"I ride the subway 'cause I look for you in every face,
Don't wanna find you, though,
'Cause 8 million strangers lose their distance once you take their place,
8 million bodies and they're yours and now I'm out of space."
***
request: "hello I love ur work and idk if u still are taking Dewey requests but I was thinking of famous!reader where she's goes to a game or something but no one knows they've been dating and no one expects it since she's so comfortable in the spotlight and he's like a deer in the headlights every time he does post game interviews. And the guys tease him about how often he looks at her thru out the night until after the game she comes up to him in front of them for a post game smooch🤭"
summary: in which, your boyfriend worries about being clingy all while you worry about keeping him out of the spotlight.
word count: 8.2k
pairing: connor dewar x fem!reader
warnings: slight sexual innuendo(feeling up? idk how to describe it) but other than that nothing.
notes:
this is the first ever dewey fluff i've done and that's kinda embarassing LMAO, i used to get so many smut requests for him
but he's so sweet and awkward so this feels more right
^ he would definitely have a crisis about his masculinity.
speaking of my dewey smut fics... i feel like they're so half assed and i could do so much better if someone wants to request(although tbh i prefer fluff)! i almost delete like all of them every day.
^ he's still hot as hell though.
ty for being so detailed in your request anon & thank you!
the ending is a little silly lmao but this is my hate letter to toronto media
***
He wasn’t having a good day.
He wasn’t having a good day, so he was in his head.
He was in his head, so, after practice, he went to the gas station, went inside while pumping gas to buy a red bull, and almost caused a fire. He then proceeded to crush said red bull while going fifteen over on the highway, before circling your apartment building about ten times debating to go up–what would he even say?
“Hey, babe, I kind of feel like I’m your girlfriend right now, can we talk about that?”
Connor groans, fisting his hands in his hair, tugging at the strands as if it’ll make him think more clearly. "No, fuck, that’s stupid," he mutters, catching a glimpse of himself in the side mirror, which only makes him let out an even more pained groan. "Hey, not to worry you or anything, but, do you think I’m, like, too much?"
He raises his eyebrows, nodding slightly, chewing on the inside of his cheek like he’s just found the perfect key to his problems. It’s not even really a problem; it’s the fact that he’s scared he’s being too overbearing, too worried about being seen with you even though he’s wildly in love.
It’s been a non-stop nagging thought in the back of his mind ever since the guys started teasing him about it. He thought nobody would notice, but nope. Every night, even if he knows you’re busy with your modeling—or whatever the hell you do, all he knows is that he hit the goddamn jackpot—he looks for you.
Especially on the bench, and that’s what gets him. When he stands up, crossing his heart for the National Anthem, his eyes are glued to the far corner of the arena, where he knows the VIP box suite is, and that’s when one of his linemates notices. He’s supposed to be paying his respects, goddammit, but how can he when the only person who can turn him into a soft, cuddly mess is up there?
“You’re lucky she’s a Leafs fan.”
“She’s got you whipped, dude.”
“I promise, Mrs. Dewar, she has no idea you exist. Snap out of it.”
He doesn’t feel strong enough. And even though he knows it’s the testosterone coursing through him, almost daring him to flaunt his toxic masculinity, he just wants to feel like exactly that—a man.
Connor grips the steering wheel tighter, staring blankly out the windshield, his mind running in circles again. He hasn’t even parked in a proper spot, just hovering at the curb like he might bolt at any second. The city’s waking up, early morning sun casting a lazy golden glow over everything, but Connor is buzzing—nervous energy, caffeine, and something else entirely.
His foot taps against the brake, a jittery rhythm matching the beat of his heart, which seems lodged in his throat. He glances up at your apartment building for the fifth time in as many minutes, each floor seeming more intimidating than the last. The thought of seeing you, of saying what he’s been rehearsing in his head for hours, has him spiraling.
What if you laugh? No, you’d never do that. But what if you think he’s being dramatic? Connor, dramatic? Nah. But still, maybe you won’t understand—maybe he’s being clingy. He can feel the sweat forming under his hoodie, despite the cool breeze filtering through the crack in the window. God, he’s losing it.
He rubs his palm against his gym shorts, the rough material grounding him for a second before his brain kicks back into overdrive. His teammates’ voices echo in his head again, teasing him, prodding at his insecurities like they’re poking a wound just to see him flinch. He hadn’t meant to stare at you during the game, but the moment he caught sight of your figure, tucked into the shadows of the suite, he couldn’t help it. His heart had skipped a beat, his focus had slipped, and, well, he got roasted for it.
He cringes at the memory. That’s supposed to be a good thing, right? That he can’t keep his eyes off you? But now, here he is, debating whether or not he’s being a total loser for wanting to be around you every second. Is that normal? Is it just... too much?
