had the bauer skates for the whole week, and i just couldn’t do it. i’m sorry,” you admit. “nothing was improving much and i think i overthought it so much that i convinced myself i only knew how to navigate on ice in a pair i was familiar with. so, nothing on bauer, it’s the actual type of boot i was struggling with, so . . that’s the only thing in this video that isn’t going to match connor’s equipment, purely for the sake of my wellbeing.”
a beat.
“—and connor’s to be honest, because the first day or two was not it.”
“that’s one way of putting it.”
you ignore him, lifting the lid of the box and looking down at the boots. “again, nothing against bauer. we love bauer but i’m just somebody who has always learned and only learned to skate in this type of boot,” you run your fingers briefly over the leather. “it’s really for the benefit of the video. things will definitely run a lot smoother if i am as good as i remember to be in these. although—” you reach into the box and pull one of the boots out. “i’ve put a bauer sticker on them just to pretend,” you hold it towards the camera, looking rather pleased with yourself. “so, bauer, if you ever do figure-skating boots or if you do already,” you look to the camera, “you know who to sponsor.”
connor grins quietly from the driver’s seat.
you look between the camera and the windscreen. “you know who to get on your team.”
a beat passes, just the sound of the car driving. “anyway, we’ll see how it goes” you lower the boot back into the box. “i’ll laugh if these fix nothing and im just as bad,” you think out loud, thinking the camera has shut off.
“so will i because then it just means you fucking suck.”
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊ • 3:10
“i’m actually gonna stretch my legs again,” the footage cuts back to you on the rink, one hand briefly finding the barrier as you lift a leg behind you, stretching through your quad before switching sides.
“i should be good to go actually, ‘cause i started this morning with a workout because i trustingly asked connor what he does beforehand and he told me to do a warm-up.”
connor looks over.
you glance at him.
“and then i went and did one ‘n he lied about it.”
“i didn’t lie,” he tries not to show amusement.
“you did.”
“you were going to work out anyway—”
“well, i said i couldn’t be bothered going to the gym and you said to go ‘cause that’s what you would do.”
“yeah?”
“yeah, and then it turned out you were lying and i got up at 6AM to do a damn workout,” you look at him.
he smiles. “yeah, but it was funny.”
he’s the only one who smiles.
you carry on.
you turn back towards the equipment laid out across the ice. “the equipment we got today is quite a mix of selections because that’s your preference,” you look down at everything spread out in front of you. “couldn’t just stick to one brand. had to have a bit of everything,” you look over the mix of CCM, sherwood and bauer. “had to make this harder for me.”
you crouch down, immediately rearranging everything into something that looks considerably more organized, moving one of the sticks an inch to the left so the spacing is even. “quite selfish, really, when you know i don’t have a car, as well,” you tease, referring to the fact you had to get in touch with each brand instead of getting to order all from the same place - and wait and collect them from all different locations.
connor looks at you, almost scoffing amusedly. “oh yeah, because you’re the one who has to call people up and collect it yourself—”
“—i fuckin’ am,” you smile, before raising your brows. “oop!—don’t make me curse,” you hit his leg from the ground. connor looks confused yet amused as he holds out his arms. “i didn’t force you to?”
“no, you just bring it out in me,” you grin, finding it funny to pin the blame on him. he shakes his head while you continue manoeuvring equipment about to look less messy.
when you document your first time on the ice in a familiar pair of boots, you can’t wipe the smile off your face. “oh my god,” you test them with some slow strides at first, then a little faster, “oh my god!”
suddenly, this is how you remember skating.
you glide forward.
“oh my god!” you clap both hands together, nearly losing your balance in the process.
connor catches your elbow automatically. “watch out.”
“no, look!” you push off again, a little harder this time.
the movement is smoother. your knees bend naturally. your weight settles where it should. your feet stop feeling like foreign objects underneath you.
you spin around to face the camera. “i can skate!”
connor watches you, “you could skate before.”
“no, i mean—” you push off again, crossing one foot neatly over the other. “i can actually skate.” you laugh, genuinely delighted, and do another little turn. “i feel like i can do anything!”
connor glances down at your skates. “you got your toe pick.”
you look at him like he’s just pointed out something revolutionary. “i know! the best part!”
“you’re gonna catch it and fall.”
“no i won’t,” you look at him, trying not to believe his words.
“you will.”
“i’ve been using these since i was like ten.”
“you’ve also not used them for ten years.” he sounds like he wants you to fall.
you shrug, “i’m fine. i feel much more stable in these,”you push backwards, perfectly comfortable. “ . . . i could race you right now.”
his brows lift. “yeah right.”
your brows furrow. “i could.”
his twitches. “you bet?”
