Sidney Crosby Masterlist | Hockey Masterlist | 24 days of Christmas | Hockey Masterlist II
It starts as a joke.
At least, that’s what Nico tells everyone.
The first time is accidental,you come to a game after missing a few because of work you sit in your usual spot behind the bench, and the Devils win in overtime.
The second time, you come again. Another win.
The third time, Jack scores twice, Nico gets the game-winning goal, and when he looks up into the stands after, he finds you immediately,grinning, already on your feet.
Another win.
By the fifth straight win with you in the stands, the locker room has opinions.
You’re leaning against the wall near the lockers, waiting for Nico after practice, scrolling on your phone when you hear Jack’s voice first.
“I’m just saying,” Jack announces, loud and dramatic, “the evidence is right there.”
“Evidence of what?” Nico asks.
“Of her,” Jack says, pointing directly at you.
You look up. “Oh no.”
Nico groans. “Don’t start.”
“I’m serious,” Jack continues. “Every game she comes to, we win.”
“That is not true,” Nico says.
“Check the stats.”
“I don’t need to check the stats.”
“Captain,” Jack says solemnly, placing a hand over his heart. “She is our good luck charm.”
Jesper pops his head up from the other side of the room. “He’s right, actually.”
Nico turns. “Don’t you start too.”
“I started three wins ago,” Jesper says. “I just didn’t want to scare you.”
You push off the wall. “Why am I being discussed like a haunted object?”
Jack’s eyes light up. “Wait, that’s even better. You’re haunted.”
“Jack,” Nico warns.
“What?” Jack shrugs. “She’s magical. It’s fine.”
Nico walks over to you, hands immediately finding your waist like he needs to ground himself. “Ignore them.”
You tilt your head. “Am I magical?”
He exhales a laugh. “You are annoying.”
“Wow,” you say. “So romantic.”
Jack fake gags. “Can you two stop flirting? We’re trying to build a scientific theory.”
Nico shoots him a look. “Go shower.”
“Can’t,” Jack says. “I’m busy protecting the team’s good luck charm.”
You snort. “I hate it here.”
But the joke doesn’t die.
It grows.
Before games, someone always asks, “She coming tonight?”
If you’re already there, someone always says, “We’re safe.”
If you’re late, the group chat panics.
And Nico,strong, logical, composed Nico,starts to change his behavior.
You notice it the night of a huge home game. Rival team. Sold-out arena. Playoff implications.
You’re running a little late, weaving through the lower bowl when you feel your phone buzz.
Nico: Where are you?
You type back while walking.
You: Two minutes. Why?
The dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Nico: I can’t go out yet.
You stop.
Can’t… go out?
You look up just in time to see a staff member skate onto the ice, then skate right back off. The crowd murmurs, confused.
Your phone buzzes again.
Nico: They’re waiting.
Your stomach flips. You push the door open and hurry down the steps, spotting the bench. The boys are lined up, helmets on. Nico isn’t there.
Instead, he’s standing just inside the tunnel, helmet tucked under his arm, scanning the crowd.
Then he sees you.
Relief hits his face so fast it’s almost embarrassing.
He steps closer to the boards, gesturing urgently. “Come here.”
You rush down, stopping near the glass. “What is going on?”
He leans over the boards, voice low. “I need something.”
“What?”
He hesitates. The arena is loud. The boys are watching.
Jack, of course, is smiling like a menace.
Nico swallows. “I need you to kiss me.”
You blink. “Nico.”
“And tell me good luck.”
You stare. “Nico.”
“We haven’t lost when you’re here,” he says quickly. “Not once. And I know it’s stupid, and I know it doesn’t make sense, but,”
“Nico,” you repeat, softer.
He looks at you, eyes intense. “Please.”
Behind him, Jack stage-whispers, “Do it or we’re doomed.”
“You are all insane,” you mutter.
But you step closer anyway.
Nico’s hands come up to the top of the boards, like he’s resisting the urge to pull you over them. “I won’t go out there without it.”