The little voice in his head—okay, his coach’s voice—tells him to man up, but every time he tries, it just makes him feel worse. He’s not some alpha-male, testosterone-dripping asshole who can shake this off like it’s nothing. No. He’s Connor Dewar. Insecure, maybe a little too soft for his own good, and deeply, hopelessly in love with someone who makes him feel like he’s not enough, even though you’ve never actually said anything to suggest that.
Before he knows it, he’s out of the car, the sound of the door slamming behind him barely registering. His legs move on autopilot, carrying him through the front entrance, into the elevator, and up to your floor. His stomach twists with each ding as the elevator climbs, the buzzing in his chest growing louder, almost unbearable. What is he even going to say? What if he wakes you up? It’s still so early, and you’re probably sleeping, all cozy and peaceful, totally unaware that your boyfriend is losing his mind.
The door to your apartment comes into view, and suddenly, everything feels too real. He stares at the door for a moment, his breath coming out shaky as he raises his hand to knock. Just do it, man. It’s fine. You’ve been here a million times. But today feels different. Today feels like everything he says could either solidify his worst fears or wipe them away. There’s no in-between.
He knocks, three soft raps that barely echo in the hallway, and immediately regrets it. What if you don’t hear? Or worse—what if you do? His mind races again, and before he can second-guess himself any further, the door creaks open. There you are, hair mussed from sleep, wearing that old oversized shirt of his he loves on you. You blink at him, eyes still heavy with sleep but soft, like they always are when you first wake up. It’s like looking at the sun.
"Connor? It’s… so early, what are you doing here?" Your voice is a low, sleepy murmur, and for a moment, all he can do is stare. You always look beautiful, but like this? It’s almost too much for him to handle. His heart twists again, this time with something warm, something soft, and the words he’s practiced—Hey, babe, am I being too much?—disintegrate the second he opens his mouth.
"I—I’m too clingy, aren’t I?" he blurts, the question tumbling out before he can stop it. His cheeks flush immediately, embarrassment washing over him. Great job, idiot. Not exactly the smooth, calm approach he’d envisioned.
You blink, tilting your head slightly like you’re trying to figure out if you’re dreaming. Connor groans inwardly, hands falling to his sides, fingers twitching. He’s not even sure if he wants to hear your response. Hell, he’s not even sure why he came up here so early in the first place, aside from the fact that he’s been spiraling all morning thinking about it.
he door barely clicks shut behind him, but the sound feels louder than anything he can handle right now. Connor stands awkwardly in your entryway, shifting from foot to foot, his sneakers squeaking against the hardwood like they're mocking his every move. His heart pounds, loud and relentless, almost drowning out the soft hum of your apartment—so quiet, so peaceful. Everything smells like you, warm and familiar, and somehow that makes it worse.
God, why did he say that? Of all the ways to start this conversation—Am I too clingy?—he had to go with that. His mind is already spiraling, replaying every second of the moment he blurted it out, the way your eyebrows knit together in confusion, still half-asleep, your hair a mess, and your body wrapped in that oversized shirt he loves. It’s unfair how effortlessly beautiful you are, even at eight in the morning.
You blink at him again, slower this time, your lips twitching like you're trying to suppress a smile. "Connor, it’s—what, eight in the morning? Why are you here talking about… clinginess?" There’s a soft chuckle in your voice, and he winces. Not because you’re making fun of him, but because he’s making fun of himself in his head, and now you're awake, and this is real.
He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Great. Now he can’t even speak. His tongue feels too thick in his mouth, and his throat is dry, probably from that Red Bull he downed like his life depended on it. His fingers flex at his sides, the faint smell of gasoline still clinging to his skin. He hadn’t even washed his hands after almost blowing up the gas station. Awesome.
Connor rubs the back of his neck, suddenly hyper-aware of how sweaty he feels. “Yeah, um, I don’t—shit, I don’t know. I just—” He trails off, eyes darting around your apartment like maybe the right words are hiding somewhere in a corner. The soft morning light spills through the windows, casting golden streaks across your couch, your coffee table, your bookshelf—everything that screams you. It’s so you in here, and that just makes him feel like an intruder.
You step closer, arms crossing loosely over your chest, and the sight of you makes his heart skip a beat. You’re not even fully awake, and yet there you are, standing in front of him, looking at him like he’s the most confusing but endearing thing in the world. He swallows hard, trying to gather his thoughts, but they scatter like leaves in the wind the moment you tilt your head, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips.
“Did something happen?” you ask softly, and there it is—that voice. The one that always makes his insides twist in that stupidly vulnerable way, the one that makes him feel like he could tell you anything, even though his brain is screaming at him to keep his insecurities locked up tight.