“i assure.”
he gestures towards the other end of the rink. “go. from this line.”
your smile becomes enormous. “and you’ll lose, too.”
“ok, 1, 2, 3,” he lowers himself next to you.
“1, 2, 3 — GO!” you spit out really fast.
connor immediately gains speed, his skates cutting aggressively from side to side as he drives down the rink, while you’re moving with a completely different kind of efficiency—smaller, neater strides, your body naturally finding the rhythm it remembers.
you still aren’t perfect, but you look nothing like you had a few days ago.
you’re close enough to make him look sideways at you halfway down. you catch him watching.
then, without warning, he lifts his arm as though he’s about to shove you.
you immediately shriek.
“CONNOR DON’T!” one legs lifts on instinct, only making your balance wobble and immediately latch onto his arm before you can fall.
he laughs to himself, his prank working. “yOu kNow hOw tO skaTe,” he mocks, your tight grip only making it funnier.
“i do! doesn’t mean i want you to push me to the ground!” you voice your annoyance, heart still racing.
even when it feels like all fun in games — you don’t think connor understands how deep your fear runs of being on the ground with blades scraping and cutting the ice so close to your face, even at a slow pace.
“i didn’t even touch you.”
“you literally did this—” you imitate the movement with your free hand, still refusing to let go of him.
“s’funny though,” you let go of him as he grins.
he makes another tiny movement towards you.
“BEDS!” you yell, throwing yourself against him again. “NO!”
he laughs louder, your confidence a facade in his eyes. “jesus christ.”
“i’m gonna go into a bad mood if you keep doing that.”
“you’re already in a bad mood.”
“because you’re annoying me!” and anyone could tell by the sound of your voice. you know this part will definitely be getting cut from the video.
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊ • 6:07
“ok, one of the first tasks we’re gonna get into is replicating your tape job,” you’re leaning on a stick as you address the first task. “stick is obviously sherwood, the tape however,” you pluck one from the stack, “no specific brand required.”
“just regular tape.”
“do you have a particular technique or superstitious way you need to do it?” you ask, although you don’t actually care, but for the sake of the video you must. you begin peeling the strip, not knowing how to approach the task.
“not really . . obviously just try to be neat,” he murmurs, already locked in on wrapping it. “i don’t like anyone touching my stick after i’ve done it.”
“what? you think you’ll have a bad game or somethin’?”
“yeah. somethin’ like that.”
your brow twitches amused.
good to know.
perfection is your downfall as you so you try not to start over 1000 times since pulling the tape open. you keep your movements slow and careful.
connor’s method is noticeably quicker. in no time, he pulls the roll between his hands, winds it around the blade with practiced, precise movements. “do you know what you’re doing?”
“obviously,” you show no doubt, copying his style.
“yeah, sure seems it,” he inspects the blade you’ve been smoothing out with each stripe.
“. . it’s literally better than yours,” your grin, running your tongue along your lip in concentration as you peel back a strip to redo.
“yeah, alright,” he shakes his head before he bites down on the loose end and tears it cleanly with his teeth.
you watch, still smoothing the last few bits with your thumb, satisfied with it. “where are the scissors?”
connor looks at you. “you don’t need scissors.”
“i do.”
“just bite it.”
“i’m not biting it,” your prissiness comes out, holding the stick out to him for him to take. he does - and bites the strip clean from the roll, looking at you the entire time he does it.
you thank him, eyes lingering before focusing back on your tape job.
pretty good!
“you can let us know who did the better job,” you hold both sticks side by side up close. “. . although all your dick riders will just spawn in and make sure it’s you,” you mutter whilst beginning to tidy up the leather equipment, causing his lips to curl up for once.
make sure that’s cut.
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊ • 7:44
“ok, the first thing we got planned, i got planned—”
smack.
the palm of his left glove had your face scrunching up in disgust, your head turning away on instant as he flung the noticeably old attire he refused to part with.
just two minutes before, you’d clocked the small rips and holes in it, and asked him how old they were:
“couple seasons.”
“couple?”
“i just replace the padding.” he was smiling with a shrug, because he knew they looked nasty, but they were in perfect condition. typical hockey player. refusal to break in new equipment. wearing shit until it’s practically rotted to nothing. never washed.
you’d noticed the smell almost immediately when you’d lifted them to pass him them. he noticed how you turned your head, tucked your nose to your shoulder as your finger and thumb became the only thing holding them in your grip.
he could see your grimaced face, the subtle inching away you did as he lifted it closer to you. you turned, face revolted. “urgh, keep those away from me,” you’d warned him.
“yeah, they’re due a clean,” he bounces them in his hand.
