╰ Synopsis You’ve always called Macklin cute, thinking it’s sweet and harmless, but it drives him crazy because he thinks you don’t want him in the way he wants you.
tags/contains Macklin Celebrini x fem!bsf!reader. Fluff, slight angst, friends to lovers, mutual pining, kind of slow burn, shy Macklin, count how many time the word cute is mentioned, use of y/n, 1.9k words, requested.
➺ from Sera, to you📨. The pic I’m talking about in the fic is the one from Olympics because genuinely that’s the cutest picture I’ve ever seen, so yes in this fic they make up during the Olympics.
masterlist ᥫ᭡ please reblog this fic if you enjoyed it!
If there was one thing in the world that Macklin hated, it was the way you always called him cute.
Well, hate was a strong word.
Macklin didn’t absolutely hate it when you called him cute. There were times it felt nice, like when you’d scroll through old baby photos his mom had texted you, and you’d coo, “Look at baby Mack, so cute!” He’d duck his head, cheeks burning, but the shyness came with warmth because it was harmless.
Back then, he was still figuring out how to fill out his frame, still the kid everyone babied a little. But now it kind of felt annoying.
He was 19, standing 6’0, carrying 190 pounds of solid muscle that came from endless hours in the weight room and on the ice. He’d bulked up noticeably since his rookie year; broader shoulders, thicker legs, the kind of build that let him drive the net without getting shoved off.
In the 25-26 season, he was already at 29 goals and 54 assists, a Sharks team that finally looked like it had a future because of him. Alternate captain some nights.
He wasn’t a puppy anymore. He was a man who could bench his own bodyweight, who absorbed hits from guys twice his age and still finished checks. He wanted you to see that, and to treat him like the big guy he actually was.
But instead, you kept saying cute.
And the worst part? You said it about everything small and sweet. A puppy trotting by on the sidewalk during your daily walks together? “Aww, so cute!” A kid in a tiny Sharks hat waving at him after a game? “Look how cute that little guy is!” It wasn’t jealousy exactly, he wasn’t competing with dogs or toddlers but it lumped him in with them.
Another worst thing was that you weren’t even dating. If you had been boyfriend, girlfriend, something with labels and night kisses and mornings tangled in sheets; maybe the “cute” thing wouldn’t have landed like a slap every time.
Maybe he could’ve laughed it off, tugged you closer by the waist, murmured something cocky like, “Yeah? Wait ’til you see what else I can do that’s cute,” before proving exactly how not-cute he could be. In that version of things, “cute” would’ve been foreplay, a tease, a private joke between two people who already knew the heat underneath.
But you weren’t dating. You were just you and him: best friends, the girl who’d been there since forever. The one he could show up to unannounced, bruised and moody, and you’d still open the door without hesitation. The one he thought about way too much when the lights were off and the condo was quiet.
Macklin didn’t remember exactly when the feelings had started. Maybe they’d been there all along. Maybe they’d crept in slow when you laughed too hard at his dumb jokes, every time you patched him up after a fight. Either way, he’d been too stupid to name it until it was too loud to ignore.
In your perspective, it was totally harmless. Calling Macklin cute had always felt like the most natural thing in the world, the same as breathing. You never once thought it could hurt him. You’d noticed the way he sometimes turned his face away when the word slipped out, cheeks going pink, jaw tightening just a bit.
But you’d chalked it up to shyness. Macklin was shy in the sweetest ways, when you complimented his new haircut, when you hugged him too long after games, when you caught him staring at you across the room like he’d forgotten how words worked. That flush, that quick duck of his head made your chest ache in the best way. You loved seeing him like that.
You really did think he was cute. Not in a diminutive way, not like you were patting him on the head and calling it a day. Cute in the way his whole face lit up when he scored and he’d do that little fist pump shrug combo like he was surprised he’d done it again. Cute in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, cute in the way he’d sprawl on your couch looking exhausted and impossibly beautiful all at once.
Anytime a new picture of him popped up, you’d stop scrolling and zoom in. His smile, all teeth and triumph, cheeks flushed from adrenaline. Every single one made you melt a little more. There wasn’t a person on the planet who could unravel you like he did. Not with grand gestures, just by being Macklin, by existing in the same space as you, close enough to touch, far enough that you ached with it.
To no one’s surprise, you traveled to Italy with Macklin for the Olympics. He’d known Italy was one of the countries you’d always wanted to visit since high school.
When he made the Team Canada roster, he didn’t hesitate. “Come with us,” he’d said casually. “My family’s going. You can crash in the hotel, I want you there.” His parents had loved the idea; his mom had already booked your room before you could protest.
Tonight was one of those casual evenings. Canada had practice earlier for tomorrow’s quarterfinal; his family had retreated to their rooms after dinner. It was around 7pm, the city lights twinkling outside your window.
You and Macklin were side by side on your hotel bed, backs against the headboard, legs stretched out. He was in gray sweats, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. You had yours open to Pinterest, hunting for new nail inspo for when you got home.
The feed loaded slowly on hotel wifi. Then a photo popped up on your home page: Macklin during warmups, red jersey hugging his shoulders, helmet tilted just so, stick gripped tight. The angle caught the focused set of his jaw, the faint flush on his cheeks from the cold rink, eyes sharp under the visor but with that tiny smile tugging at his mouth.
You gasped out loud. Macklin’s head snapped toward you. “What? Show me.”
“Oh my gosh,” you breathed, already zooming in. “This is the cutest pic I’ve ever seen.”
He leaned over, expecting maybe a photo of kittens or one of those viral baby animal reels you sent him constantly. “Lemme see-”
You turned the screen toward him fully. His eyes landed on the photo of himself, in full Olympic gear, looking every bit the focused sniper who’d been tearing up the tournament. He stared at the screen, then immediately looked back down at his own phone, jaw clenching.
You didn’t notice anything at first. “Mack, that’s such an adorable face expression. Look at your little smile. Like you’re plotting to score the next one.”
He didn’t respond right away, he kept scrolling, thumb moving too fast. “No, it’s not. It’s just another random picture they took of me..”
You nudged his shoulder lightly. “Nooo, it’s my new favorite picture. I’m putting it on one of my home screen widgets.”
“Y/n.” His voice came out low, he didn’t snap; he’d never snap at you but he was annoyed. “Can you just stop?”
You blinked, lowering the phone. “Stop what?”
“Calling it cute. Calling me cute.” He set his phone face down on the bed, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not adorable. It’s just me doing my job.”
“But it is adorable,” you insisted, softer now, confused. “The way your cheeks are pink from the cold, that tiny grin, you look happy. I love it.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders tense. “That’s the problem. You love the happy, focused puppy version. Not..” He gestured vaguely at himself. “Not anything else.”
“Mack,” you started gently, “I didn’t mean-”
“I know you didn’t.” He cut you off. “But it’s every time like I’m still the kid you met years ago.” He finally looked at you. “I’m not and I don’t want to be that to you.”
Macklin didn’t know what he expected when he said that out loud but he’d carried the words around for so long, that saying them now felt inevitable. He wanted you and maybe this hotel room in Milan, was finally the right time.
You stared at him, eyes wide. “Okay.”
He exhaled, shoulders dropping. You paused, shifting so your knee brushed his. “Then what do you want to be?”
Macklin shrugged, gaze dropping to the space between you. He couldn’t look at you right now. “I don’t know.”
“Tell me, Mack.” Your voice was gentle, coaxing. You reached out, fingers brushing along his jaw lightly.
He shook his head once, catching your wrist in his hand to pull it away before the touch unraveled him completely. His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist. “This is gonna sound stupid, but.. I just want you to think I’m good looking. Not just cute.” He swallowed. “It makes me think you don’t want me the way I want you. And yeah, maybe I’m being an idiot right now, confessing like this in the middle of the freaking Olympics, but-”
“Mack!”
He stopped rambling, eyes snapping up to yours. “Do you really think I don’t find you attractive?”
He shrugged again. “I don’t know. You never say it like that.”
You let out a soft laugh. “Just because I haven’t exactly said the words doesn’t mean I don’t think it.” You moved closer, turning so you were facing each other fully on the bed. You lifted your free hand, fingers gentle under his chin, tilting his face up until he had no choice but to meet your eyes. “If anything, you’re the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen.”
The compliment landed softly, his cheeks flushed deeper, pink creeping up from his neck but this time it wasn’t embarrassment.
You smiled and started to lean in.
He met you halfway and your mouths brushed together. He deepened the kiss as his hand found the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair; yours slid to his shoulder, gripping the soft fabric of his long sleeve. You sucked lightly on his bottom lip, and he made a quiet sound in the back of his throat that sent heat curling through you both.
When you pulled back, both of you were smiling, stupid and breathless and a little dazed.