Connor exhales, his shoulders sagging. "I just… I don’t know. I feel like…" He trails off again, his eyes flicking to the floor, tracing the grain of the wood beneath his sneakers. He wants to say it. He wants to tell you everything—how the guys have been teasing him, how he can’t stop staring at you during games, how he feels like a lovesick puppy every time you so much as look at him. But that all sounds so pathetic in his head.
Instead, he runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until they stand up in all directions. "The guys… they’ve been saying stuff. You know, about… how I look at you." The words feel heavy, clumsy, like they don’t quite fit together the way he wants them to. His voice cracks slightly, and he winces at the sound of it.
You raise an eyebrow, taking another step closer, your bare feet barely making a sound against the floor. “What kind of stuff?” you ask, still half-smiling, like you can’t quite believe this is a conversation you’re having before your morning coffee.
Connor’s face flushes. This is even worse than he thought. Why did he have to say anything at all? Why can’t he just be normal, like a normal boyfriend who doesn’t freak out about stuff like this? His teammates’ voices echo in his head again, louder this time, teasing him, making fun of him for staring at you during the game, like he’s some lovestruck idiot.
“They—uh, they think I’m, like… whipped. You know?” He forces a laugh, but it comes out strained, like he’s choking on the words. “Like, they’re always making jokes about how I can’t stop looking at you when I should be paying attention to the game. And, even though they don’t know about us, I don’t know… it just… it got to me. You know?”
There. He says it. Sort of. He risks a glance at you, half-expecting you to burst out laughing or roll your eyes or something, but instead, you just stand there, looking at him with those soft, sleepy eyes, your head slightly tilted like you’re trying to figure him out.
“I mean, it’s dumb, right?” he blurts, his words spilling out too fast, like he’s trying to outrun his own thoughts. “It’s not like I don’t care about the game—of course I care about the game! I just… I can’t help it when I see you up there. I get distracted, I guess. But, like, they’re giving me shit for it. And I don’t know, maybe they’re right? Maybe I’m too… attached or something. Maybe I’m too clingy.”
The word hangs in the air again, making him cringe. Clingy. He hates the sound of it, like it’s this ugly thing that has attached itself to him and now won’t let go. He runs a hand over his face, trying to rub away the embarrassment, but all he can feel is the warmth of your apartment, the smell of you wrapping around him like a safety net he doesn’t deserve.
His mind starts spiraling again, dragging him down into that familiar pit of insecurity. Was it normal to be this caught up in someone? Sure, he loves you—really loves you—but maybe the guys are right. Maybe he’s acting like your personal bodyguard or something, hovering too much. And then there’s that other thing—the one he tries not to think about too much, but it keeps sneaking up on him, especially when you wear those heels, the ones that make you look even taller than usual.
Connor’s eyes dart to the floor, catching a glimpse of your bare feet. He can’t stop himself from doing the math in his head: barefoot, you’re still only a couple of inches shorter than him. When you put on heels? He swallows hard, a knot forming in his throat. You’re not just beautiful—you’re tall, and tall in a way that makes him feel like he isn’t, well, enough. Not that you’ve ever made a big deal out of it, but in the back of his mind, it gnaws at him.
“I’m, uh…” he starts, his voice trailing off as he tries to find the right way to say it. How am I supposed to tell her I feel weird about not being tall enough for my model girlfriend? His cheeks burn with embarrassment again, and he can feel himself sweating even more, like all his dumb insecurities are trying to crawl their way out of his skin.
“You’re just… you’re so…” He gestures vaguely at you, his hand flailing like it can explain the mess of thoughts in his head. “You know. You. And I’m just… me. I’m not even that tall, and I know that’s dumb, but it’s been in my head ever since you wore those heels to that restaurant and suddenly we were the same height, and… I don’t know. I just feel like…” He groans, tugging at his hair again. “I feel like a fucking idiot.”
The words tumble out before he can stop them, and now they’re out there, hanging between you both like some kind of confession. His heart pounds so hard he swears you can hear it. Why did he even bring this up? You’ve never mentioned it, never teased him about his height, but now he’s the one spiraling over it. He stares down at his sneakers, the scuffed rubber soles suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
He’s a mess. How is he supposed to be your boyfriend—the guy who’s supposed to have it together—when all he can think about is how ridiculous he must look next to you? You’re this confident, glamorous model, and he’s just some hockey player who can’t stop staring at you from the bench. Maybe he’s being clingy. Maybe he’s too much.
You take another step forward, which seems to stop his ranting. You're close enough now that he can smell the faint traces of whatever shampoo you use, something warm and sweet and unmistakably you. Your hand reaches out, brushing lightly against his arm, and he feels his entire body tense up at the contact.
“Connor,” you say softly, your voice a gentle lull that immediately makes his heartbeat slow, just a little. “You’re not too clingy.” Your lips quirk up in that way they always do when you’re trying to hide a smile, like you think he’s the most ridiculous, lovable thing in the world. “You’re just… in love. That’s all.”