“they’re due a visit to the trash,” you’d given him a look.
instead, he’d waited until the camera was rolling to smack you with it.
you slowly turn your head back towards him, expression flat.
he was trying not to laugh. “what?”
“what do you mean what?! you know what,” you’d snapped. his grin only widened. he’s clearly pleased with himself.
you turn back towards the camera, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “anyway,” you continue, completely deadpan, “the first thing we’ve got planned is—”
connor lifts the other glove.
you immediately turn your head again as it grazes your neck, your hand only able to grasp around his elbow to try and shove him away, though he barely moves while you do. “connor!” he lowers it, biting back another smile. “stop it!”
you shoot him one long, final warning look before turning back to the camera. he was starting to get on your nerves now, making this day feel longer than it needed to be.
he looks far too entertained by himself.
“what we’re about to do is start small. we’re gonna warm up, i’m gonna get used to handling a hockey stick and skating at the same time,” it zooms in on you while connor blows a breath form his mouth, his eyes closing at the thought about it
he forgot about that part.
“this was actually connor’s idea, he suggested let’s just try and steal the puck from each other, which—already is giving unfair and disadvantage but—” you’re not gonna whine about it because let’s be honest a you’re lucky he’s here with you today to do this with you.
you put on a much newer version of his gloves, holding them up to the lens, “sherwood again. mine looking in much better condition,” you display them like you’re modelling them for television. then, you lift connor’s arm by his wrist to show even just a glimpse of the palm of his glove. he just rolls his eyes and holds his stick horizontally, gliding to the centre.
he drops into a low stance, knees bent, stick flat against the ice as he settles into position for a face-off.
you hesitate before copying him.
you stand opposite each other, before suddenly standing straight, “wait - should i get my helmet?”
“huh?”
you both unmeaningly circle each other because of the ice, speaking and rotating as you contemplate the safety hazard. this guy gets competitive very quickly, you know that for sure. “should i get my helmet? are you gonna get rough?” your tone was so unamused, like you wanted him to come out with it so you could brace yourself for what he was about to put you through.
“well i’m not going easy on you.”
“it’s a warm up.”
“so? don’t be a pussy.”
“i’m not! that’s physically unfair,” you hold out your arm. god, whoever was editing this was going to hate you. so much footage to be deleted. “you’re not shoving me into boards.”
you hate the way he looks at you. like, you don’t know if he’s purposefully not saying anything because he means what he says or if he’s playing minds tricks on your and just making you paranoid. “CONNOR! don’t push me!”
“i won’t,” is all he says, lowering his stance for a face off.
you hesitatingly copy him.
he notices your position and tries to get lower.
you go lower.
he looks at you.
you spitefully go even lower, on the verge of holding the splits.
“go.”
instantly, what you don’t expect is for him to push your stick away with his, despite being unprovoked, and takes the puck. you, meanwhile, land on your ass, not in a panic surprisingly as it was a straightforward fall and he skated in the opposite direction after.
you don’t know how to get up.
connor circles back, controlling the puck lazily as he comes towards you. he stops a little too quickly beside you, blades scraping against the ice. a spray of white dusts your legs, and you flinch. not from the ice - from the closeness of his blades near you on the ground.
you don’t even realize your arm has came up on instinct to your mouth until he’s holding a hand out for you.
the amusement in his movements are put on pause. he doesn’t say anything but he watches you carefully while helping you up. “come on.”
you pick up the stick and (barely) hit him in the dick with it, no comment needed.
connor starts with the puck each time and talks you through the handling techniques you need to use. this way, you’re not thinking much about how you’re doing something - you’re just doing it while moving. you figure out how to control the stick best whilst focusing on trying to get the puck in your possession. it’s pretty clever, if you do so say yourself.
also - this isn’t your first time handling a hockey stick. it’s just been a very, very long time.
it feels like he’s barely moving yet doing a good job at keeping you away. he gives you chances to builds your hopes up but will easily swipe it away. it does get your blood thumping, you can feel the flush on your cheeks and how the rink suddenly doesn’t feel as cold now.
you pull one sneaky move and manage to get it from him, and he watches with surprise and approval.
and then charges at you like a bull, which immediately makes you surrender it his way.
he starts guarding the puck more deliberately, turning his body slightly so you have to work around him, yet, he proceeds giving you instructions to get it off him, which you can’t help but second-guess as you feel you’re doing a terrible job.
“don’t get too close, sometimes it is a simple mistake mistake of not just reaching out and grabbing it.”
you skate closer. “i feel like you’re lying.”
“i’m not.”
“but you can obviously see what i’m doing?” you try from the other side.
“but i know what you’re doing when you’re behind me?” he shifts again.
