DON'T LET ME GO ⋆ CONNOR BEDARD
pairing ⁎ fem!reader x connor bedard
summary ⁎ after yet another loss, connor can't fathom going back to his apartment alone, so he goes to the one place where he can finally let the weight of it go without having to explain himself [ wc: 4.1k ]
warnings ⁎ connor being a sad boy (overly self critical), friends to lovers, lil kiss
authors note ⁎ first connor fic!! also this is a repurposed plot from a person who i no longer write for but i have completely rewritten it :)
Connor sat in his stall, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, and his head heavy in his hands. The locker room is silent other than the faint sounds of gear rustling as his teammates stripped themselves of their damp gear, each one consumed by their thoughts.
The quiet pressed in on him. It wasn’t the kind that brought peace or clarity, it was the kind that echoed and suffocated. Every missed chance, every turnover, every second he’d spent on the ice tonight replayed in brutal clarity behind his closed eyes.
He dragged his hands down his face, exhaling slowly, as if the weight would disappear with his breath. It didn’t.
Blashill had already said his peace with the room. His tone wasn’t biting or enraged, but simply disappointed. It somehow made it worse. The sharpness of anger would’ve been easier to deflect, easier to set aside, but this, this gnawing sense of having let someone down, that was harder to shake.
The angry speeches were a long gone feature of the room. They’d had too many of those already this season. At some point, words just start to feel empty.
Connor stared at the floor between his skates. Ice clung to the blades still, the plastic on the toes dented and scratched. He hadn’t even taken them off yet. He didn’t have the energy to move.
He knew what people would say. Superstars take over. They find a way. Be better.
And he believed it—every word of it. That was the problem.
His jaw tightened as he leaned further forward, his forearms pressing harder into this thighs. He could practically feel the frustration gnawing in his chest. The frustration that everything felt like it came back to him. Because he should’ve done more.
He should’ve passed instead of being selfish and shooting only for it to get blocked. He should’ve back checked harder instead of being lazy and hoping his winger would get there quicker.
A bead of sweat dripped from his hairline down his temple. For a second, he glanced up, his eyes flicking around the room. His teammates moved slowly, exhausted, avoiding eye contact without meaning to. No one wanted to meet anyone else’s gaze right now. Loss had a way of doing that, of isolating everyone even when they were sitting shoulder to shoulder.
Connor swallowed, his throat tight. This wasn’t how it was supposed to feel. They were young, talent bursting from the seams. Montreal had done it. San Jose had found a way to be in the mix. But here he sat, at the end of his third season, feeling stuck in the same situation that he was in his first season.
He finally forced himself to move, hands dropping to his skates. The laces were stiff beneath his fingers, damp and stubborn as he tugged at them. It took longer than usual—everything did tonight. Every motion felt delayed, like his body was working against him just as much as the game had.
Around him, stalls emptied. Guys filtered out in quiet pairs or alone, murmured goodnights barely audible over the hum of the room. Someone tapped his shoulder on the way past—he didn’t even register who it was. He just nodded, automatic, distant.
By the time he got his skates off, the room had thinned out. The silence came back, louder somehow now that it wasn’t shared.
Connor sat back in his stall, staring at the wall. He knew what waited for him back at his apartment. It was a quiet worse than the one he just sat in. Because there would be nothing to interrupt it, no trainers asking Connor if he had anything that needed tending to, no teammates basking in the same frustration. Just him, alone with his thoughts. They’d be louder there. Sharper and meaner. He couldn’t sit in that tonight, he just couldn’t.
Without thinking too much, he grabbed his phone from the shelf above him. His fingers moved automatically on the screen.
He felt stupid, a little bit. Maybe slightly pathetic. Shouldn’t he be able to handle this on his own? Isn’t that part of being a professional hockey player? Being able to shake off the losses and be fine on his own?
But the thought of going back to that apartment and being swallowed whole by everything circling in his head made his chest tighten.
So he opened your contact anyway.
Connor Hey can i come over?