He blinks, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut, but in the best possible way. In love. Of course he is. He knows that. But hearing you say it, so simply, like it isn’t something he needs to overthink or worry about, makes him feel like the ground has finally stopped shifting beneath his feet.
You step even closer, your hand sliding down to take his, your fingers cool against his sweaty palm. “And for the record,” you add, your voice dropping to a playful whisper, “I think it’s kind of cute that you can’t keep your eyes off me during the game.”
Connor’s mouth twitches into a shaky grin, a rush of warmth spreading through his chest. “Yeah?”
You nod, giving his hand a little squeeze. “Yeah. I mean, you could try to focus a bit more, but... I like knowing you’re thinking about me.”
His heart feels like it’s swelling, and suddenly, all the noise in his head quiets. You’re not laughing at him, you’re not rolling your eyes, you’re not even upset that he’s so wrapped up in his feelings. If anything, you seem to understand, like it isn’t the giant problem he’s been building it up to be.
“Okay,” he breathes, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Okay, yeah… I just didn’t want to, you know, be too much.”
You shake your head, tugging him gently toward the couch. “You’re never too much, Connor.” You plop down, patting the cushion beside you.
Connor flops down beside you with a soft grunt, his large frame taking up most of the space. He shifts awkwardly for a second, trying to find a spot that doesn’t feel too close, but also close enough that he can breathe in that familiar, comforting scent of you. There’s something so grounding about it — like he can finally shut off the part of his brain that’s constantly screaming at him to be perfect. His breath catches in his throat when you reach up to trace your fingers lightly along the hem of his hoodie, and he swears his heart just stops altogether.
“Relax,” you whisper, your voice low and sweet, the kind that always makes his pulse pick up. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He blinks at you, his mouth dry as you lift the hem of his hoodie, slipping your hand under the fabric. Your fingers are cool against his skin, the touch sending a shiver up his spine that makes it hard to breathe. He isn’t sure if it’s the warmth of your hand or the way your fingers spread out across his abs, but holy, it’s doing something to him.
“See?” you murmur, your voice teasing as your hand trails up, brushing over the slight ridges of muscle. “I’d say you’re plenty manly.”
His cheeks burn, his heart doing a quick stutter-step in his chest. “You—” He coughs, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. “You think so?”
You nod, your thumb brushing over his ribs, and he swears he feels a flicker of heat right there, just beneath your touch. It’s almost ridiculous how much one little movement can send his mind spiraling, but it does. His breath catches again, this time somewhere in the back of his throat, and he has to fight the sudden urge to pull you even closer, to kiss you until his thoughts finally stop their endless loop of doubt.
You smirk, your hand sliding back down, grazing over his abs again, your nails scraping lightly in a way that makes his skin prickle. “Mhm. And you know, you’re pretty hot too. Just in case you were wondering.”
“You’re just saying that,” he mumbles, trying to sound playful, but his voice wobbles slightly. He doesn’t want to seem too eager, but the way your fingers tease along his skin has him feeling dizzy, like he’s already halfway to losing himself in you. He can’t help but feel every brush of your thumb, every inch it travels over his stomach, like a wildfire burning under his skin.
You just smile, leaning in a bit closer, your breath warm against his ear. “Trust me, baby. I don’t need to say anything I don’t mean.”
His face burns at the simple words, the sincerity laced in your tone. The tips of his ears probably match the red of his hoodie by now. His brain feels scrambled, a weird mix of giddy and hot, as if all his nerves have decided to flip on at once. He wants to believe you—no, he does believe you—but there’s this nagging voice in the back of his head, the one that whispers maybe he isn’t quite enough.
But then, your hand shifts just slightly, your palm spreading wider across his chest like you’re staking a claim, and that flicker of doubt disappears. You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you? Teasing him, proving your point in the most devastating way possible. And God, is it working. His heart is thudding, heat pooling in his stomach as your fingers trace a line up his ribs, sending a shiver that he can’t suppress.
“You’re… you’re sure about that?” His voice comes out hoarse, not nearly as casual as he’d hoped.
You smile softly, your thumb brushing over the faint ridges of muscle just under his skin. “Mhm. I’d say you’re more than manly enough.” Your fingers slide up a little higher, grazing his side in a way that makes his breath hitch. “Honestly, these abs are kind of unfair.”
Connor lets out a shaky laugh, but the way his body is reacting makes him feel anything but in control. The fact that you can do this to him with just a few words and a touch is almost terrifying. He groans, tipping his head back against the couch, his hand shooting up to grab your wrist—not to stop you, but just to ground himself, to hold onto something that isn’t his spiraling thoughts. His mind scrambles, trying to find something to say, but all he can focus on is how warm your hand feels, how close you are, and how easy it would be to just pull you on top of him right there on the couch.
