summary: When a San Francisco 49er's cheerleader falls for San Jose Shark's Michael Misa
a/n: I have really cute ideas for this story so let me know if you like it!!
warnings: none!
The first thing I notice about Michael Misa isn’t that he’s famous. It’s that he looks like he regrets showing up. And I don’t mean in a subtle way. Not in the “I’d rather be home” kind of way everyone here is pretending not to feel.
I mean in the way his shoulders are just a little too stiff under his suit, like he hasn’t fully relaxed since the second he walked in. Like he’s waiting for something to go wrong, or maybe just waiting for it to be over.
It makes him stand out. Which is ironic, considering this entire room is built for people who are used to attention.
“Smile.”
I don’t even blink when Jessica says it under her breath, her hand brushing my arm as we shift slightly in front of the cameras.
I smile. Of course I do.
It’s automatic at this point, chin tilt, shoulders back, eyes just soft enough to look natural. I’ve done this a hundred times, maybe more. Game days, appearances, events like this where everything is polished and intentional.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
“Little closer, ladies!”
We step in, arms brushing. I angle my head, lips curving just enough. Perfect, effortless, fake.
“God, I hate this part,” Jess mutters, her smile never slipping.
“You love this part,” I whisper back.
“I love looking good in this part. There’s a difference.”
That almost makes me laugh, but I hold it in until the cameras drop and we’re waved off. The second we step away, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
My face relaxes. Not completely but enough.
“Drink,” Jess says immediately, already tugging me toward the bar.
“Agreed.”
The ballroom is worse than the entrance. Louder. Brighter. Full of people who all seem to know exactly where they belong.
Athletes in tailored suits. Sponsors with perfectly practiced smiles. Influencers pretending they’re not scanning the room for someone more important to talk to.
And then him. I don’t even realize I’m looking for him until I find him again. Same spot. Same table. Same slightly tense posture.
Michael Misa.
Now that I know who he is, I can’t not see it. The face I’ve seen in clips, interviews, draft coverage. The name that’s been everywhere lately, highlight reels, headlines, the kind of attention that follows someone who’s not just good, but expected to be something bigger.
And yet here he is, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Okay,” Jess says slowly, following my line of sight this time. “Who is that?”
“No one,” I say too quickly.
She turns to me immediately. “That was suspicious.”
“I just recognized him.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Hockey,” I add, like that explains anything.
She squints, studying him harder. “Wait… oh my god, yeah. Michael Misa.”
I take a sip of my drink to hide the fact that hearing his name out loud does something weird in my chest.
“Thought so,” she says. “You were staring.”
“I was not staring.”
“You were absolutely staring.”
“I was observing.”
“That’s worse.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t argue again because she’s not wrong. There’s something about him that pulls your attention without trying.
He’s listening to someone talk, some older guy, probably a sponsor or executive, but his focus keeps drifting. His eyes move around the room, taking everything in like he’s trying to figure it out instead of just existing in it.
And then he looks at me. Not past me, not through me. At me. It’s quick. A second, maybe two. But it lands and for some reason, I don’t look away right away.
Neither does he.
“Okay, yeah,” Jess murmurs. “That was a moment.”
“Stop.”
“I’m serious.”
“Go talk to someone,” I mutter, nudging her slightly.
She grins. “Oh, I will. But I’m coming back.”
“Please don’t.”
“Too bad.”
And just like that, she’s gone, pulled into another conversation across the room.
Leaving me alone. Which is fine, I’m used to it. I take another sip of my drink, letting my gaze drift, not looking for him this time, I tell myself.
“Hi.”
My head turns before I can stop it.
And there he is.
Closer now.
Close enough that I can see the details I couldn’t before, the way his tie is slightly loosened, like he already gave up on keeping it perfect. The faint crease between his brows, like he’s been overthinking something.
He’s taller than I expected.
Not just tall, solid. Built in a way that makes sense the second you remember what he does.
Hockey. Of course.
“Hi,” I say, letting a small smile pull at my lips. “You made it over.”
