thought for the week: is the fact that almost everyone in the movie high-rise has the 'wrong' accent for their place in the building a deliberate casting choice? it there a deliberate flattening of signals the viewer might use as guidance for who 'should' be on what level? they're also all white (i think?) and nobody even has an accent from a different region (again i could have forgotten someone).
the setting of a tower block is an interesting one in that we associate those with the lower classes, which is part of why the worst is always assumed of them, and the problem of the story is easily solved (just leave the bloody building) but they are all, regardless of means, trapped in this concrete class system. having posh folk there at all is a bit of a surprise to me. i know there's posho penthouses irl but those are never in the same building as poor people. they've all been forcibly shoved together. are the accents chosen partly to add further confusion?
but if not... it still does say something about class, since we are now overladen with posh actors as the lower classes have been frozen out of the arts by austerity governments obsessed with making rich people richer. because they are themselves rich. because this is how the system sustains itself. the movie ends with thatcher on the radio, which we all recognise as a chilling first step towards societal decline.
I have an essay ☝️to write. about the way people who play undertale often tend to react to flowey, asriel (and choose to separate the two/ignore that they are the same) and chara
In line with the post I made of all the funny stuff to look forward to in the story, here’s some of the…less funny stuff that will happen over the course of the story. Because I love angst, and I didn’t hold back on trying to think of how some things might go realistically
- The riders dealing with all their enemies with no Berk to fall back to, Berk itself sometimes being one of those enemies
- The guilt, pain and trauma for all the riders that comes with Ant losing his leg
- Dragon training sessions on Berk going horribly wrong
- Kaiko and Will watching their thought-to-be-dead son go through everything he does, unable to change any of it (as this story is written in a ‘the characters watch their own show’ style)
- Ant having episodes where he can’t talk due to being selectively mute, because of his treatment of Berk, and the other riders and even Toothless having to learn how to help him through it
- The riders being captured and interrogated/tortured by Dragon Trappers
- The Dragon Fighting ring in RTTE being a more widespread operation
- Diving further into how the Red Death affected the dragons in her nest, and making the scene where Hiccup and Astrid (Ant and Kari here) find the nest worse
- Dragons and humans having panic/anxiety attacks
- The riders having to learn how to fight enemies outside of the ring on the fly (sometimes literally, because dragons) and not being the best at it in the beginning
- Ant being the village scapegoat due to not being white, and having no blood family on Berk to back him up, and all the internal issues that come to be because of that
- Gobber and Gothi, while being the primary caretakers of Ant who cared for him, not being perfect anyways, and still messing up in some ways
- Situations, characters, and character dynamics being complicated and messy
- No one region or faction of the world being ‘perfect’ or ‘good’ or even ‘bad’. Everyone has problems, and everyone handles them differently
- Snotlout, the twins, and Fishlegs trying to be ‘adults’ for Kari and Ant, because there’s no one else to help them in the beginning, but still struggling in some ways because they themselves are still kids who want an adult to help
- Characters having complicated family dynamics, with some parents not being perfect, and with some of the riders still missing their own parents and families, while also knowing that those very people are part of what drove them away to begin with
- Some characters, while coming to an understanding and acknowledging that the other has changed, not reconciling and becoming best friends, or even friends by the end of the story
- Not every enemy is redeemed. At least one character that isn’t an enemy in the films is, and they are not redeemed at the end
first post for context / see the tag 'open relationship au' for more snippets or the masterlist so kindly put together by @tafkarfanfic. this one goes out to all of you who were stressing out about if shane would actually win the cup in this au or if brian would distract him too much 😘
June 2015
The final playoff round goes to seven games. The Metros flew through to the conference finals, an unstoppable force, but the Drillers have been giving them a run for their money.
The last game takes place in Montreal, making their odds better. Making the possibility of a loss even harder to bear.
Shane's not dwelling on it, though. His mind feels razor sharp. A kind of calm descended over him in their first game against the Drillers that has yet to lift. He knows what he has to do to win, and knows he's capable of it, too. Knows his team is capable.
The night before the last game, Brian calls.
"I'll be there," he tells Shane as soon as he picks up. "I didn't want to get your hopes up, but I just secured a ticket."
Shane's heart stutters, the tiniest inkling of nerves penetrating through his cloud of zen. "You did?"
"Some guys at the office helped me out," Brian says. "We're going as a group. These tickets are ridiculously expensive, by the way."
"It's the Stanley Cup Finals," Shane reminds him, baffled. "And I could have gotten you a ticket if you wanted."
"I didn't wanna add to your plate."
"Right." It still doesn't sit right with Shane but this is the last thing he needs to put his mental energy into. Though he can't help but ask, "Your coworkers know you don't like hockey, right? They don't think it's weird you want to go?"
Brian makes a dismissive sound. "Our boss is a really big Metros fan, they think I'm doing this as a networking opportunity."
"Right," Shane repeats. "You know I won't be able to say hi or anything."
"Of course. This isn't the first time I've been to one of your games."
It's the first time since my rookie season.
"I just want to support you," Brian adds.
"Right," Shane says a third time. His brain feels fried; this is as close to a non-hockey related conversation as he's had since the last time he saw Brian. "Good, that's - I'm glad."
Brian snorts. "Are you? You don't sound so sure."
"No, of course I am." Shane runs his hand over his face. "I'm just tired."
"Rest up then, babe. I want to see you lift that cup."
They say their goodbyes and hang up. Shane stares at the phone for a long while after the screen goes dark, then pockets it and mentally shelves the conversation.
He's not gonna lose focus now. Not with the cup so close, he can taste it.
They've all but secured their victory five minutes before the game ends.
Shane scores on an assist from Hayden, bringing them up 4-2, the crowd cheering so loudly he can feel it in his chest. They stay at that volume until the final buzzer, getting even impossibly louder as the Metros pile on top of each other, delirious with happiness.
For the first time in sixteen years, the Montreal Metros are Stanley Cup champions.
The noise of the crowd fades in Shane's ears as he lifts the cup, everything falling away except the wild beating of his heart and the smell of the ice and the weight of the cup in his hands.
This is what it feels like, being on top of the world.
The players' families come pouring out onto the ice. For the first time that day, Shane spares a fleeting thought for Brian, up in the stands, but it's quickly chased away as his parents pull him in for a hug, the pride shining from their faces.
He thinks about Brian again as he gets into the locker room and grabs his phone before the champagne starts pouring, wanting to quickly check for messages.
Nothing from Brian yet, but he's with his coworkers. Maybe he hasn't had the chance to send anything without someone seeing him.
There is a message from Rozanov.
The cup looks good in your hands. Enjoy it while you can 😘
Shane stares down at his phone, heart swelling with affection. Anyone else might take Rozanov's chirping tacked on to the indirect congratulations as rude or mean spirited, but Shane sees it for what it is. Sees the pride hidden between the lines, the excitement at their competition continuing with the score board now standing even.
JJ grabs him around the shoulders, and Shane quickly puts his phone away, rejoining the celebrations.
summary - in which you go to a charity gala, talk to a cute blonde hockey player, watch a hockey game for the first time, and go on a date with said hockey player. link to the smau
pairings - will smith x ballerina!reader
warnings - fem!reader, reader is from seattle, reader has an unnamed brother and sister, reader has a puppy named angel, and tooth rotting fluff. i yap about dance (#dancemajor)
wc - 5.1k
author’s note - sorry if this is not great this is the first thing i’ve written since august of last year. so bear with me as i get back to writing again. but please enjoy this long ass fic and my first full piece for any hockey players! also if you have any thoughts about will and ballerina reader send them to me! my requests are open!
You walk through the large hotel ballroom, arm looped through your brother’s. For some reason, you got roped into going to the charity gala as his plus-one.
“Thanks for coming to this with me.”
“It’s no problem, I won’t let my brother fend for himself here.” You smile up at him. “No matter how much of an NFL hotshot you are.”
“Wow, thanks.”
You both arrive at your table, and you notice the place card with your name isn’t on the table next to your brother.
“Why aren’t you sitting next to me? This isn’t what was planned. Give me a second.” He furrows his brows and moves to find his agent.
You hover by the table and look around for where your name might be. You spot it three tables over, pick up the place card, then look at the ones next to it. You are accidentally seated between Alex Wenneberg and someone named Will Smith. It couldn’t have been the actor Will Smith, since this was a gala specifically for Bay Area Sports. But you secretly wonder if you possibly could be right.
You look around for your brother and lean back onto the chair. He exasperatedly throws his arms around, and you watch with a slightly amused smile. But what you didn’t notice was that the two people who were supposed to sit next to you show up.
“Hello.” Two tall blonde men appear in front of you, and you realize, that you really aren’t sitting next to the actor Will Smith.
“If either of you tells me that your name is Will Smith, I’m going to be disappointed.” You joke, and the younger of the two rubs at the back of his neck.
“Unfortunately, that would be me.” He, the now-named blonde Will Smith, speaks up. “Trust me, it’s a struggle.”
“What do they even call you to differentiate?”
“Well, friends and teammates call me Smitty, Smit, or just Will, and the media calls me Will Smith Hockey.”
“A hockey player, for the…” You tilt your head, trying to rack your brain for the name of the only hockey team in the Bay, “…San Jose Sharks, I assume?”
“Correct.” Will flashes you a toothy grin dripping with boyish charm.
“I’m going to get a drink, want something, Smit?” Alex asks.
“Water is fine.” He nods and watches his teammate walk away. “So why are you here at this gala?”
“Came with my brother, he plays for the Forty-Niners. Traitor. “ You offhandedly remark, before pointing over to your brother. “But we both live in San Francisco, so he asked me to come.”
“Not a fan of the Forty-Niners?” Will says, surprised at the pure disdain in your voice.
“God no, Seahawks for life. I experienced real heartbreak in 2015, my family and I were in mourning.” You laugh, and Will lets out a chuckle of his own.
“You’re talking to a Patriots fan here, 2015 was great.”
“Don’t even.” You shake your head in mock indignation. “It still hurts.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Will apologizes, before switching the topic, “What do you do for work, if not Bay Area sports?”
“I’m a dancer. I dance with the San Francisco Ballet as a soloist.”
“I’ve never been to the ballet before, but that’s amazing.” Will looks at you with something akin to childlike awe, and something flutters in your chest.
“You have to go, we’re currently rehearsing for Giselle. It’s my favorite ballet. Love, tragedy, the paranormal, everything that embodies the Romantic era.” You start to babble on, “Sorry, I’m rambling.”
“No, no, that sounds intriguing.”
“It is, it really is. You’ll have to go sometime, or you don’t have to.” You begin to offer before backing off.
“Well, if you are offering for the ballet, I’m obligated to put a hockey game on the table,” Will says slyly, charm evident in his small smile.
“So we’re trading now?”
“Yes, one ballet performance for one hockey game.” Will holds out his hand, “Deal?”
“Deal.” You agree and place your hand in his, electricity running up your arm from where your palms meet. Shooting right to your, now, rapidly beating heart.
“I would love to know the name of the beautiful woman I’m making this deal with.” Will teases, letting go of your hand.
You tell him your name, face flushed from the compliment, and the embarrassment at forgetting to tell Will your name. Especially when the subject of his name spurred the entire conversation in the first place.
“Sorry for not telling you sooner.”
“It’s alright.” He shakes his head, “Well, I hope this isn’t too bold of me to ask, but could I get your number? You know to make plans for our deal.”
“Of course, as long as you honor your part of the deal. Sometime soon, maybe?” You fish a pen from your ever-disorganized purse and write it down on a napkin.
“For sure.” Will takes the napkin from your hand and tucks it neatly into his suit pocket. “Who would I be if I didn’t uphold it?”
“True.” You laugh and watch as your brother walks back over to you. When he finally sidles up beside you, you ask, “Everything figured out?”
“Yes, you’re sitting next to me again.” He nods with a heavy sigh. His eyes flick over to Will, and he raises an incredulous eyebrow, “Making friends?”