“You’re killing me,” he mumbles, his eyes squeezing shut as he tries to breathe through the haze of heat building between you. “You know that, right?”
“Mmm, I don’t know,” you hum, your lips brushing against the side of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. “You seem to be doing just fine.”
“Fine?” His voice cracks as you slide your hand back down, your fingers ghosting over his abs again, slow and deliberate, and all he can do is breathe through it. “I’m—” He cuts himself off, unable to form a coherent thought as you continue your little exploration. Jesus, is he about to beg? Is that where this is headed? He might actually be on the verge of begging.
The silence stretches, filled only by the sound of your breathing and his desperate attempts to keep it together. But it’s not working. Every touch, every brush of your hand has him unraveling, and when your fingers dip just under the waistband of his shorts, Connor lets out a small, pathetic whimper, something he immediately regrets but can’t stop. He’s falling apart. Completely. And you know it.
You let your fingers wander back up, tracing the faint ridges of his abs, feeling the slight tremor in his muscles. It’s so easy to mess with him, to push him just to the edge, and you’re enjoying every second of it. The control, the way his breath hitches every time you move, how his eyes flutter shut as if that will somehow help him focus. But there’s no way he can focus—not when you’re here, teasing him like this.
And God, you love the way he looks right now. All disheveled and flushed, like he’s caught somewhere between embarrassment and desire. His hoodie is bunched up under your hand, exposing just a sliver of his toned stomach, and it’s almost criminal how much you want to touch more, to tease more, just to see him unravel completely.
“Look at you,” you tease softly, brushing your thumb just under his ribs, feeling the way his breath hitches. “You’re so worked up over a little teasing.”
His laugh comes out strangled, more of a breath than a sound, and his cheeks flush deeper, the red creeping up to his ears. “You’re… you’re evil,” he rasps, his voice barely audible as he tilts his head to the side, exposing more of his neck to you without even realizing it. “Do you even know what you’re doing right now?”
You raise a brow, letting your lips hover near his throat, not quite touching but close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “Mhm,” you hum softly, dragging your hand slowly down his stomach again. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
And that’s when you feel it—the subtle shift, the way his body tenses even more, the way his breathing grows more labored, like he’s holding on for dear life. His hand tightens around your wrist, his other arm moving to rest on the back of the couch as if he needs the extra support.
You know you have him. He’s yours.
But just as you’re about to push him even further, to see how far you can take this, Connor’s voice breaks the spell. “Are you—” His voice cracks slightly, and he swallows hard, trying to find his words. “Are you coming to my game tonight?”
You hesitate, your fingers freezing for just a moment against his chest. You’ve been hoping he wouldn’t ask, but now that the question is out there, you can’t avoid it. Taking a deep breath, you look up at him, meeting his curious gaze with a soft, apologetic smile. “Actually… my agent doesn’t think it’s a good idea.”
Connor blinks, his brows furrowing in confusion. “What? Why not?”
You bite your lip, your heart pounding as you brace yourself for his reaction. “Because people are starting to catch on. I, uh… I might’ve posted something on Instagram that’s making people suspicious.”
You bite your lip again, feeling the weight of his gaze on you as you struggle to explain. His body is still tense beside you, his hoodie still bunched up, his skin flushed from everything that’s just happened, and it makes this moment feel all the more precarious. “For our anniversary,” you start, your voice faltering slightly as you try to explain. “It was faceless! I made sure you weren’t in it… well, not fully.”
The look on his face tells you everything you need to know. His confusion hasn’t lessened at all, and now there’s a flicker of something else—worry, maybe? “Not fully?” he repeats, his voice soft, like he’s not sure if he should be alarmed or not.
“Okay, so maybe there’s… something.” You wince at your own words because you know how it sounds, and you know exactly how the internet works. One small detail, one little hint, and fans will be all over it, dissecting every pixel of the photo, theorizing, speculating. You can already imagine the threads on Twitter, the conspiracy theories on Reddit, people zooming in on the tiniest reflection in the background to try and prove something.
It had seemed innocent enough at the time—a shot of the two of you from behind, your head tilted slightly to hide your face, his body next to yours, faceless but recognizable to anyone who pays enough attention. And in the background, just barely visible, is the faint reflection of something unmistakably his—a Leafs logo, half-obscured but still there, like a breadcrumb trail waiting to be discovered.
“It’s nothing super obvious,” you start again, trying to sound reassuring even though you know how sharp his teammates are, how fans can latch onto the smallest detail. “Just… something in the background. A little reflection, maybe.”
Connor’s eyes search yours, that hint of worry deepening into something more serious. His grip on your wrist tightens again, not in frustration but as if he needs to hold onto something solid. “What kind of reflection?”