“i think you’re doing me dirty,” you arm pushes against his as you try again, the knock of wood sounding as your sticks clash.
“trust me,” he says, almost lazily. “if i wanted to take it from you, i would.”
before you can even blink, his movements turn effortful as he steals the puck from anywhere near your radar and skates off with it, building up speed before sending it through the net with a vengeance.
you lean on the stick. “you’re mad annoying.”
he smirks at you, skating back towards you. there’s a moment where his eyes flick towards the camera, just a fraction — a reminder; he knows exactly where the lens is.
his shoulders straighten slightly, expression becoming a touch more neutral. professional. “your turn.”
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊ • 12:03
time passes a little as you continue skating around, doing another mini game that gets the blood pumping and your minds in full competitive mode. practicing penalty shots and at one point, attempting to check an almost 200lb body into the boards - you can imagine what that looked like.
“wait, i’m putting my helmet back on for this,” you both take a two minute break.
your face is flushed, your body warm and you can feel little droplets of sweat gathering at the back of your neck, your hairline too as you reach for the equipment. it’s evidently the same make as connor’s, CCM plastered at the side while you’ve stuck your own number in the same placement of players, 49.
one of the last things you have planned is practically rapid fire, shooting as hard and as fast as you can, whether to hit a target or a certain area of the net, you already feel as though you might not be able to get the puck to lift from the ground.
“such a random number,” connor comments as he habitually squirts water in his mouth.
you shrug, fixing it to right on your head.
“should’ve picked like . . 97 or somethin’, make it make sense,” he continues, watching you take it off to adjust the strap.
you just look at the camera while he rambles.
“or like . . 89.”
you ignore him.
“or half of my number, or something.”
you look to the camera again, the right side of your mouth lifting.
he watches you, eyes dancing over your face and then to the direction where you’re looking, his confusion growing. “what?”
“nothing,” you smile, trying to move the buckle, struggling slightly with your manicured nails.
“what? what are you smiling about?” he blocks your view of the camera, standing in front like he’s missing something.
you look at him with the bucket in your hands, letting the silence simmer.
“it makes sense? like that would’ve been clever,” he argues, watching you bite the strap to try to move it. he ends up take it from your and moves it himself, still watching you carefully like he’s missing something obvious. “what?”
“well what is half of 98?” you furrow your brows, testing the helmet again. no matter what you do, it either feels uncomfortable or too loose.
connor puts his helmet on, buckling it as his brain racks with numbers. “i dunno, like . .” he scrunches the hat forward, thinking hard. “forty fou—forty . .” he squints his eyes then, really thinking ‘bout it as he attempts maths in his head. “forty five? that’s ninety,” he looks at you. “. . can you half ninety e—” the words die on his tongue as he watches your expression. “you can. um . . forty—”
the way you look at him like you’re high bored and want to put him (or yourself) out of his misery, he looks to the camera as it clicks. “is it forty nine?” he whispers, before his tone falls flat. “it’s forty nine.”
“oH my gOd, it wOuld bE sO cleVer iF yoU diD hAlf oF mY nuMbeR,” you mock his deep voice as he instantly tries to speak over you. “don’t include that, you need to cut that.”
“no way!” you inch back as he follows.
“cut that. seriously.”
“absolutely not.”
the lack of high school diploma sure is showing now.
he’s smiling now despite himself, because he knows exactly how stupid he’s just made himself sound. “i’m being serious.”
“i know.”
“then cut it.”
you keep backing away, grinning, shaking your head.
connor points towards the camera. “seriously. don’t use that.”
the fact that he’s genuinely embarrassed by his own maths makes you laugh even harder.
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊ • 17:18
“ok, do you know what you’re doing?” you’re mumbling as you fix the camera after moving so much from the force of (connor’s) pucks hits the targets you had both inside the met and on the bar. you’re pretty sure the attachment strap has broken which is why it can’t stay in the same position.
you’re practically done filming, only a last thing you have planned because everything is too easy for connor so you’ve came up with a last-minute thing for him to try. whether it’s considered dangerous or not - you’re going to blindfold him with your eye mask and let him try and hit the same targets.
you’re getting tired.
you’ve been filming for long enough that your patience is wearing thin, and you’re desperate to get this last section over with.
you give the camera one final adjustment before carefully backing away from the net. “there.”
you glance at the screen.
finally. it looks straight.
you head for your bag when the smack fills the air.
the puck rockets straight towards the camera.
the entire thing jolts backwards and collapses onto the ice.
you freeze.
slowly turn around.
connor stands there, his stick still resting against the ice.
he looks at you.
you look at him.
