a/n: HELLOOOOOOOOO!!!! any1 wanna buy my 1k hand beaded necklaces🥹
wc: prob like 2k
Macklin Celebrini x Social media girl!reader
@nauljise
Being the social media manager for the San Jose Sharks sounds cooler than it is. Okay, that’s not entirely true, it is cool. But it’s also constant pressure. Every post, every caption, every clip goes through you. One wrong upload and it’s not just your mistake, it’s the team’s image.
Which is why you’ve learned to keep things professional.
Especially with the players.
Especially with Macklin Celebrini.
“Can you not post that one?” he asks, leaning slightly over your shoulder as you scroll through photos from morning skate.
You don’t look up. “It’s a good shot.”
“I look weird.”
“You always say that.”
“Because I always do.”
You turn your laptop just enough for him to see. “You scored ten seconds before this was taken. You look fine.”
He squints at the screen. “My eyes look off.”
“You blinked.”
“Exactly.”
You sigh, clicking the image anyway. “It’s going up.”
He straightens, clearly unimpressed. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re overthinking it.”
He lingers for a second like he wants to argue more, then just shakes his head and walks off. You don’t need to check to know he’ll look for the post later anyway. He always does.
That’s the thing about Macklin, he complains, but he pays attention. More than most.
At first, your interactions were strictly work. Short conversations, quick directions during content shoots, occasional feedback on what he was comfortable posting. But somewhere along the way, things shifted. He started staying longer after shoots. You started noticing when he walked into a room without even looking up.
It’s subtle. It’s gradual. It’s dangerous.
You know better.
You’ve always known better.
That doesn’t stop it.
One night after a game, you’re still in the arena long after most people have left. The media team cleared out hours ago, but you’re behind on edits and you’d rather finish now than deal with it in the morning. The building is quiet, the usual noise replaced by the low hum of lights and distant echoes.
You don’t hear him walk in.
“You’re still here?”
You glance up.
Macklin.
Hoodie on, hair still damp, like he just finished showering and was halfway out the door before deciding not to leave.
“I could say the same thing,” you reply.
“I was leaving,” he says. “You’re clearly not.”
You shrug, closing one of your tabs. “I’ve got a post to finish.”
He steps closer, glancing at your screen. “That one’s good.”
“You’ve seen two seconds of it.”
“That’s enough.”
You shake your head slightly. “That’s not how that works.”
“It is when I trust you.”
You pause.
That word lands heavier than it should.
You look back at your screen. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes this weird.”
He leans against the desk beside you. “It’s already weird.”
You exhale slowly. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“Then why does it feel like it is?”
You don’t answer that.
Because you know exactly why.
You close your laptop, finally giving him your full attention. “You should go. It’s late.”
“Walk with me.”
“I can walk myself out.”
“I know,” he says. “I still want to.”
You hesitate for half a second too long before nodding. “Fine.”
The hallway outside is empty, your footsteps echoing slightly as you walk side by side. It feels different without the usual crowd, no cameras, no teammates, no noise. Just quiet, and him next to you in a way that feels a little too noticeable.
“You ever get tired of it?” he asks.
“Of what?”
“All of this. Being around us all the time.”
You think about it. “Sometimes. But I like it.”
“Even when we’re annoying?”
“Especially then.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “That’s concerning.”
You glance at him. “You’re the worst one, by the way.”
“I know.”
“At least you admit it.”
“Only with you.”
You look forward again. “You don’t talk like this to everyone.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
You hesitate. “…Because that would be a problem.”
He stops walking.
You take another step before realizing, then turn back to face him.
“What kind of problem?” he asks.
You cross your arms. “The kind that gets me fired.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s accurate.”
He steps closer, not enough to be obvious, but enough that you notice.
“I’m not going to get you in trouble,” he says.
“You already are.”
The words slip out before you can stop them.
There’s a beat of silence.
You shake your head quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.”
You look up at him, and for once he’s not joking, not teasing. Just serious.
“You think I don’t notice?” he says.
“Notice what?”
“You.”
That doesn’t help your heartbeat at all.
“At games, after practices, during media stuff,” he continues. “You’re always there, but you keep your distance.”
“I’m working.”
“I know. But it’s not just that.”
You don’t respond.
You can’t.
Because he’s right.
“This is a bad idea,” you say finally.
“Yeah.”
“Really bad.”
“Probably.”
Neither of you moves.
“You should go,” you add.
“Yeah.”
He still doesn’t move.
Instead, he steps closer.
Your heart is beating way too fast now.
“Macklin—”
“I know.”
And then he kisses you.
It’s not rushed, not messy, just careful, like he’s been thinking about it longer than he should have. Your hand grips the front of his hoodie before you even realize what you’re doing.
When you pull back, you’re both a little breathless.
“Well,” you say quietly.
“Yeah,” he replies.
You stare at him. “That was a bad idea.”
“Definitely.”
You hesitate, then shake your head slightly. “Still worth it?”
He doesn’t even think about it. “Yeah.”
You let out a quiet laugh, stepping back. “This can’t happen again.”
“Okay.”
“You’re agreeing way too easily.”
“I’m agreeing with you.”
“You’re lying.”
“Yeah,” he admits.
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re still here.”
“That’s the problem.”
He glances toward the exit, then back at you. “I’ll walk you out.”
“You already did.”
“I’ll do it again.”
You shake your head, but you don’t argue.
Because the truth is, the rules are still there. The lines still exist.
But they don’t feel as clear as they did before.
And as you step out into the night beside Macklin Celebrini, one thought lingers—
a/n: HELLOOOOO TUMBLR NATION, im so connor bedard pilled today so I am feeding everyone with a little slice of smau (just a bit though)
Connor Bedard x popstar!reader
wc≈2k
THIS request
You’re used to rumors.
They come with the job.
When you released your first single at sixteen, the internet immediately decided three things about you:
1. Your lyrics were about your ex.
2. Your outfits meant something secret.
3. You were secretly dating someone.
You weren’t.
Now, three years later, you are.
And somehow that makes the rumors worse.
Because this time they’re actually close to the truth.
The funny part is that you met him in the least glamorous place imaginable.
An airport Starbucks.
You were halfway through a brutal international promo tour—London, New York, Toronto, Los Angeles in six days. Your team had you wearing sunglasses inside the terminal even though it was midnight and you were so tired you could barely read the departure board.
You were waiting for your drink when someone beside you said quietly:
“Pretty sure they spelled your name wrong.”
You looked over.
Tall. Messy hair. Hoodie. Hockey hat pulled low.
You blinked at the cup.
They had spelled it completely wrong.
You laughed.