“Shut up.” You smack his shoulder lightly. “Have a good night, Will. It was nice meeting you.”
“You too.” Will agrees and watches you push your brother back toward the direction of your table.
Alex walks back over to Will and hands him a glass of water. “Good conversation?”
“Yeah. It was good. Really good.”
Will spends the rest of the night giving sidelong glances over to you. Something about you just pulls him in, maybe it was the effortless charisma that seemed to just emanate from you. Or maybe it was the way the conversation between the two of you just seemed to flow. Whatever it was, Will needs to talk to you again.
He gets back into his apartment at around 11 pm and kicks off his dress shoes in the entryway. Despite originally not wanting to go to the charity gala, Will was more than glad he went now. He pulls out his phone immediately and grabs the napkin in his pocket. Typing the number into his phone, he smiles at his phone.
“What are you smiling at?” Macklin rounds the corner.
“Nothing.”
“That’s your girl grin. You met someone.” He gasps.
“And if I did?” He shucks off his suit jacket and folds it over his arm.
“Then I’m happy for you. You are very lonely.” Macklin pats his shoulder, and Will rolls his eyes.
“Right.” Will presses his mouth into a thin line. “I’m going to bed.”
“What’s her name, Smitty? I have to know her name.”
“Let me try to get a date with her first, Mack. Before I throw her into the deep end of our lives.” Will loosens his tie as Macklin follows him back to his room.
“Fine…but you’ll tell me everything, right?”
“You know the answer, now good night, Mack.” Will opens the door to his room.
“Night.”
Will sits down on his bed and pulls out his phone once more.
WILL
Hey this is Will
I was wondering if I could offer to fulfill my end of the deal?
We have a game on Monday? At 5?
He waits for you to respond, his knee bouncing and fingers tapping the bed. When the typing bubble pops up, he has to calm his ever-beating heart.
YOU
Hi!
I would love to go!
I’ve got rehearsal till 3, so that works perfectly
WILL
Would it also be too bold of me to ask if we could go out afterwards?
Dinner?
YOU
It would not be too bold of you
In fact I was hoping you might ask.
WILL
Really?
I was hoping I wasn’t making up signs from our conversation.
YOU
Can’t make up signs I was giving
WILL
I guess not
I’m looking forward to Monday
YOU
Me too!
See you then
WILL
See you then
•••
Walking into the hockey arena, you feel like a fraud. Hair still slicked back into a bun that you tried to make messy, but no matter how hard you tried, it still looked like a ballerina did it. Which wouldn’t have been an unfair assessment. You walk through the crowded aisles, dodging little kids, their exasperated parents, and other fans dressed in jerseys for the Sharks and the opposing team.
You look down at the ticket you picked up from will call, and make your way to the unassuming seat in the middle of the lower bowl. Just good enough so you can see the whole rink, but not right up against the plexiglass.
YOU
These are pretty nice seats
You shoot off the text and wait for a response, but ultimately, you weren’t sure if you’d get a response this close to the start of the game. You almost turn off your phone, but Will’s text bubble pops up at the bottom of your phone screen.
WILL
Wouldn’t want you sitting in shitty seats
Also those are a formality
If you wanted to move to the family box
I can make that happen
YOU
That’s too much
I’m good right where I am
But where should we meet?
WILL
Family room after the game
I’ll let them know you’re coming
YOU
Sounds good
Break a leg, good luck, or merde, whatever means have a good game to you.
WILL
Just good luck works, and thank you!
I’ll see you after
YOU
See you after ❤️
liked by will
You lean back in your seat and fiddle with the hem of your sweater. You feel very out of place because, in reality, you know nothing about hockey. Hockey was just a game you never learned about, Seattle didn’t have an NHL team when you were growing up, and your brother was all for football. You watch as the Sharks skate out onto the ice for warm-ups, and hope you understand what is going on.
Will is easy to spot, Smith 2 in bold on his back. You watch him skate around the edges of the rink, looking for someone. Looking for you. Another teammate of his skates over to him. Celebrini 71 is what the back of the other guy’s jersey says. He speaks to Will before the two of them continue to warm up, as your heart beats out of your chest. Will is still looking around as he shoots pucks and performs drills. You have the urge to pull a Gabriella from High School Musical 3, but in fear of looking strange, you don’t.
He continues to skate around the rink, eyes flicking over every face he can make out. Your eyes follow him like you’re watching a ball at a tennis match, as he bounces from conversation to conversation—drill to drill. The urge to make yourself known grows stronger every second his blue eyes wander.
•••
Will feels like he’s losing his mind. You are at the game, he knows you are, but he can’t find you in the stands. Which, when thinking about it, makes sense as the crowd at the SAP Center began to grow. Mack—who had stalked your Instagram—was also on the lookout for you.
“I don’t see her.” Mack skates up to him. “But then again, the area is filling up, and she’s in a random seat.”
“I should have just put her in the family box.” Will shakes his head while tapping his stick on the ice. “It would be easier to find her.”
“Yeah, probably.” Mack shrugs and continues to practice his stick handling.
He passes the puck to Will, and he takes a shot at the empty net, burying it in the upper left corner.
“What if she didn’t show up?”
“Come on, she told you she was here. She would lie about that.” Mack took his own shot at the net.
“I know.” He sighs, shoots one last puck before warm-up ends, and skates back to the bench, Mack on his heels.
The game starts, and Will won’t dwell on the thought of you possibly not being at the game any longer.
•••
The Sharks win, and you realize you have no idea how to get back to the family room. Picking up your purse, you pull out your phone.
YOU
Congratulations on the win
But I don’t know how to get to the family room
You hover by your seat, letting the other people in your row move out of their seats, while you wait for Will to text you back.
WILL
I’ll send someone to grab you.
You take a seat again and wait for whoever is supposed to grab you to arrive. It takes a few minutes of awkward waiting and watching the entire arena clear out, but a person in a Sharks badge walks up the steps. He asks your name, and you give it to him.
“Follow me.”
The trip to the family room leads you through hallways and back rooms that aren’t available to the public. You take in all of the moving pieces behind what makes a hockey game run. You adjust your clothes as the door to the family comes into view, and the man opens the door for you.
“Thank you.” You smile softly and walk into the room.
Will spots you immediately, and a grin spreads across his face. He crosses the room in three strides and appears in front of you, “You’re here.”
“Did you think I wasn’t?” You furrow your brows at the honesty in his voice.
“I couldn’t find you in the stands.”
“I was in the section behind the bench, near the top of the lower bowl. Look at these pictures I got.” You pull out your phone and show him the pictures you took from your seat. “I’m not surprised you couldn’t find me. I was not easy to spot from the ice.”
“I’m glad you came.” Will’s voice softens as his eyes search your face, taking in everything.
“Me too. Congrats on the win by the way. You got a goal, if I’m remembering correctly. I don’t really know the rules of hockey, but I know that a puck going into the net is a goal.” You spout trying to recall parts of the game.
“Yeah, I did.” A bashful smile graces his mouth as a light pink flush spreads across his face.
The door opens, and another guy pokes his head through, “She’s real.”
“Yeah, she is.” Will rolls his eyes.
“I did not think you actually pulled her.”
“Sorry, this is Mack. My best friend and the pain in my ass.” Will introduces the two of you.
“Nice to meet you, Mack.” You hold out your hand for him, and he shakes it lightly.
“Nice to meet you too. I can’t wait to tell the rest of the team about you.” Mack grins mischievously. “And he hasn’t shut up about you for the last four days.”
“Oh god.” Will groans, throwing his head back, and you chortle at the disdain in his voice. “You said you wouldn’t tell her about that.”
“Nothing is ever off the table, Smitty. He’s been gushing about you, and he never gushes or gets starry-eyed.” Mack pats Will’s shoulder. “Well, I’ll let you two have fun, but I’m definitely telling everyone about this. See you at practice.”
“Goodbye, Mack.” Will looks like he wants to shove him out the door faster.
“Bye, Mack.” You wave to Mack as he walks out the door. “So, where to next?”
“What do you feel like for dinner?” Will asks.
“Take me anywhere you’d like, I’ve never really spent any time in San Jose.”
“Let’s go to this Italian restaurant. I like it a lot and their carbonara is really authentic.” Will places a hand on the small of your back. The heat from his palm seeps through your sweater and warms your skin.
“That sounds good to me.”
“We’ll take my car.” Will walks beside you and leads you in the direction of the player parking lot.
A chorus of “Good luck, Smit!” and “Don’t mess up, Smitty!” echo from behind the two of you as you walk down the tunnel. You look over your shoulder and see a number of the Sharks players gathered in the hallway.
Will blushes hard, the back of his neck and the tips of his ears turning bright red. You let out a small giggle as Will shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Sorry about them.”
“Don’t apologize, it’s funny and sweet, they care about you.” You put a hand on his upper arm as you both push out the door and to the back of the arena.
“Or embarrassing.” He looks down at you, hoping you don’t notice that his demeanor has become more nervous. You do.
“Like a bunch of older brothers, they’ll do that.” You say as Will pulls his keys from his pocket and the lights on his car flash.
“Don’t I know it. More than half of them are married and have kids, so our love lives make them excited.” He walks with you to the passenger side of the car and pulls open the door.
“Thank you.” You climb in, and he closes the door. Will walks around the car and gets in on the driver’s side. He turns the ignition and pulls out of the parking lot.
“I know I said this earlier, but I’m glad you came.” He looks over at you quickly before his eyes flit back to the road.
“I’m glad I came too. I’ve never been to a hockey game before. It was really fun, though I do wish I had brought someone with me. It was slightly awkward to sit alone.” You look out the car window. “Nonetheless, it was really fun.”
“You‘ve never been to a hockey game?” He looks at you, bewildered, noting the way the moon reflects through the car window and onto your face.
“This was my first time. It was pretty cool, but I’m still pretty biased towards football.” You smile, and Will thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful. “You’ll have to explain the rules to me, though. I had no idea what was going on.”
“There’s probably too much to tell you in one sitting without confusing you.”
“Probably.” You agree, and Will pulls into the parking lot of a small restaurant. “This is really cute.”
“I’m glad you like it, the food is really good too.” He parks the car and turns it off. You unbuckle your seatbelt and open the passenger door.
Will meets you in front of the car, and the two of you walk into the dimly lit restaurant. At a late hour, the restaurant was fairly empty, with only a few customers scattered throughout the tables.
“For two.” He speaks to the host at the stand.
“Right this way.” Will nods, and the host picks up two menus.
You both follow them to a private table tucked in the back corner of the restaurant. The host places down the menus, Will pulls out your chair, and you sit down, he follows soon after.
“Your waiter will be with you in a few minutes.” The host says before leaving you two alone.
“I feel like you know more about me than I know about you,” Will says, eyes meeting yours.
“Well, as you know I’m from Seattle. I have an older brother who plays in the NFL. You knew that, um…I have a younger sister who is also a dancer, but she’s more interested in dance team.” Will nods and takes in every word you say. Hanging off every syllable like a lifeline. “She wants to be an NFL cheerleader.”
“How’d you get to San Francisco?”
“First, I moved to New York when I was 14 to go to the School of American Ballet. A top ballet school. Then I moved to San Francisco to dance at the San Francisco Ballet after graduating from SAB.” You recount and lean your face into your hand. “Luckily, my brother was already living here, so I wasn’t completely alone in a new city.”
“At 14? Wow, I always thought moving away from home at a young age was something only hockey players did.”
“Then you need to expand your world a little.” You say a-matter-of-factly.
Will can’t help but nod, “You’re right, I do.”
“I’ve had friends who were prodigies by the time they were twelve and whisked away to new countries.” You start, “My best friend and dance partner Pietro trained in Russia, moved to London at 11, graduated from the Royal Academy of Dance, and moved here at 17.”
“I moved to Michigan my freshman year of high school for the National Team Development Program. But 11? That’s so young.”