“are you fucking stupid?” your eyes linger on him before you glide back to the net, reaching for it, “fucking idiot.”
you fiddle with it again, trying to get it to sit up before you move back. when you skate over to the side to your bag, your hear the same smack and familiar look of determination on the blond’s face, and yell after the camera collides with the ice again.
“BEDS!”
connor actually flinches from the unexpected tone of your voice.
“STOP SHOOTING AT THE FUCKING CAMERA!” you pick it up again, surprised there aren’t any small pieces o the ground. “it won’t be funny when there’s nothing to upload after you break it!”
he lowers his stick.
he can’t help but want to laugh out loud as he experiences your frustration, but knows better than to strike you a third time.
before he can contemplate doing it for a third time - you take his stick from him, skating with a scoff.
someone, please, remind me that this will be the first and last time i will ever, ever film with connor bedard.
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊ • 20:54
when the video was uploaded, you didn’t expect nothing out of the ordinary. any video you uploaded with whichever athlete always did well in its rightful audience - baseball lovers, basketball lovers, football lovers — they were appreciative of the content and the footage they were getting of their favourite athlete, and you were nothing like a prop in their eyes.
the reaction to the connor video was diabolical.
at first, it was nothing unusual. it climbed its couple thousand views within the first week, filled with a majority to good comments.
then overnight, it just flipped.
80k views.
120k views.
180k views.
250k views.
300k views.
450k views.
it was doing scary numbers, sitting at over 480k views and over 400 comments – not including the many you’d deleted.
so many had to be deleted.
so many hated on you, so many picked on your non-existent hockey ability, some even criticised your appearance — you didn’t care for those ones, people could comment opinions - it was anything damaging to brand names or companies that you didn’t tolerate because your job was to advertise the greatness of these products and try to make them sound good - to make your dad’s company sound good and strong to be a part of.
you also didn’t tolerate anything suspecting of you and connor.
or rather, your anxiety didn’t tolerate it.
you deleted any one that you imagined would have connor furrowing his brows at. anything that made your mouth pop open.
user: did they know each other before this? can someone tell me are they friends?
user: idk i’ve been trying to see if he follows her
user: couldn’t find an @
user: he doesn’t follow her
user: her name is y/n y/l/n
user: do they know each other?
user: are they dating?????
user: no
user: wow she is BEAUTIFUL
user: bedsy def hit that after they finished
user: 1000 look at the way he looks at her 😂😂
user: i can’t tell if they actually don’t like each other of it they’re together
user: there’s a weird vibe on this video 😂
user: she doesn’t even hug or shake his hand at the end like she usually does in other vids
user: bedsy down bad
user: are they dating???
user: holy shit they’re so good together
user: i wasn’t made aware of this friendship??? here for it ig
user: more vids with bedsy!! omg i was so entertained the whole time!!
user: i think they did it but i just cant prooove it
user: idc what anyone says she was very professional this video and i think she’s a great interviewer and she should consider a future in that department!
user: bedsy looks bored out of his mind lmao
user: i have this clip saved on tiktok
user: do they know each other??
user: there’s a weird tension
user: does bedard know we can see his every move 😂
user: these two def got a vibe going on 👀
user: i think they just work together
user: woah what a fuckin bitch 😂
user: connor: *stands next to a female* the internet: OMG connor bedard GIRLFRIEND bedsy is DATING he is in a relationship CONFIRMED. 😱 everyone stfu like let it be except what is it which is two people at work??
user: bedsy miserable
user: is bedsy in the room with us?? 😂😂🤣
user: i’m as bad as bro, don’t be asking me no colour of tennis racket
user: i think they’re friends, she said she lives in chicago
user: i felt like i was imposing 😂😂
user: this is the most personality ive seen from bedard since bro got drafted
you’ve never had strangers care this much about you before, and apparently, all it took was spending a day on the ice getting annoyed at a hockey player.
it eventually got to a point where you couldn’t keep up. so many more came each day, some worse than others. you contemplated turning it off all together, but you didn’t have the login details.
the strangest part is that the video genuinely is a success. even for you - your social media has hit almost 25k follow requests and you just have to ignore them and let them sit there.
it’s doing its rounds on tiktok, getting clipped, posted on popular hockey accounts, only helping the numbers grow.
you’ve been to different states since then, visited locker rooms that have had players praise you, telling you how good it was and it was great spotlight shine on bedsy, how they understood your dad’s vision of getting insights to players lives - especially the likes of connor, who was classed as a robot during his first year. his agent was appreciative of it, according to your dad.
you didn’t even watch the video back. you never did, but you had a strong feeling there were defiantly some parts that had made the final cut that you didn’t even want included in the bloopers.
nonetheless, it’s flattering to hear that people liked you. that they thought you were funny. that you held your own. that you didn’t come across like some random person dragged onto the ice for content.
but there is something unsettling about suddenly being seen.