“Honestly, that might be the best thing that’s happened today.”
He smiled like he understood exactly what you meant.
“I’m Connor,” he said.
You froze for half a second.
Because of course you knew who he was.
Connor Bedard was kind of impossible not to know about. The teenage hockey phenomenon playing for the Chicago Blackhawks. The highlight reels. The interviews. The endless debates about whether he’d become the next generational superstar.
But he was standing here in line for coffee like a normal person.
“You’re…” you started.
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “But you’re also…”
You both laughed at the same time.
It was weirdly relieving.
No screaming fans. No cameras. Just two exhausted people in an airport at midnight.
“You on tour?” he asked.
“Yeah. You?”
“Road trip.”
You nodded toward his hat. “Makes sense.”
They called your drink.
He grabbed his too.
Then you both stood there awkwardly for a second like neither of you wanted to leave first.
“So…” he said. “Good luck with the tour.”
“You too,” you said. “With… hockey.”
You walked away thinking you’d never see him again.
Three months later he DM’d you.
You almost missed it because it was buried under hundreds of notifications.
At first you assumed it was fake.
Then you saw the verification check.
The message was simple.
You stared at it for a long time.
Then you replied.
That was how it started.
Dating secretly is harder than writing a hit song.
You don’t go out to restaurants.
You don’t post pictures.
You don’t even like each other’s posts because fans notice everything.
Instead, your relationship exists in quiet spaces.
Late-night FaceTime calls after concerts.
Texting during intermissions.
Sneaking into the empty arena after one of his games.
The first time you went to watch him play in person, you wore a hat, a mask, and your manager’s giant coat.
“You look like a spy,” he texted.
“Shut up,” you replied.
You sat high in the arena where nobody would notice you.
And then he stepped onto the ice.
The crowd roared.
You’d watched clips of him before, obviously, but seeing it live was different.
He was fast.
Like actually unfairly fast.
At one point he scored and the arena exploded.
Without thinking, you stood up cheering.
The guy next to you stared.
You sat down immediately.
Connor texted you during the intermission.
The first time he came to one of your concerts was even more chaotic.
Your security team almost had a heart attack trying to get him backstage without anyone noticing.
“Hockey guy?” your bodyguard whispered.
You nodded.
Connor looked deeply amused.
“Never thought sneaking into a concert would be harder than sneaking past defensemen.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Trust me, my fans are more dangerous.”
From the side of the stage he watched you perform.
Thirty thousand people screaming your lyrics.
Lights flashing.
Your voice echoing across the stadium.
After the show he just stared at you.
“What?” you said.
“That was insane.”
“You literally play in sold-out arenas.”
“Yeah but they’re not singing my name.”
You shrugged.
“Give it time.”
Your favorite part of the relationship is how normal it feels.
He’ll call you after practice just to complain about drills.
You’ll send him half-written lyrics at 2 a.m.
Sometimes you both fall asleep on FaceTime.
No cameras. No headlines.
Just you.
Which is why the rumors make your stomach twist.
Because eventually, the internet notices everything.
One morning your publicist bursts into your hotel room looking stressed.
“Have you seen this?”
She holds up her phone.
You take it.
And there it is.
Right at the top of a gossip site.
Your stomach drops.
“Where did this even come from?” you ask.
“They’re saying someone saw you at a game in Chicago,” she says. “And that Connor was seen leaving your concert.”
You groan.
Of course.
Two tiny coincidences and the internet builds a conspiracy theory.
“Is it bad?” you ask.
She shrugs. “Right now it’s just speculation."
You immediately text Connor.
You stare at the screen.
That’s the thing about him.
He never asks about the headlines first.
Always about you.
---
The rumors spread faster than either of you expect.
Fan accounts start comparing photos.
“Connor liked her post from 4 months ago.”
“They were both in Toronto the same weekend.”
“This shadow in the background of her story looks like a hockey stick.”
You wish you were kidding.
Meanwhile your team keeps asking the same question.
“Are you actually dating him?”
Your manager asks it the most carefully.
“You don’t have to confirm anything,” she says. “But I need to know in case this gets bigger.”
You hesitate.
Then nod.
Her eyebrows go up slightly.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Okay.”
“Is that bad?”
“No,” she says. “Just… unexpected.”
You laugh nervously.
“Tell me about it.”
Connor handles it differently.
When reporters ask about the rumors after a game, he just smiles.
“No comment,” he says.
Which somehow makes the internet even more convinced.
That night he calls you.
“You surviving?” he asks.
“Barely.”
“Want to hear something funny?”
“Please.”
“My teammate asked if he could get backstage passes.”
You burst out laughing.
“Absolutely not.”
“Rude,” he says.
Then his voice softens slightly.
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“If this ever gets too much… we can figure it out.”
You know what he means.
Go public.
Or step back.
Or something in between.
But the idea of losing the quiet parts of this, the FaceTime calls, the arena visits, the normal moments, makes your chest ache.
“I don’t want to stop,” you say.
“Good,” he says immediately.
“Good?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
There’s a pause.
Then he says, a little shyly:
“Because I really like you.”
You smile at the ceiling of your hotel room.
“I really like you too.”
The rumors eventually slow down.
The internet finds new drama.
New celebrities to pair together.
But every once in a while a new theory pops up.
A blurry photo.
A suspicious comment.
A fan insisting they saw you both leaving the same restaurant.
You never confirm it.
Neither does he.
Instead, the relationship continues in the same quiet way it started.
Airports.
Late-night calls.
Stolen weekends.
And sometimes, when you’re performing in a massive stadium and the lights are blinding and the crowd is screaming your name…
You spot one familiar face backstage.
Hoodie. Hockey hat. Slightly awkward smile.
Watching you like he still can’t believe this is your life.
And later, when the lights are off and the stage is empty, he’ll pull you into a hug and say the same thing he always says.
“That was insane.”
And somehow, even with millions of fans and endless headlines…
That moment still feels like the most real thing in the world.
a/n: first longer one heheee, hope you have fun with this
wc: 7.1k
Juraj Slafkovsky x figure skater!reader
@nauljise
The first time you meet Juraj Slafkovský, you decide within about ten seconds that he is the most annoying person you’ve ever seen on skates.
Which is saying something, because you spend most of your life around skaters.
The arena is quiet when you arrive that morning, the kind of quiet that feels thick and calm before practice begins. Your blades carve gentle arcs into the untouched ice as you warm up, the sound echoing lightly around the empty seats. Figure skating mornings always feel like this, peaceful, focused, controlled.
Your coach stands at the boards holding a clipboard while you run through your opening steps.
“Again,” she calls.