The message whooshed away, and suddenly he was hyper-aware of the quiet again, of his own breathing, of the way his knee bounced faintly where he sat.
It wasn’t even five seconds before his phone buzzed in his hand. Your name lit up the screen.
Y/n Of course. Always.
Something in his chest loosened at that. It was just enough to let him breathe a little deeper. The tight frustration in his chest didn’t disappear, but it eased.
That was the thing about you. It had always been like this. There was never a hesitation or a need for a why. Just an open door or an open ear if he needed to talk. You didn’t make Connor explain himself when he didn’t have the words for it yet, didn’t push when he wasn’t ready to talk, but somehow still understood exactly what he needed anyway.
You’d built this kind of rhythm over time. It wasn’t all at once, but rather a slow accumulation of late-night drives after games when neither of you felt like going home yet. Of texting late into the night when neither of you felt like sleeping. Or even sitting on opposite ends of the couch, watching a random game and not saying anything, but not needing to either. It was you showing up, again and again, without making it a big deal.
And Connor had always told himself that’s all it was. You were his person. His best friend. The one constant that didn’t shift with the standings or his stats or the pressure that came with all of it. It was as simple as that.
But lately, it was anything but simple.
He noticed the way his eyes lingered on you longer than they should, tracing your smile, the curve of your mouth when you laughed, like he couldn’t quite pull himself away. The way his chest tightened at the smallest things you did, how easily you pulled reactions out of him that no one else ever could.
And it wasn’t just that he wanted to be near you anymore.
It was the way his body leaned toward yours without thinking, like it was drawn there. The way his hand hovered sometimes, just barely stopping himself from touching you—your arm, your waist, anything—because he wasn’t sure if crossing that line would ruin everything. The way he caught himself imagining what it would feel like if he didn’t stop.
Your apartment didn’t just feel familiar, it felt like you. Warm, steady, impossible to leave. Like if he stayed long enough, he might forget how to walk out the door at all.
And that scared him more than anything that had happened on the ice tonight. Because hockey he understood. The mistakes, pressure, expectations? Those were things he could work through, fix, control. But this? This was messier and way too important to screw up.
He went through his regular post game motions, showering quickly and helping the equipment staff put away his gear that he spent way too long in. Connor changed back into his gameday suit, shoving his phone and wallet into the pockets as he made his way out of the locker room. The hallway was quieter than normal, everyone already having long vacated the arena. But his mind wasn’t focused on the quiet anymore.
It was already with you. It always was, lately.
Connor doesn’t remember much of the drive over. His body runs on auto-pilot now when he goes to your apartment. He takes the stairs two at a time, like his body knows where it’s going before his brain catches up. By the time he reaches your door, there’s a brief second where he hesitates, his hand hovering and breath catching, before he knocks.
The door opens almost immediately.
And it’s stupid, honestly, how fast everything in him shifts.
You’re standing there in an oversized t-shirt that falls just a little too far down one shoulder and a pair of loose shorts, hair slightly messy like you hadn’t bothered fixing it after a shower or before bed. There’s nothing dressed up about you, nothing intentional.
Yet you look perfect.
His chest softens completely.
“Hey,” you say, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like he didn’t just show up at your door after one of the worst nights he’s had in a while.
Connor swallows, nodding once. “Hey.”
You step aside without another word, letting him in.
And that’s kind of how it goes. There’s no immediate questions or pressure for Connor to explain anything he doesn’t have the energy to put into words yet.
Connor toes his shoes off by the door, barely bothering to push them to the wall before he moves further into the apartment. He doesn’t say anything as he makes his way to the couch, before dropping. Not sitting or carefully positioning himself in the middle of the cushion. Just collapses, his head tipping on the backrest and one arm falling over his eyes like he’s trying to block out the rest of the world.
You close the door quietly behind him, watching him for a moment. Not in a way that makes him feel like you’re observing him, but like you’re taking stock without making it obvious. You think he doesn’t notice but he does.
“You want pizza?” you say finally, breaking the silence.