“I know. When you’re good enough, you get plucked from the safety and comfort of home at a young age. Only to have the weight of the world thrust upon your shoulders. As if you aren’t only a teenager.” Will just nods along, he knows the feeling well.
“But, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Ballet is everything to me, the first love of my life. All the trials and tribulations led me here, and in the end, I couldn’t be more grateful. Oh and I also just got a puppy, her name is Angel.” You continue, and pure love radiates from every word you speak. “In short, I love my job, I love my family, I love my dog, I love my life.”
“You have a dog?” Will’s eyes light up.
“Yes look at how cute she is.” You flip your phone around showing him a photo of Angel on your lockscreen.
“She’s adorable.”
“I know.” You put your phone back down and turn the questions back to him. “Now, what about you?”
Will let out a quiet chuckle at your quick summary of everything you two had been talking about.
“I’d say that about covers it.”
“That cannot be true.” You scoff, “I give you my whole life story and the best you can pull out is an ‘I agree with all the points you made’ that’s lame.”
“What?! I do agree, I love my family, I love my job, and I love my life.”
“I know that.” You roll your eyes, “I want to know more about you. You heard about me, and I met Will Smith Hockey at the gala. I saw him do his job. But who’s Will? Beyond just hockey stats and who the person on the ice is. I want to know him too.” Your voice softens as you tilt your head, eyes glimmering in the warm golden light of the candle.
Will’s breath hitches in his throat as he looks at you, and his heart begins to speed up. Hammering away at his ribs and making his stomach flop.
“Oh, um…wow. I don’t know.” Will thinks out loud.
“That’s okay, whatever you’re thinking about, tell me everything.” You reach over and place a soft hand on top of his. “I want to know.”
“Where to start?” Will hesitates and looks down at your hand on his. His skin tingles from the contact.
He tells you about his life, his parents, his sister, life before and after hockey became everything. Friends he grew up with, and how they’re all scattered across the country, playing the sport that brought them together. The short time he spent at college and winning the World Juniors. The rivalry he and Macklin had before becoming best friends and teammates. Anything and everything that led him to San Jose and to you.
“You’ve done so much in so little time.”
“Yeah, I guess I have.” Will looks down again and realizes his hand has flipped and is now grasping yours lightly. “Sorry.”
“You can hold my hand, Will.” Your mouth curves into a warm smile at his sweet act of bashfulness. “I don’t mind.”
“Okay.” His grip on your hand doesn’t loosen, but instead becomes more confident.
•••
“And when I went to the doctor, they told me I had been dancing on three fractured toes. They were already semi-healed when I went in for the rolled ankle.” You set your fork down, looking at your clean plate. “Safe to say I walked out of there with a boot, and a doctor’s not telling me not to dance for a month.”
“How did you not feel that?” Will looks at you with shock written on his face.
“Oh, I did, but I taped my toes, took a bunch of painkillers, and put my feet into buckets of ice.” You take a sip of water.
“Did that work?”
“I think so? I also have a high pain tolerance. My parents have so many stories of my dance teachers making me sit out of class because I was pushing through injuries.” You chuckle to yourself, but Will just looks appalled.
“That can’t be healthy.” He shook his head, and you shrug.
“No, it’s not, but I’ve been getting better. I go to our physio more now. I used to avoid her like the plague.” The waiter drops off the check, and both of you reach for it. “We can split it.”
“Who do you think I am?” Will furrows his brows, but you don’t let go of the leather booklet. “Let me pay.”
“No, let me.”
He says your name pointedly, “I want to pay for our first date. You drove all the way down here for a hockey game and dinner, let me pay.”
“It wasn’t that long of a drive.” You jokingly glared at him, hand still on the booklet.
“You still have to drive an hour back.” He says, trying not to notice the fact that your fingers are brushing against one another.
“It’s like a 50-minute drive. Which is nothing.”
“Still, please let me pay.” Will was basically pleading with you.
“Fine.” You relent because there is no swaying him. “But I’ll pay next time.”
“As if I’d let you.” Will smiles at your hand moving away from the check.
“I will be paying next time.”
“Sure you will.” He looks at you with a mischievous expression and places his card in the book. “Where did you park your car?”
“A parking garage that is like two blocks from the SAP Center.” The waiter comes by and picks up the checkbook.
“Let me drive you back there.” Will reaches over and laces his fingers with yours.
“Feeling bold?” You joke.
“Maybe, or it’s just something about you.”
“Smooth.”
“Trying to be. Is it working?” He tilts his head at you.
“I don’t know, keep trying, and I’ll get back to you.” You snicker and squeeze his hand.
“Good to know.” He smirks as the waiter returns with the check.
Will signs it, leaves a generous tip, and rounds the table to help you up. The two of you walk out of the restaurant and to his car hand in hand. Still ever the gentleman, Will opens both the restaurant door and the car door for you. The car starts, and the drive to the parking garage near the SAP Center is shorter than either of you wanted. He pulls up on the curb near the entrance and parks the car.
“I had a really great time tonight.” His voice is soft and just a tad bit shy.
“Me too.”
“Is it bad that I don’t want this to end?” Will asks, and you shake your head.
“I don’t want it to end either, but it’s getting late, and I have to get back to San Francisco.” You place a hand on top of his.
“Text me when you get back? I want to know when you get back since it’s such a long drive.” The sincerity in Will’s voice makes your heart flutter.
“Of course.” You nod and open the door to get out. “I really enjoyed tonight.”
“Me too. I’ll see you soon, hopefully?”
“You will.” He agrees without hesitation.
“Oh, I will?”
“As I said, you will.” Will persists with his answer, and you just grin.
“I’ll be waiting then.” You step out of the car, still holding open the door. “Goodnight, Will.”
“Goodnight, and remember to text me.” He reminds you.
“I won’t forget.” You agree.
“Good.”
“Good.” You mimic and stall for a reason to not close the car door, but you can’t come up with anything.
“Bye.”
“Bye.” Will looks at you with a longing expression.
You finally close the car door and start walking in the direction of the parking garage entrance. Will watches you start getting farther and farther away until he can no longer see you.
The only thought running through his head is how he needs to see you again.
•••
You get back to your apartment and unlock the door. You immediately reach for your phone and see that Will sent you some DMs over Instagram. Replying to the stories you posted throughout the night. You make a mental note to yourself to respond to them.
Angel, your two-month-old golden retriever, pads over from her bed. You peek down the hallway to see the door to your roommates’ room closed, the lights turned off.
“Were you a good girl, Angel?” You crouch down and scratch behind her ears. She lets out a soft rumble of acknowledgment. “Good.”
You open your texts and pull up Will’s number.
YOU
got home safe!
Angel says hi
You send him a picture of Angel, who is pressed up against your leg.
WILL
Look at her! Makes me miss my dog 🥲
YOU
Awww I’m sorry. Can you come visit her the next time we see each other?
WILL
Adding to the deal?
YOU
Whatever lets me see you again
Will takes a few seconds to respond, and you have to think that maybe you were a little too forward.
WILL
You don’t need to bribe me with your dog. I’ll see you again, no matter what.
YOU
Very sweet of you
Well, I have to get to bed
WILL
Have a good night
YOU
Good night to you, too
You walk through the apartment and make it to your bedroom, Angel trotting after you. You take your time getting ready for bed before crawling underneath the covers. You open Instagram one more time to respond to Will’s DMs. However, you see another DM in your notifications. You click on it to see it’s from Macklin Celebrini.
It reads: did you two kiss?
You let out a bark of laughter before throwing a hand over your mouth. Will seems to have a very involved best friend. Yet despite Macklin’s very forward question. You couldn’t help but wish you had kissed Will.
in terms of your recent post, maybe abbot x professional athlete! reader — (volleyball/gymnastics/swim/soccer etc.) she comes in for a devastating ACL tear or something of the like and he’s the one who treats her? maybe jack recognizes her because robby & him would catch your teams games every now and he’s caught off guard seeing you up close, and afterwards reader stops by a couple days later to drop by some tickets to the next match and perhaps her phone number…
spinning out | dr. jack abbot
pairing: jack abbot x f!figure skater!reader
warnings: language, angst with a happy ending, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), almost certain medical inaccuracies because i have no idea what i'm talking about but i researched and did my best <3
word count: 3.4k
summary: you are pittsburgh's sweetheart, the ice princess, the hometown hero. when you come into the emergency room on the worst day of your life, jack is the one who meets his match.
notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. i once again took some liberties with this request, but i hope that you enjoy it! i decided to make reader a figure skater! one of my many favorite fixations! not proofread so apologies for errors <3
the screaming that comes from chairs is enough to get the attention of any tuned-in physician or nurse. but it especially gets jack’s attention– because it’s not just screams that indicate pain, or fear. there’s just… general commotion. and that can be a lot more dangerous than anything else.
everyone in the chairs is on their feet– if they can be. jack and dana barrel out, trying to parse out what exactly it is that’s happening. but the second that he lays his eyes on you, he knows why.
you’re the face known all around pittsburgh. your face is on many billboards, definitely in the newspaper, and regularly on the local news. and it’s been this way since jack moved to pittsburgh, back in 2015. at the time, he remembers you looking so fresh faced– only twenty, and you were on track to be one of the best figure skaters in the world. call it morbid curiosity, but jack had kept up with your career, loosely, in the way that most people who lived in pittsburgh is. that's what he told himself, anyway.
“alright, alright, everyone sit the fuck down and stop crowding around her,” jack calls, approaching you and the gaggle of people who surround you. you still wear a dazzling outfit, catching every single light and refracting it back out. your feet are socked but there are no skates to be found, and two people on either side of you helping hold you up right-- barely. you look abysmal, when you finally make eye contact with him– mascara trails down your cheeks, hairs are out of place, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen an expression so… hardened. “come on, we’ll help you. dana– get a wheelchair.”
jack helps the people he learns are your coaches transfer you to the wheelchair. you still haven’t uttered a word– you just look down at your hands, pick the skin around your cuticles. “we think it’s an acl tear,” your coach says to jack. “happened during a competition. a smaller one, thankfully. we don’t need that kind of scrutiny.” this makes jack’s face screw up slightly, but he continues to listen. “we just– we’ve gotta have her back on the ice next week.”
“dana, go ahead and wheel her back to south-9, i’ll be right in.” jack turns his attention to your coach. a stark woman, small eyes, full lips, very obviously tanned. “alright,” he claps his hands together. “you all are going to have to stay out here. we’re very packed in the er, so i can’t have you back. we’ll come out and grab you when we have an update. okay?”
he can tell that this doesn’t please her, but he doesn’t really care. because while she’s bemoaning the possibility of more people bearing witness to what is likely one of the worst moments of your life– not for your sake, but for the sake of image… jack knows himself. he won’t be able to work effectively with that type of squawking in his ear.
when he goes to central, he points at dana. “don’t let coach and company in. feel me?”
“i feel you, boss,” she says without looking up from her computer. “donnie’s in there right now, but she’s ready for you.” she looks up at jack, plucking her readers off. “never a dull moment, huh? we got celebrities now!”
he tries to find it amusing, but then he remembers the look on your face, and he can’t find the humor within the situation. he simply squeezes dana’s shoulder, turns around, and takes a deep breath before he enters south-9.
–
the door opens. click shuts. you hardly hear it– all you hear is the blood in your ears. all you feel is the throbbing in your knee. all you know is that it’s over.
you took pride in what you do. you love ice skating– as an art form, as a way that you have honed your body over many, many years. you’re proud of all of the regional, national, world competitions you’ve won– you’re proud of all of that. and really, you only wanted one more thing. you knew it was a stretch, you knew it was a strain on your body, you knew, at 30, some think you’re too old for your sport… but it didn’t matter.
you just wanted to win gold. once in your life.
you’ve had silver, and bronze, you’ve gotten close to gold the last two olympics– neck and neck with your competitor, who ultimately, worked harder. was better than you. that’s what you tell yourself. that’s what your coaches have told you, to push you. your family doesn’t say it, but you feel it radiating off of them.
you don’t need the doctor to tell you that it’s over. you felt it the second that you landed wrong and crumpled to the ice, a glittering pile of dreams that will never be realized. you cried, not from the pain– you know pain intimately, have walked side by side with pain your entire life. you cried because it was all for nothing.