You search his face. The captain. The pressure. The weight. The hope.
“Since when are you superstitious?” you ask quietly.
“Since you started sitting there,” he answers.
Your chest softens painfully.
“Fine,” you say.
Jack gasps. “YES.”
“Nobody asked you,” Nico snaps.
You lean up, careful of the glass, and Nico bends down at the same time. His forehead presses briefly to yours.
“Good luck, Captain,” you whisper.
Then you kiss him.
It’s quick, warm, familiar. The kind of kiss that steadies him.
When you pull back, his eyes are brighter.
“…again,” he murmurs.
You blink. “Nico.”
“Just,just in case.”
You laugh, breathless, and kiss him once more. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know,” he says. “But I’m your ridiculous.”
You rest your forehead against his. “You’re going to be amazing.”
He closes his eyes for half a second. “I always am when you’re here.”
Behind him, Jesper coughs loudly. “Are we playing hockey or attending a wedding?”
Nico straightens, cheeks slightly pink. “We’re playing hockey.”
Jack leans in. “Blessed hockey.”
Nico points at him. “One more word and you’re not getting any of my birthday cake.”
Jack zips his lips.
Nico looks back at you one last time. “Stay right there.”
You smile. “Always.”
He skates out.
The Devils win.
Again.
Overtime. Nico assist. Game-winning goal from Jack.
The arena explodes.
Nico doesn’t celebrate with the pile first.
He looks for you.
When he finds you, he points at you from the ice, shaking his head with a grin that says this is your fault.
After the game, he finds you in the hallway, still in gear, hair damp, eyes glowing.
“You see?” Jack calls from behind him. “Lucky charm.”
Nico doesn’t even argue this time. He just walks straight to you, hands on your waist, forehead dropping to yours.
“We won,” he murmurs.
“You always win,” you tease.
He smiles. “No. We win when you’re here.”
You soften. “You don’t really believe I control hockey games.”
He shrugs slightly. “I believe you make me better.”
You swallow. “That’s worse.”
He chuckles, brushing his nose against yours. “So… you coming to the next one?”
You pretend to think. “Depends.”
“On what?”
You lean in. “How many kisses I get paid.”
He laughs quietly. “However many you want.”
“Captain,” Jack sings. “We’re waiting.”
Nico sighs, kissing you one more time anyway. “Worth it.”
As he pulls away, he glances back, eyes warm and sure.
“Don’t move,” he says. “My lucky charm.”
And somehow, standing there in a loud, cold arena, you’ve never felt warmer.
hihihihi🫣🫣 I think I came up with another one, this time for Nico. It can be angsty, i don’t really care, but like the idea is that whenever readers asks him to do something he says yeah next week/next time, but when Timo or other guys/friends ask for something he does it right away.
Priorities
A/N: requested by the lovely @qrrieterisunnq
Pairing: Nico Hischier x reader
Words: 2,4k
Warning(s): angst
The first time it happens, it barely registers. It was just another one of those small, forgettable moments that slip through the cracks of everyday life. You’re standing in Nico’s kitchen, sleeves pushed up, absentmindedly tracing circles into the condensation on your glass while you ask him if he wants to come with you to a small event your friend is hosting that Friday. It’s nothing big, just music and too many people crammed into a space that’s slightly too warm, but you think he’d like it, or at least, you’d like having him there. Nico doesn’t even look up at first, scrolling through something on his phone, his brow faintly furrowed in concentration before he gives a small, distracted shake of his head.
“Yeah… next week, maybe? Schedule’s kinda crazy right now.” His tone is light, automatic, like he’s said it a hundred times before. Maybe he has.
You hum in response, pretending it doesn’t matter, because it shouldn’t. It’s just one night. But then his phone buzzes. It’s almost subtle, the way everything about him shifts. His attention sharpens instantly, posture straightening as he reads the message, and suddenly he’s no longer half-present in the room with you.
“Timo needs help moving some stuff,” he says, already pushing off the counter, already reaching for his jacket like the decision has been made for him. “I’ll be back later, yeah?”