You push off into the program once more. Edge change. Crossovers. A quick spin. Everything feels good today, the ice is smooth, your muscles warm, the rhythm of the music flowing through the rink speakers.
You leap into your first jump.
Clean landing.
Your coach nods.
“Better.”
You skate another lap before gliding to the boards for water.
That’s when the doors on the far side of the rink slam open.
Loud voices spill into the arena.
Hockey players.
You glance up as a group of them skate onto the ice, jerseys half-tucked, sticks tapping the surface casually as they spread out across the rink.
Your coach sighs.
“They’re early.”
You don’t need to ask who “they” are. The training facility sometimes shares ice time with players from the Montreal Canadiens when they’re working on skating drills or conditioning.
Usually they show up later.
Today, apparently, they don’t.
One of them skates out in front first.
He’s impossible to miss.
Tall, ridiculously tall, actually. His shoulders are broad even under the practice jersey, and he moves across the ice with long, powerful strides that cover distance almost unfairly.
He’s laughing about something one of his teammates said.
You watch him glide past.
Your coach mutters under her breath.
“Of course it’s him.”
You look closer.
That’s when you realize who it is.
Juraj Slafkovský.
You’ve seen clips of him before, everyone has. The young forward with the heavy shot and the big personality. Even off the ice he seems like the kind of person who fills whatever room he walks into.
Which is exactly what he’s doing now.
“Hey!” one of his teammates calls.
Juraj answers with something in Slovak that makes the rest of them laugh.
You roll your eyes slightly.
Figure skating and hockey might share ice, but the worlds feel completely different.
Your coach taps the boards.
“Focus.”
You nod and push away from the wall again.
You’re halfway through your step sequence when Juraj skates past the edge of your practice area.
Fast.
Too fast.
His stop sprays a fine mist of ice across the surface.
Some of it lands near you.
You freeze mid-glide.
He looks over immediately.
“Sorry!” he calls, though the grin on his face suggests he’s not terribly concerned.
You stare at him.
“Control your edges.”
For a moment he just blinks.
Then he skates closer to the boards.
“You’re the figure skater, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“You guys are very serious.”
“And you’re very annoying.”
A couple of his teammates laugh from the far side of the rink.
Juraj raises his hands like he’s surrendering.
“Okay.”
But he’s still smiling.
And somehow that makes it worse.
From that day on, the tension between you becomes a quiet routine.
Every time your practice overlaps with the hockey team’s ice time, something small happens.
He skates past just a little too close.
You glare.
He claps sarcastically when you land a jump.
You pretend not to notice.
He bows dramatically when you finish a spin.
You roll your eyes.
Your coach notices immediately.
“You two are distracting each other,” she says one afternoon.
“I’m not distracted.”
“You almost missed your landing earlier.”
“That had nothing to do with him.”
But even as you say it, you glance toward the far end of the rink.
Juraj is skating drills with one of the coaches.
He’s fast.
Faster than you expected.
And annoyingly smooth for someone who treats skating like it’s a contact sport.
You catch him looking over at you.
He grins.
You turn away quickly.
Weeks pass like that.
You don’t talk much beyond quick comments across the ice, but somehow you’re always aware of each other.
If he’s practicing, you notice.
If you land a difficult jump, he notices.
One evening, your coach ends practice early.
“You’re competing next month,” she reminds you. “Don’t overtrain.”
You nod.
But after she leaves, you stay.
The rink grows quiet as the building empties.
Your music echoes softly from the speaker as you start running your program again.
Something about it still feels off.
The combination jump near the end keeps collapsing when your legs get tired.
You skate the program again.
And again.
Your breathing grows heavier.
Your legs burn.
Still not right.
You reset the music.
One more time.
You push into the opening sequence.
Edges sharp. Turns quick. Spin centered.
When you reach the jump combination, you focus everything you have into the takeoff.
Rotate.
Land.
Not perfect, but better.
You slow to a stop, hands on your knees.
Then you hear it.
Clapping.
Slow.
Deliberate.
You spin around.
Someone is sitting halfway up the bleachers.
Your stomach flips.
Juraj.
He’s leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching you.
“How long have you been there?” you ask.
“Couple minutes.”
“That’s creepy.”
He shrugs.
“I came back to grab my headphones.”
He gestures vaguely toward the locker room hallway.
Your heart is still beating fast from the program.
“You could’ve said something.”
“You were busy.”
He stands and walks down the steps until he reaches the boards.
Up close, he looks even taller somehow.
“You practice a lot,” he says.
“That’s how it works.”
“I know.”
You cross your arms slightly.
“What are you doing here?”
“Watching now.”
“Why?”
He tilts his head slightly.
“Because that spin thing you do is crazy.”
You stare at him.
“It’s called a spin.”
“Yeah, but you rotate like… ten times.”
“Twelve.”
He whistles softly.
“Do the jump again.”
“What?”
“The big one.”
“Why?”
“I want to see it.”
You hesitate.
Then you skate backward to your starting point.
You take a breath.
Push off.
The jump launches high, rotation snapping tight before your blades reconnect with the ice.
Clean landing.
You glide back toward the boards.
Juraj shakes his head slightly.
“That’s insane.”
“It’s practice.”
“No,” he says quietly.
“It’s not.”
For the first time since you met him, he doesn’t sound teasing.
He sounds… impressed.
And something about that makes your chest feel strangely warm.
The next few practices feel different.
Juraj still jokes with his teammates.
Still skates loud and fast and reckless.
But when your sessions overlap, he doesn’t spray ice toward you anymore.
Sometimes he even sits on the bench while you finish your routines.
Watching.
One afternoon he calls across the rink.
“How do you spin that fast?”
“Practice.”
“That’s not helpful.”
You shrug.
“Why do hockey players skate like they’re chasing something?”
“Because we are.”
“Pucks?”
“Goals.”
You shake your head.
He laughs.
The rivalry between you slowly turns into something else.
Something lighter.
Something almost like… curiosity.
One evening after practice, you’re unlacing your skates when Juraj drops onto the bench beside you.
“You ever tried hockey skating?” he asks.
You glance up.
“I skate every day.”
“Not like this.”
He gestures toward the rink.
“You guys are all upright and elegant. Hockey skating is different.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“And?”
“I could teach you.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It’ll be fun.”
You hesitate.
Then shrug.
“Fine.”
He grins like he just won something.
Later that night, the rink is nearly empty again.
Juraj skates out carrying an extra stick.
“You need gear,” he says.
“I’m not wearing hockey gear.”
“You’ll fall.”
“I fall all the time.”
“Not like this.”