“hi. i’m dr. abbot.”
you don’t respond.
he sits in one of those spinny stools that all doctors use. you finally glance at him. “you don’t have to say it,” you wipe at your cheeks. “6-8 weeks until i can get back on the ice after an ACL tear. this isn’t my first tear, so i’ll likely need grafting surgery. so who knows how much further that would set me back.”
“wow. you want my job?” he tries to crack the tension but it’s no use. not really.
you’re approaching catatonic.
but it’s like a nail pops a balloon, and suddenly, all that you are is a heaving, sobbing mess.
the doctor– dr. abbot– sits with you. at one point, he offers you a tissue. then, the trash bin to throw it. and then, his hand.
you don’t think twice before you take it. you take it and you squeeze and you use it to tether yourself because everything feels like it’s floating away from you– a career, a dream, a desire.
but other things, too.
pain. being talked down upon. only being useful for one thing.
he doesn’t leave. he doesn’t even move a muscle. others try to come in and swap out and at one point you swear he says, “shen, fuck off, i’m busy.”
you don’t know how long you cry. you’re exhausted after. and itchy, because this stupid outfit clings in every spot that hurts and it feels like a humiliation ritual more than anything else, at this point.
“can i–” your throat is scratchy, and jack hands you a water bottle. you chug at it, greedy. “can i get a gown? and–” you look around, as if scared that they might be there behind you. “tell my coaches to fuck off and go home?”
a small smile creeps onto jack’s features. “yes, i can do that.” he hesitates before he stands up. “we’re gonna get you all checked out. see what we can do for you, and what orthopedic surgery is going to need to do. and we’ll be able to determine how long until you can skate again. alright?”
you nod your head. he finds your eyes. “we got you. alright?” tears are still brimming, hanging off your eyelashes like the saddest dew drops known to man.
–
it doesn’t look good. your assessment of your injury was largely accurate, jack found, when he began his examination of your knee with a delicate touch– being as intune with your body as you are, jack isn’t surprised. he comes back with x-rays and brings in ellis to observe. “you’re smart, i’ll give you that,” he says as he enters the room, and he’s proud of himself when you smile. you’re changed, and he thinks that someone must have given you a makeup wipe, because your face is fresh and beautiful and he has to clear his throat before he continues with his diagnosis and what he’d recommend for treatment.
“you’re looking at, maybe 16 weeks before you can get back out. and that’s entirely dependent on how you heal after the surgery. and even if you do start skating, you’re going to need to take it slow.” he finds your eyes. this is the kind of news that he hates delivering, and he thinks if he has to do it, he can at least look someone in the eye while doing it. they’re beautiful– and they have a depth to them that he doesn’t find in most. you’re not scared off by his eye contact. you maintain it with little effort. “i’m sorry.”
the chuckle that you let out causes a shiver to run down his spine. it’s so humorless, that it creates a chasm inside of him that wants nothing more than to make it better. “yeah, of course it is.” you lean your head back. “the press will be here soon.”
jack and ellis share a glance. “your team is talking to them outside, we believe,” ellis says with a wince.
you smirk. “ah. of course.” you look back to abbot. “thank you for your help. i’m sorry i’m wretched. just…” you shrug. “what a shitty fucking day.”
“yeah, i don’t doubt it.” he chews on his lip. “can we arrange to have someone else pick you up once you’re cleared?”
“there’s no one else,” you say seamlessly. “i’ll call an uber.”
it’s odd, he thinks to himself. seeing you up close and personal, real. he would’ve thought you were entirely delicate, a beautiful flower kept in a box, plucked out, and put onto the ice to entrance everyone who watches you. but you’re so human and alive and he can sense this way that you’ve been treated, and when you say there’s no one else except these people who look at you as a product, a brand, a liability… something snaps.
“we’ll arrange to have someone take you home. it’s a risk to have you take any sort of public transportation where someone can’t assist you into your home.”
you look between the two physicians. your eyes land on jack and he thinks that you might fight it– but then, you concede, and give a meek nod of your head, and he feels that tightening in his chest that he keeps experiencing. he wants to wrap you up and hide you away– far away from those people taking advantage of you.
he’s just starstruck. that's what he decides to chalk it up to.
–
dr. jack abbot does ensure you’re driven home by someone. he is very professional, and polite, as he instructs you on when to return to the hospital for a pre-op appointment, and how to manage your pain in the meantime.
eventually, you do have surgery. eventually, you’re back in PTMC, and your eyes trail on the emergency department as you go past it, wondering if you might be able to sneak a glimpse of him.
you fire your coaches. you tell your team to fuck off. your publicist can hardly get ahold of you, and, naturally, everyone wants a statement. it makes you laugh to think about it. yeah, you’d like a statement too, you think. bitter. always so bitter in those first weeks after.
once you start recovering from surgery, the bitterness dissipates, but you certainly don’t sweeten to what has happened to you. you watch with bloodshot eyes, the footage of it happening. you’re rapt with it, and it’s a little sadistic, you think to yourself– but you can see the exact moment of the tear. the exact moment everything shifts.
that night, you write find a therapist down on a to-do list.
your first session, as you recount the story to her, you get hung up on the portion in the emergency room. you explain it in great detail, and when it gets to your doctor… “i broke,” you admit with a shrug. “i broke in the emergency room. and the doctor, he stayed. you know– sonja, and marci, they were both out there. yes, he asked them to stay back, but it was because even the doctor could see it. that they didn’t care about me. they didn’t care if i was okay. they cared that i wasn’t functional anymore.” you stop yourself. steel yourself. “but he stayed with me. he held my hand when he cried. and i can’t…” you look down at your hands, pick at already raw cuticles. “i couldn’t remember the last time someone was so nice to me, just for the sake of being nice.”
your therapist suggests you go back, and thank dr. abbot. you think this is a good idea, but you’ve spent so much time being an ice skater, you don’t know if you really know how to be a human being anymore. how do you talk about anything that’s not a diet, choreography plans, workout regimine, or regional scores? do you know how to be earnest, and real, and honest?
you hobble towards the emergency room, the brace you wear restricting your mobility, but you’d finally gotten off the crutches, thank god. you hold a box of cookies that you had baked yourself– with all this newfound free time, and with the fact that you could actually eat, freely, in a way that was almost certainly healthier than whatever restrictive nonsense you were doing before, you’d picked up baking as a hobby. you weren’t great. but you weren’t horrible, either.
it felt so good to just be mediocre at something. to not care. to just enjoy it for the sake of enjoying it.
you approach the registration desk. she– lupe, her nametag says– recognizes you instantly, you can tell. you say hello, and introduce yourself by name anyway. “um– dr. abbot treated me here, about five weeks ago. i was wanting to say…” you attempt to slow you breathing, your nervousness. “i was wanting to see if i could say thank you.”
lupe gives you a warm smile. “oh, that’s sweet, honey. we all heard about what happened– i am so sorry.” your lips press into a line. the sentiment is kind– but it strikes you, anyway. “let me go see what i can do.”
–
it’s never good when lupe is coming back.
jack snatches the sterile gown, soaked in blood from a woman that he was unable to save, and shoves it into the proper disposal. he rubs sanitizer into his hands and he eyes lupe, trying to muster up a smile. “can i hold onto hope and a prayer that you’re about to tell me something good, and not bad?”
“yes, actually. for once, right?” lupe laughs and she begins to explain to him that you’re outside. when she says that, jack’s eyes go wide. “she wants to thank you. can i bring her to the family room?”
“uh– yeah. yes, please do.”
you go to central to finish up on a chart when robby approaches jack at his side. “i hear ice princess is back,” he says with a small smile, crossing his arms over his chest.
somehow, a rumor got around that you had cried in jack’s arms in south-9. that he had cradled you and held you and stroked your hair– he’s fairly certain it was princess and perlah. no, he knows it was princess and perlah. all good ER rumors start and end with him.
“don’t call her that,” jack says without looking up from the screen. “not cool.”
“oh, my apologies.” robby’s eyes trail to the family room, where you’re limping in. “she’s walking on that knee.”
jack snorts. “that’s the least surprising thing i’ve ever heard.” after an interaction with you that barely went over an hour, he felt like he understood you. he understood that, of course you were walking. you were determined, and you were used to your body bending to your will– not the other way around. he looks over at the family room as the door shuts with a faint thwick.
“go get ‘em, tiger,” robby says and it makes jack scowl.
he’s a good, professional physician. he doesn’t have crushes on patients.
he opens the door. and you’re sitting there, beautiful, clear eyed– there’s still a storm cloud or two burrowed within you, he knows, but not the same as when he met you the first time.
you go to stand up, but he instantly shakes his head. “oh– no. in fact…” he looks at the couch and grabs a pillow. “elevate.”
you look at him incredulously. “my surgeon said i only needed to elevate for 3-7 days post-op.”
“it’s always good to elevate when resting. especially since you’re walking on it.”
you roll your eyes. “the crutches slowed me down,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.
“that’s kinda the point, sweetheart.”
–
sweetheart.
your lips curl into a smile and you raise your eyebrows at him. he looks at you like he would like to crawl under this couch, and die, probably. he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “i don’t know why i said that.”
“i do,” your smile is saccharine. “because i’m a sweetheart. obviously.”
“they called you pittsburgh’s sweetheart in the paper, once.”
“oh– so you knew who i was?”
“you can’t go anywhere in this city without seeing your face!” you’ve gotten him exasperated now, riled up, and you’re thoroughly happy with yourself. this is the most fun you’ve had in you don’t even know how long, to be perfectly honest. you’ve begun to recline on the arm of the small loveseat, and jack maneuvers the pillow beneath your knee. his hands are confident, his words are not. it’s a combination that you think you could watch all day.
he takes a seat across from you, once he’s gotten you settled to his liking. and there’s that stare, again– people always said that you had a staring problem, but they must not have met jack abbot before. that man had a staring problem.
you take it almost as a challenge. you maintain the eye contact and slowly slide the box of cookies to him.
he glances down. “what’s this?”
“cookies. i made them.” you run your tongue over your teeth. “to say thank you.”
he hangs his head. looks up just enough to peer at you through eyelashes– long, pretty eyelashes. “you don’t need to thank me. i just–”
“oh, no. i do.” you clear your throat. think over the little script that you had written in your journal, all of the vulnerable and real things that you wanted to say. “i don’t know what i needed, exactly, in that moment. and in don’t know if it would be possible for one person to be exactly what i needed. it was–” you feel that swell of emotion start to rise like a tide in your abdomen, but you push through. “it was the single worst night of my life. but not because of the injury. because i just… i realized how sad my life is. i don’t have friends. my family situation is dysfunctional in a way that is not healthy. my coaches and team and everyone around me just looked at me like a thing. an item. and you looked at me and cared for me like a human being. so.” you have to clear your throat again. “thank you.”
jack’s eyes didn’t leave you, one single time. and he only looks away not to close them, rub at them. when he opens them, they’re misty, and he chuckles. “fuck,” he drags the word out, and you feel it run through the center of you. you move to stand up but he stops you. “you are a human being,” he blurts out. “and fuck anyone who has ever treated you like anything else, or less– fuck. them. seriously.”
“yeah, i fired my team.”
“good.”
“yeah.”
a comfortable quiet takes over and you go back and forth in your mind as you stand up, for real this time. “i know you’re working. and i know this is probably unprofessional, but…” you take a piece of paper from your coat pocket and you hand it to him. “when i get back on the ice, i’d like to do it for myself. but, you know, could be good to have a medical professional there to make sure i’m not fucking myself up even more, so…” you suck in a breath. “that’s my phone number.”
he opens the piece of paper and stares at the string of numbers. looks back to you. “i’ll be there.”