There’s a beat of silence where the tension thickens, pressing down on you both. You can almost hear the wheels turning in his head, can almost see him picturing the post in his mind without even having seen it yet.
“Well,” you start slowly, your voice quiet and hesitant, “it might’ve been… your practice bag? In the background. But it’s super faint! Like, barely visible unless you’re really looking.”
His face pales a little, and you watch him process the potential fallout. It’s like you can feel the gears shifting in his mind, each little piece of information clicking into place. His mouth opens slightly, but no words come out at first—just a soft, almost incredulous exhale.
“You mean the one with the Leafs logo and my number on it like, a million times?” His voice cracks slightly, and you can see him fighting to keep his cool, even though his brain is probably already racing through every possible outcome. “Do you—do you have the post? Can I see it?”
You hesitate, your fingers still resting lightly on his stomach, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the growing unease between you. He looks so vulnerable like this, lying back with his hoodie bunched up, cheeks flushed from the teasing, but now there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—something closer to panic.
With a slow nod, you reach for your phone, handing it to him with shaky fingers. "I didn't think it would be that big of a deal," you murmur, but as you unlock the screen and hand him the device, you can’t help the growing knot in your stomach. What started as an innocent post is about to become much more complicated.
You watch Connor’s expression shift as he stares at your phone, his thumb scrolling slowly through the post. The tension in the air is thick enough to cut, but you can’t look away from his face—his brows furrowing deeper with every passing second, his lips parting as though he wants to say something, yet can’t find the words. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, every muscle in his body tightening as the weight of the situation settles over him.
His silence stretches on, the sound of his breath—still shaky from your earlier exploration—filling the small space between you. Moments ago, you had him on the verge of completely losing control, but now the dynamic has shifted entirely, and it’s your turn to feel that flutter of uncertainty gnawing at your insides.
“Baby…” you begin softly, your voice barely more than a whisper as you shift beside him, your hand still resting against his warm skin. But he doesn’t respond right away, his eyes still fixed on the post, his face a mixture of disbelief and concern.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he speaks—his voice low, almost incredulous. “You posted this… for our anniversary?”
The way he says it makes your stomach drop. There isn’t anger in his tone, not exactly, but there’s something else—something that makes you feel like you’ve made a terrible mistake. You nod, chewing on your lip, your eyes scanning his face for any hint of reassurance, but all you see is the worry creasing his features deeper.
“I thought it was sweet,” you try, your voice trembling just a bit. “It was supposed to be… you know, low-key. Nothing obvious.”
“Low-key?” He blinks, his thumb hovering over the faint reflection in the background, the bag barely visible but unmistakable once you know what to look for. “Anyone who knows me—or follows hockey—could figure this out in two seconds. I mean, look at that.” His voice cracks on the last word, and he looks up at you, his expression a mix of disbelief and… something else. Something that almost looks like fear.
Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. You didn’t mean for any of this to happen—for things to spiral like this. It was supposed to be a quiet, intimate moment between the two of you, something only you and he would understand, like a shared secret between lovers. But now, the reality of it all is crashing down around you.
“I didn’t think anyone would notice!” you blurt out, suddenly defensive as you sit up straighter. “It’s just a tiny detail! I mean, who zooms in that much on an Instagram post?”
“But they will.” His voice is quiet again, softer this time, but filled with that same underlying worry that makes your chest tighten. “You know how people are. They’ll pick this apart until there’s nothing left. And then… what?”
His words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of their implications. You can feel the gravity of the situation pulling at you, dragging you down into a pit of guilt and uncertainty. But more than that, you can feel the shift in him—the way he seems to retreat into himself, his usual easygoing confidence replaced by something far more vulnerable.
And that vulnerability only makes your heart ache more.
He’s not angry—not at you, at least. No, this is something deeper. This is fear. Fear of losing the carefully constructed privacy you’ve both fought so hard to maintain, fear of what might happen if the world finds out about your relationship, fear of how it would change things between you. And that fear is written all over his face, etched into every line of his body as he sits there, staring at the screen in his hands like it’s a ticking time bomb.
You swallow hard, reaching out to brush your fingers against his arm, feeling the tension beneath his skin. “Connor… I’m sorry. I didn’t think it through.”
He lets out a shaky breath, his hand falling away from the phone as he leans back against the couch, his head tilting back to rest against the cushions. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you see him let go—just a little. The worry is still there, simmering beneath the surface, but for now, he’s trying to let it go.
“I know you didn’t mean to,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper as he opens his eyes again, looking up at the ceiling. “I just… This is why I don’t use social media. People are fucking insane. I don’t know what’s gonna happen now.”