You ignore him and step onto the ice.
He circles around you slowly, studying your stance.
“Okay,” he says.
“First rule.”
“What?”
“Bend your knees.”
“They’re already bent.”
“More.”
You sigh but lower them further.
“Now lean forward.”
“This feels wrong.”
“Trust me.”
You push off.
Within three seconds, your skates slide out sideways.
Juraj catches your arm before you hit the ice.
“Told you.”
You glare up at him.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
Over the next hour he teaches you hockey edges, stops, tight turns along the boards.
You stumble constantly.
He laughs constantly.
But gradually something changes.
Your movements get sharper.
Faster.
At one point you manage a decent hockey stop, spraying ice across the surface.
Juraj throws both arms in the air.
“See?!”
You laugh breathlessly.
“Okay… that was kind of fun.”
He grins.
And for the first time since you met him, the two of you are laughing together instead of arguing.
By the time the rink lights dim for closing, neither of you wants to leave.
And somewhere in the quiet echo of the empty arena…
Something new begins.
The next few weeks settle into a strange new routine.
You still train for your competition almost every day, your coach pushing you harder as the date gets closer. Your jumps are sharper now, your stamina improving, your step sequence finally starting to feel natural instead of forced.
But something else has become part of your training schedule too.
Juraj.
At first it’s accidental. He just happens to stay late after hockey practice. You just happen to still be on the ice finishing your program. Eventually the overlap stops feeling like coincidence.
Some nights he sits on the bench watching while you skate.
Other nights you wait for him to finish drills so he can teach you more hockey skating.
The lessons become your favorite part of the day.
Not that you would ever admit that to him.
“You’re still skating like a ballerina,” he says one evening, gliding backward in front of you.
“I am a ballerina,” you reply.
“You’re supposed to be a hockey player during these lessons.”
“Your expectations are unrealistic.”
Juraj laughs.
The rink is empty except for the two of you, the overhead lights reflecting across the ice in soft white streaks.
“Okay,” he says. “We try crossovers.”
“I already know crossovers.”
“Figure skating crossovers,” he says. “Not hockey ones.”
He demonstrates quickly, powerful strides cutting tight arcs across the rink.
“Your turn.”
You attempt to copy the movement.
Immediately your balance shifts wrong.
Your blade catches awkwardly.
Juraj grabs your arm before you fall again.
“You do this on purpose,” you accuse.
“Maybe a little.”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“It’s very entertaining.”
You shove his shoulder lightly.
He barely moves.
It’s unfair how strong he is on skates.
Later that same evening, you’re sitting on the boards catching your breath when Juraj suddenly asks:
“Can I try something?”
You raise an eyebrow.
“Define ‘something.’”
He gestures toward the center of the rink.
“You teach me a spin.”
You stare at him.
“You want to try figure skating?”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s harder than you think.”
He smirks.
“I play in the NHL.”
“And you’re about to embarrass yourself.”
“Let’s see.”
You slide back onto the ice.
“Fine. Stand there.”
He obeys, looking suspiciously confident.
“First rule,” you say. “Pull your arms in.”
He does.
“Now rotate.”
Juraj pushes lightly and attempts the spin.
For approximately one second it works.
Then his balance disappears completely.
His skates slide out and he crashes onto the ice with a loud thud.
You burst out laughing.
He groans from the ice.
“That was not graceful.”
“Not even a little.”
He sits up, shaking his head.
“How do you spin that fast?”
“Practice.”
“You say that about everything.”
“Because it’s true.”
He stands again and brushes ice off his jersey.
“Try again,” he says.
You blink.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
The second attempt is slightly better.
The third attempt ends with him spinning halfway before stumbling into the boards.
You’re laughing so hard your sides hurt.
He points at you.
“If anyone asks, this never happened.”
“Oh it absolutely happened.”
“I trusted you.”
“That was your first mistake.”
Somewhere during those nights on the empty rink, the way Juraj looks at you starts changing.
You don’t notice it right away.
But he does.
It starts small.
The way he watches when you practice your jumps.
The way he remembers tiny details about your routines.
The way he always seems to skate a little closer than necessary.
One evening you finish a full run-through of your program and glide toward the boards.
Juraj is leaning there with his arms crossed.
“That one was perfect,” he says.
You blink.
“You noticed?”
“I always notice.”
The words come out casually.
But something about them makes your stomach flip slightly.
Meanwhile, the hockey team has started noticing something too.
Juraj is distracted.
During one morning practice, one of his teammates skates beside him during a drill.
“Hey,” the player says.
“What?”
“You missed that pass.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You definitely did.”
Juraj shrugs.
The teammate squints at him.
“Is this about the figure skater?”
Juraj nearly trips over his own skates.
“What?”
“Everyone’s seen you watching her.”
“I am not watching her.”
“You’re staring.”
“That’s different.”
The teammate grins.
“Juraj has a crush.”
“I do not.”
“Oh my god, you do.”
Juraj shoves him lightly.
“Shut up.”
But the damage is done.
Within a week half the locker room is teasing him about it.
One afternoon after practice, Juraj walks into the locker room to find two teammates sitting on the bench scrolling through something on a phone.
They look up immediately.
“There he is.”
“What?” Juraj says suspiciously.
“You going to her competition next month?”
He freezes.
“How do you know about that?”
“You talk about her constantly.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
Another player looks up from tying his skates.
“Is she coming to any games?”
Juraj grabs his bag.
“You guys are annoying.”
Which only makes them laugh harder.
A few days later, Juraj finds you tying your skates before practice.
“Hey,” he says.
You glance up.
“Hey.”
He leans against the boards awkwardly.
“You competing soon, right?”
“Next month.”
He nods.
“Cool.”
You narrow your eyes slightly.
“That’s it?”
“What?”
“You seem nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You’re fidgeting.”
He immediately stops moving his hands.
“You’re imagining things.”
You smile slightly.
It’s kind of adorable how terrible he is at hiding his emotions.
The first time you go to one of Juraj’s games, you’re not sure what to expect.
You’ve watched hockey before, of course.
But seeing him play live is different.
The arena is loud.
Crowds roaring, music blasting, sticks slamming against the boards.
Juraj looks completely different on the ice during a game.
Faster.
Sharper.
More intense.
You watch from the stands as he races down the ice during a rush, his skates digging deep into the surface.
When he scores in the second period, the arena explodes.
You find yourself jumping to your feet without even thinking.
Later, when the game ends, he spots you near the exit tunnel.
His face lights up immediately.
“You came,” he says.
“Of course I did.”
He’s still breathing hard from the game.
“How was it?”
“You look terrifying out there.”