“great.”
“great.”
you sling your purse across your body. “that won’t be for awhile, but…” you brush past him, towards the door. “you know, i can still go out to dinner with a torn acl.”
jack smiles, dimples out. holds the door for you. “sounds like we’ve got a date.”
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Lea Willems - Verstappen (OC)
Summary: Max Verstappen and his wife’s relationship as told by Twitter.
Notes: So this came about, because I was on Instagram and looked at pictures from Alexandra Saint Mleux and was like…so what if a driver’s girlfriend looked more like me and less like her?
Then it became a whole thing, and I went down a rabbit’s hole about people online boyshaming athletes’ wives and girlfriends. This is the result. Also, it’s incredible difficult to even find aesthetic pictures to use in a smau that depict women that are even just mid-size, not even plus size. As a in-between girlie, I tried my best.
(Also I finally made a nice Lea 😂 I know somebody who will be very glad about that.)
Warnings: The internet being a horrible place. Nikita Mazepin bashing, but like…he is canonically a horrible person, so is it even bashing? Bodyshaming, fatphobic comments and the media being horrible. If I missed something, please let me know.
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
@/gridarchives: The most underrated long game in F1 history is how everyone thought Max Verstappen’s marriage wouldn’t last.
How Max and Lea Verstappen went from “mad max mistake” to “paddock’s power couple”. A thread:
@/gridarchives: Let’s start with the basics: Max Emilian Verstappen, born 30 September 1997 in Hasselt, raised in Maaseik, Belgium. Lea Willems, born 12 April 1997, raised in Maaseik.
@/gridarchives: They met as kids. Both came from racing families — Lea’s older brother ran the local karting rink where Max used to train. They were inseparable. They met at 8. Were dating by 14. Married at 18.
@/gridarchives: 2015 — Max’s F1 debut. Lea’s still in school. Doesn’t follow him to every race. Doesn't start an Instagram. Doesn’t chase a spotlight.
They do long-distance. Quietly.
And when he gets his first victory in 2016, she’s the one waiting in the garage. Not in the VIP suite. Just… there.
@/gridarchives: max is 18. Fresh off a win in Barcelona. Deep in his Mad Max era—aggressive on track, icy in interviews, throwing elbows and collecting penalties like candy.
And then, seemingly out of nowhere, He marries his high school girlfriend.
And announced it on Instagram:
@/gridarchives: Red Bull had no idea. Reportedly, Christian Horner found out when the rest of the world did.
Max showed up to the next debrief wearing a ring.
When asked about it, he just shrugged and said, “We got married.”
Like it was no big deal.
@/gridarchives: Cue chaos. The media ripped it apart.
“Too young.”
“Too fast.”
“Is she pregnant?”
“He’s ruining his focus.”
Lea was called everything from clingy to irrelevant.
She never said a word in response.
@/gridarchives: The Internet:
“This won’t last”
“teenage hormones”
“he’s too immature”
“What is he even doing getting married?”
“career suicide”
“She’s just a karting fling, right?”
@/gridarchives: After the announcement, the backlash wasn’t just about the when. It became about the who.
The internet took one look at Lea Willems — now Lea Verstappen — and collectively lost its mind.
And not in a good way.
@/gridarchives: She didn’t look like what people expected.
She wasn’t tall and wafer-thin. Wasn’t a size 0.
She didn’t wear designer brands.
She wasn’t a model, or a socialite, or someone famous in her own right. Wasn’t doing sponsored beauty campaigns or sitting front row at fashion week.
She was a normal teenage girl who had the audacity to exist beside the fastest boy in the world. And that wasn’t enough for some people.
@/gridarchives: They called her fat.
They called her plain.
They called her a phase.
They called her “a distraction.”
They said she was “a mistake made by a hormonal teenager.”
@/gridarchives: Some actual headlines from 2017:
“The Wife Verstappen Doesn’t Want You to Know About”
Like she was a scandal, not a person.
“Not Exactly A Model Marriage”
“Can Verstappen Do Better Off Track?”
“Too Much Wife, Not Enough Wow”
because she wasn’t a size 0, because she didn’t wear makeup, because she had hips and curves and didn’t fit the “WAG” mould.
@/gridarchives: It wasn’t just tabloids.
Comment sections. Fan forums. Reddit threads.
People picked apart her weight, her clothes, and her posture. Zoomed in on photos to circle “problem areas.” Compared her side-by-side with other girlfriends in the paddock like it was a contest.
@/gridarchives: And she never defended herself. Not once.
She didn’t clap back. Didn’t give an interview. Didn’t even post a Notes app statement.
She just stayed by his side. Quiet. Steady. Private.
Which, of course, only made them nastier.
@/gridarchives: Comment sections were disgusting. Fashion blogs ripped her apart. Paddock gossip accounts used blurred photos of her in jeans and sneakers with headlines like:
“This is the woman who tamed F1’s hottest young star?”
It was sexist. It was fatphobic. It was constant.
@/gridarchives: Two headlines from 2017:
“Not Quite Paddock-Ready: The Woman Behind Verstappen’s Downfall”
Another:
“The Weight of Love: Can Max Stay Focused With Her Around?”
It was cruel. Dehumanizing. And relentless.
@/gridarchives: She wasn’t flashy.
She didn’t care about glam paddock fashion.
She wore baggy Red Bull hoodies and old Adidas.
She didn’t post bikini pics.
She didn’t post at all. She still doesn’t even have an Instagram account. And for some reason, that made people furious.
@/gridarchives: And it all came to a head in Malaysia. 2017. Max won his second career race. It was one of his best weekends.
And then… that interview happened.
@/gridarchives:
The interviewer, midway through what was supposed to be a fluff piece, decided to get clever.
“Now that you're a more high-profile name, have you ever thought of… upgrading the wife situation a bit?”
“I mean, she’s not exactly the grid’s most glamorous, is she?”
@/gridarchives: Max went completely still. Didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. The silence lasted a full 5 seconds—uncomfortable, searing.
Then he stood up. Took off the mic. And walked out.
Didn’t say a word.
@/gridarchives: Red Bull PR went into meltdown. The outlet tried to backpedal, claiming it was a joke.
But Max? He was done.
Hasn’t given that outlet a single interview since.
Won’t speak to that journalist. Won’t allow access. Nothing.
Complete blackout.
@/gridarchives: When asked about it later, he said only: “I’ve tolerated a lot of things in this sport. Insults. Pressure. Hate. But you don’t get to insult my wife. Ever.”
And that was that.
@/gridarchives: For nearly three years afterwards, Max refused to answer any questions about Lea. No interviews. No comments. If asked, he would shut it down with the same two words:
“No comment.”
Sometimes cold. Sometimes biting. Always final.
@/gridarchives: At one point in 2018, a reporter tried to ask about Lea’s “lack of media polish” during a press conference. Max didn’t flinch. Just stared them down and said: “Keep my wife’s name out of your mouth.”
The room went silent.
@/gridarchives: He wasn’t just protecting her—he was making a point. If the world couldn’t treat her with basic respect, it didn’t get to know her.
@/gridarchives: Max Verstappen might be aggressive on track.
But when it comes to her? He’s pure protection.
No compromise. No apology.
@/gridarchives: Till this day, Max rarely posts about Lea on his Instagram. And when he does, he shuts the comments off.
Not for the attention.
Not for the aesthetic.
But because the internet has never deserved her.
@/gridarchives: Once a year. Maybe twice.
Usually on her birthday.
Or their anniversary.
Or something small and intimate—like a quiet photo of her walking ahead of him, holding their son’s hand, not even looking at the camera.
@/gridarchives: And the comments? Disabled. Every time.
Not to avoid backlash.
But to cut it off before it starts.
@/gridarchives: A fan once asked in a Q&A why he disables comments.
Max said, “Because she didn’t ask for this. And if you’re going to look at her, you’ll do it with respect. Or not at all.”
@/gridarchives:
He protects her like he protects his lead on the final lap—
With focus. With fire. With zero margin for error.
Because that’s love, in Max Verstappen’s language.
Not public declarations.
But boundaries.
@/gridarchives: And then came one of the wildest moments of the 2021 season that never made Drive to Survive:
@/gridarchives: mid-2021. Tensions are sky-high.
Max and Lewis are locked in one of the most intense title battles in F1 history.
Every race is war.
Every point counts.
And through all of it, Lea is quietly there.
Present. Steady. Visibly keeping her distance from the media.
@/gridarchives: But as the summer break ends, rumours start.
Whispers online.
Tabloids are posting unflattering shots of Lea in the paddock.
Comments like:
“Max’s wife letting herself go?”
“Not paddock pretty.”
“What happened to her figure?”
And then… Nikita Mazepin opens his mouth.
@/gridarchives: Overheard at a hospitality lounge, according to multiple sources: Mazepin, laughing with some junior sponsor rep, said: “No wonder Max is driving angry. Imagine going home to that every night.” Gesturing toward Lea.
Someone told Max.
@/gridarchives: That weekend, Max cornered Mazepin.
Not at the press. Not on camera. But behind the motorhomes.
Multiple witnesses said you could hear him yelling.
But the only quote that’s ever been confirmed?
“Talk about her again, and I’ll end your career before your car does.”
@/gridarchives: Mazepin reportedly tried to laugh it off. Max didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. Just turned and walked away—straight back to Red Bull. Team management never commented.
@/gridarchives:
And then came the Instagram post:
@/gridarchives: The internet went feral. F1 media tried to scramble for quotes. But Max didn’t say another word. Not about the incident. Not about the pregnancy.
He just showed up at the next race and put the car on pole.
@/gridarchives: And then? Abu Dhabi 2021. The title fight went down to the wire.
@/gridarchives:
According to multiple team sources, Lea stood quietly at the back of the garage the entire race.
Didn’t pace.
Didn’t panic.
Just watched. Hands on her baby bump.
When asked if she was nervous, she reportedly said:
“Why would I be? He was born for this.”
@/gridarchives: A Red Bull mechanic was overheard saying, “I’ve seen engineers cry. I’ve seen Horner nearly faint.
But Lea? Lea stood there like it was a normal Thursday.”
@/gridarchives: When Nicholas Latifi crashed and the safety car came out, most of the paddock erupted into chaos.
Lea? Sat down. Ate half a banana. Said, “He’ll take it. You’ll see.”
Then leaned back like she knew something the universe didn’t.
@/gridarchives: After the race, everyone was losing their minds.
Celebrating. Crying. Lea? Still calm. Still glowing.
Walked through the crowd, straight to Max.
Hugged him. Kissed him. Whispered something in his ear.
No one knows what she said. But he started crying.
@/gridarchives: Someone once asked Max what got him through that day. He said, Seeing my wife. Knowing she was there.
If she was calm, I had no excuse not to be.”
@/gridarchives: Two months later, Max did maybe the funniest thing he has ever done: announcing he became a father during a random team redline stream like it was a tire strategy update.
@/gridarchives: February 2022. pre-season. Max is on a team redline stream. Chat is flying. Comms are chill. He’s driving like a demon.
And then someone asks why he missed the previous session.
@/gridarchives: And Max, completely calm, goes: “Yeah, sorry, I was a bit busy. My son was born that day.”
Another driver on comms:
“Wait—WHAT?”
“You had the baby?”
max: “Yeah. His name’s Kai.” casually overtakes three cars
@/gridarchives:
Someone in the background (probably Jeffrey Rietveld) goes:
“Max, did you just soft-launch your child mid-race??”
Max:
“He’s perfect. Looks just like his mum.”
Icon. Legend. Zero chill. Zero Press. Just vibes.
@/gridarchives:
Chat went FERAL.
Clips instantly went viral.
F1 Twitter lost its mind.
Red Bull PR had to play catch-up for days.