You stare at him, the words catching somewhere between your chest and your throat, because just seconds ago he was too busy, too exhausted and too scheduled for something you asked for days in advance.
“Wait—you’re leaving now?” you manage, but he’s already halfway out the door, offering you a quick, distracted smile.
“Yeah, just for a bit.” Just like that, Timo Meier asks, and Nico goes. You ask, and Nico postpones.
At first, you tell yourself it’s coincidence. Timing. Bad luck. But patterns have a way of revealing themselves, especially when you’re not looking for them. It becomes something you start noticing in the quiet moments, in the pauses after you ask a question, in the way his answers always seem to hinge on some vague future that never quite arrives.
“Can we try that new place downtown?” you ask one evening, scrolling through reviews and pictures, already imagining the two of you there.
“Yeah, next time,” he replies, not unkindly, just distant, like the answer exists on autopilot.
“Can you come to my friend’s birthday on Saturday?” you try again a few days later.
“Next week, for sure.” Always next week. Always later. Never now. And yet, when his phone lights up with a message from the guys, when someone needs help or wants to grab drinks or just hang out, there’s no hesitation, no delay just immediate action, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to choose them.
You don’t mean for it to build into something bigger. You don’t wake up one day deciding to be upset about it. It just… accumulates, quietly, like pressure beneath the surface. Every “next time” stacks on top of the last until they start to feel less like promises and more like excuses, less like scheduling conflicts and more like avoidance. And the worst part isn’t even the waiting, it’s the feeling that you’re always the one expected to understand. To be patient. To adjust. To accept that your place in his life exists somewhere after everything else has been handled.
The fight, when it finally comes, isn’t explosive at first. It starts small, almost deceptively calm. Nico is by the door again, tying his shoes, his keys already in his hand, and you can feel it before you even speak that familiar tightening in your chest, that quiet voice in your head whispering not again.
“You said that last time,” you say, your tone sharper than you intend. He pauses, glancing up at you with a faint crease between his brows.
“Said what?” he asks, like he genuinely doesn’t know. And maybe that’s what makes it worse.
“Next time,” you reply, a hollow laugh slipping out before you can stop it. “You always say next time.”
He straightens slowly, confusion flickering across his face before it gives way to something more defensive.
“I don’t—” he starts, but you cut him off, because now that it’s out, you can’t seem to stop it.
“You do,” you insist, your voice tightening with every word. “It’s like I’m scheduled for later. Always later.”
His expression shifts, jaw tightening as he exhales. “That’s not fair.” The words land heavier than you expect, but they don’t stop you.
“Isn’t it?” you shoot back, crossing your arms like it might hold you together. “Timo calls, you go. The guys need something, you’re already out the door. I ask for anything and it’s—what? A rain check?”
“It’s different,” he says, more sharply now, and something about that makes your chest ache.
“How?” you push, stepping closer despite yourself. “Explain that to me, Nico. Because from where I’m standing, it just looks like I’m not a priority.”
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, guilt, maybe, or frustration, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it appears.
“That’s not true,” he insists, but it sounds thinner now, less certain.
“Then why does it feel like it is?” you ask, softer this time, and the question hangs between you, heavy and impossible to ignore.
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to find the right words, something that will fix this without unravelling everything else.
“You know how my schedule is,” he says finally. “You know how things are with the team—”
“And I’ve always understood that,” you interrupt, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “I’ve been understanding. That’s the problem. I’m always the one who understands.”
His frustration spikes at that, visible in the way his shoulders tense. “That’s not fair to say.” But you’re already shaking your head, because fairness stopped mattering somewhere along the way.
“No, what’s not fair is feeling like I have to compete with your friends just to spend time with you.”
“They’re not just friends, they’re my teammates—”
“And I’m your girlfriend,” you cut in, the words slipping out raw and unfiltered. “Or at least, I thought I was someone you’d make time for now, not just eventually.”