He laughs.
“That’s the goal.”
You walk beside him toward the locker room hallway.
“Also,” you add casually, “your spin technique is still terrible.”
He groans.
“You promised never to bring that up again.”
“I promised nothing.”
Over the next few weeks, your lives become more intertwined.
Juraj shows up to more of your practices.
You attend more of his games.
Your friends start asking questions.
Your coach notices the way you smile more often.
One evening, after a long training session, you collapse onto the bench beside the rink.
Juraj sits beside you.
“You’re going to win,” he says suddenly.
You glance at him.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
He shrugs.
“Because you work harder than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
Your heart skips slightly.
Before you can respond, the arena lights dim slightly for closing.
The ice glows softly in the fading light.
Juraj stands and offers his hand.
“One more lap?”
You hesitate.
Then take it.
The two of you skate slowly around the empty rink together.
And somewhere between the quiet sound of your blades and the warmth of his hand in yours…
Juraj Slafkovský realizes something terrifying.
He’s completely in love with you.
By the time Juraj realizes he’s in love with you, it’s already too late to pretend he isn’t.
Not that he’s very good at pretending anyway.
You notice it first in small ways.
The way he watches you during practice, like every jump matters personally to him. The way he leans on the boards after his own training sessions just to stay a few extra minutes while you finish your routines. The way he remembers tiny things you mentioned weeks ago.
You notice the way his voice softens when he talks to you.
You notice the way he always makes sure you get off the ice safely before he leaves the rink.
And you definitely notice the way he looks at you when you aren’t looking.
But neither of you says anything.
Not yet.
Your competition arrives sooner than you expected.
The arena is packed with spectators, coaches, and skaters from across the region. The atmosphere feels different from your training rink, louder, heavier with pressure.
You sit in the locker room tying your skates while the announcer’s voice echoes faintly from the ice.
Your hands feel steady, but your heart is racing.
Your coach kneels beside you.
“Remember your timing on the second jump,” she says. “Don’t rush it.”
You nod.
“Relax,” she adds. “You’re ready.”
When you step onto the ice, the lights feel brighter than usual.
You take your starting position.
The music begins.
For the first few seconds, everything else disappears. The crowd, the judges, the pressure, none of it matters. It’s just the rhythm of your skates against the ice.
Edge change.
Spin.
You launch into the first jump.
Clean.
The second one feels even better.
Your muscles remember the routine perfectly. Every movement flows into the next like muscle memory guiding you through the program.
By the time you reach the final spin, your lungs burn but your confidence is soaring.
When the music ends, the applause fills the arena.
You bow quickly, heart pounding.
And then you spot him.
Standing near the boards behind the judges’ area.
Juraj.
He’s still in a hoodie and baseball cap, clearly having come straight from practice. His arms are crossed but his expression is unmistakable.
Pride.
You skate toward the exit tunnel.
He meets you there immediately.
“That was insane,” he says.
You laugh breathlessly.
“Good insane?”
“The best insane.”
Before you can answer, he pulls you into a hug.
It happens so naturally neither of you questions it.
Your skates scrape lightly against the floor as you wrap your arms around him too.
When you finally step back, something in the air between you feels… different.
More intense.
More real.
Later that evening, you meet again at the training rink.
The building is nearly empty, just like so many of your late practices together.
You step onto the ice slowly, still wearing your competition jacket.
Juraj follows.
“You looked happy out there,” he says.
“I was.”
“You deserved that.”
You glide a slow circle around him.
“You’ve been watching me a lot lately,” you say.
“I watch everything.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He sighs slightly.
“I know.”
For a moment neither of you speaks.
The quiet arena seems to magnify every small movement—the soft scrape of your blades, the distant hum of the lights overhead.
Finally you stop in front of him.
“Juraj.”
“Yeah?”
“Why do you look at me like that?”
He freezes slightly.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m the only thing on the ice.”
His breath catches.
Because that’s exactly how he looks at you.
He tries to say something.
Fails.
You step closer.
“Are you going to answer me?”
Juraj runs a hand through his hair.
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
He exhales slowly.
“I think about you all the time,” he admits.
The words hang in the air between you.
“You’re the first thing I look for when I walk into this rink,” he continues quietly. “And the last person I want to see before I leave.”
Your heart is racing now.
“Juraj…”
“I know,” he says quickly. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not.”
He stops.
“What?”
“It’s not stupid.”
The two of you stand there for a long moment.
Then Juraj says softly, “Can I do something?”
“What?”
He leans down slightly.
And kisses you.
The contact is gentle at first—soft, almost uncertain.
But the moment it happens, everything shifts.
Your hands instinctively grab the front of his hoodie to steady yourself on the ice.
His arms slide around your waist.
The kiss deepens slightly before you both pull back, breathless.
“Well,” Juraj says.
“Well,” you echo.
He laughs quietly.
“I think we just changed things.”
“You think?”
Dating Juraj Slafkovský is intense.
From the moment you start, it’s like both of you fall into it completely.
You meet after every practice.
He shows up at every skating event he can attend.
You sit in the stands at his games wearing his jersey.
His teammates notice immediately.
One afternoon when you’re walking past the locker room hallway, you hear someone call out.
“There she is!”
You turn.
Two of Juraj’s teammates are leaning against the doorframe.
“So you’re the famous figure skater,” one of them says.
Juraj appears behind them instantly.
“Don’t start.”
“We’re just saying hi.”
He puts an arm around your shoulders protectively.
“They’re annoying,” he tells you.
“We noticed,” you reply.
The teammates laugh.
“Relax,” one says. “We like her already.”
Juraj mutters something in Slovak that sounds suspiciously like a warning.
Weeks pass.
Your relationship grows deeper, faster than either of you expected.
Late-night skates become your favorite routine.
Sometimes you practice together just for fun—mixing hockey drills with figure skating spins.
Other nights you simply glide slowly around the rink, talking about everything and nothing.
One evening you’re finishing a spin near the boards when another player skates onto the ice.
He’s not part of Juraj’s team.
Just someone renting ice time nearby.
He watches you land the spin.
“Nice,” he says.
You smile politely.
“Thanks.”
He skates closer, leaning casually on his stick.
“You skate here a lot?”
“Most days.”
He nods.
“You ever go out with hockey players?”
You blink.
“Well…”
Before you can finish, another voice cuts across the rink.
“She does.”
Juraj.
He skates toward you fast.
The other player glances between you.
“Oh,” he says.
Juraj stops beside you.
“She’s with me.”
The player shrugs.
“I was just talking.”
“You were flirting.”
“Maybe.”
Juraj’s jaw tightens.