@/gridarchives: Barcelona 2022. Two months after Max casually announced the birth of his son mid-sim-racing stream, he walked into the paddock in black sunglasses, a Red Bull hoodie, and a baby carrier.
@/gridarchives:
Inside the carrier: a tiny, snoozing Kai Verstappen, 8 weeks old.
Wearing noise-cancelling headphones and a Red Bull baby onesie.
Strapped to Max’s chest like the calmest accessory in the world.
“My son’s first race,” Max said. “He should get used to the noise early.”
@/gridarchives:
Lea was right beside him.
Soft jeans, a linen shirt, hair up, a tote bag with what was presumably enough diapers to survive a national emergency.
No makeup. No fuss.
The quiet core of a very loud world.
They looked like a family on a casual stroll.
Not the title favourites in the middle of a high-stakes season.
@/gridarchives:
The media tried to swarm.
Max didn’t stop walking.
Lea didn’t even blink.
@/gridarchives:
A Sky reporter asked if he was more nervous racing now that he had a kid. Max said, “No. I’ve always raced to win. Now I just get a hug either way.”
And then he smiled. Like a real one. And the internet broke.
@/gridarchives: He won that race, btw. Then went straight back to the garage to take Kai out of the headphones and kiss his forehead.
“He slept through the whole thing,” he told Sky Sports, grinning.
@/gridarchives: But Max wasn’t done for 2022. When the FIA banned jewellery in 2022, Max Verstappen responded by getting his wedding ring tattooed on.
@/gridarchives: So the FIA updated their rules: no jewellery in the car. No earrings. No chains. No rings.
Supposedly for safety.
Cue half the grid complaining, Lewis dragging them in interviews, and Max just going radio silent.
For about a week.
@/gridarchives: Then someone spots it.
On the Thursday of the next GP.
A thin, clean tattoo around Max’s ring finger.
Black ink. No embellishments.
Just a simple band.
Someone asks about it, and Max goes: “The rule said I had to take the ring off. Didn’t say I couldn’t make it permanent.”
@/gridarchives: Someone else asks if it hurt. “Not as much as leaving it off.”
@/gridarchives:
Bonus: Christian Horner was reportedly told after the fact:
“Max walked in, took his gloves off, and I saw the ink.
I said, ‘Is that what I think it is?’
He said, ‘FIA can’t ban skin.’”
@/gridarchives: Let’s also talk about how much Max’s family loves Lea:
@/gridarchives:
Let’s start with Jos Verstappen.
A man who, famously, trusts no one.
But when asked once in a Dutch interview about his son’s success, he said:
“Max has two advantages. His talent. And Lea.”
“She makes him better. She makes him calm.”
from Jos. That’s practically a sonnet.
@/gridarchives:
Sophie Kumpen, Max’s mum, was the first to believe in Max & Lea. Sources say she knew from the start that Lea was “good for him.”
In a rare interview, Sophie said: “She’s grounded. She sees Max for who he really is—not the driver, not the number. The boy. The man. She’s calm. I like calm.” Mothers know. Mothers see.
@/gridarchives: Then there’s Victoria Verstappen, Max’s sister.
Fashion, fitness, mama of three—loved by fans.
Has repeatedly said that she considers Lea a sister, not an in-law.
“She’s my family. Has been since we were teenagers. We grew up side by side. I trust her with everything.”
@/gridarchives: And they were all fiercely protective of her during the years. According to a Dutch journalist, Jos once called an editor directly and said, “Write another headline about her weight, and I’ll see you in court.” #DadEnergy
@/gridarchives: Victoria has posted maybe a dozen photos with Lea in the past decade—quiet, untagged, casual:
@/gridarchives: And every single time, without fail, the comments are a mess.
Bodyshaming. Comparisons. “She’s not hot enough.” “Why does she look tired?”
The usual sexist, vile garbage.
@/gridarchives: But Victoria? She’s not having it.
“You don’t get to speak about my family that way.”
“If you wouldn’t say it about yourself or your sister, don’t say it here.”
“Delete this comment and never come back.”
“Take your body issues elsewhere”
“You must be exhausted being this bitter online”
That’s in the comments. Publicly. Repeatedly.
@/gridarchives: At one point in 2021, she even posted a story about it:
@/gridarchives: I am not done. Lea Verstappen is as much a part of Red Bull Racing as any race engineer or strategist.
Here’s what the people behind the scenes have said about her
@/gridarchives: Christian Horner (2017) – early days: “Max keeps his private life very private. We respect that. I’ve only met Lea a few times, but she seems like a lovely, grounded young woman.”
(translation: Who is this girl and where did she come from?)
@/gridarchives: Christian Horner (2023) – post-Kai, post-3 world driver’s championship titles: “Lea’s been the calm in Max’s storm. She doesn’t need to be in front of the cameras to make an impact. She’s the reason he’s still sharp. Still here.”
@/gridarchives: Gianpiero Lambiase (GP), Max’s race engineer: “Lea is Max’s reset button. I’ve seen him go from zero to rage and back to calm in under a minute because of one text from her. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to.” Iconic.
@/gridarchives: Helmut Marko (2023): “I thought she’d be a distraction when they got married. I was wrong. She’s the opposite of a distraction. She made him… sharper. More dangerous, in a good way.” (yes. Helmut Marko said that.)
@/gridarchives: Red Bull comms team (2022), anonymously: “Lea has never, not once, asked for press management. No image control. No story spin. Her only request was: Don’t use Kai for content. And she said it so kindly, we printed it and taped it to the media room wall.”
@/gridarchives: Jonathan Wheatley (2022), Former Red Bull Sporting Director: “She’s the one person I’ll never say no to in the garage.
She brings us banana bread and keeps Max from threatening to move to endurance racing when he’s moody.”
@/gridarchives: One mechanic from Red Bull’s pit crew (2020): “When the media was tearing her apart in ’17, she brought us coffee in the garage. No cameras. Just said, ‘Thanks for looking after him.’ I’ve worked 200+ races. That’s the only thank you I still remember.”
@/gridarchives: And the thing is? None of these quotes comes from trying to promote her. Lea has never once been part of the brand. She’s not a Red Bull ambassador. Not an image. Just a quiet presence who everyone, from Horner to the interns, has come to respect.
@/gridarchives And it’s not just Red Bull. Ask around the entire grid, and the way people talk about Lea Verstappen is with quiet awe.
@/gridarchives: Lewis Hamilton (2022): “She doesn’t show up for the cameras. She shows up for him. You can tell—there’s real love there. Real quiet. Real strong.
I respect that.”
@/gridarchives: Daniel Ricciardo (2023): “Lea’s been around longer than most of the guys on the grid have even had race seats. She’s part of the Verstappen firmware. Comes with the engine. And her banana bread is terrifyingly good. Like… disarm-a-grown-man good.”
@/gridarchives: Charles Leclerc (2021): “She used to sit on the karting fences next to my mum. Always quiet. Always watching. People talk about Max changing over the years, but I think the best parts of him were always there. She just kept them safe.”
@/gridarchives: And then there’s Kai. Lea and Max’s son. Now a paddock regular with noise-cancelling headphones and strong opinions.
@/gridarchives: A little boy who adores his parents… and who calls Daniel Ricciardo “Uncle Danny”. Who calls Oscar Piastri “Car” and hugs his leg when he’s tired. (Oscar panics every time.) Who once tried to drive Lewis’s scooter, and Lewis let him.
@/gridarchives: It’s been almost ten years since Max and Lea Verstappen got married. They’ve weathered the spotlight. The storms. The silence. The wins.The losses The noise. The pressure. And through it all, they’ve never wavered.
@/gridarchives: Lea has never given an interview. Never done a press tour. Never gone on a podcast. There is no tell-all memoir. No YouTube vlog. No WAG content series.
Just: banana bread, Red Bull hoodies, and a quiet kind of grace that broke the mould.
@/gridarchives: Lea Verstappen didn’t come to the paddock to be famous. She didn’t come to be seen. She came to stand beside the boy she loved at 14— Who became a man. A world champion. A father.
And she never once let the world shake her.
@/gridarchives Max Verstappen doesn’t perform love.
He protects it.
And Lea Verstappen?
She’s not just the woman behind the champion.
She’s the reason he stayed human in a sport that tries to turn people into machines.
@/gridarchives: People tried to ignore her.
Then tried to ridicule her.
And when that didn’t work, they tried to erase her.
But she’s still here.
Still Lea.
Still standing exactly where she always has—
Right next to Max.
@gridarchives Power couple doesn’t even cover it.
Max & Lea Verstappen?
They built something that lasted.
And in Formula 1?
That’s rarer than a clean lap around Monaco in the wet.
Scott Hunter lived on the Lower East Side in a fancy, newer penthouse apartment type complex that reminded him more of an expensive hotel than an actual place people lived full-time.
(Y/N) stood in the elevator for a while, staring at the panel that needed a code to lead him to the right floor in tried annoyance. He was so tired of penthouses and apartments and cities.
His brain was mushy from all the emotions he'd gone through in a matter of a couple of days, leaving him unable to remember any dates or numbers that would be important to Scott, so he typed in some random numbers that felt right.
He blinked, surprised, when the elevator began moving. Damn. I should play the lottery. He took his phone out, powering it on, and waiting until the screen of his phone lit up.
Nearly fifty missed calls from Crybaby, but only a handful of messages asking him to come back or at least tell him where he'd gone.
His heart clenched at the last message from Ilya, a surge of pity and guilt flooding his gut.
Crybaby
Please don't do anything
(Y/N)
I'm fine. I'm with a friend. I need time.
Crybaby
Ok. Be safe. Please.
Letting out a quiet sigh, (Y/N) searched for Scott's contact and brought his phone to his ear. He knew Scott was home, as were the rest of the Admirals.
They'd taken a humiliating loss very early on, and sports channels refused to let Scott forget his poor performance. They were harder on Scott due to his long experience in the league and the Admirals potential to be great, but the tough love still sucked to see when it involved scathing criticism.
It took a few rings before Scott picked up, and right as he began a greeting, (Y/N) said, "Hey." The elevator doors slid open, and he stepped out into the small hallway between the elevator doors and Scott's front door. "What's the code to your door?"
Silence for a beat, and then rustling. (Y/N) hung up, sticking his phone in his pocket again and rocking back and forth on his heels while he waited.
The door opened, and Scott Hunter's pretty hazel eyes greeted him on the other side. He still had his phone to his ear, his furrowed brows slowly relaxing and lifting in surprise and mild concern.
He stepped out of the way, his attention dropping to the luggage in (Y/N)'s hand, and his brows furrowed again. "Are you okay?" He asked, shutting the door behind them once he entered.
(Y/N) surveyed Scott's apartment since, despite the amount of times he'd driven past the building or dropped Scott off at it, he'd never actually gone into his unit. It looked right from a magazine cover.
He wouldn't be surprised if Scott had bought it completely furnished and simply brought his clothes with him when he moved in. Sounded like Scott Hunter.
He chuckled to himself, feeling a little lighter from merely being in Scott's soothing presence. His hand raised to rub the back of his tense neck, his eyes locked on the snowy scenery of New York City's rooftops.
"I'm.. dating Shane Hollander."
"Oh, wow!"
"And I think we're probably going to break up soon because he knows I'm still in love with Roz, and now Roz knows that I'm in love with him and basically obsessed with him because we had an argument about-" (Y/N) tilted his head toward the kitchen to look at the clock on the stove. "-three hours ago and I.. let it all out."
"Oh... wow."
(Y/N) laughed breathlessly, releasing the handle of his suitcase and turning around to face the captain. Scott's mouth pressed into a sympathetic, borderline pitiful smile, and he walked forward, wrapping his arms around him to bring him in tight. (Y/N) hummed in contentment, sliding his arms around Scott's waist and resting his head against his shoulder.