“there’s the movie star!”
you’re not overly close to any hockey player in particular, but fliggy’s comment makes you smile as you enter the united centre with your dad. you’ve spoken to him a handful of times, have no real bond, but it makes your dad grin which you can’t help but feel was the goal.
“i know. he better start paying me triple because it’s my worst nightmare,” you avoid his gaze because you tend to get embarrassed when people bring up the videos. you get embarrassed hearing your own voice on tape, never mind knowing other people have heard it.
you dodge past him for him and your dad to talk, parking yourself against a wall in a corner of the room, what you usually do in every locker room you’ve stepped into.
“dude! that video with beds was so funny! we haven’t dropped talking about it,” a voice pops up next you, a tall guy with dark hair and hazel-y eyes. “it was really great. please put me down for the next one.”
you laugh nervously, taking the compliment as he rounds the corner, keeping his eyes on you. “thanks. i will.”
“dach,” he tells you, pointing to himself, as if you’re going to make a note of it.
the way he looks at you, you wonder if he’s waiting on you to. you nod, “got it.”
you’re glad players don’t have anything negative to say. when you think about it, you’re glad you were able to help connor out - help with that narrative of proving he’s not an emotionless, hockey robot and is actually like most young, immature guys his age; playful, helpful, annoying - happiest when he’s doing the thing he loves.
dach disappears around the side, and you find yourself following his direction as he passes by a small trash can you’ve been looking for. you drop your empty bottle of water and coffee cup inside it, pausing slightly when you hear your name mentioned.
“—that’s her name, right? i keep calling her chip’s daughter.”
there’s no answer, which makes you assume someone is nodding as you go to leave.
“did you go for lunch or anything after?”
“dude no, i sped home straight after,” connor’s voice makes the small group of youngsters chuckle.
“sped?”
“what?” connor says, sounding genuinely confused by the question.
“were you in a rush to leave?” frank laughs.
“dude yes, it was a drag,” he says, tugging off his boot.
you go still.
someone sounds surprised. “really? she seems like a cool chick to hang out with.”
beds pulls a face; not that you can see. “she’s alright.” he gives a shrug, “just an interview.”
“dude,” that’s dach. “come on. she’s not your average interviewer,” he mumbles, a humour in his tone.
“i’m just saying, it’s not like i know her like that.”
there’s another laugh.
“you spent all day with her?”
“yeah, filming.”
“bro, she was in your car.”
“she doesn’t drive.”
“still.”
“it wasn’t exactly my idea.”
that one lands harder than it should.
you hear connor tug something loose, the unmistakable scrape of equipment being moved.
“she’s a bit weird anyway.”
your stomach drops.
frank laughs. “weird?”
“you know what i mean.”
“no, explain.”
“i dunno. she’s just . . .”
there’s a pause. you can practically hear him searching for the words.
“—intense.”
another laugh.
“and that whole day was fucking long.”
someone makes a noise of agreement.
“huh. i thought you two got on.”
“on camera, maybe,” connor says it so casually, “—and so bad at skating. like it was irritating.”
you swallow.
you’d known you weren’t good, that wasn’t the point. the point was that you’d been terrified. you’d spent years away from the ice, years telling yourself you couldn’t do it anymore. you’d stepped onto that rink that morning with your stomach in knots, barely trusting your own legs.
and you’d trusted him.
you trusted him to let him hold your arm, to make sure you didn’t fall, to let him talk you through things when you were too nervous to figure out what your body was doing.
you’d even laughed when you were terrified, had some bit of fun in it.
you’d gone home that day feeling like you’d done something you never thought you’d do again.
apparently, from his perspective, you’d just been shit at skating and shouldn’t have done it to begin with.
“oh. well it seemed you two had fun.”
“isn’t that the point?” he asks lazily. “we’re supposed to make it look like we’re having fun?”
that makes your brows rise, because you are surprised to hear that. you’d been sure you’d seen him genuinely enjoy himself at least a couple of times, but, apparently not.
“we’re not like . . friends now, if that’s what you guys think. she’s still — i mean she’s still chip’s daughter, you can imagine how the daughter of a millionaire might be at times . . ” there’s a teasing in his voice, like there’s an obvious answer.
your mouth pops open at that.
“spoilt?”