Macklin’s voice came out rough. “That.. that was nice to hear from you.” He swallowed, thumb brushing your cheek. “I think the same about you.”
You laughed softly, the sound muffled against his skin as you pressed another quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Took you long enough to say it.”
“Me?” He huffed, but there was no bite in it. “You’re the one who kept calling me something like it was a personality trait.”
“Maybe it is,” you teased, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “But handsome fits better.”
Macklin leaned back against the headboard, pulling you with him so your shoulders pressed together. You both settled in, he took your right hand in his, lacing your fingers without thinking, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles.
You reached for your phone with your free hand, still open to that photo of him, “You know,” you said, tilting the screen toward him again, “I really might make this my Instagram profile picture.”
He huffed a laugh, glancing at it, then at you. “Yeah, sure. Maybe once we make it official to the public.”
You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh?” You say as you leaned your head on his shoulder.
"the world belongs to you
they all say you're a light; all I see is a shadow"
warnings: language. mentions of sexual relations. underage relationship. teen pregnancy. abandonment.
summary: you're sure you'll never forgive him for what he did to you, he'll do anything to make it right with you.
request: yes
song: willing and able - noah kahan
word count: 6.2k
a/n: well here's part one!!!!! i hope you guys like it and i hope it makes up for the two month absence :((( i missed you guys and will be back to posting regularly!!! also i won't upload the request for this one yet because it'll spoil the build up and the ending!
part one | next part
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You were fifteen when you first thought you experienced love. He was fifteen too, and you both seemed so sure. You'd met at a rink, because of course you did. Cole Harbour wasn't that big, and everyone knew everyone, and Sidney Crosby was already the boy everyone talked about. The one who was going somewhere. The one who was special.
But when you were fifteen, he wasn't Sidney Crosby future NHL superstar. He was just Sid. The boy who held your hand during movies and bought you hot chocolate after his games. The boy who’d talk about hockey for hours if you let him. And you'd let him, because you loved watching him love something that much. You thought maybe one day he'd love you like that too.
Then you were sixteen, and you felt it was love. He'd kiss you goodnight on your parents' porch, and you'd go inside and giggle about him on the phone with your friends like some lovesick idiot. Your friends would tease you about it and you didn't even care. You went to every single one of his games, screamed yourself hoarse in the stands, and he'd find you afterward and pull you into a hug that made everything else just vanish.
Then you were seventeen, and you knew it was love. Because seventeen was the year you were really put to the test. He'd gotten drafted into the QMJHL, was playing for Rimouski, and suddenly there was distance between you. Not just physical distance, but he was chasing something bigger then and sometimes you felt like you were fighting for scraps of his attention. But when he came home, god, when he came home it was like nothing else mattered. He'd show up at your door at odd hours and you'd sneak him up to your room and just lie there with him. He'd tell you about the games, about the pressure, about how scared he was sometimes that he'd mess it all up. And you'd tell him he wouldn't, that he was brilliant, that he was going to do incredible things. You believed it with your whole heart.
You also started having sex that year. Clumsy teenage sex that was so awkward and also so amazing. You tried to be safe, you really did. Condoms most of the time, pulled from his wallet or your bedside drawer with shaking hands. But sometimes you got careless. Sometimes you didn't think, didn't stop, just fell into it like you were drowning and didn't care. And it felt like love, it felt like forever, so what did it matter?
And then you were eighteen, and you knew it was all make believe.
You were barely an adult and fully 100% pregnant. The test sat on the edge of your bathroom sink, those two pink lines unforgiving against the plastic. You'd taken three of them just to be sure and they all said the same thing. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. The word didn't even feel real at first.
Sidney was in Ottawa. The draft was happening and you were home staring at a positive pregnancy test. The timing couldn't have been worse. You knew that. You knew you should wait, should tell him in person, should give him time to process before dropping a bomb on him. But you were eighteen and terrified and you needed him. You needed him to tell you it was going to be okay, that you'd figure it out together, that he still loved you.
So you texted him from your clunky little phone. You don't even remember exactly what you said. Something like, "We need to talk. It's important. Call me when you can." And then, because you couldn't help yourself, because the fear was eating you alive, you sent another one. "I'm pregnant."
You watched the draft with your parents that night. They sat on the couch and you curled up in the armchair. You heard Sidney's name called, first overall to the Pittsburgh Penguins, and your dad whooped and your mom clapped and you smiled and said something about how exciting it was. And the whole time, your phone sat silent in your pocket.
He didn't call or text that night. You told yourself he was busy, that it was the biggest night of his life, that of course he couldn't drop everything to call you. But a cruel voice in the back of your head told you that maybe he just didn't want to. That maybe you'd finally asked for too much.
The text came two days later. You were lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the nausea that had been plaguing you all morning. Your phone buzzed, and your heart leapt. Finally. Finally, he was going to call, going to tell you he loved you, that you'd get through this.
But it wasn't a call. It was a text. And it was the meanest thing you'd ever read in your life.
Sid: Do not do this to me.
Sid: I'm not ready to be a dad.
Sid: You need to take care of it.
Sid: Don't contact me again. We're done.
The words didn't make sense. They couldn't make sense, because this wasn't Sidney. This wasn't the boy who held your hand and kissed your forehead and told you he loved you. This was some stranger, some cold unfeeling stranger who didn't give a shit about you or the baby you were carrying.
You tried to call him. Of course you did. But it went straight to voicemail. You called again. And again. And again, until your hands were shaking so badly you could barely hold the phone. Nothing. He didn't pick up. Didn't call back. Didn't send another text.
You tried to convince yourself he was just freaking out. That he was overwhelmed, that the draft and the pressure and everything had gotten to him, and he'd come around. He'd apologize, and you'd probably make him beg for your forgiveness, and then you'd figure it out together. You had to believe that. But the days turned into weeks, and your phone stayed silent.
It was like you'd ceased to exist. Like the last three years, all those nights whispering secrets in the dark, all those promises of forever, had meant absolutely nothing. You knew that it was over. That it should have been over the second he sent you that text. But you were eighteen and heartbroken and you kept hoping. Kept making excuses for him. Maybe his phone was broken. Maybe he lost your number. Maybe someone else had sent that text as a joke. Stupid, desperate thoughts that you clung to. You knew what you'd done was stupid. You knew you should have been more careful, should have used protection every single time, should have been smarter. But you'd thought it was love. You'd thought love was enough.
On the night of September 21st, the night of Sid's first preseason game with Pittsburgh you had this moment of clarity. You were sitting in your room, ten weeks pregnant and entirely alone, and you finally let yourself admit the truth. It was over. He'd left you pregnant and in the dust for his career. He truly cared so little about you that he couldn't even be bothered to call, to check if you were okay, to ask what you'd decided. You were nothing to him. You'd never been anything to him.
You pulled out your phone and read those last messages over and over again until you memorized the words.
Then you took the phone apart, you pried out the SIM card, and destroyed it. You used a hammer from your dad's toolbox, smashing it against your bedroom floor until it was nothing but tiny, unrecognizable pieces. He'd never get in touch with you again. Ever. You'd made sure of it.
Then you gathered up everything. Every single thing he'd ever left in your room. His Rimouski hoodie that you slept in. The stuffed penguin he'd won for you at a carnival. The pictures of the two of you, grinning and happy and so fucking naive. The mixtape he'd made you, full of songs that would probably make you cry now. The phone, then a useless piece of shit. All of it went into a garbage bag that you shoved into the back of your closet where you wouldn't have to look at it.
That was the night you told your parents.
You found them in the living room, your dad reading the paper and listening to the radio coverage of the game, your mom watching some cooking show. They looked up when you came in, and you must have looked like hell because your mom's face immediately shriveled with concern.
"Sweetheart? What's wrong?"
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. The words felt like shards of glass in your throat. "I need to tell you something."
Your dad put down his paper. "Okay."
"I'm pregnant."
Your mom's hand flew to her mouth. Your dad just stared at you. They said nothing to you for what felt like 10 minutes but you could feel how disappointed in you or maybe ashamed of you they were.
"How far along?" your mom asked finally.
"Ten weeks."
"And Sidney?" your dad said, and there was something in his voice you'd never heard before.
You swallowed hard. "He doesn't want anything to do with it. With me. He told me to... to take care of it. And then he blocked my number."
"That goddamn kid," he muttered, and then louder, "I'm going to kill him."
"Dad... Please. It doesn't matter anymore."
"It does matter," your mom said, and she was crying then. "Oh, baby. I'm so sorry. This is... are you keeping it?"
Were you? You hadn't let yourself think that far ahead. But now, with your parents looking at you you realized you didn't have a choice. Not really.
"I um," you said. "I think so."
Your dad was the quietest he'd ever been in your life after that. The radio, the one that had been a constant presence in your house for as long as you could remember, never turned on again. Not for hockey games, not for anything. He shut it off and that was that.