“Back off.”
The guy smirks slightly.
“Relax, man.”
He reaches toward you lightly, like he’s about to touch your arm.
Juraj reacts instantly.
He shoves him.
The player shoves back.
Within seconds gloves hit the ice.
The fight explodes.
Juraj throws the first punch, fast and powerful. The other player swings back but misses.
You shout his name.
“Juraj!”
The two of them crash into the boards, skates scraping violently against the ice.
Juraj lands another punch that sends the guy stumbling backward.
Coaches rush across the rink to break them apart.
By the time they pull Juraj away, his knuckles are bleeding slightly.
You skate over immediately.
“What was that?” you demand.
“He was hitting on you.”
“So you start a fight?”
“He deserved it.”
You grab his hand carefully.
“You’re impossible.”
He looks down at you.
“But you’re mine.”
You roll your eyes.
“I’m not property.”
“I know.”
He squeezes your hand anyway.
“But I’m still fighting anyone who tries.”
You sigh.
But despite everything, you can’t stop smiling slightly.
Because somewhere along the way…
The most annoying hockey player you ever met became the person you can’t imagine the rink without.
And every night, when the arena grows quiet and the ice belongs only to the two of you…
a/n: first nhl fic ahhh im scaredddd, hope u like ts
Sidney Crosby x daughter!reader
wc:2k
summary: the Crosby daughter is having serious burnout problems, dads here to help!
THIS request
The first time you realize your last name is heavier than your backpack is in ninth grade.
You’re standing at your locker, struggling with a chemistry textbook that feels like it was forged from solid steel, when two boys from the hockey team walk by.
“Hey, Crosby,” one of them says, not to you about you. “Your dad coming to the game Friday?”
You give them the same tight smile you’ve been practicing since kindergarten. The polite one. The I am used to this one.
“Maybe,” you say.
They nod like that answers everything. Like that explains you.
By sophomore year, you’ve learned something important: when your father is Sidney Crosby, people don’t just see you. They see him first. The Stanley Cups. The Olympic gold medals. The captaincy of the Pittsburgh Penguins. The headlines. The interviews. The pressure.
And somehow, even though you don’t play professional hockey, you feel like you’re supposed to live up to it.
Junior year is when it gets bad.
You’ve always been good at school. Not just good—top-of-the-class good. The kind of good teachers mention to guidance counselors. The kind of good that earns raised eyebrows when you get a 94 instead of a 98.
You don’t even remember when it stopped being about curiosity and started being about proof.
Proof that you’re more than a famous last name.
Proof that you deserve your spot in AP Biology.
Proof that you didn’t get elected student council vice president because everyone knows who your dad is.
Your planner is color-coded. Your phone calendar is a battlefield of reminders. You stay up past midnight most nights, rewriting notes you already understand because maybe understanding isn’t enough.
At dinner one Tuesday, you push broccoli around your plate while your dad talks about a road trip.
“…and then we’ve got back-to-backs against Boston and New York,” he says casually, like back-to-backs are normal, like that isn’t exhausting.
Your mom asks about your calculus test.
“Fine,” you say.
Your dad glances at you. He has this way of really looking at you, like he’s studying game footage. “Fine-fine, or fine?”
You shrug. “Ninety-two.”
He smiles. “That’s great.”
But something in you twists. Because it should have been higher. Because Jenna got a ninety-six. Because colleges look at everything.
“It’s not my best,” you mutter.
He leans back in his chair. “Since when is ninety-two not your best?”
You don’t answer.
Burnout doesn’t announce itself.
It creeps.
It’s the morning you stare at your reflection and feel nothing.
It’s the way your hands shake before a test you studied ten hours for.
It’s the first time you sit on your bedroom floor, back against the bed, and cry not because you failed, but because you’re tired of trying so hard.
Your bedroom walls are lined with memories that aren’t even yours. Framed photos: you in toddler pajamas sitting in a giant Stanley Cup. You at age six, wearing an oversized Penguins jersey, standing next to your dad at center ice. You at twelve, holding a sign that says THAT’S MY DAD.
You love him. God, you love him.
But sometimes you wonder who you are without him.
The breaking point comes on a Thursday.
You get your physics test back.
Eighty-seven.
It might as well be a failing grade.
Your chest tightens. Your ears ring. Mrs. Patterson says something about strong effort, about silly mistakes, about next time but all you hear is not enough.
At lunch, your friends talk about prom themes and college visits.
“I’m thinking pre-med,” Jenna says.
“Of course you are,” someone jokes.
You swallow. You had been thinking pre-med too. Not because you love medicine. Because it’s impressive. Because it sounds like something the daughter of Sidney Crosby would do.
By the time you get home, your head is pounding.
Your dad’s car is in the driveway. He’s home early.
You consider going straight upstairs, but the garage door opens before you can make it inside.
“Hey,” he says, stepping out. He’s in sweats and a Penguins hoodie, hair still damp from practice. “You’re home early.”
“So are you.”
He grins. “Rest day.”
You nod and move toward the door.
“Hey.” His voice shifts slightly. Softer. “Everything okay?”
And that’s when it happens.
You don’t mean to cry. You really don’t.
But suddenly the tears are there, hot and unstoppable.
“I can’t do this,” you choke out.
His face changes instantly. Not captain. Not media-trained. Just Dad.
“Hey, hey,” he says, closing the distance in two steps. “What’s going on?”
“I got an eighty-seven in physics and I studied so hard and I’m so tired and I just I can’t keep doing this.”
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t minimize. Just listens.
“And everyone expects me to be perfect,” you say. “Teachers, friends maybe even you.”
“Me?” His voice cracks slightly.
“I don’t know!” You wipe your face angrily. “You’re, you. You’re the best at what you do. You’re disciplined and focused and you win. And I feel like if I’m not the best, then what am I?”
The silence stretches.
Then he says, very quietly, “Do you know how many times I’ve lost?”
You blink at him.
“In junior hockey, in the NHL, in playoffs. Do you know how many bad games I’ve had? How many nights I went home and thought I let everyone down?”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
He leans against the car, gesturing for you to sit on the driveway curb. You do.
“When we lost in the playoffs a few years ago,” he says, “I replayed every shift in my head. Every mistake. I didn’t sleep for two nights.”
“You don’t seem like you get overwhelmed.”
He laughs softly. “That’s because you see the highlights. Not the hotel rooms at 2 a.m. Not the ice packs and the doubts.”
You stare at your sneakers.
“I never wanted you to feel like you had to be perfect,” he says. “Especially not because of me.”
“I just don’t want to be average.”
“Who told you average is bad?”
You open your mouth. Close it.