His arm shifts just enough for him to peek at you, one eye squinting. “What type?”
You hesitate slightly. “Veggie.”
There’s a beat, then he lets out a quiet, breathy scoff, the corner of his mouth twitching for the first time all night. “Of course you ordered veggie.”
You walk over to the kitchen counter where the box is sitting, grabbing it and turning back toward the living room. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Connor finally drops his arm from his face, peeking at you properly now. His hair is a mess from his fingers, eyes tired in a way that makes him look older and younger all at once. He gestures vaguely at the box in your hands.
“I mean that of course you would find a way to make a cheat meal healthy.”
You roll your eyes, setting the box down on the coffee table. “You want some or are you going to keep insulting my pizza preferences?”
Connor huffs something that’s halfway between a laugh and exhaustion, finally sitting up a little more instead of completely melting into your couch.
“I’m not insulting it,” he says, though the way he looks at the box makes it pretty clear he is. “I’m just… surprised you didn’t add, like, roasted pumpkin to it or something.”
You sit down on the couch next to him. “That’s not a real thing people do.”
“It feels like a thing you’d do.”
You kick his shin, grabbing yourself a slice. “You’re unbelievable.”
He watches you for a second longer than necessary before he leans forward, finally giving in and grabbing a slice for himself.
Suddenly, the tv that Connor didn’t even realize was on returned from commercial break. The voice of P.K. Subban echoed through the apartment as the panel began dissecting the Hawks recent loss with words that almost felt cruel. You noticed Connor’s jaw tighten, your hand reaching for the remote and changing the channel before anymore could be said. Some sitcom immediately replaces the commentary, laugh track bubbling up like nothing ever happened.
Connor lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
“Thanks,” he says quietly, not looking at the screen anymore.
You shrug like it’s nothing, like you didn’t just save him from spiraling further. “You played the game. You don’t need to relive it on TV after.”
“You watch the game?” he asks after a second, picking at the crust of his slice.
You recline back on the couch, tucking one leg under you. “I always watch.”
His eyes flick toward you, just briefly as he tries to figure out if you said it casually or if it meant something more than that. “You always watch?”
You shrug, like it’s obvious. “Yeah. Even when you’re not having a good night.”
That lands differently. You can see it in the way his shoulders shift, like something in him wants to respond but doesn’t quite know how to say the words yet. Instead, he just nods once and takes another bite of pizza.
You grab the remote, changing the conversation from Connor’s game. “Let’s watch something,” you say, thumb hovering over the buttons. “Something mindless. No sports commentary allowed.”
You switch channels, stumbling on reruns of Bob’s Burgers. Connor shifts beside you on the couch, finally letting his head fall back fully into the cushions. His posture slowly uncoils in real time, like his body is realizing it doesn’t have to stay braced anymore.
As the episode continued, Connor seemed to sink further into the couch, the weight of the night slowly lifting as the ridiculous plotlines distracted him. One second he’s sitting beside you, the next his shoulder is pressed against yours, his weight subtly tilting until his head finds your shoulder like it belongs there. Like it’s been there before.
“You okay?” you ask softly, eyes still on the screen.
“Yeah,” he says, but it’s quieter than anything he’s said all night. Less like an answer, more like something he’s trying to believe.
Your fingers drift without thinking, finding their way into his hair. It’s still a little damp at the ends, messy from the game. You start to gently card through it, slow and absent-minded.
He exhales slowly, a release of tension he didn’t know he was still holding.
The episode keeps playing, but it fades into background noise. Connor doesn’t move from your shoulder. If anything, he settles in more, like his body has finally stopped arguing with itself about whether it’s safe to relax. Your fingers stay in his hair, slow and unthinking, tracing the same path over and over.
At some point the episode ends.
The screen cuts to the next one starting up automatically, the familiar upbeat intro music spilling into the room. You reach for the remote before it can fully begin and turn the TV off completely.
The silence that follows is softer than before.