Your mom, on the other hand, was convinced it was all just a big misunderstanding. "Maybe he didn't get your texts," she'd say. "Maybe his phone really is broken. Maybe someone's doing this. You should try to reach out again, sweetie. I'm sure he'd want to know."
But you didn't because deep down, you knew. He knew. He just didn't care.
Those nine months might have been the worst of your life. You were so lonely. So, so lonely. You had no one. Your friends had all left for college, scattering across the country to start their new lives, and you were stuck in Cole Harbour with a growing belly and a broken heart. You didn't go out. You couldn't stand the thought of people seeing you, of them whispering about you, about how Sidney Crosby got you pregnant and left. About how stupid you'd been to think he'd actually stay.
So you stayed home. You did the appointments, the ones your mom drove you to because you didn't trust yourself behind the wheel when the nausea was that bad. You took the prenatal vitamins she handed you every morning with a glass of orange juice. You did all the prenatal fuckery, the classes and the breathing exercises and the reading about what to expect. All of it. No matter how fucking embarrassed and terribly sad you were.
Embarrassed because you were pregnant by the community hero. By the kid everyone in Cole Harbour was so proud of, the one who'd made it, who was living the dream. And he got to continue on his merry way, playing hockey and winning games and being celebrated, while you were stuck, growing his baby and trying not to lose your mind. Embarrassed because you'd thought you meant more to him than you did. You'd thought you were special, that what you had was real. But you were just another girl.
And sad. God, you were so sad. Sad for the college you were supposed to go to, the acceptance letter you'd gotten to that turned into just a piece of paper in a drawer. Sad for all the games you were supposed to root for Sidney in, all the times you'd imagined yourself in the stands, wearing his jersey, cheering him on. Sad for all the calls and texts you were supposed to share, the late night conversations and the "I love yous" and the plans for the future. Sad for the life you were supposed to have, the one where you weren't a teen mom struggling to figure out how to even change a diaper. Sad for the fact that you'd fucked it all up by being a reckless teenager who thought love was enough.
You gave birth on a rainy afternoon in April. Your mom was there, holding your hand and whispering encouragements, and your dad was in the waiting room because he couldn't handle seeing you in pain. The labor was brutal and by the time they placed the baby on your chest, you were so exhausted you could barely keep your eyes open.
"It's a boy," the nurse said, smiling. "Congratulations, mama."
A boy. You had a son. You looked down at him, at his tiny scrunched up face and his dark hair, and the worst part was that it all felt like it was for nothing. You didn't feel the rush of love everyone had promised you. You didn't feel that overwhelming maternal instinct, that immediate connection. You just felt empty. And then guilty for feeling empty.
"Have you thought of a name?" your mom asked, smoothing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.
You had. You'd thought of a hundred names, written them down in a notebook and crossed them all out. But there was one that kept coming back, one that Sidney had thrown out there once. You'd been lying in his bed, his hand on your stomach even though there was no baby there yet, and he'd said, "If we ever have a kid, we should name him Beau. It means handsome in French, right? And he'd be handsome, just like his dad."
You'd laughed and told him he was ridiculous. But now, looking at your son, you couldn't think of him as anything else.
"Beau," you said quietly. "His name is Beau."
Your mom smiled, though her eyes were wet. "That's perfect, sweetheart."
But it didn't feel perfect. Nothing felt perfect. You were a teenager with a baby on your hip, living in your childhood bedroom, and you were so angry all the goddamn time. Angry at Sidney for abandoning you. Angry at yourself for being stupid enough to get pregnant. Angry at Beau, which made you feel like the worst person in the world, but you couldn't help it. You couldn't help resenting this tiny, helpless baby who'd ruined your life.
You couldn't connect with him. You fed him and changed him and rocked him when he cried, but it felt like you were going through the motions. Your mom did most of the work, cooing over Beau and cuddling him and doing all the things you felt like you should be doing but couldn't. Your dad, who'd been so quiet during the pregnancy, came alive around Beau. He'd hold him for hours, talking to him in this soft voice you'd never heard before, and Beau became his best friend.
And you felt like you were drowning. Like you'd dug yourself into this hole and you couldn't claw your way out. You felt like a terrible mother like you were failing at the one thing you were supposed to be good at. You turned nineteen with a baby. Your mom made a cake, your dad sang happy birthday, and Beau slept through the whole thing. You blew out the candles and didn't make a wish, because what was the point?
Those first eleven months of his life were even harder. Harder than the pregnancy, harder than the labor, harder than anything. You were exhausted all the time, running on maybe three hours of sleep a night. Beau cried constantly, and you didn't know how to soothe him. You'd walk him around your room at two in the morning, bouncing him and shushing him and begging him to please, please just sleep. And sometimes you'd cry too because you didn't know what you were doing and you felt so alone.
But then Beau turned one. Your mom threw him a little party, just the four of you, and he sat in his high chair and smashed his face into a cupcake and laughed. And then he looked at you, frosting all over his face, and started babbling. "Mamamama."
It wasn't his first word. He'd been babbling nonsense for weeks. But this was different. This was on purpose. "Mamamama." He reached for you, his chubby little hands opening and closing, and somehow everything made sense.
You picked him up, and he wrapped his arms around your neck and buried his face in your shoulder, and for the first time since he was born, you felt that all consuming love everyone had told you about.
"Hi, baby," you whispered, and your voice broke. "Hi, Beau."
He pulled back and grinned at you and you started crying. Just full on sobbing, holding your son and crying because you'd wasted so much time being angry when you should have been loving him. Because he was perfect. He was so perfect, and he was yours, and he looked at you with this pure adoration that you didn't deserve but were going to spend the rest of your life trying to earn.
That was when you knew you needed to get your life back on track. If not for yourself, then for him. For this little boy who looked at you like you hung the moon, even though you'd spent that first year barely holding it together.
You were twenty when you left Cole Harbour. Your parents were reluctant at first, worried about you being on your own with a toddler, but they did their best to support you. Your dad helped you move into a nice place in Halifax, carrying boxes up three flights of stairs while Beau toddled around getting in the way. Your mom stocked your fridge and your pantry, filling it with more food than two people could possibly eat.
"You call if you need anything," she said, hugging you tight. "Anything at all, okay?"
"I will, Mom. I promise."
And you meant it. But you also meant to prove that you could do this. That you could be a good mom, could build a life for you and Beau that didn't involve hiding in your childhood bedroom and drowning in regret.
Halifax wasn't far. Maybe a twenty minute drive from home, close enough that your parents could visit all the time, but far enough that you felt like your own person. You got a job at a salon, starting as a receptionist and then slowly picking up skills. You watched the other stylists, asked questions, practiced on mannequin heads. You got certified, took the classes and passed the tests, and suddenly you had a career. You were making your own living. A good living, enough to pay rent and buy groceries and put a little aside for savings. You and Beau had your own place that you decorated with secondhand furniture and pictures of the two of you.
By the time you were twenty one, you had it mostly figured out. You had your job, your apartment, your little support system. Beau had his daycare, this bright, cheerful place where he made friends and learned his ABCs and came home covered in paint and glitter. You had your coworkers, who became friends, who invited you out for drinks and listened when you needed to vent. You had your parents, who visited every weekend and spoiled Beau rotten. You had a routine. Drop Beau off at daycare, work your shift at the salon, pick him up, make dinner, give him a bath, read him a story, tuck him in. Wake up and do it all over again. It was exhausting but it was what you made of your life.
Of course, sometimes you had to field questions about Sidney. It was inevitable, growing up in the same community. People would see Beau, this little boy with dark hair and color changing eyes and a smile that was just a little too familiar, and they'd ask. "Is his dad from around here?" Or, "He looks just like Sidney Crosby. Are you two related?"
You learned to lie. It was easier than the truth. "Nope, no relation. Just a coincidence." And you'd smile and change the subject, and most people let it drop. Pretending not to know Sidney was easier than admitting what you truly felt. Easier than explaining that yes, Sidney Crosby was Beau's father, and no, he didn't give a shit.
But Beau. God, Beau didn’t make it easy on you. When he started walking he started picking things up and using them as hockey sticks. Anything long and vaguely stick shaped became a stick. Wooden spoons, brooms, wrapping paper tubes. He'd whack at rolled up socks or balled up pieces of paper, giggling and narrating his own play by play in toddler gibberish.
You couldn't exactly take it away from him. What were you supposed to say? "No, baby, you can't play hockey because your dad's a piece of shit and it makes Mommy sad"? That would make you sound insane. This was Canada. This was a community of little kids who grew up loving hockey, who wore Habs jerseys and dreamed of playing in the NHL one day. You couldn't single your son out because of a grudge, no matter how justified that grudge was.