"Kip and I started going out," Scott revealed quietly, his following sigh telling (Y/N) there wasn't a positive ending to their cute, movie-like meeting. "We... broke up." He pulled away, his gaze downcast and guilty, his arms slumping at his sides. "It was.. my fault. I couldn't give him the relationship he wanted. I'm... a selfish coward."
"Hey." (Y/N) frowned, placing his hands over Scott's biceps and squeezing. "You're not selfish, Scott. You're the most generous guy I know. You're scared of how the media and fans might react, I get that."
Scott gave another heavy sigh and peeled away from him to pick up his luggage, taking it to the guest bedroom. "I tried, (Y/N). I really did. I visited him at work, I invited him over all the time and cooked for him, I.. I tried to visit an art gallery with him, but... I didn't want to risk being seen and having rumors start. Fuck, (Y/N), the look on his face..."
(Y/N) followed him to the bedroom, his face in a grimace and arms folded over his chest. "I get him. Hollander's the same. He... He's scared of what the Metros and the fans will think. He's scared of disappointing his parents. I get it, but... it hurts to be set aside and have it look so effortless. Sometimes.. I think it'd just be easier to stop dating guys altogether."
"They're... nice." Scott arched a brow, his lips quirking up. (Y/N) hadn't forgotten all the squabbles Scott and Ilya had gotten into over the years, or the time Shane had chosen a bad day to chirp at Scott. "To me. They're nice to me."
Scott hummed agreeably, gingerly setting his luggage by the bed and flicking on the light to the bathroom for him.
"If I liked women, I'd do it, but..." His shoulders rose and fell. "I already checked, and guys are it for me. I don't think Rozanov or Hollander will be letting you go that easily, anyway. I've seen how they act around you. It's cute. Questionable choices in guys, but cute."
"They must be really nice if you're in this mess."
(Y/N) laughed at that and walked forward, spinning on his heel and collapsing back onto the bed. He stared up at the ceiling, his hands lacing together over his stomach. Scott sat at the edge of the bed, his cheek leaning against his shoulder and gazing down at him with a small smile. (Y/N) puckered his lips.
"Maybe we should say fuck it and date, you and I," (Y/N) said playfully, his mouth stretching out into a grin. Scott rolled his eyes affectionately because they both knew the chances of that had long passed them by. "I ditch tweedledee and tweedledum, you ditch the barista-"
"Smoothie maker."
"Right, right, and then, we get together. I come down for the offseason with my cat, and you can try convincing me to stay here in this dumpster of a city-"
"Hey," Scott flicked (Y/N)'s shoulder and then lowered himself down onto his side, propping his head up on his hand. "You can't try to seduce me by insulting my city, (Y/N)."
"It's not an insult, it's a fact." (Y/N)'s grin widened, and he chuckled at Scott's scoff. "I mean, come on. Have you never thought about us hooking up? Surely, you've heard of my reputation," (Y/N) cooed, rolling over onto his stomach and leaning on his elbows. "It's not like Shane is going to want me anymore after all this bullshit. I can help you get Kip back, and the both of us can make him very happy."
Scott leaned forward, letting the tips of their noses brush. "You have to stop using sex as a coping mechanism, (Y/N). It's not healthy."
(Y/N)'s grin slowly fell away, and Scott leaned back, the sympathetic glint in his eyes making (Y/N)'s face burn with embarrassment. "I don't." He insisted weakly. "I just like it."
"You said it yourself, you had an argument with Rozanov, and you're running away. I know you. I've known you longer than both Rozanov and Hollander. I've seen you. Things weren't going well with Rozanov, so you hooked up with Hollander, right? That's what Vegas was about. Things aren't going well with either of them, so you came here. Has Hollander even told you he wants to break up?"
"No..."
Scott's brows lifted pointedly, and (Y/N) dropped his head onto the mattress with a groan.
"Scott, I basically told him our relationship was hopeless, and then Roz body slams him. He's lucky nothing was bruised, but there's no going back from that. He's a Canadian, remember? I'm gonna go back to Montreal, and he's going to look at me with those big black eyes, and he's going to politely call it quits."
"You don't know that."
"What else is he going to do, Scott? He's not going to let it go. I can't be in love with two people at once, and he's going to point that out. Come on, if Kip had a friend he slept with before he got with you and basically admitted he was in love with them, you'd break up with him, right?"
(Y/N) smiled at him, semi-somberly. He wished someone would talk about him like that. "You should tell him that, Scott." He told him gently, lifting himself into a sitting position.
Scott pressed his mouth together, his eyes jumping away sheepishly. Seriously?
"It's Kip." He murmured when (Y/N) shot him a look of disbelief, his cheeks turning a soft pink. "I.. I love Kip. I want to be with him every waking moment. I want to open my eyes and see him in bed with me. I want to have coffee with him in the morning and talk for hours. I want to- to show him off to the world. I'll take him, no matter how much baggage he comes with. I've got more than him, anyway."
Stubbornly, and with self-pity, Scott shook his head, his finger tracing random patterns on the bedsheets. "He deserves better. He deserves someone who'll brag about him to anyone who'll listen."
"You've done that, Scott. You've bragged about him to me, remember?"
"He's probably found someone else by now," Scott said, devastatingly sadly, his tone full of regret (Y/N) was all too familiar with.
"You don't know that." (Y/N) echoed back to him teasingly, genuinely, reaching out to pat Scott's soft brown strands and wondering if maybe in another lifetime, he'd been graced with someone as devoted as Scott.
But he knew Shane and Ilya were just like Scott, and (Y/N) was the last person deserving of their devotion. They believed him to be something he was certain he'd never be, and perhaps that was partly why he ran from them so much.
An overwhelming heaviness invaded his chest, a sense of emptiness he couldn't describe. He inhaled gently.
Scott raised his gaze to study him for a moment. "You want to talk about it?"
"About how I'm destined to be alone forever? Not really." (Y/N) looked away from him, his teeth digging into the side of his cheek. "I have to figure out custody arrangements for the cat now. How am I supposed to get over my first, perfect boyfriend when he'll be popping over to see Irina?"
"And what if I do want to give up?" (Y/N) asked quietly.
"I never took you for such a Negative Nancy, (Y/N). He hasn't broken up with you."
Scott pushed himself out of bed and adjusted his wrinkled sweater, his hands resting over his hips. He looked like a young dad trying to wrangle in his teenager. (Y/N) snorted quietly to himself.
"Why don't you call him while I make us something to eat? Show him you don't want to give up."
Not on the relationship, just yet, but with everything else.
Hockey was barely bringing him any joy anymore. It was turning into more and more of a burden. He couldn't do things he enjoyed, and he was far from home or incredibly busy for most of the year.
Life was... bleak. Shane and Ilya made it brighter. Irina made it more interesting.
Jackie was kind enough to feed Irina while they were away, and whenever she couldn't, Yuna or David made the small road trip to the city so they could take care of his pet.
He couldn't be public with his boyfriend because neither of them knew how the league would react, and he had nine more years before he'd be expected to retire or seriously consider it so he could be replaced by a newer, younger, improved version of him.
"Do you love him?" Scott asked gently. (Y/N) nodded. "Then you don't give up."
(Y/N) smiled at him. "Hypocrite." He accused lightly, no real bite behind it, and Scott shrugged with a smile of his own. "You should take your own advice, Hunter."
"Maybe I will. Someday."
"But not today?"
"Exactly."
(Y/N) huffed out a laugh and shook his head as Scott left the room. He reached down, getting rid of his sneakers and socks, before he slid his hoodie over his head and slid his phone out.
He considered Scott's words, searching through his contacts until he reached Shane's and hovered his thumb over the call button.
"Fuck it."
He tapped on the screen and brought the phone to his ear, his other hand tugging and toying with the hem of his shirt anxiously. The phone only rang once, and then Shane picked up, what sounded suspiciously like part of the Wall-E soundtrack lowering in volume in the background.
Shane was silent, so (Y/N) spoke first. "Are you at my place?"
"Yeah." Shane's voice was soft, quiet, something expectant about it. "I thought it'd be better if I stayed here until you got back so Irina wouldn't be lonely. Do you know when you're driving up? Are you still in.. in Boston?"
"Uhm... no, not anymore, actually. I'm in New York, visiting Hunter. SportsCenter was.." He let out a sharp whistle. Shane gave an understanding hum.
They'd both been privy to the comments from the announcers during the game the Admirals lost. It seemed like Kip had been Scott's lucky charm. Sometimes the guys gave actual constructive criticism, sometimes they were simply massive pricks.
"I've got everything in the car, though. I left all of the furniture for Rozanov."
"Was... was he there?" Shane asked, and (Y/N) took a deep breath. That was all Shane needed to hear to understand. "How'd it go?"
"Peachy," (Y/N) murmured, standing up and walking around the bed to make his way toward the window. He gazed out into the city, watching lights across it turn off and on like twinkling stars. "We.. argued. He, uhm, he doesn't approve of the relationship."
"Shocking."
"Yeah."
The following silence was tight with unspoken words, an awkwardness seeping in instead of the comfortable quietness (Y/N) was used to. Is this the beginning of the end?
"When you said that.. you say a lot of things you don't mean..." Shane trailed off, and the movie in the background was presumably paused. (Y/N) pressed his shoulder to the wall, lifting his eyes to watch the blues of the daytime and the oranges of dusk meet. "Have you ever lied to me, (Y/N)?"
"Other than saying I was going to tell you about Boston," (Y/N) licked his lips. "I don't think so, no."
"Are you lying to me now?"
"No, Shane." He should've kept the conversation to Irina and Montreal, not Boston and the clusterfuck that was their situation.
"Okay. I believe you."
"Great." (Y/N) hadn't meant to sound so annoyed, but it slipped out in his tone, and he winced.
"Are you mad at me?"
"We'll talk when I get back, alright? I..."
Usually, (Y/N) enjoyed Shane and his millions of questions. It made him feel heard, and it showed that Shane wanted to learn about him.
Now, it grated on his nerves and made him rub his face in frustration. (Y/N) never liked being accused of lying, but he should've seen it coming. Rozanov stirred an ocean of feelings in both of them
"I can't wait to be back."
(Y/N) swallowed, the two following words creeping up his throat and then promptly falling back down. Shane was going to leave him sooner or later; he knew that for a fact.
Was it worth saying it?
Shane exhaled on the other end. "Right, yeah. Irina misses you. I'll see you soon?"
"Yeah."
2015, New York City, Next Morning
(Y/N) awoke disoriented, his body jolting in confusion at the sight of the forest green walls surrounding him before the fog of drowsiness cleared, and he recalled where he was.
He slumped back onto the mattress, groaning softly into the pillow as he stretched out across the bed and felt a few things pop.
Scott would probably let him stay for a week or more; the guy needed the company, but (Y/N) had a life to return to in Montreal. Putting it off for any longer would only drag on the inevitable, and (Y/N) wanted to be home, in his own bed with his cat, when the inevitable happened.
The bedsheets smelled clean and crisp, and he remained in bed for a little while longer. He'd woken up about every hour, tossing and turning in a bed that felt much too big and empty.
The sleep clung to his eyes, but his body had grown too awake for him to doze off again, so he sat up with a soft grunt.
Standing up, (Y/N) headed into the bathroom, relieving himself and brushing his teeth sluggishly, the sleep slowly fading from his body the more he moved.
He slid a hoodie on over his bare torso and grabbed his phone from the nightstand, checking his emails and messages as he wandered out into the living room. He looked up at the smell of eggs and grinned.
"Morning!" Scott greeted him cheerfully, already in a thick hoodie and joggers, looking more awake than (Y/N) felt. He set the omelet down on the dining table and a cup of beige mush beside it. (Y/N)'s nose crinkled. "Don't make that face, (L/N). It's a peanut butter banana smoothie. You need to start being healthier."
(Y/N) gave a dramatic sigh and sat down at the dining table, jutting out his lips in playful reluctance. "Okay, Dad. Whatever you say." He huffed, a small chuckle slipping out, and grabbed the salt and pepper on the table.