“kinda bratty. like . . perfectionist? kinda serious. wants things done properly. even how her boots are laced up.”
they laugh at that, and you’re replaying the day in your head with a completely different soundtrack.
he did lace your skates up but you had tried it yourself beforehand, and yeah he ripped the tape from your hockey stick because you couldn’t, adjusted your helmet , and ok you didn’t want him to hit the camera with the puck because you didn’t want it to break.
suddenly you’re worried.
what if this is how everyone sees you?
what if you’ve made yourself impossible to work with?
what if nobody else wants to film with you now because they think you’re some spoiled rich girl who expects hockey players to run around after her?
you suddenly feel embarrassed for having been so comfortable - for trusting him enough to be nervous around him. for letting him see how scared you’d actually been.
you can’t even feel proud anymore, just guilty.
if connor really hated every minute, then how selfish had you been to enjoy it? all you can think about is how you apparently made his day miserable while you were busy having a little fun.
you don’t confront him. you don’t even let yourself stand there long enough to hear what comes next, you just turn around and walk away, carrying the uncomfortable certainty that you’d somehow managed to ruin a day you’d been so proud of.
When he gets so desperate and close to his orgasm that his hips start stuttering and he clenches his jaw while he’s murmuring, ‘take it, take it, take it’ in your ear >>>>>
Ok, this took forever, guys. Writing with one good hand is no joke, and I still think it could be better tbh, but please enjoy. Also, stupid question, but I can't tell if lakehouse is one word or two or even hyphenated, ugh
Word Count: 1047
Warnings: Use of Y/N, AFAB Reader, fluff
Summary: During a late night at the lake house, Y/N and Quinn share a quiet smile across the room before Quinn admits she’s one of his favorite people and that he loves her.
------------
The lakehouse had reached that point in the night where nobody seemed tired enough to go to bed, but everyone had run out of anything productive to do.
Jack and Trevor were sprawled across opposite ends of the couch, arguing over the rules of a card game neither of them was currently playing. Luke sat on the floor with his back against the coffee table, half-listening as he texted Bug, who had taken a red-eye back to Jersey for an emergency meeting at the hospital. Cole had somehow gotten into an argument with Ethan over whether a hot dog counted as a sandwich, and the conversation had become concerningly passionate.
You'd wisely stayed out of it. Instead, you stood near the kitchen island beside your abandoned glass of water, listening to the overlapping voices fill the room.
The windows had been cracked open earlier, letting in the cool night air off the lake. Somewhere outside, the water lapped gently against the dock, mixing with the distant chirping of crickets and the occasional burst of laughter from inside.
You were watching Trevor attempt to defend some ridiculous point when your eyes wandered across the room and landed on Quinn.
He was sitting in one of the armchairs tucked beside the fireplace, one ankle resting over his opposite knee. He'd been quiet for the last few minutes, watching everyone else with the little amused expression he got whenever his brothers were being idiots.
Except he wasn't watching them anymore; he was watching you.
Your eyebrows lifted slightly.
Quinn's mouth twitched, and you smiled.
It wasn't anything dramatic; it was one of those exchanges that happened between the two of you all the time, something you guys did without either of you saying a word.
You hearing this shit?
Unfortunately.
Your smile widened, and Quinn's did too.
Then, unexpectedly, his expression softened.
There was something different in the way he looked at you, enough that your smile slowly faded into something more curious.
You tilted your head. What?
Quinn glanced toward everyone else to make sure nobody was paying attention. Then he looked back at you. "Can I tell you something that I'm usually too afraid to say?"
You blinked. That was not what you'd expected, especially from Quinn.
You abandoned your spot beside the island and crossed the living room, stepping carefully over Luke's outstretched leg.
"Hey," Luke complained, ripping his eyes from his phone screen.
"Move your freakishly long limbs."
"They were here first," he whined.
"Congratulations." You rolled your eyes playfully. “Keep whining, and I’ll call Bug.”
“Rude.”
You reached Quinn's chair, and he shifted automatically, dropping his foot to the floor.
You sat sideways on the wide arm of the chair. "Okay," you said softly. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Quinn."
"I promise, nothing's wrong."
"Then why did you say that like you're about to confess to a murder?"
His lips twitched again. "I haven't murdered anybody."
"That's exactly what someone who's murdered somebody would say."
Quinn shook his head, looking down at his hands. For a second, you thought he might abandon whatever he'd been about to say.
That was the thing about Quinn. He could talk, joke, tease, and argue with Jack until everyone around them wanted to walk directly into the lake, but the important things? Those took more effort.
You nudged your knee gently against his shoulder. "Hey."
He looked up.
"You can tell me."
Quinn studied you for another second before releasing a slow breath through his nose. "You're one of my favorite people."
You stared at him.
Quinn's face immediately changed. "Don't."
Your mouth fell open. "Quinn–"
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm not making it weird!"
"You're making the face."
"What face?"