That’s the moment something in him falters. You can see the way his expression shifts, the way the argument drains just enough to let something more honest through. But it doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t undo the weeks, the months of being put off, of being told later, later, later until later starts to feel like never.
“I do make time for you,” he says, quieter now, like he’s trying to convince both of you. And maybe, in his mind, he does. Maybe all those postponed plans still count to him because he means them when he says them. But intention doesn’t feel the same as presence.
“When?” you ask, barely above a whisper. And that’s the worst part because he doesn’t have an answer. Not one that comes easily, not one that doesn’t sound like another excuse waiting to happen. The silence that follows is suffocating. It stretches between you, filled with everything neither of you knows how to say. You swallow hard, forcing the words out even though they feel like they might break you.
“I don’t want to be your ‘next week,’ Nico,” you admit, your voice softer now, stripped of anger and left with something far more vulnerable. “I want to be your now.”
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a second, it feels like he finally understands the weight of what you’ve been carrying.
“I didn’t realize…” he starts, but the sentence trails off, unfinished, because realization doesn’t fix what’s already been done.
“Yeah,” you murmur, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “That’s kind of the point.”
He doesn’t leave, but he doesn’t stay, either. For a long moment, Nico just stands there by the door, keys still clutched in his hand like a decision he hasn’t fully made. The silence between you stretches thin, fragile, like it might snap if either of you breathes too hard. You watch him, searching his face for something, anything, that looks like certainty. Like choosing you. But all you find is hesitation, the kind that lingers too long to feel harmless.
“I can cancel,” he says finally, but it doesn’t sound like a decision. It sounds like a question. And that’s what does it. Because you don’t want to be something he can cancel for, you want to be something he doesn’t want to leave in the first place.
“You shouldn’t have to,” you reply, your voice quieter now, but steadier than before. “That’s not the point.”
His jaw tightens slightly, like he knows that answer isn’t going to get him out of this.
“Then what do you want me to do?” he asks, frustration creeping back in, laced with something else, something closer to helplessness.
You let out a slow breath, dragging your hands over your face before looking back at him.
“I want you to stop treating me like I’ll always be there later,” you say. “Like I’m… convenient.”
“I don’t—” he starts again, but the words die halfway out. Because this time, even he doesn’t sound convinced.
Your chest aches at that, at the realization that this isn’t just miscommunication or bad timing. It’s something deeper, something built into the way things have been between you for longer than either of you noticed.
“You don’t even see it,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “That’s the worst part.”
“I’m trying to understand,” Nico says, his voice softer now, stepping a little further into the room like he’s finally choosing a side, but it’s hesitant, uncertain. “Just talk to me.”
You laugh weakly, shaking your head. “I have been talking, Nico. You just weren’t really listening.” That lands harder than anything else you’ve said so far.
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair again, pacing once like he’s trying to burn off the tension building under his skin.
“Okay,” he says after a moment, forcing the word out like it costs him something. “Then tell me now. What does ‘choosing you’ even look like to you?”
For a second, you just stare at him because it shouldn’t be that hard to answer, but it is.
“It looks like this not being a debate,” you say finally. “It looks like you not having to think about it this long.” Your voice wavers despite your effort to keep it steady. “It looks like me not feeling like I’m asking for too much just because I want you to show up.”
“I do show up,” he insists, but there’s less conviction now.
“Not when it matters,” you reply, and the quiet certainty in your tone makes him flinch more than if you’d yelled. Another silence falls, heavier this time, filled with things neither of you can take back.
His phone buzzes again. You both glance at it. And there it is, the moment, laid out plainly between you. No arguing, no overthinking. Just a choice. Nico stares at the screen for a second too long and then he flips it over.
“I’m staying,” he says.
It should feel like a victory. It doesn’t because the damage isn’t in whether he stays now, it’s in the fact that you had to get to this point for it to happen.
“I don’t want you to stay because you feel guilty,” you admit quietly.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” you cut in gently, not accusing this time, just tired. “And tomorrow, or next week, it’s just going to happen again. Because nothing actually changed.”
