RIVALS WITH BENEFITS WITH ISACK HADJAR
(hockey player!isack x figure skater!reader)
you hate isack hadjar. you hate his guts. you hate the way he skates. you hate that he’s landed more than one of your hockey friends in the medical room. you absolutely despise the way celebrates whenever he scores a goal in the ice.
loud. sweaty. helmet off, displaying his flushed cheeks.
you can’t stand him.
you’re not subtle about it either. it’s probably why when he plays against ollie, he makes a point of boarding him.
the sound of ollie being slammed against the board is loud, painful, enough to make you wince. it lands isack two minutes in the penalty box—though not before throwing you a look.
the look, actually. the type of look that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
asshole.
regrettably, you’re not surprised he also makes it to the winter olympics.
no matter how many snide comments you might make to the media about him or vice versa, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s got some semblance of talent in the ice.
so, when you find him at the bar in the olympic village you can’t say you’re shocked. annoyed, definitely. though not surprised.
you recognize a few of the hockey players drinking with him—all french, representing their country.
it’s still early in the night when you go to the bar to order another round for your group, when someone sidles up beside you.
he orders in italian, because of course he does. he tags on at the end— “e la stessa bevanda anche per la ragazza con la faccia arrabbiata.”
the bartender chuckles, sparing you a brief glance. you grind your teeth together, already glaring at him. “what did you tell her?”
“oh, hi. i did not see you there.” you narrow your eyes at him. the corner of his lips curve upward. “i said another drink. for the lovely lady.”
“you’re such a shit liar.” the bartender slides back two drinks—one for isack and one for you. “you’re also playing italy in less than two days. maybe you shouldn’t be drinking that much.”
“oh, so you are keeping tabs on me now?”
“i’m keeping up with kimi. he just happens to be playing against you.”
isack rolls his eyes. gestures at the group you came with: kimi, gabi, aurelia and rafa. “your friend with the lousy backhand is also drinking. are you on his case too?”
“y’know what, hadjar?” you take a long sip of your glass. it’s fruity—the same drink you’d ordered earlier. “people are wrong about you. you really can grow on someone. like a rash. but, you know. beggars can’t be choosers.”
“that is ironic, coming from you.”
you’re not sure why you don’t leave. why, unlike all the other times you’ve encountered him, you don’t just cuss him out and make your exit. instead, you order another round. he doesn’t leave, either.
doesn’t mean he becomes any less annoying, though.
“so, if you’re on thursday for the free skate round, does that mean you’re gonna go see our game against italy?”
“someone’s gotta cheer for every goal you miss.” isack rolls his eyes. “plus, kimi agreed to lend me one of the team italy jackets if i go for him.”
“is that not treason?” isack asks, leaning against his palm and looking awfully annoyed for someone who can just get up and leave whenever he wants.
“what’s my team gonna do? make me take it off?”
you’re already three drinks deep—you think isack might be four, when he stops bickering with you and instead starts watching you. curiously, maybe. a glint you don’t recognize.
“why the hell are you looking at me like that, hadjar?” you ask, even when what you really wanted to ask is, do i have something on my face? you don’t, only because it makes you sound self-conscious. and you’d never wanna give him the upper hand.
instead of mocking you, he looks down at his glass. his accent drags over his words when he says, “you’re always so tense. so wound up.” he shrugs, glancing up at you through his lashes. “just, you know. makes me wonder what it’ll take to make you relax.”
and maybe you’re in too deep already. maybe it’s the light, the music, the way his voice feels like it’s hitting different. it’s probably the fact that it’s well known among the athletes here that getting laid in the olympic village is infinitely more likely than winning a medal.
you still wanna win that medal.
you don’t kiss him until you reach the hallway of your room. once the elevator door opens—isack beside you, who had insisted on walking you back—you reach for the collar of his jacket and press your lips against his. whatever snarky comment he intended to make dies in his throat.
the two of you barely manage to make it into your room. and he kisses, well. it’s not like you expected anything. though the way his teeth tug at your bottom lip is certainly making you feel some sort of way.
the back of isack’s knees hit the frame of your bed. you push him onto it. his hand tightens around your waist, bringing you down with him. he still chases your mouth, even as you pull away.
his cheeks are flushed and his pupils are blown wide. and that dangerous, reckless part of you threatens you could get used to seeing him like this.
“just for the record,” you say breathlessly, pushing your palm against his chest when he tries to go for your lips again. “m’not kissing you because i like you.”
he breathes out something like a chuckle. and—have you been running your hands through his hair? you can’t be sure.
“oh, really?” his hand steadies itself against your waist, bringing you closer to him as his fingers slip underneath your top.
your nose nudges against his. he’s breathing unevenly. you feel lightheaded. “m’kissing you ‘cause it’s the only thing that seems to shut you up,” you finally say, just as his lips brush against yours. he licks into your mouth, palm warm against your skin.
he grins against yours lips. “it’s like you can read my mind.” he eventually moves onto your neck, planting a trail of kisses leading to your collarbone. “you know,” he hums against your skin, “just a few weeks ago i said i would rather kiss a snake than you.”
“did you now?” you reach for him, using your thumb and index to hold his face back in front of yours. he lets you maneuver him, not even making a sound of protest. “don’t worry, hadjar. i can bite.”
if isack blushes a shade darker at that, it’s simply nobody’s business.
you move to sit on his lap, kissing him as you unbutton his shirt. and—you knew hockey players were fit but… fuck.
when you start grinding on him, moving to kiss his neck, you hear his breath hitch. “putain,” he curses, big hands on either side of you. “driving me fucking crazy,” he mutters. you nip at his throat, making him groan.
you’re smiling when your lips brush against the shell of his ear. he stifles a shudder. you feel his adam’s apple bob before he brings you back to him.
he helps you take your top off. his eyes are heavy-lidded and dark as they look at you. his accent falls heavier, gravely on his words. “i’ve heard you figure skaters are really flexible,” he hums against your skin.
you push him back so he’s underneath you. “you’re disgusting.” his brown eyes look darker in your dimly lit room. his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth. “try to keep up.”
when it’s time for france to play against italy in hockey, isack is readying into position when he spots you close to the rink—antonelli’s seats, most likely. and even though you are wearing the team italy kit, he finds it doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it did before.
not when the trail of hickeys on your neck are his little gift to you.