You shift closer, leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder as your fingers trace gentle circles along his arm. His skin is still impossibly warm, and yet now, all you can focus on is the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his breath as he tries to calm himself down.
“I’ll fix it,” you promise, your voice soft and earnest as you press a kiss to his shoulder. “I’ll take it down, and we’ll be more careful. It’ll be okay, I swear.”
He lets out a soft laugh—a humorless, breathy sound that makes your heart ache even more. “You think that’ll be enough?”
You don’t answer right away, because honestly, you’re not sure. The internet is a beast, one that can’t be easily tamed once it latches onto something. And if anyone has already seen the post and started piecing things together, it’s only a matter of time before the whispers turn into something louder, something you can’t control.
But still, you have to try.
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” you say quietly, your voice filled with determination. “I won’t let anyone ruin this for us.”
***
You find yourself at Scotiabank Arena, despite everything. It wasn’t planned, and you certainly hadn’t told Connor you were coming—not after the earlier conversation that left you both teetering on the edge of something precarious. But there’s something about him, the way his voice cracks with worry, the tension in his jaw as he tries to hide how much it all matters to him, that makes it impossible for you to stay away.
You've spent hours trying to distract yourself, flipping through work emails, scrolling aimlessly on your phone, even considering posting a selfie—one that has absolutely nothing to do with hockey, Connor, or the tangled mess your lives have become. But none of it works. The pull toward him, toward the place he is, is too strong.
So here you are, in the dimly lit VIP box, hidden away from the bustling crowd below, your heart pounding as the game unfolds in front of you. You’ve dressed down, keeping it simple and low-key, with a hoodie thrown over your shoulders, the hood pulled low to cover most of your face. It’s strange—being here and not being here all at once, as if you’re an outsider watching from a distance, too close to touch but too far to be seen.
The arena buzzes with energy, a palpable hum that vibrates in your chest, matching the erratic beat of your heart. The air is thick with the sharp scent of ice and sweat, the echoing sounds of blades slicing across the rink, and the deep, reverberating roars of the crowd as they cheer for their team. It’s all-consuming, the kind of environment that makes it impossible to think straight, but all you can focus on is him.
Your eyes find him immediately—Connor, number 24, skating across the ice like he owns it, his movements smooth and calculated, every shift of his body a display of raw power and precision. It’s mesmerizing, watching him like this, and for a moment, you forget why you’re hiding, why you’re holding your breath every time someone glances in your direction.
He’s so focused, so in his element, but you catch it—those subtle glances toward the stands, the way his eyes dart up, scanning the rows as if he’s looking for something… or someone. The realization hits you like a punch to the gut: He’s looking for you.
You sink deeper into your seat, pulling your hood further down over your face, your stomach twisting in knots. He doesn’t know you’re here, and maybe it’s better that way. If he knew, if he saw you, it might make things worse. You hadn’t exactly parted on the best note earlier, with him still reeling from the Instagram mishap, his worry about the public scrutiny, and the weight of maintaining your secrecy.
But God, it’s hard to stay hidden when all you want to do is run down there and throw yourself into his arms.
Your fingers twitch in your lap, itching to do something—anything—but all you can do is sit there, watching him like some kind of lovesick teenager, your heart in your throat as he skates with that same intensity you’ve always admired. There’s something different about him tonight, though. Something heavier in his movements, like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
He looks good, though. Really good. The way his muscles ripple beneath his jersey, the way the lights catch the sweat on his skin, the determined set of his jaw as he focuses on the game. And then there’s his hair, damp from the effort, sticking out in messy, endearing tufts from under his helmet.
You bite your lip, unable to tear your gaze away, and a small, traitorous thought slips into your mind: He’s so damn clingy, and yet you love it. You love the way he’s always checking in, the way he wants you to be part of everything, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. Maybe you should be annoyed, maybe you should feel suffocated, but instead, it makes your chest swell with something warm and overwhelming.
You pull your phone from your pocket, the screen lighting up in the dimness of the box, casting a soft glow across your face. Your fingers hover over the Instagram icon for a moment, hesitation gnawing at you. Posting something was what started this whole mess. Maybe you should lay low, let things cool down, but…
You glance at the ice again, your gaze locking onto Connor’s form. He’s in the middle of a play, skating fast, his stick slicing through the air as he chases after the puck, but every now and then, you swear you see his head tilt up, scanning the crowd again.
Your heart clenches, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you snap a quick picture of the rink for your story—just the ice, nothing that could give away your exact location. No reflections, no telltale signs, just a simple shot of the game. You add a heart emoji to the caption, vague enough to mean anything, but you know he’ll understand.
You hit post and slide your phone back into your pocket, leaning forward in your seat as the game picks up in intensity. The crowd roars as the puck flies across the rink, players clashing in a chaotic dance of speed and strength. Connor’s in the thick of it, his focus unwavering, but there’s still that occasional glance toward the stands, that flicker of something in his eyes that tells you he’s still thinking about you.