Your dad fucking hated it. Every time Beau picked up a stick, your dad's jaw would clench and he'd find an excuse to leave the room. But he never said anything, because what could he say? Beau was just a kid. Your mom loved it. She'd cheer Beau on, clapping and telling him what a good job he was doing, and you'd stand there feeling like you might be sick.
By the time Beau was two, he had a real mini stick. Your mom bought it for him and he used it like he'd been born holding one, like it was an extension of his body. He'd spend hours in the living room, slapping a foam puck around and laughing.
When he was three, you put him in skates. You didn't want to. God, you really didn't want to. But all his friends from daycare were starting hockey, and Beau begged. "Please, Mama. Please, I wanna play hockey!"
So you signed him up for a learn to skate class, bought him the smallest pair of skates you could find, and watched him wobble around the rink with the other toddlers. He fell. A lot. But he always got back up, always grinning like it was the best thing in the world.
You were both twenty-one. And while you were raising your son, teaching him to tie his skates and reminding him to wear his helmet, Sidney was living out his wildest dreams. He'd just won the Cup, the youngest captain in NHL history to do it, and the whole country was celebrating. You'd seen it on the news, seen the pictures of him hoisting the trophy over his head, seen the interviews where he talked about how incredible it felt.
You tried not to think about it. You tried not to compare your life to his, tried not to wonder what things would've been like if he'd responded differently to that text. If he'd said, "We'll figure it out," instead of, "I don't want anything to do with it." It was hard not to. Especially when Beau started asking questions. "Mama, who's my dad?" And you'd say, "It's just you and me, buddy. That's all we need." And he'd accept it, for now, but you knew eventually that wouldn't be enough.
~
He was twenty-one and winning the Cup was all he ever wanted. Really. To hold those thirty-five pounds of silver and metal over his head after seasons of heartbreak, after being the youngest captain in league history and feeling the weight of an entire franchise on his shoulders. After the think pieces about how maybe he couldn't do it, that maybe he was too young, too inexperienced. After 08 in Detroit when they'd been so close he could taste it, only to have it ripped away. After making it to Game 7 in Detroit again when everything had felt impossible, when his body ached and his lungs burned and he thought maybe this was it, maybe this was the year they fell short again.
But they hadn't. They'd won. He'd won. He wasn't sure he'd ever be as happy as he was in that moment.
But maybe that wasn't the truth.
Because even in the middle of the celebration, even with the Cup in his hands and his teammates screaming his name and the entire city of Pittsburgh losing their minds, there was something missing. Someone missing.
When his guys kissed their girlfriends and their wives, when little ones were in their fathers' arms and spun around, when fiancées jumped into their partners' arms and caught like they weighed nothing, Sidney felt sick. Not jealous, exactly. Hollow was the word for it. Like there was this gaping hole in his chest that no amount of champagne or celebration could fill.
You never left his mind. Even after nearly four years. 3 years, 10 months, and 13 days to be exact, but who was counting? Even after all this time, all this distance, all the silence between you. You were always in his mind. Always in his heart. Always his, even if you weren't anymore.
He wasn't sure what ever happened between you. That was the worst part, the not knowing. His last memory of the two of you was a happy one. He'd been nervous about the draft, about going to Ottawa, about the pressure and the expectations. But you'd been so happy for him, so excited, your eyes bright and your smile wide. You'd kissed him goodbye at your front door, your hands cupping his face, and you'd promised to watch. To cheer for him. To be proud of him no matter what.
And he'd promised to call you. As soon as it was over, as soon as he knew where he was going, he'd call and tell you everything.
He never even got the chance.
He wasn't ever good with his phone. Even now, his teammates gave him shit for it, for leaving it in his locker or his hotel room or the pocket of his suitcase. But it was worse back then, when he was eighteen. He'd gone to Ottawa with his parents, with his rep, with this whole entourage of people who all wanted something from him. And at some point between the airport and the hotel and the extra stuff afterward, he'd just lost it. He wasn't sure if he'd left it at home, if someone had taken it by mistake, if it had fallen out of his pocket in the car. He just knew he couldn't get in contact with you.
And he was wanted everywhere all at once. Interviews, photoshoots, meetings with the Penguins' front office. His camp had a schedule planned down to the minute, and there was no time for anything else. No time to go back home, no time to find a payphone and call you, no time for himself at all.
He told himself he'd make it up to you. That as soon as things calmed down, as soon as he had a second to breathe, he'd find a way to reach out. You'd understand. You always understood.
But if he was being completely honest maybe his pride was a little hurt too. Because you didn't make the effort either. You didn't call him, didn't leave a message with his parents, didn't show up in Pittsburgh when the season started. And a bitter part of him wondered if maybe you'd decided he wasn't worth it. That the distance, the lifestyle, the constant travel and the media attention, was too much. That you'd realized you could do better than some hockey player who was never going to be home.
He couldn't exactly hold it against you. You were both eighteen, just kids really. What did either of you know about long-distance relationships, about the kind of commitment it would take to make it work when he was living in a different city, playing eighty-two games a season plus playoffs, barely keeping his head above water?
And yet.
All he could remember was your mom asking him not to call again.
It had been before his very first NHL game. October 5, 2005. He'd been a mess of nerves, pacing around the Lemiuex family's house in Pittsburgh, trying to remember everything his coaches had told him, trying not to think about how badly he wanted to prove himself. And all he'd wanted, more than anything, was to hear your voice. To know that you were okay, that you were proud of him, that you still cared.
He'd borrowed the landline, dialed your home number with shaking hands, and waited. One ring. Two. Three. And then your mom had picked up.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Mrs.–" He'd barely gotten the words out before she cut him off.
"Sidney."
Her voice had been cold. Colder than he'd ever heard it. Your mom always liked him, had always welcomed him into your house with a smile and a plate of cookies. But that day, she'd sounded like she hated him.
"I, uh, I was wondering if I could talk to–"
"No."
"I just want to make sure she's okay. I haven't heard from her in a while and I–"
"She's fine, Sidney. I think it's best if you don't call here again."
His stomach had dropped. "What? Why? Did I do something? If I did, I can–"
"Goodbye, Sidney."
And she'd hung up. That was the last time he ever even got close to you. He'd tried a few more times over the next couple of weeks, but your mom always answered, always told him the same thing. Don't call again. And eventually, he stopped trying. Because what else could he do? You clearly didn't want to talk to him. And Sidney had a season to focus on, a team that was counting on him, a city that expected him to be their savior.
So he moved on. Or at least, he tried to.
He still kept a photo of you in his wallet. It was stupid, probably. Pathetic, even. But his mom had given it to him during his first real week in Pittsburgh, when he'd been homesick and ready to quit. She'd thought it might remind him of all the good things he still had at home. Thought it might keep him grounded, keep him connected to the person he was before all of this. Thought it might help when he missed you too much.
The photo was from the summer before the draft. The two of you at the beach, your hair windblown and your smile bright, his arm around your shoulders. You were wearing his t-shirt over your swimsuit, an Océanic one, and you looked so happy. So beautiful. So completely, utterly his. He'd meant to take it out at some point. Meant to move on, to date other girls, to let go of whatever the two of you had been. But he never did. Even after all these years, the photo stayed tucked behind his driver's license, creased and worn from how often he looked at it.
He didn't know what else to do.
It was painful keeping it. That love he had for you never faded, never waned. It should have. Four years was a long time. He should have met someone else, fallen for someone else, built a life with someone who was actually there. But he hadn't because every girl he met, he compared to you. Every date felt like a pale imitation of what he'd had. And none of them measured up.
It made him dream the silliest of dreams for a guy his age. Dreams of a life the two of you had talked about when you were young and dumb and he was dumb enough to hope for. You'd lie in his bed in his parents' house, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm, and you'd talk about the future like it was a guarantee.
"When you make the NHL, I'll come to every home game," you'd said once.
"Just the home games?"
"Okay, fine. Every game. I'll be your biggest fan."
"You already are."
"And we'll get a dog," you'd continued, ignoring him. "A big one. A golden retriever, maybe. Or a husky."
"Can we name it something cool? Not, like, Spot or Buddy."
"We'll name it something ridiculous. Like Mr. Pickles."
He'd laughed so hard he'd almost choked on his spit. "Mr. Pickles?"
"Or we could go the other way. Something tough. Like Killer."
"Killer the golden retriever."
"Exactly."
"I love you," he'd said, and he'd meant it with his whole heart.
"I love you too, Sid."
Now he didn't know anything about you. If you'd gone to school like you'd planned, if you were still in Nova Scotia or if you'd moved somewhere else. If you'd found someone else to love, someone who could actually be there for you, who didn't spend half the year on the road. He mostly hoped that you were happy. That whatever had happened between the two of you, you'd landed on your feet. That you were living the life you deserved.
But selfishly, bringing the Cup home, he maybe hoped that he'd see you somewhere in the crowd of people. He knew it wasn't realistic. Cole Harbour wasn't that small, and you'd probably moved on, probably didn't even think about him anymore. But still.