"Screw you." Scott laughed, adjusting his wired earbuds in his ears and checking the time. "Want me to wait for you? It'll be a quick jog around the block. It shouldn't be too cold."
"No, it's okay."
(Y/N) took a tiny sip of the smoothie and was surprised to find it wasn't as bad as he'd been expecting. Creamy, smooth, and sweet. He'd been expecting something with a horrid aftertaste that was usual of the protein shakes they were encouraged to drink.
"People might talk if they realize I'm here."
Scott nodded, grabbing his keys. "Call me if you need anything."
And then, (Y/N) understood why Scott hadn't minded his presence at all.
(Y/N) ate his breakfast, watching the snow descend from the sky and tracing the frost along the window edges. He swallowed down his bites of omelet with the smoothie and stood up once he was finished, cleaning the dirty dishes and setting them aside to dry. He stood by the window afterward, his phone in his hand.
His place was huge, taking up a whole floor of the building, and it lacked.. life. Everything looked perfect. Too perfect, just as his own place had looked before he filled it with cat stuff to satisfy Irina.
The view of the city and the rising sun was beautiful, right out of a film, but once the sun settled properly in the sky, what else was there to do?
He needed to talk to someone who didn't have a plethora of their own issues like Scott.
Mom.
Ilya was out of the question for the time being, and Shane would attempt to drag a conversation out of him that he'd prefer to have in person. The rest of the Metros and Raiders wouldn't understand, and he barely spoke to his agent unless it was for photoshoots or interviews.
He stared down at the contact.
He sighed through his nose. The chances of her answering, much less sticking around for a conversation longer than a minute, were slim to none. He cared about her; she was his mother, and he had no other choice, but he wished she were a different person.
Someone kinder, gentler. Someone who wanted to be around him, who offered love without conditions or expectations. He disliked her so much. He loved her nonetheless.
"(Y/N), hello! I wasn't expecting to hear from you today."
(Y/N) scrolled through the list again and stopped, his bottom lip rolling into his mouth. He chewed on it a little, wondering if his call would even be picked up, and he tapped on it with a shaky exhale.
He brought his phone to his ear. It rang a couple of times. Once, twice, thrice. By the fourth ring, he was ready to hang up and claim it'd been a misclick.
(Y/N) sucked in a breath. "Hey, Mrs. Hollander."
"Yuna's fine, sweetie." Yuna reminded him with a soft chuckle, and he heard shuffling on the other end as if she were sorting through papers. Mail, maybe. "How are you? Did you need something? I know Shane's been taking care of the cat while you're gone."
(Y/N)'s teeth clenched, that subtle prickling sensation rising along his jaw. His eyes stung, and he quickly blinked, trying to clear his vision. Trying to prevent the tears from falling. He moved silently, slowly, his free hand brushing over the armrest of the couch. He swayed a little.
"(Y/N)?" The shuffling stopped, followed by rustling of her likely adjusting the phone. "You okay?"
The exhale he released was shaky. "I don't know what I'm doing." He whispered breathlessly, crumbling down onto the couch as the tears fell endlessly, streaming down his cheeks and dripping onto the collar of his hoodie, staining the fabric.
"N-No, no." (Y/N) hunched over, his elbows on his knees and his palm pressed to his forehead. His shoulders shook with sobs he desperately tried to stifle, to reel in, but they wrecked through his body so hard his chest grew sore.
"Oh, honey, what happened?"
If he hadn't been so busy crying, he would've found it amusing how easily she slipped into mom mode. Her voice grew all soft and concerned, and he could vividly imagine her scrunching her brows in the same way her son would do.
"Is this about leaving Boston? You don't have to sell or rent the house, (Y/N)-"
His hand fell to clutch his thigh, his fingers digging harshly in through the fabric of his sweats, trying to force his brain to focus on anything other than the inescapable urge to cry until he couldn't anymore.
It was so uncomfortable, breaking down in front of someone he vaguely knew, someone who'd never seen (or heard) him so small. He wanted to claw at his chest to tear out the gripping aching in it, and his lips rolled into his mouth, hoping it'd quiet down the noises he made.
He was alone in the apartment, yet it barely helped with the embarrassment.
It'd worked in the past, in his teen years, digging his blunt nails into the palms of his hands or roughly scratching his arms as a reset for his brain whenever it grew too overwhelmed to think properly.
"Do you want me to get Shane? He got here a moment ago. He's shoveling snow outside with David. I could go get him-"
"No, no, no, I- I don't want- want him to know." (Y/N)'s voice cracked, and he futilely wiped away his tears with his fingertips, his back slumping into the couch. The last thing he wanted was for Shane to feel compelled to stay out of pity or guilt. "I don't... I... God." He rubbed his leaking nose with the back of his hand. "I don't know what to do, Yuna."
He heard the sound of a door shutting and the quiet creak of a bed spring. "Talk to me, sweetie. What happened?"
(Y/N) sniffled, rubbing the fabric of his sweats between his fingers. "I.. I ruined everything, and I-I feel like I can never do anything right. I-I don't know how to be a good- a good boyfriend, and I don't know how to deal with Ilya."
God, Ilya, his Ilya... his trouble in pretty packaging.
"I try to make everyone happy, but it never works out, and- and I don't even know if I like hockey anymore. I don't even know if I like myself because I'm so fucking stupid and- and useless at everything but hockey. What am I supposed to do after hockey?" He gave a humorless laugh. "Fucking, what? Cease to exist?"
Yuna was quiet, and he winced, his lips twisting and an apology forming on the tip of his tongue. He'd unloaded a lot on a woman he only saw during the holidays or when Shane invited him out to dinner with them.
"Okay." She said gently. "I'm going to buy you a plane ticket on the first plane back to Montreal, and I'm going to book you an appointment with an old friend of mine. She's a licensed therapist, and she may have an opening to squeeze you in-"
"I don't need a shrink," (Y/N) muttered defensively, drying his cheeks with the sleeve of his hoodie and wiping his nose again. He was a grown man. He knew how to take care of himself. "I'm fine. I'm just... overwhelmed."
"I know, I know. I want you to see her, just once if you don't feel like going again, but I want you to talk to her, alright?" The bed creaked again, followed by a squeak. He heard the sound of nails on a keyboard. "What's going on with Rozanov, honey? Is- Is he your boyfriend? Did you fight?"
(Y/N) weakly smiled at the lack of surprise in her voice, only caution as to not offend him. "I'm.. I'm seeing someone else. Rozanov and I.. had a thing for a while, but it never went anywhere. He.. was upset when I told him, and... I don't know. I said a lot of things, and I don't think we'll ever go back to normal."
"Do you want things to go back to 'normal'?"
(Y/N) stared at his lap. He hadn't... truly considered what 'normal' he wanted to return to.
Their norm had become kissing, hooking up, showering together, spending as much time as possible together. It was exactly the same thing he'd begun doing with Shane, but with the title of boyfriend he'd longed for.
He wanted Ilya to be his boyfriend, but he wanted Shane to remain his boyfriend. God, I'm so selfish.
"I don't know." He answered quietly, somewhat truthfully. "I don't know what I'm going to do about him and.. and my partner. I think I should cut my losses and let them go so they can be happy with someone else. I.. I feel like I won't know how to- to... live without at least one of them around."
Yuna hummed. "It sounds like you need to take a break from relationships and learn how to, then, honey."
While he'd technically been single for most of his twenties, he'd never truly been alone. Even before Ilya had settled down in his life, he always had someone he could spend the night with. His bed rarely remained empty or cold, and he could rely on someone to show up at his front door or at his hotel room for a night of fun.
Yeah...
Yeah.
"I.. I don't want to be alone. What if that means I'll... die alone.. because no one.. wants to be there with me."
He thought back to what Shane had mentioned he'd said while drunk, and his head rolled back, his mouth falling open. It was like an epiphany had crashed into him, because his brain cleared from the dark clouds crowding it.
"I should be single for a while, huh? No flings, no one-night stands, no.. no relationships."
"It might help." Yuna agreed, the clicking of a mouse coming from her end. "There's a flight tomorrow morning, bright and early at 7 AM. I could book it and ask Shane to pick you up. I'm sure he wouldn't mind."
"I was planning on driving back to Montreal."
"I don't think you should be alone, (Y/N)."
(Y/N) thought of Ilya, of his mother and the tale of how he'd found her on the bathroom floor with a pill container nearby. "I'm not going to do anything to myself, I swear. I made a promise to someone I'd never.. do anything like that."
He remembered that day, the way Ilya clutched his hands and looked so serious for the first time in a while, demanding that he'd never go to such drastic measures. Demanding that he'd never leave him like that.
It shattered him to see the desperate fear in Ilya's eyes, the teary-eyed need to hear him swear on everything he loved because Ilya couldn't go through something like that again.
"Still." Yuna insisted lightly. "It'll be quicker. I know Shane misses you already."
I'm going to have to break up with your son, Yuna. He's going to hate me soon.
"No, it's alright. I'll drive. It'll help me clear my head and think some things over, you know?"
"Fine, but call me when you start the drive, okay? And don't hesitate to reach out. I'll let you know when the appointment is, and I'll drive you there myself." (Y/N) chuckled softly, feeling surprisingly lighter. "I'll check on you later."
"Bye."
(Y/N) let his phone slip from his hand and let out a deep, deep breath. He stared at the unnecessarily large television on the wall in silence, his body rebuilding the energy it'd released during his dramatic, and embarrassing, breakdown.
His body slumped, his legs sprawling out and arms resting at his sides, his mind moving a million miles per hour with things he wanted to do.
The door opened, and he glanced at the time. That was quick.
"It's fine." (Y/N) plucked the soft tissues from the box and finally blew his stuffy, wet nose. "I called a friend. It was a.. good chat. I think I know what I'm going to do."
"It's too cold." Ah. "I tried, but I couldn't- are you okay?"
Scott stumbled around the couch, his sneakers caked with snow, and he quickly snatched a Kleenex box from the kitchen before sitting beside him.
"(Y/N), you should have called me. I could have been here."
Scott brightened. "That's good. At least one of us does."
"I'm going to break up with Shane Hollander."
Scott's face fell into confusion. "I thought we talked about-"
"I need to be single, Scott." (Y/N) straightened himself up on the couch, twisting himself around to face the puzzled captain. "I haven't been really single in years, and I need to learn how to be alone."
"But you have been single, up until now." Scott's brows furrowed, and he balanced the Kleenex box on his thick thigh.
Scott shook his head. "I never said that."
"I mean hook-ups. I'm- I'm going celibate, I guess. 2016 is the year I take a vow of celibacy, and I focus entirely on myself- you're laughing."
(Y/N) swatted at Scott's arm with a scowl, and Scott raised his hand, slapping it over his snickering mouth. His apology came out muffled.
"You don't think I can do it!"
"But you thought it."
"But I didn't say it." Scott laughed again, at the very least smiling apologetically at him after. "(Y/N), you love sex. It's like the only way you know how to connect with people."
(Y/N) pressed his mouth into a line. Maybe it'd be a good idea to see Yuna's friend, just to confirm or deny a few things. "Okay, Jesus. I'm- I can connect with people just fine without it! Look at us!"
Scott cocked his head to the side. "We only started talking because you flirted with me at an awards show."
Fuck.
That was true.
"Whatever." He mumbled, crumpling up the tissues in his hand into balls. "I'm thinking about heading home tomorrow morning. It's almost a six-hour drive, and I can think about these New Year resolutions on the way there."
"I can go with you." Scott offered, smiling sweetly. "It'd be nice to get out of the city for a while, maybe stay at a hotel for a day or two. Take a small vacation."
(Y/N)'s brows lifted. "Really?"
"Yeah, besides, you have no one over there. If things get too much with Hollander, I'll be there to keep you company, or you can call me to diffuse things."
(Y/N) had a slight suspicion Scott simply wanted to have someone around, but he nodded anyway. "Thanks, Scott. I appreciate it."