The game drags on, each passing second a fresh assault on your nerves. Overtime looms, and the tension in the arena thickens, wrapping around you like a vice. You can feel it in your bones—this is going to be one of those moments. The kind of moment that’ll be replayed a thousand times on every sports network, the kind that’ll haunt you in the quiet hours when you’re alone with your thoughts.
It’s like a flash of lightning. Connor, barreling down the rink with a speed and grace that takes your breath away. The puck dances between his stick and the ice, a blur of black and white, and suddenly he’s in front of the goal. Time slows. Your heart slams against your ribs as you lean forward, not even realizing you’ve stopped breathing. The crowd holds its collective breath, and then it’s over. The puck finds the back of the net with a resounding crack that echoes through the entire arena.
The place explodes. The deafening roar shakes the very foundations of the building, and you swear you can feel the vibration under your feet. He did it. Connor fucking did it.
You can’t help it—your body moves on its own, rising from the seat as your hands clap together, heart swelling with pride and something else, something deeper. The grin on your face is unstoppable, and you know your fingers are itching to send him a text, something cheeky and teasing about his performance for him to read later, but there’s no need. He’s already looking up at the stands again, that same searching glance, like he knows you’re here.
He skates over to his teammates, practically drowning in their celebratory shoves and slaps on the back, but there’s something in his eyes, a flicker of longing, as though he wishes he could be anywhere but there, anywhere but under the bright, burning lights. You know him too well. He hates this part—the interviews, the cameras. He’s like a deer in headlights when he’s in front of them, so unlike you, who thrives under that very same spotlight. The thought makes you chuckle under your breath.
Without really thinking, you pull your hoodie tighter around your face and slip through the back of the box, your mind spinning with a new plan. You know exactly how to get into that press area. Being a world-famous model has its perks, after all.
The energy of the postgame is chaotic, the air buzzing with a strange mix of triumph and exhaustion that clings to every corner of the arena. You thread your way through security and the press with a confidence that comes from years of walking down runways and posing for flashing cameras. Your heart, however, is racing for an entirely different reason now.
Connor is there, caught in the glaring lights of the press area, his posture stiff, shoulders squared but tense, and that telltale fidget of his fingers at his sides. He hates this. You know he does, and watching him stumble through the interviews, awkward and clearly uncomfortable, tugs at your heart in the most bittersweet way. There’s something so endearing about the way he handles the attention—on the ice, he’s this untouchable force of nature, but off it, he’s like a fish out of water, out of his element.
The cameras are all around him, flashing and clicking, microphones thrust into his face, and he’s trying so hard to keep it together, but you can see it—the slight widening of his eyes, the way his jaw tightens as he stumbles over his words, a nervous laugh escaping him as he answers a question about the overtime goal. Your chest swells with a mixture of pride and amusement. He’s so bad at this, but that’s what makes him yours, the part of him that only you seem to understand.
You glance at him again, just for a second, and something inside you shifts. He looks so damn good, even under all this scrutiny. His hair is damp, sticking out in wild tufts from the post-shower mess, his face still flushed from the game, with that fine sheen of sweat on his neck, the sharp angles of his jawline more prominent in the harsh lighting. His compression shirt clings to every muscle, the fabric stretched tight over his chest, showing off the powerful build that still makes your breath hitch every time you see him.
God, you’re in deep, aren’t you?
Your thoughts are spiraling, tumbling one after another in a rush, but there’s one thing that stands out more than anything: you can’t keep watching him like this. You can’t stand by and let him feel this out of place, not when you’re right there, not when you could help.
Before you know it, your legs are moving on their own. You slip past the last barrier of security with a nod that’s far too casual for someone about to blow their secret relationship wide open, and within seconds, you’re right there, right in front of him. The look on his face when he sees you is priceless—his eyes widen, his lips part slightly, and for a moment, it’s like the rest of the world falls away.
And then, before he can say a word, you grab him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him down into a kiss that’s anything but discreet. The press area falls deathly silent for a split second, and then, as if on cue, the cameras start flashing, capturing the moment in all its glory.
You pull back, just enough to meet his gaze, your lips still tingling from the kiss. His eyes are wide, his face flushed, but there’s that familiar softness there too, that look that tells you he’d follow you anywhere, even into the spotlight he hates so much.
His lips part for a moment, as if he’s going to say something, but then he turns his head right, then left, taking in all of his teammates’ gaping jaws, and you think he’s coming up with something good. But then, he does something you could never envision him doing. He snakes one of his arms around your waist, pulling you into him almost forcefully, and looks directly into the camera.
He lets out a single, incredulous laugh before pointing at it, “You guys can all suck it.”