Like he had this big shiny thing he wanted to show you. Look, he wanted to say. Look what I did. Look what we dreamed about, and I made it happen. Aren't you proud?
And he had his dog, Samantha. Sam. He'd gotten her a couple of years ago, this sweet, goofy yellow lab who went everywhere with him in the off-season. She wasn't Mr. Pickles or Killer, but she was perfect. He thought you'd like her. Thought maybe you'd laugh at the way Sam got excited over nothing, the way she'd bring him her toy and drop it at his feet and lick his knee until he threw it.
Honestly, he had nothing else to offer you but those two things. The Cup and Sam. His entire world, condensed into thirty-five pounds of metal and sixty pounds of dog. It felt like nothing. But it was all he had.
He thought maybe you'd want to hold the Cup. Everyone did. It was tradition, passing it around, letting people drink out of it and take pictures with it. He could see it so clearly in his mind, you standing next to it, your hand on the silver, your smile soft. Maybe you'd want to know what it felt like, to hold something he'd worked his whole life for.
Maybe you'd like how long his hair was now. It was longer than it had been when he was a teenager, curling at the ends, brushing his ears. You'd always liked it a little longer, used to run your fingers through it when you kissed him, tugging gently when he'd kiss down your neck. "Don't cut it too short," you'd say, and he never did.
Maybe you'd surprise him at his parents' house for the get-together. They were throwing this thing for him, inviting half of Cole Harbour, it seemed like. Friends, family, neighbors, people he barely knew but who wanted to celebrate with him. His mom had been planning it for weeks. And Sidney kept thinking that maybe you'd show up. That someone would invite you, or you'd hear about it and decide to come, and he'd turn around and there you'd be.
Maybe you could catch up. He'd ask you about school, about work, about your life. And you'd ask him about Pittsburgh, about the season, about what it felt like to win. And maybe, if he was really lucky, you'd smile at him the way you used to. Like he was the only person in the room. Like he mattered.
Maybe you could make up. He didn't even know what you'd be making up for, what had happened to drive you apart, but he'd apologize anyway. For not calling, for losing his phone, for not trying harder. For whatever he'd done to make you walk away.
Maybe he could just do something. Anything. He’d fix it, he was sure of it.
summary: you and macklin decide to play a prank you saw on tiktik on will... his reaction is very unexpected.
warning(s): established relationship, pranks, silly fluff, interpreted implications of cheating.
words: 1.3k
as soon as i showed mack the video, he was bouncing off the walls with anticipation.
i’d come across the trend of calling your boyfriend’s friends to see if they lie or not about him being with them.
now, with macklin’s friends in particular, this idea happens to be a little more complicated. when your boyfriend is constantly traveling around the country for work with his best friends, you really don’t have many opportunities to build good relationships with them.
especially when you —and your boyfriend —both happen to be chronic introverts.
mack lays beside me on the couch, already giggling like a little kid pulling a prank on his parents. “hurry up! i’ve been waiting all day,” he whines while tilting my phone toward him to see if I have a contact pulled up yet.
our first victim, will smith (hockey), is showcased on my screen, ready to call. his contact name causing me many teases since it was first discovered.
sue me for not wanting people to think i’m calling will smith... (actor).
laughing at macklin, i roll my eyes before looking at him seriously. “okay, you have to be quiet though. you know he’ll hang up as soon as he thinks it’s a prank.”
he immediately goes dead silent, nodding quickly.
smiling softly at his antics, i brush his hair out of his face and press a quick kiss to his forehead. in return, he snatches my phone and presses the call icon.
shaking my head, i scoff.
the phone barely rings before will’s panicked voice sounds through my phone speakers. “hey, are you okay?”
instantly channeling a stressed tone, i sigh quietly, convincingly. “uh... actually, not really. i’m sorry, i just have to ask you something.”
his response is immediate, relieved. “oh, so you’re okay then?”
mack raises a brow next to me, staring at the phone like it’ll personally answer his unasked questions.
i realize that my unprompted call —and the fact that macklin isn’t with him right now —probably caused him to think something physically happened to one of us.
“oh, yeah, sorry. i didn’t mean to worry you. i just- is macklin with you?”
i rush the question out with conviction, forcing my voice to sound more worried than it’s ever been in regards to mack’s whereabouts.
there’s a pause... then a simple question, not giving anything up yet.
“why?”
he’s suspicious. macklin is covering his mouth. i kick him.
“well...” i sniffle to make it sound more believable, “he hasn’t answered me for hours, and he said he was going to be with you all evening.”
i don’t say what i’m thinking exactly, letting will put the pieces together by himself. macklin laughs quietly next to me.
my foot makes contact with his ribs this time.
i hear will’s footsteps on the other side of the line, clearly pacing now, connecting the dots. “he’s not answering you?”
i have to pause, pressing my hand to my mouth to stop myself from laughing, before i answer him. “no. i assumed you guys were doing something and he just hadn’t seen it, but now i’m getting worried.”
i don’t hear will’s voice for a hefty minute after that. i’d have thought he figured it out and hung up on me if it weren’t for his loud pacing in the background.
“um... i need to call you back.”
he doesn’t wait for a response. the sound of his steps cut off suddenly. gasping, i whip my head to macklin. he looks at me equally surprised —both of us unsure of what just happened.
then his phone starts ringing.
his eyes go wide, freaking out. “what do i do?!”
“answer it!”
he fumbles with his phone as he answers, immediately falling into character. his voice coming out chill... too chill.
“hey man, what’s up?”
“where the fuck are you?”
will’s voice comes out more serious than i’ve heard it before. from the look on mack’s face, he relates. “woah, dude, what’s wro-”
he doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence, will interrupting with a particular protectiveness i wasn’t aware i'd earned from him.
“stop. i’m not in the mood to deal with some bullshit right now, macklin. why the hell is your girlfriend asking me where you are? you better have the best fucking excuse —especially after lying to her by telling her you’re with me.”
he leaves no room for mack to turn this into a joke, clearly not willing to mess around with a situation like this. something tells me that mack has never been acquainted with this side of his best friend before. a good thing i suppose.
mack, trying not to burst out laughing, tries to redirect the question. “fuck, she texted you? why didn’t she just wait for me to respond?”
this doesn’t do anything to deter will. “no, she called me. and she didn’t wait because she sounded worried as fuck about you, while you’re doing God knows what. she said it’s been hours. where are you?”
answering his question isn’t optional anymore. his patience is wearing thin.
“i- well... funny stor-”
the phone call ends.
we both stare at each other in awe. the giggles having cleared out at the intensity of will’s voice. “i did not think he’d get that ma-”
cutting mack off for the third time —this time unintentionally —my phone rings again.
i don’t have to check it to know who’s calling.
will smith (hockey)
clicking the accept button, i rush to put it on speaker. “hello?”
he doesn’t wait to rat out his best friend. “he’s not with me.”
covering my mouth with my hand, i rush to put my phone on mute. whispering to mack, “what do i say?”
he whispers back, as if talking louder would cause will to hear our plotting.
“act distraught. ask where i am.”
taking a deep breath, i unmute my mic, breathing a little unevenly. “what? where is he?” my voice coming out pitchier than i intended.
it does the job.
a sigh sounds from my phone speakers. “i- i’m not sure. i’m so sorry. i called him...” i wait for him to continue. he scoffs, thinking of his conversation with mack. “fuck, i’m so sorry, i think he’s with someone, y/n.”
the words escape him too quickly. the concept of his best friend doing something like this pains him. he’s upset with macklin. he’s upset for me.
macklin mouths something to me. he knows i can’t read lips for shit.
i press mute again and tilt my head at him. “what?”
“we have to tell him that it’s a prank. he’s going to kill me.”
i nod quickly, knowing that neither of us expected will to take it this seriously.
unmuting, i clear my throat. opening my mouth to admit to our antics, will speaks up again. “i’m so so sorry. i swear i didn’t know anything about this. if i did, i would’ve- God, i don’t know. i would’ve done something though.”
macklin, like the little asshole that he is, bursts out laughing. sudden, loud, and irritatingly infectuous. i chastise myself for laughing along with him.
i can see tears in his eyes, sending me further into my hysterics. my state only has a ripple effect on him.
“uh... hello?”
i’m not even kidding, will’s voice makes me start crying. by the time we collect ourselves, tears are streaming down both of our faces.
“oh my gosh, will...” i pause to laugh again. “will, i’m so sorry!”
beep beep beep.
the phone call ended again.
my neck hurts from how fast i turn to look at mack. both of us are calm for a second before a text comes through.
will smith (hockey) i hate you both. tell mack to watch out at practice tomorrow.
and just like that, we’re bent over in laughter again.
pairing(s): fraser minten, connor bedard, will smith, macklin celebrini, matt rempe, michael kesselring x fem!reader
summary: green flag things/habits they do in your relationship
warnings/contents: pda, fluff, mentions of bars, drinking, lingerie
author's note: each individual part is a bit long (sorry if you don’t enjoy that) i got carried away, let me know if you like this !!!!