“Yeah,” he says, exhaling like it took more effort than it should’ve. “Took a minute.”
“Big room.”
“Too big.”
I laugh, and it feels real. Not the practiced one. He notices. I can tell by the way his expression shifts, just slightly, but enough.
“I’m guessing you’re not a fan of events like this,” I say.
“Is it that obvious?”
“A little.”
He nods, like he expected that. “Yeah. I’m more comfortable on the ice.”
“That tracks.”
A small pause. Not awkward. Just quiet.
“I’m Michael,” he says after a second, like he feels like he should.
“I know,” I reply, tilting my head slightly.
His eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
“Hard to miss lately.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck for a second. “Yeah that’s still weird.”
“What part?”
“People knowing who I am.”
I study him for a second. He’s not saying it like a flex. If anything, he sounds almost uncomfortable with it.
“You’ll get used to it,” I say.
“Not sure I want to.”
That catches me off guard.
“Really?”
He shrugs. “I like hockey. Not… all this.”
He gestures vaguely around the room. The lights, the people, the expectations. I get that. More than I probably should.
“I get it,” I admit.
His gaze snaps back to mine. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a shift there, small, but real.
“Y/N,” I say, offering my hand.
He looks at it for half a second before taking it. His hand is warm. His grip is firm but careful. Like he’s holding back without thinking about it.
“Nice to meet you,” he says.
“You too.”
Neither of us lets go right away and when we finally do, it’s slow enough that I notice. So does he.
“So…” he starts, glancing around briefly before looking back at me. “Do you actually want to be here?”
I let out a quiet breath. “That obvious?”
“Only because you said you get it.”
“Fair.”
I tilt my head, considering him for a second.
“I’m good at being here,” I say finally.
“That’s not what I asked.”
I blink. That again. That directness. It shouldn’t throw me off, but it does.
“Depends on the night,” I admit.
“And tonight?”
I hesitate. Why am I hesitating?
“I’d rather be somewhere else,” I say.
He nods immediately. “Same.”
Another pause but this one feels different. Like something is settling into place between us.
“You’re a cheerleader, right?” he asks.
I raise an eyebrow. “That obvious?”
“I mean, you look like you belong here more than I do.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Still counts.”
I smile slightly. “49ers.”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I thought so.”
“You follow football?”
“Not really. Just… seen clips.”
“Of me?”
The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. But he doesn’t make it weird.
“Maybe,” he says, and there’s the smallest hint of a smile.
I shake my head, looking down at my drink for a second before looking back up.
“You’re doing better than you think, you know.”
“At what?”
“This.”
I gesture between us, then around the room.
“Talking. Not looking completely miserable.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “That’s a low bar.”
“Hey, you’re clearing it.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.”
Another pause. But this one lingers. His gaze drops not in a dismissive way, but like he’s thinking. Like he’s deciding something.
Then
“Do you want to get out of here?”
I blink.
“That was fast.”
“I’ve been thinking about it since I got here,” he admits. “Just didn’t have a reason until now.”
My heart does something annoying at that remark.
“And I’m the reason?”
“Yeah.”
No hesitation, no overthinking. Just yes. I study him. Really study him this time. He’s not smirking, not trying to be smooth. If anything, he looks like he’s bracing for me to say no.
“Bold,” I say.
“Probably.”
“And you always invite strangers to leave events with you?”
“Only the ones who look like they don’t want to be here either.”
I glance around the room. My team is scattered, laughing, talking, doing exactly what we’re supposed to be doing. What I’m supposed to be doing.
Then I look back at him. At the way he’s watching me, not pushing, not assuming. Just waiting.
“Give me ten minutes,” I say.
For a second, he just looks at me.
Then he nods.
“Okay.”
I take a step back, then another.
“Don’t disappear,” I add.
There’s that almost-smile again.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
I turn before I can overthink it, before I can talk myself out of it, but I can feel it.
His eyes on me. Following me through the crowd. And for the first time all night, I’m not pretending I want to be here.