"The face where you're about to make this a whole thing."
You pressed a hand dramatically against your chest. "Quinn Hughes has feelings."
"Oh my God."
"This is huge."
"I knew I shouldn't have said anything."
He started to stand, but you immediately caught his shoulder and shoved him back down. "Nope. Sit."
He gave you an unimpressed look.
You smiled down at him, but the teasing softened. "You're one of my favorite people too."
Quinn went quiet again.
You could practically see the instinct to make a joke fighting its way across his face.
Instead, he nodded once. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
His gaze dropped briefly. "It's just…" He rubbed his palms over his thighs. "I don't know. I don't think I say stuff like that enough."
"No," you agreed. "You don't, but that’s ok."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
He rolled his eyes, but you could see the smile trying to come back.
You bumped your knee against him again. "You know you don't have to be afraid to tell me things, right?"
Quinn glanced up, and his expression shifted. "I know."
"Even disgustingly emotional things."
"Okay."
"Even if you love me."
"You're pushing it."
You grinned.
Quinn stared at you for a moment before sighing. Then, so quietly you almost missed it, "I do, though."
Your heart squeezed, and you slid off the chair's arm and wrapped your arms around his shoulders.
Quinn made a surprised noise. "Oh, come on."
"Too late."
"I specifically asked you not to make this a thing."
"And then you told me you loved me."
His arms came around your waist anyway.
You squeezed him tighter. "I love you too, Quinny."
"Yeah, yeah."
"No. Say thank you."
"I'm not saying thank you."
"Say it."
"No."
"Quinn."
He laughed quietly against your shoulder.
From behind you came Jack's voice. "Wait, are you guys having a MOMENT?"
You and Quinn separated at the same time.
"No," Quinn said.
"Yes," you said.
Quinn looked at you. You looked at Quinn, and then you both started laughing.
Jack sat forward. "What happened?"
"Nothing," Quinn insisted.
"Quinn told me I'm one of his favorite people."
Quinn's head snapped toward you. "Are you fucking serious?"
Jack gasped. "That's bullshit," Jack said. "I'm your brother."
Quinn leaned back into the chair and dragged both hands over his face. "This is exactly why I don't tell people things."
You reached down and ruffled his hair.
He swatted your hand away, but when you started walking back toward the kitchen, you glanced over your shoulder.
Quinn was already looking at you again. You smiled.
summary: will needs help with his homework and all he can think to do is ask the girl who’s always on his mind
warnings: virgin will, dry humping
you sigh as you drop your bag on the kitchen table. will’s already sitting there, notebook open, pencil tapping like he’s been waiting all day.
"thanks again for doing this," he says, voice a little too eager. "i really suck at this stuff."
"yeah, i noticed." you flip open your old notebook to the notes he needs. "let’s just get through these problems."
he scoots his chair closer. way closer than necessary. his knee bumps yours under the table and stays there. you roll your eyes but don’t move away. ten minutes in and he’s already asking questions he should know the answers to.
"will, focus."
"i am focused," he mumbles, but his eyes keep flicking to your mouth, your chest, the strip of skin where your shirt rides up when you reach for a highlighter.
by the third problem his leg is pressed fully against yours. by the fifth he’s breathing harder. you’re trying to explain the quadratic formula when he shifts again and you feel it. hard, insistent, unmistakable and poking against your thigh through his sweats.
you freeze. "will."
"sorry," he whispers, face red. "i can’t help it. you’re just… really close."
you should push him away. instead you stay still, letting the heat of him press against you. he rocks forward once, tentative, like he’s testing if you’ll stop him. when you don’t, he does it again—slow, grinding, desperate.
"fuck," he breathes. "that feels… really good."
you keep your voice flat. "i’m supposed to be helping you."
"i know." another slow thrust of his hips. the cotton of his sweats drags over the thin fabric of your shorts, creating just enough friction to make your clit throb. "just… one more minute. please."
you don’t answer. you let him rut against your leg like the needy virgin he is, little gasps escaping every time the head of his cock catches. his hands stay planted on the table, knuckles white, like he’s terrified you’ll leave if he touches you.
"i’ve never… done this before," he admits, voice cracking. "with anyone."
you glance down. There’s already a wet spot blooming on the front of his jeans. "clearly."
he whimpers at the word, hips stuttering faster. "can i… can i keep going? just like this?"
you lean back in your chair, spreading your legs a fraction wider so he has better access. "finish the next problem and maybe I’ll let you come in your pants."
will nods frantically, pencil shaking in his hand as he tries to focus on the page while still grinding against you, cock leaking steadily now, every roll of his hips pushing him closer to the edge he’s never crossed with anyone else.
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