Fraser Minten (FM93)
Walks closer to the road
You never really noticed he did it until one of your mutual friends pointed it out. You were hanging out downtown Boston with Fraser and a couple friends, holding hands and catching up. The boys had went into a store wanting to look while the girls opted to stay out, sitting on a bench surrounded by high-rise buildings and the sound of the city. You were scrolling on TikTok, trying to find a video you had saved to show one of the girls when she spoke.
“He did that a lot, huh?” You looked up, confusion on your face. “Does what?” She looked at you with a raised eyebrow, “he always puts you in the sidewalk side with him closest to the street - like, all the time.” You were surprised, and it probably showed on your face as she replied, “you haven’t noticed?”
You really hadn’t. Maybe it was because you never payed that much attention to it in the moment, or that it had become second nature. When you thought back to memories of you two walking together down streets and sidewalks, you do remember him trading places if you weren’t already furthest from the road.
And it wasn’t just roads or sidewalks either - if you were at a family skate or at a rink while back in Vancouver, he was always closest to the center when you were skating side-by-side (meaning when you weren’t trying not to fall with him leading you), making sure you weren’t in the area that could get you knocked over.
You had brought it up to him that night in your apartment. You were both dressed in your pyjamas - Fraser in a pair of plaid pants and a grey sweatshirt, glasses perched on his nose while you were in a pair of his boxers and t-shirt, fluffy socks you had gotten from Chantal the year before at Christmas on your feet. He had gotten to grab some ice cream for you both, and when he sat down and pulled you to curl into him, you asked him.
“Why do you always make sure you’re closest to the road?” He had looked at you, cheeks red like he’d been caught doing something bad. “What do you mean?” He replied, spoon in his mouth. “You always make sure you’re closest to the road or I’m on the sidewalk side when we’re walking. Why is that?” Fraser just shrugged, taking the spoon out and getting more ice cream, “I don’t know. Just want you to be safe - didn’t really realize I was doing it. Does it bother you?”
You just smiled, dipping your spoon into the ice cream as well, “no. Quite the opposite actually.”
Connor Bedard (CB98)
Holds your bags
Connor holds your bags with no complaints, and does it out of his own will. You never asked him, not even once, not before it started and not during. Even if he gets teased for it online or by teammates, he just shrugs. It doesn’t matter if you have one bag or a million, heavy or light, he grabs it before you can even reach for it.
Bags full of things at the mall? Connor looks like a bellboy, bags on his arms from stores like Victoria’s Secret and Aritzia. Even if he has his own bags (probably from Lululemon or whatever stores sell shirts), he takes yours from you. At first you fought it, but you’ve now just learned to accept it.
Connor loads and unloads suitcases into cars and overhead cupboards in planes. Photos of you two leaving airports or hotels with Connor carrying everything and you carrying nothing except your purse or both of your phones had gone viral, and people had been upset at you - calling you lazy and ungrateful - until a reporter asked why he did it.
“I don’t know. Just don’t want her carrying things,” he scratched his neck, “plus, have to use my strength for something.”
The only time you ever carry things is when Connor is too drunk to remember. When he’s tipsy he still insists to carry your bag, or to give your bag to someone else so you don’t have to carry it (which makes you blush out of embarrassment). When he’s plastered he doesn’t realize or remember anything, and usually ends with you having to put him in sleep clothes or brush his teeth.
Any other time, he carries any and all bags you have. Doesn’t matter if they’re from a lingerie store or “girlie” store, he doesn’t bat an eye.
Will Smith (WS2)
Opens the car door for you
Will Smith was raised to be a gentleman. Always be respectful and polite, say your please and thank you’s, make eye contact, use your manners, and always open the door for someone (especially a woman).
You were surprised when he showed up on your first date. Most guys you had been with or been on a date with stayed in the car while you got in, but Will texted you when he was coming, met you at your front door, and followed you to the car, opening the door. You felt like a princess (as stupid as that sounds). That type of stuff should be bare minimum in a relationship, but it wasn’t. He got out and opened your car door again when you arrived at the restaurant, was respectful and nice the whole night, and opened your car door two more times. You ranted to your friends over the phone with blushed cheeks when you got back.
When you got together, you figured that this habit would end. That he didn’t have to “whoo” you anymore, and that once this honeymoon phase was over he’d go back to what he usually was like. But it didn’t. Because that’s how he was all the time.
Even if you’re in a hurry, or Mack is waiting in the car, Will will get out of the car and open your door for you. Fans had caught this and it became a thing on social media, always posting photos or videos of it happening. One time while you were texting Will’s mother Colleen, she had sent a video that had came across her timeline. She had sent a text along with it saying “you let me know if he stops and I’ll kick some sense into him”. You had chuckled and replied that he probably won’t stop.
Macklin Celebrini (MC71)
Always buys two snack options
You know the videos online of girlfriends saying they don’t want anything and then wanting whatever their boyfriend has? That’s you. You’re indecisive and you know - you’ll say you aren’t hungry and then want whatever Mack is having, or you’ll say you want one thing and want something different. Macklin has learned this about you, and after dating for awhile he knows how to solve this problem every time. You say you dont want anything? He gets extra of whatever he’s getting so you can have some.
When you’re driving and you pass a gas station, or you’re in a hotel and you pass a vending machine, and you say you want something? He’ll get what you want and something else you like (or another of one of his snacks) so you won’t be upset. He doesn’t worry about the extra money that it adds up to, he wants you to be happy. You both never really noticed it.
But others did. During the sleepover with Will and Toffoli, Tyler had brought it up after the younger boys had ordered their cookies and milk. He was on his cot, Mack and Will snacking away when he spoke, “when you do this with Y/n do you get another type as well or just this?” Mack had made a noise of confusion not knowing what he was talking about, but Will did.
“You always get two different things or something for her when you’re out, even if she says she doesn’t want anything.” Macklin just shrugged, going back to his phone. “I don’t know, I just know what she likes and want her to be happy.”
This was definitely going on the offside podcast when Tyler was on.
Matt Rempe (MR73)
Makes sure you get the first bite/waits for you
We all know Matt is a big guy, and he gets hungry. And before he was dating you, he wouldn’t wait to dive into his food - whether that was at home with his family or out with his teammates. But when he started dating you, something inside him screamed that he should wait for you. He didn’t know why he had that feeling, he just did.
If restaurants served him his food first, he’d just wait, his attention fully focused on you. You noticed it one time, and told him he could eat, but he just smiled at you with a lovesick look on his face, “I don’t need to. I’ll wait.” You raised an eyebrow, “you sure? It could get cold.” He just moved his hand from his lap to on the table, palm facing up and made a motion for you to put your hand in his, “I’m not worried about that.”
If you were staying in, food being delivered or reheated, Matt would wait. Sometimes you’d heat it up, put it on the coffee table in front of the couch and mumble that you’ll be back, he lets it sit there until you come back. Shared food and dessert he always lets you have the first bite. Late night drives to get ice cream from a specific gas station near you and sharing snacks on movie nights always looks like Matt letting you eat first.
He even does it at family dinners, the whole family diving in while you and Janice were still in the kitchen. He waited, hands in his lap, his eyes looking like a lost puppy waiting for their owner (according to Alley). When you came back and sat down, you kissed his cheek and when you finally ate, he did too.
Michael Kesselring (MK8)
Will switch shoes with you
The first time it happened was back in Utah. You had gone out to a bar with the team, you opting to walk and Michael coming because he would never let you walk alone if he could be there, day or night (especially at night, though he knew you could handle yourself). He had bought you some cute, black kitten heels a couple weeks before because he noticed you looking at them on a tab on your computer, and you never ask for anything (even though he tells you not to worry and he wants to spoil you, but you still don’t ask), so he bought them and you came home to find the exact pair you were eyeing on the bed.
Maybe you should’ve thought about what it would be liking walking to the bar, spending the night in them, and then walking back to your apartment, but you were too excited about them. Michael had a feeling you would get sick of them, but didn’t say anything. The night was spent dancing and drinking, Michael having an arm around your waist or midline, or around your neck swaying to the music. You were there for a couple hours, and close to the time you had planned to leave you had migrated to a stool at the bar, still present but getting off your heels.
When you walked back together, you tried to be discreet about the discomfort you were feeling, but the backs of your heels were causing blisters to form and the front were squishing your toes. You refused to accept defeat, asking to sit on a bench before you continued. Michael was leaning against a lamp post, watching you. You were rubbing your heel, about to put them on when he sat down beside you, “switch with me.”