“That’s not true,” he says, stepping closer now, urgency creeping into his voice. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
You look at him, the conflicted expression, the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s trying now in a way he didn’t before. And that’s what makes it hurt.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Now you are.”
The words hang there, unfinished but understood. For the first time since the argument started, Nico doesn’t try to argue back. He just stands there, taking it in, the weight of it settling somewhere deep in his chest.
“So, what, then?” he asks quietly. “What are you saying?”
You hesitate because this is the part where everything shifts.
“I think…” you start, your voice catching before you steady it again. “I think I need some space.”
His expression changes instantly, like the ground just shifted under him. “Space?” he repeats, like the word doesn’t quite make sense.
“Just for a little while,” you clarify, even though you’re not entirely sure what “a little while” means. “I need to not feel like this all the time.”
“Nico…” he begins, then stops himself, exhaling sharply. “I didn’t know it was this bad.”
“I know,” you say softly. “That’s kind of why it hurts.”
He nods slowly, like he’s piecing it together too late, like he’s replaying every “next time” in his head and finally hearing how it must have sounded to you.
“I can fix it,” he says after a moment, more firmly now. “Just—give me the chance to fix it.”
You swallow, because part of you wants to believe him. Wants to hold onto that. But another part, the part that’s been waiting and waiting and waiting, isn’t so sure anymore.
“I don’t need promises right now,” you tell him. “I’ve had a lot of those.”
The words hit their mark. You can see it in the way his shoulders drop slightly, in the way his grip on the keys loosens like he doesn’t even remember he’s holding them.
“What do you need, then?” he asks.
You take a step back, creating just a little more distance between you.
“Time,” you say. And this time, you’re the one choosing now.
summary: it’s the day you and Nico meet your baby girl, Clara Evangelina Hischier. after all those months of him talking to your belly, she recognizes his voice right away. And suddenly everything makes sense.
warnings: childbirth mentioned (non-detailed), extreme tenderness, tears (the happy kind)
genre: pure fluff!
a/n: I think this just suits Nico so much
NH masterlist | masterlist
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The delivery room is quieter now. just the hum of machines and the sound of your breathing as it slows, the storm of the last few hours beginning to settle. You’re exhausted but smiling, cheeks damp with tears you didn’t even realize had fallen.
And then you hear it. A sharp, tiny cry that fills every inch of the room.
Your heart lurches. She’s here.
Nico’s hand finds yours immediately, his thumb brushing against your knuckles as he leans forward, eyes wide and glassy. You can see every emotion flicker across his face. disbelief, awe, love so strong it almost hurts.
The nurse turns toward him a moment later, a small bundle in her arms. “Dad?” she says softly.
He nods, wordless, and takes her, your daughter, in his arms for the first time. She’s still crying, her little fists trembling in the blanket, but the second Nico starts to speak, the sound falters.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice trembling but steady enough to make her still. “Hey, mein kleines Mädchen. You’re finally here.”
You watch his thumb trace tiny circles against her back as he keeps talking, the same way he used to talk to your belly every night. About his day, about practice, about the names he’d fallen in love with in Swiss stories his grandmother used to tell.
“She gave you a hard time, huh?” he murmurs to her, smiling softly as she blinks up at him. “You gave your mom a hard time too. But you’re worth it. Every second.”
The nurse looks at you with a smile that says she’s seen moments like this before, but maybe not quite like this.
When he finally brings her to you, his hands are careful, reverent. “Clara Evangelina Hischier,” he says quietly, as if introducing her to the world. “That’s your name. Clara for me, Evangelina for your mom.”
You reach out, touching your daughter’s cheek. Her skin is impossibly soft, and her little mouth moves as if she recognizes you both already.
Nico leans in close, resting his forehead against yours. “She knew my voice,” he whispers, half in disbelief, half in wonder.
“Of course she did,” you murmur, smiling through your tears. “You never stopped talking to her.”
He laughs, a quiet, shaky sound that fills the silence perfectly. “Guess she finally decided to listen.”