He continues, “When I was your age, I loved hockey. I worked hard because I loved it. Not because I was chasing some idea of perfect. The pressure came later. And even then, the only pressure that really mattered was the pressure I put on myself.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” you whisper.
He nods slowly. “Okay. Then let’s talk about that.”
That night, he knocks on your bedroom door.
“Can I come in?”
You nod.
He sits on the edge of your bed, glancing at your open textbooks. “Walk me through your day.”
You do. The classes. The test. The constant comparison. The fear of disappointing everyone.
When you finish, he’s quiet for a long moment.
“You’re burning out,” he says finally.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He says it gently, not accusingly.
“In hockey,” he continues, “if you’re on the ice for two straight minutes sprinting, what happens?”
“You get exhausted.”
“And if you never change lines?”
“You collapse.”
He smiles faintly. “Exactly. You need line changes.”
You snort. “Dad.”
“I’m serious. When’s the last time you did something just because you enjoy it? No resume. No college application. Just fun.”
You can’t answer.
“That’s not sustainable,” he says.
“So what, I just… stop caring?”
“No. You care differently.”
He picks up your physics test from your desk. “Eighty-seven. You know what I see?”
“A B-plus.”
“I see someone taking one of the hardest classes in the school and still doing well. I see effort. I see resilience.”
“But it’s not perfect.”
He looks at you steadily. “Neither am I.”
You almost laugh. “You kind of are.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve had concussions. Slumps. Games where I couldn’t hit the net to save my life. I’ve disappointed fans. Teammates. Myself.”
He hesitates.
“But the worst stretch of my career? It wasn’t a losing season. It was when hockey stopped being fun. When it was just pressure.”
“What did you do?”
“I went back to why I started. Backyard rinks. Street hockey. The joy.”
He reaches for your hand.
“You need to find your version of that.”
The next week, he makes you take a day off.
Not from school. From everything else.
“No studying after dinner,” he declares.
“But I have—”
“Nope. Coach’s orders.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth there.
After dinner, he drags an old board game from the closet. You haven’t played it in years.
Later, as you’re putting the game away, he says, “You know, I’m proud of you.”
“For what?”
“For caring. For working hard. For being kind. For being you.”
You swallow. “Even if I don’t get into an Ivy League school?”
He pretends to think about it. “Hmm. I guess I’ll have to trade you.”
You shove him lightly. “Dad.”
He smiles. “I don’t care where you go. I care that you’re healthy. And happy. And doing something that matters to you.”
The words settle somewhere deep.
You start making small changes.
You drop one extracurricular that you joined purely for appearances.
You block out Sunday afternoons as no-work time.
You talk to your guidance counselor not about prestige, but about interest.
It’s uncomfortable at first. Like skating on new ice.
You still have moments. Nights when you stare at the ceiling, heart racing over grades and future and expectations.
But now, sometimes, you knock on his door instead of spiraling alone.
One night, you find him watching game footage.
“Hey,” you say, hovering.
He pauses the screen immediately. “What’s up?”
“I got a ninety on my bio quiz.”
He grins. “That’s awesome.”
“And I’m… okay with it.”
That makes him smile even wider.
“Progress,” he says.
You sit beside him, watching a clip of him missing a shot.
“See?” he says, pointing. “Wide.”
“You’re still the captain.”
He shrugs. “One shot doesn’t define me. One grade doesn’t define you.”
You lean your head on his shoulder.
For the first time in months, the future doesn’t feel like a mountain you have to climb alone.
Senior year comes faster than you expect.
There are still whispers in hallways. Still teachers who raise eyebrows at your last name.
But there’s also something new: a steadiness.
You apply to schools that fit you, not an image.
On the night you hit submit on your final application, your dad knocks lightly on your door.
“All done?”
“All done.”
He sits beside you. “How do you feel?”
You consider it.
“Relieved. Nervous. But… proud.”
He nods. “Good.”
You look at him the athlete the world knows, the captain, the champion.
But right now, he’s just your dad. The one who sat on the driveway with you while you cried about physics. The one who taught you about line changes. The one who reminded you that perfection isn’t the goal.
“Hey, Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for helping me when I was burning out.”
He bumps his shoulder against yours. “That’s my job.”
You smile.
And for the first time, being Sidney Crosby’s daughter doesn’t feel like a weight.
It feels like having the best teammate you could ask for.
a/n: yk i had to use this gif YK I HAD TOOOOOO oh kindy ily, ALSO I WROTE THIS PRE PITTSBURGH,,,, PRE PITTSBURGH,meaning Sidney doesent know him yet please dont get it twisted
wc: 1.4k
based on THIS request
Ben Kindel x Crosby!reader
Growing up as Sidney Crosby’s daughter means one thing above everything else: everyone already knows your name before you even say it. Teachers pause when they read attendance, coaches look twice, parents whisper, and hockey players always seem a little more careful around you.
Or at least… they try to be.
You’ve learned to ignore it. The attention, the expectations, the constant comparisons, it’s all just background noise at this point. You go to school, focus on your own thing, and stay as far away from the “hockey world” as possible.
At least, that’s the plan.
Until Ben Kindel shows up.
You notice him before you actually meet him. It’s kind of impossible not to. He’s loud, not obnoxious, just confident. The kind of guy who walks into a room like he already belongs there, always surrounded by teammates, always laughing.
You roll your eyes the first time you see it. Of course he’s like that. Another hockey player. Another ego. Another reason to stay far away.
The first time he talks to you, it’s completely by accident.
You’re at your locker, juggling books and your phone, trying not to drop everything at once. Naturally, that’s exactly what happens. Your notebook slips, then your pen, then your phone nearly follows.
“Here.”
A hand reaches down, picking up your notebook before it hits the floor.
You glance up.
Ben.
Of course.
“Thanks,” you say quickly, taking it back.
“No problem.” He pauses. “You’re in my history class, right?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“I thought so.”
There’s a beat of silence. You expect the usual question, something about your dad. But it never comes.
Instead, he just shrugs slightly. “See you in class.”
And walks away.
You blink after him.
…Okay.
After that, you start noticing him more. Not because you want to, just because he keeps showing up. In class. In the hallway. At lunch.
And every time, he treats you like you’re normal. No weird questions. No awkward comments. No “what’s your dad like?”
It’s honestly a little confusing.
One afternoon, you’re sitting in the bleachers near the school rink, finishing homework while a few players stay late for practice.
“You always do homework in the coldest place possible?” someone asks.
You don’t look up. “It’s quiet here.”
“Fair.”
You glance over.
Ben.
“Aren’t you supposed to be practicing?”