He took the heel out of your hand and moved to remove other and placing them on a space on the bench beside him before untying the laces on hos sneakers. “Michael . . .” You trailed off, not knowing what to do. But your boyfriend is stubborn, shaking his head while saying not happening and placing the sneakers on your lap. You were too tired to care that they were dirty and sticky with alcohol, but you probably were dirty too - sweaty from dancing and drops of alcohol falling on you earlier.
You put the shoes on, tying the laces as tight as you could to not trip because your boyfriend was a giant and had giant feet. You look up once you’re done to see Michael standing in your heels, feet barely fitting in them. One part of you wanted to laugh, while the other wanted to tell him to sit down and give you your heels back, but you could tell from the look on his face that he knew what you were thinking and that it wasn’t going to happen.
You managed to make it to your shared apartment, slowly due to the tripping hazard from the other’s shoes, but no one complained once. Michael never protested or blamed you, and he didn’t even really talk about it after, just setting the shoes down and getting ready for bed lie usual.
Since that night you tried to wear more comfortable shoes to bars and restaurants, but sometimes the shoes went too good with the outfit and Michael even encouraged it, knowing how the night would end. He didn’t care, and he wants you to be happy.
You’re surprised there haven’t been pictures of his 6’5 form stumbling around in heels on the internet.
the ‘well what did you expect’ reaction to the u.s. mens post-win-shitshow is so frustrating cause. actually i think these are really unique circumstances we’re living in and it’s more than just oh white man is republican, and i think a lot of people are normalizing the acts of this administration by acting like it isn’t. the shit happening over here has gotten so undeniably egregious so yeah it is a bit devastating seeing them party with ultra mega super evil overlord’s henchman who is playing an active role in ripping people’s lives apart, and then going above and beyond locker room talk by also parading it around on the internet after the fact. i literally do not give a fuck how drunk they were these are grown ass men who fully know what they’re doing.
and none of that is even to mention the side issue of the hughes brothers, whose mother has played and is STILL playing an active role in the expansion of women’s sports, going on their little pr zoom calls and media availability and glazing women in sports just to turn around and punch down on them with neo-hitler himself.
nuance exists but it does not exist here. having grown up in the south as a leftist like yes it is so complicated seeing people you love turn out to be morally inept pieces of shit but these are rich white men you do not know. there’s a major difference between not really knowing where they stand vs now having it splayed out in front of you. you do not need to support them. frankly i hope not a single man in that room feels the touch of another human being for the remainder of their lifetime.
Prompt: An accident on the boat causes the younger two Hughes brothers to freak out as they bring you back to a protective Quinn
Warnings: blood, injury, swearing
The sun had just started to go down in Michigan, the lake seemed to glow in the soft light. The four of you tired, a little red from spending all day outside, but all happy. Quinn’s arm draped over you as you lay in between his thighs. The quiet was quickly cut by a rumble of Luke’s stomach, the intensity of it making you smirk.
“When is dinner?” Luke asks, sitting up and shaking his still slightly damp hair out like a dog.
“You hungry yet?” Quinn asks you, his hand making small strokes around your stomach.
“Who cares if other people are hungry? Did you not hear me? It sounds like I haven’t eaten since Christmas.” Luke complains.
“Alright, alright.” Quinn says, sitting up, your back still pressed tight to his chest. “I’ll start the grill.”
You lean your head back, looking up to your boyfriend. Sometimes you could not believe this was your life, how you managed to find not only the perfect guy, but a family that accepts you for you. Even though you’re a year older than Jack, you were adopted as Jack and Luke’s ‘little sister’.
As you stare up at your boyfriend, you couldn’t help but smile.
“Wanna hit the lake one more time?” Jack asks you.
“Oh yes, because I’ll take care of it all while you go out on the boat.” Quinn says to his brother while he looks back down at you.
“What are big brothers for?” Jack questions, his smile blooming as his older brother scoffs.
“You guys go, I’ve got dinner tonight.” Quinn states, moving his thumb under your jaw as his lips lock onto yours.
“Well now I’m not hungry anymore.” Luke states, making you chuckle into the kiss. Pulling away to death glare at the youngest Hughes. Jack turns his face away, but the heavy shaking of his shoulders wasn’t missed by you or Quinn.
“Just wait until you’re in love Lu.” You coo, standing up, the comfort of Quinn’s chest leaving you. Luke only sticks his tongue out at you in response.
“I’ll start the boat up!” Jack says, running down to the dock before Quinn can change his mind about not needing any help.
“You sure you don’t need any help?” You ask, turning around to face him. “I can stay behind and help you, turns out I’m pretty good at handling some meat.” You bite your lip, looking up to your boyfriend, who’s smirk is the biggest you’ve seen it all day.
“Oh my fucking god you guys are disgusting.” Luke says. “We’ll be on the boat, Y/N. For… whenever you’re done with whatever this is.” He says, pointing at the two of you then going to follow Jack. You swear you heard slight mumblings of ‘god’ and ‘disgusting’.
“Go have fun love, but you’ll be owning up to your words later.” He says, pointing at you. You kiss him again, moving your fingers to grab at his slightly damp hair. A groan slipping from him, causing your ego to go through the roof. There’s no denying the effect you have on him, but seeing it and hearing it are two completely different things.
“I’ve got to go,” you say pulling back as Quinn groans into your neck. “before your brothers decide to leave me behind.”
“They’d never. I think they love you more than they love me.” He jokes, pulling his head away from your neck.
—
You pull the wrap around your body tighter as you finally make it down to the boat. Jack sitting in the drivers seat, while him and Luke bicker over music. The sun was closer to the water, the laughter of the three of you carrying across the lake.
“How was that one?” Jack asks, wading in the water. You look to Luke, who shakes his head.
“A six.” Luke states.
“A six?” Jack exclaims, climbing back onto the boat, flipping his wet hair out of his eyes. “That flip was at least an eight!”
“Mmm, complaining? Now you’ve bumped it down to a five.” You say, making Luke throw his head back in laughter.
“Five?” Jack echos, “that’s cold hearted, sis.”
“Yep, a five. Can you even count that high?” You question, making Luke lose his mind.
“Oh it’s fucking on.” Jack says, before dragging you up by your arm.
“Don’t you fucking dare!” You yell before Jack shoves you off the boat, but not before you grab his hand pulling him in with you.
The cold hits you immediately but as you surface you feel it, a strange and painful throb on your thigh, it worsens as Luke cannonballs over your head. You start to grab onto the boat, not looking back at the brothers in the water.
“Oh come on sis, I’m sorry!” Jack exclaims, thinking you were upset about him pushing you. But, as you pull yourself up and your leg rests on the back of the boat you freeze.
“Holy fuck.” Luke says, wiping his eyes and swimming over to you.
That’s when the burning starts, a thick flash that seizes up your entire leg. What the hell had even happened? You didn’t feel the initial cut, but you fell way too close to the boat for comfort.
“Oh my god Y/N, I’m so sorry.” Jack starts, and you knew it was serious as soon as he started using your name. Jack had started calling you Sis as soon as you and Quinn had started dating. Not that anyone ever questioned it anyways, it made you feel apart of the family, and it made Quinn’s heart soar knowing that his brothers, who are equally his best friends, love his girlfriend.
“No, no. It’s not your fault.” You say looking down to your thigh, you didn’t normally get queasy around blood. It’s a very normal thing to see with a boyfriend and his two brothers in hockey. But something about the way the cut heavily drips down your thigh and lands on the boat makes you want to throw up.
Jack launches himself onto the boat, Luke directly behind him. But you remain, staring at the blood still running, the pain intensifying by the second. Luke grabs a towel, moving back to you and laying it over the cut.
“I have to press down on it okay?” He says softly, as if he spoke normally it would startle you.
You only nod, blinded by the pain it’s causing.
“You’ve got to get in a seat, we have to get back.” He continues with a soft tone, something you don’t normally hear from the youngest Hughes brother. You nod, not feeling fully in control of your body.
Both brothers move to your sides, gripping under your arms and as gently as they could sitting you down on one of the seats of the boat. Your leg resting straight out in front of you, as Luke moves your hand to press down on your leg. You pretend not to notice the deep red staining the light blue towel. You can’t ignore however, the red that’s staining Luke’s hand. Blood. Your blood.
Jack starts the boat up, apologizing profusely and asking if you’re okay. You did hear everything he was saying, but you couldn’t manage to make a response. The stains and rich colors surrounding you making your head feel fuzzy.
“He’s not answering.” Luke says to Jack, putting his phone back into one of the cup holders. You could see the tightness in his shoulders, another out of character trait for him. It takes a lot to raddle the brothers, but seeing both of them sharp spined and wide eyed didn’t help your growing anxiety.