Connor shifts slightly at the sound, but he doesn’t sit up. Just lets out a quiet breath, like he was surprised by how loud even that little bit of noise felt after everything else.
You glance down at him. “Hey.”
He hums in response, eyes half-lidded.
“You played well,” you say simply.
That gets him to finally lift his head a little, just enough to look at you properly. There’s skepticism there, automatic and tired. Like he’s already preparing to argue with you.
“No,” you cut in before he can say anything. “Don’t do that thing where you pretend I didn’t just watch you hold your own out there for sixty minutes.”
A faint, almost reluctant smile tugs at his mouth, but it doesn’t quite land. “We lost.”
“So?” you say. “That doesn’t erase what you did in it.”
He looks away then, jaw tightening again—but not in the same way as earlier. This is more internal. Less sharp, more complicated.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just stares at the coffee table like it might have answers.
Then, he says, “Feels like I can’t get anything right lately.”
It’s a quiet statement, not aimed at pulling sympathy, just honest in the way that slips out when someone’s too tired to hold it in anymore.
Your hand pauses for half a second before continuing its rhythm. He swallows, eyes still fixed somewhere in the middle distance. “I keep thinking I’m there. Like I’m finally… figuring it out. And then it just—” He exhales through his nose, frustrated, searching for the word. “It falls apart again.”
You don’t interrupt. Just let him keep going.
“I hate losing,” he admits, more sharply this time, like that part at least is easy. “I hate it. I hate how it sits with me after. Everyone says you’re supposed to just move on, but it doesn’t feel like that. It sticks.”
His jaw tightens slightly. You can feel it where his cheek rests against your shoulder.
“I feel like I’m letting people down,” he adds after a pause. Smaller now. More raw than anything he’s said so far. “Like I’m supposed to be better than this and I’m just… not.”
Your fingers slow in his hair.
“You’re allowed to have bad nights,” you say gently.
Connor lets out a humorless breath. “Not really how it feels.”
You shift slightly, just enough that he has to lift his head a little to look at you. When he does, his eyes are tired in a way that’s deeper than just the game. It’s been sitting there longer.
“You’re not one game,” you say. “Or a stretch of losses. You’re not even just… what people say about you on TV.”
Connor’s eyes flicker at that, something guarded shifting behind them.
You keep going anyway, voice quieter now, steadier. “You’re allowed to be frustrated. You’re allowed to hate losing. That just means you care. But it doesn’t mean you’re failing at who you are.”
His jaw tightens again, but this time it feels less like resistance and more like he’s holding something fragile in place.
You glance down at him, still leaning into your shoulder, still close enough that you can feel every small change in his breathing.
“And for what it’s worth,” you add, a little more honestly than you probably meant to, “I don’t think you’re failing at anything.”
Connor shifts upright, eyes finding yours. The exhaustion is still there, but it’s quieter now—softened into something more open, more vulnerable than he probably means to show. Your hand slips away from his hair, falling back to his lap as you hold his gaze.
“You always do that,” he says quietly.
“Do what?”
“Make things feel… less heavy.”
Your breath catches a little at that, subtle but real. You try to shrug it off, but it doesn’t quite work. “That’s kind of the point.”
He huffs a faint laugh at that, but it fades quickly. His eyes are still on you, searching in a way that makes your chest tighten for reasons you don’t really know if you’re ready to name.
His hand that had been resting on his knee shifted slightly like he’s thinking about moving it closer but stopping himself halfway through the thought. You notice anyway.
“You’re…” he starts, then stops, like he’s second-guessing himself already.
You tilt your head slightly. “I’m what?”
Connor huffs a small breath through his nose, but there’s no humor in it—just nerves, which is new.
“You’re always there,” he says finally, voice quieter now. “Like… it doesn’t matter if I play like shit or if I’m in a mood or whatever—I come here and you’re just…” He gestures vaguely toward you, like he can’t quite find a word that feels big enough. “You don’t make it a thing. You just… take it as it is.”
Your chest tightens, just a little.