“It’s okay, we’ll be back in five minutes.” Jack says, his eyes continuing to glance from you to the open water in front of him.
“Hey,” Luke says to you, trying to get your attention. Your eyes flick up to his, seeing the worry planted in them. “You’re going to be okay, we’re almost home. You can’t die because of a cut, imagine how embarrassing that would be. I’d never let you live it down”
A small chuckle leaves your lips at that, but the movement caused searing pain to run through your entire leg. Your hand is warm, the blood thick in the towel that you’re pressing down on. You were trying to stay strong, trying not to cry over a little cut. It’s just a scratch, just a scratch. And you’ll be with Quinn soon, and he’ll fix it.
It’s just a scratch
It’s just a scratch
It’s just a scratch
But the scratch has now fully coated the beach towel, and the smell of blood was shoving its way into your nose making you want to gag. You didn’t know how much longer you could take this.
“Quinn.” you say, voice cracking a little bit. You just wanted your boyfriend. Your boyfriend who made everything better, who always knew exactly what to do and how to fix everything.
“We’re getting you to him, we promise.” Jack says, maxing out the speed on the boat.
You could see the dock, see the stairs that led up to the house. The house that you loved, and the house that Quinn was currently in, not having any clue his girlfriend was currently gushing blood in his boat. As soon as Jack got to the dock Luke made a jump for it, running up the steps to get your boyfriend.
“Come on Y/N, we’ve got to get you to the house.” Jack says, moving so you can throw your arm around his shoulder. You stifle a little cry as you stand, the cut a continuous painful pulse. You lean your weight into him as he gets you both off the boat and onto the dock.
“I know, I know. I’m so sorry.” Jack says, helping you slowly but still with a sense of urgency.
“Y/N? Holy shit.” You hear, and you know that voice. You could pick it out in a crowd of thousands of people. Quinn moves fast, bolting down the steps to where you and Jack are trying to hobble your way up. “Jesus sweetheart.” He says, his eyes sizing up your thigh. The bloody towel was left behind in the boat, so now it was back to trickling down your leg, your breath starts to shake a bit. “Hey, look at me. You’re going to be okay. We just have to get you stitched up, and you’ll be good as new. Okay?” Quinn says, being careful not to scare you. He looks in your eyes, and a part of his heart cracks as he sees them filling with pain and fear. “Everything’s okay sweetheart, just breathe for me.”
“It hurts, Quinny.” You say, your body getting transferred from Jack to Quinn. He picks you up bridal style, rushing you to the car.
“Just focus on me, yeah? We’re going to get you all fixed, don’t worry I’ve got you now.” He comforts you, trying not to shake you in his arms as you get to the driveway.
“Can you guys please turn off the grill and get dinner put away?” Quinn asks as Luke opens the car door for Quinn to set you down.
“We can come-“ Luke starts, but Quinn cuts him off.
“Please.” Quinn says, looking at them.
“Y/N I’m so sorry.” Jack says, his face pale and eyes wide. You could see the regret covering all his features, and the normally outgoing and courageous man you know looked small.
“It’s okay Jacky.” You say, giving him a small smile, the only thing you could muster. You didn’t want him to feel bad, it truly wasn’t his fault. But you know him better than most, and he’ll blame himself for this. Quinn closes the car door, saying something to his brothers as he runs around to the drivers seat before hauling ass out of the driveway.
“You can cry now, they can’t see you.” He says, gripping my hand in his.
“How did you know?”
“Because I know you, love. They wouldn’t have judged you for crying in front of them. Especially given the circumstance. Hell, they wouldn’t judge you for crying about anything.” He reasons, his hand tightening ever so slightly on your own.
“It hurts like a bitch.” You whisper, eyes lining with tears. “I didn’t want him to blame himself. I thought it would be worse if I broke out in tears.”
“It’s going to be okay. I’ll get you all fixed up, and we can do whatever you want. It’s all you for the night.” He says, and the tears finally hit your cheek. “It’s all you every night, for the rest of my life.”
—
With 17 new stitches, you were finally back in Quinn’s car heading back to the lake house. You cringed getting back in the front seat, seeing the red that was soaking into the fabric.
“I don’t give a shit about the car, love.” Was his only response, shutting the guilt down in you before it could fully bloom.
Backing out of the parking spot, he hands you his phone, letting you turn on your playlist. Quinn’s phone was ringing off the hook, but he continued to ignore them all. Singing along to your favorite songs with you was more important than whoever was calling. With one hand on the wheel and the other holding your hand, he drove you both back to the lake house.
The entire hospital process Quinn didn’t leave your side, he talked to you about what’s been going on in the team group chat, this movie he heard of that he thought you’d like, keeping you updated on his book, promising to take you to all your favorite places each day for the rest of the summer. Anything he could think of to distract you, and it was the promise of taking you book shopping that you were going to hold him too. Not that he minded of course, he loved reading with you, both of you laying together in your own worlds but just doing it together was what mattered.
You have never been more thankful for him than you are now. And as you pull in the driveway, and you shift to start to get out, he gives you one look that silences that idea.
“I can get out of the car on my own.” You say, tiredly smiling at him knowing you’re battling for something you’ll never win.
“I know you can, but you’re not.” He says, coming around to the passenger door and lifting you up to carry you in the house.
“Is this what it’s going to be like until I get the stitches out?” You ask him, resting your head in between his neck and shoulder as he walked. “You carrying me around for everything?”
“I’d carry you around like this for the rest of your life if that’s what you wanted.”
“Oh my, I think somebody likes me.” You joke.
“Like you? No.” He scoffs, shaking his head as he makes it through the front door. “I’m a little far past like. In fact, I’m so in love with you that you might have to beg me not to carry you around like this for the rest of my life.”
Before you could respond, you were interrupted by two voices yelling, “Welcome back!”
Quinn chuckles, walking towards his two brothers. As you take in your surroundings, you smile brightly at the pair. The couch had been covered with blankets, and pillows lined the corner of the couch making a comfy looking spot. One of Quinn’s sweatshirts laid over the back of the cushion, luckily you had spare clothes you changed into at the hospital from Quinn’s car, but the promise of his favorite sweatshirt was too good to pass up. The tv was on, your favorite movie paused at the beginning. Pizza boxes laid out on the coffee table, plates and napkins accompanying them.
“You’ve been busy.” You say at the brothers, as Quinn sets you down in the corner of the couch, slipping the sweatshirt on over your head.
“We got all your favorites, except the ice cream situation. We couldn’t remember which flavor was your favorite, so we got five just to be safe.” Jack says, twiddling his thumbs.
“You bought FIVE?” You exclaim. “Wow Jack, I didn’t even know you could count that high.” You say, laughing at the insult that started this whole debacle.
Quinn laughs, covering you with a blanket, kissing you softly on the lips.
“Come on you rookies, you know it’s caramel cold brew.” Quinn states, sitting down next to you and putting his arm up so you could lean in.
“I fucking told you.” Luke says to Jack.
“No you didn’t. If I remember correctly you said, ‘why not just buy them all’.” Jack exclaims, turning towards the younger brother.
“Are you saying I don’t deserve them all?” You tease, the three looking at you.
“We would have bought out the whole damn store for you Sis.” Jack says, plopping down on the couch and grabbing himself a slice of pizza. Luke grabs a plate and places a few slices on it before handing it to you.
“Thanks Lu.” You say softly, sitting up just enough to be able to eat. Your thigh was numb, but pains every once in a while shot through.
You listen to all three of them talk, enjoying the comfort and food. Before you know it the house is back to being filled with laughter and bickering from all sides.
As Luke and Jack go head to head about who’s a better player, Quinn takes your empty plate from you and rests it back on the coffee table. He tucks you into his side, brushing your hair behind your ear and kissing your forehead.
“PLEASE YOU FELL OVER!” Jack yells, standing up with arms waving all around.
“Oh yeah says Mr. Can’t Stay on his Feet.” Quinn says, adding to the fray.
“Sis come on, back me up.” Jack says, looking defeated.
“I’ve seen some wipeouts in my time, but that Jacky was the worst.” You say, shrugging lightly.
“HA!” Luke yells, pointing his finger at Jack. Before the middle brother scoffs, saying he’s going to grab everyone ice cream.
“How long do you think I can milk this injury?” You ask your boyfriend.
“Probably until the day we all die.” He says, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.
“Good.” You say, watching Jack set bowls out in the kitchen. “Because my car needs to go in for an oil change, think I can guilt Jack into it?” You joke.
Quinn laughs, his chest rumbling. “If he tries to get out of it, just start reaching for your thigh. He’ll do whatever you want then.”
“You’re evil Quinn Hughes.” You say, tilting your chin to fully look up at him.
“No, I’m just an older brother.”
“Not just an older brother.” You state.
“No? What else am I?” He asks you, and you smile lightly before looking at the man who you love as you say,