“That’s kind of what you do for people you care about,” you say, softer now.
His eyes don’t leave yours.
“I know,” he says. “But you do it differently. It’s… more when it comes from you.”
Your breath catches, just barely. “I don’t say it enough,” he continues, voice low, a little rough around the edges. “But I… I notice it. All of it.”
Something in your chest gives at that. The space between the two of you feels smaller now. Not physically, not actually. But the room around you shrinks so that only see Connor, and he only sees you.
Connor’s gaze drops, just for a second, to your mouth before flicking back up like he didn’t mean to do that. Like it slipped. But that’s all it takes. Your hand moves before your brain fully catches up, fingers brushing lightly against his wrist as you lean in.
When your lips come against his, it’s soft at first, a little careful. Like you’re giving him a second to pull away. He doesn’t.
Connor stills completely when your lips are on his, caught off guard in that split second before it actually registers. You feel the pause, the surprise, before he exhales quietly against you and leans in properly. One hand comes up instinctively to steady against your side.
The kiss deepens just a fraction, still gentle but no longer hesitant. Your fingers curl slightly against his wrist, grounding yourself as much as him. His thumb presses lightly into your side through the fabric of your shirt, absentminded, like he needs something to hold onto.
For a moment, everything heavy just disappears. The game, the noise, the pressure, the weight he walked in with? That all fades into the background, replaced by something quieter, steadier. Something that feels a lot like relief.
You’re the one who pulls back first, but only just. Your lips barely part from his, your breath still caught somewhere between the two of you. His hand is still at your side, your fingers still curled loosely around his wrist, like neither of you has fully decided to let go yet.
Connor doesn’t move right away.
His eyes stay on yours, searching, like he’s trying to make sense of what just happened and whether it was real or something he imagined wanting for too long.
“…we just—” he starts, voice low, a little rough.
“I know,” you say softly.
There’s a small, almost disbelieving huff of air from him, the corner of his mouth twitching like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or panic.
“That wasn’t…” he trails off, shaking his head slightly. “That wasn’t very ‘just friends’ of us.”
Your lips press together, but you can’t stop the small smile that slips through anyway. “No,” you admit quietly. “Probably not.”
Connor pulls back a little further to study your face for another second, like he’s waiting for a sign that you regret it. That you’re going to pull away or brush it off or pretend it didn’t mean anything. You don’t though, and if anything, you lean closer to him.
“You okay?” you ask, softer now. Not about the game this time. Not about anything except this.
His answer comes quicker than before. “Yeah,” he says, and this time he means it. You can hear it in the way his voice steadies. “I just… didn’t think you’d be the one to do that first.”
You let out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and nerves. “Yeah, well… you were taking too long.”
That earns you a real smile. Small, but real. It lingers in his eyes even as his gaze drops again to your mouth. This time, when he looks back up, there’s less hesitation.
“Can I—” he starts, then stops, like he doesn’t quite know how to finish it.
You don’t make him finish his sentence, closing the distance instead. This kiss isn’t as tentative.
Connor meets you halfway this time, like he’s already decided he’s not letting this be a one-off thing. His hand slides more securely against your side, fingers pressing in just slightly as he pulls you a little closer.
The kiss is still soft and careful, but both of you are more certain this time. Your hand shifts from his wrist, sliding up to the back of his neck, fingers brushing lightly against the damp ends of his hair. He exhales against your lips at that, the sound warm and unguarded in a way you’ve never heard from him before.
When you both finally pull back, Connor closes his eyes for just a second. “Okay,” he murmurs after a beat, almost to himself.
You huff a quiet laugh. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, opening his eyes again to look at you. “I think… I think I needed that.”
Your thumb brushes lightly along his jaw, grounding, familiar even in the middle of something new. “Yeah?”
He nods once, his gaze softening as it lingers on you.
“Yeah,” he repeats. “And not just because of the game.”
For now, he just shifts closer, his hand still resting at your side, and the quiet settles into something that, for once, doesn’t feel so heavy.