“We just finished.”
“Oh.”
Silence settles between you for a second.
Then—
“You don’t like hockey, do you?”
You freeze slightly. “What?”
“I mean, you avoid it.”
You narrow your eyes. “That’s a weird thing to notice.”
He shrugs. “I notice things.”
You sigh. “It’s not that I don’t like hockey. It’s just… a lot.”
“That makes sense.”
You blink. “That’s it?”
“What?”
“You’re not going to ask anything else?”
He shakes his head. “I get it. People expect stuff from you.”
Your chest tightens just a little. “…Yeah.”
“Must be annoying.” “You have no idea.”
“I probably don’t.”
You look at him again, and for the first time, he doesn’t seem loud or cocky.
Just… normal.
After that, things shift.
Ben starts sitting with you sometimes, at lunch, after class, at the rink. It’s never forced, just easy. You talk about random things, school, music, anything except hockey.
Which is exactly why you like being around him.
Until one day, that changes.
You’re walking out of school together when someone calls his name.
“Kindel!”
A couple of his teammates jog over. “You coming to practice?”
“In a minute.”
They glance at you.
And then, there it is.
The look.
Recognition.
“You’re—”
“Yeah,” you say quickly.
Before they can finish. They exchange looks, but Ben notices immediately.
“She’s with me,” he says casually.
Something about the way he says it makes your stomach flip. The teammates nod and leave.
You exhale. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Not making it weird.”
“I told you,” he says. “I don’t care who your dad is.”
You smile a little. “I’m starting to believe you.”
The first time your dad hears about him, it’s accidental. You’re at home scrolling through your phone when Sidney Crosby walks in.
“Who’s Ben?” he asks casually.
You nearly drop your phone. “What?”
“You said his name.”
“I did not.”
“You definitely did.”
You groan. “He’s just a friend.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Just a friend?”
“Yes.”
He studies you for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”
But you know he doesn’t fully believe you.
A few days later, you’re back at the rink.
Ben is lacing up his skates. “You coming to watch?”
“Maybe.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
He smirks slightly. “Because I’m good.”
You roll your eyes. “There it is.”
“What?”
“The ego.”
“It’s confidence.”
“Sure.”
He stands, grabbing his stick. “Stay. Just for a bit.”
You hesitate… then shrug. “Fine.”
Watching him play is different.
You’ve seen hockey your whole life, but watching Ben feels personal. He’s fast, focused, completely different from the version of him you see off the ice.
At one point, he scores.
And for a split second—
He looks up at you.
Like he was checking if you saw it.
Your heart does something weird.
After practice, he skates over. “So?”
You cross your arms. “You’re decent.”
He laughs. “Decent?”
“Maybe a little better than decent.”
“I’ll take it.”
He leans on his stick. “You coming tomorrow?”
You hesitate. “Maybe.”
He grins. “I’ll make it worth it.”
Somewhere along the way, “maybe” turns into always.
You show up to practices. To games. To moments you didn’t expect to care about.
And Ben becomes something more than just a friend. You both feel it. Even if you don’t say it yet.
One evening, you’re sitting together in the empty stands after everyone’s left.
“You’re nothing like I expected,” he says.
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Someone who wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
You smile slightly. “I almost didn’t.”
“What changed?”
You look out at the ice. “…You didn’t treat me like I was someone else.”
He nods slowly. “Good.” There’s a pause.
Then—
“Are we still ‘just friends’?”
Your heart starts racing. “I don’t know.” “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me neither.”
He shifts closer, not touching, just close enough.
“If I did this… would it ruin things?”
“Depends,” you whisper.
“On what?”
“How good it is.”
He laughs softly. Then leans in.
The kiss is soft. Careful. Like both of you are testing something fragile. But the second it happens, everything feels different.
Clearer. Right.
When you pull back, you’re both smiling.
“Well,” you say.
“Well,” he echoes.
You shake your head slightly. “This is going to complicate things.”
“Yeah.”
“Worth it?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Definitely.”
And for the first time in a long time, being Sidney Crosby’s daughter doesn’t feel like something that defines everything.
a/n: haii took me long to write im saw sawryy but here it is in all its glory
wc: 2.5k
Will smith x bev cart!reader x macklin celebrini
Morning on the course always starts quiet. The sun is barely over the trees, the air still cool enough that the grass smells sharp and fresh, and the only sounds are sprinklers clicking off and the distant thud of drivers from the early tee times.
You like this part the most. Before the heat hits, before the weekend groups show up loud and half-drunk by noon, before the long day of smiling and driving the beverage cart across miles of fairways.
You check the cooler one last time sports drinks, beer, bottled water, iced coffee. The little register beeps when you test it. Everything’s ready. Another day working the cart at the golf course.
By midmorning the course is busier. Groups spread out across the holes, carts buzzing back and forth, someone yelling “FORE!” in the distance. You’re halfway down the sixth fairway when you see them for the first time.
Two guys standing near the tee box, both in athletic polos and baseball caps, one leaning on a driver while the other lines up a shot. Even from a distance they look… familiar. It takes a second for your brain to catch up.
The one addressing the ball is Macklin Celebrini. The other, watching with his arms crossed and an amused expression, is Will Smith.
You slow the cart slightly.
It’s not totally shocking to see athletes here. This course gets plenty of them in the offseason. Still, seeing two of the most talked-about young hockey players just casually playing a round on a Tuesday morning is enough to make you blink twice.
Celebrini swings first. The contact is clean, the ball sailing straight down the fairway.
“Let’s go!” Smith calls out immediately.
Celebrini rolls his eyes. “Relax. It’s the first tee.”
You pull the cart closer.
“Drinks?” you call.
Both of them turn.
For a split second neither of them says anything.
You’re used to people looking it’s part of the job, smiling at golfers all day but this is different. It’s like you caught them mid-conversation and their brains stalled out.
Smith recovers first.
“Oh—yeah,” he says quickly, stepping closer to the cart. “Uh… what do you have?”
You gesture to the cooler. “Pretty much everything. Water, Gatorade, beer, iced coffee.”
Celebrini walks over too, glancing between you and the cart like he’s suddenly very interested in hydration.
“I’ll take a Gatorade,” he says.
“What flavor?”
“Uh…” He looks at the cooler for an oddly long time. “Blue.”
You hand him the bottle.
Smith still hasn’t chosen anything.
“Dude,” Celebrini mutters under his breath. “Just pick something.”
“Yeah, I know,” Smith says quickly.
You hide a smile.
“I’ll take a water,” he finally says.
You hand it over.
He fumbles slightly with his wallet, nearly dropping a couple bills in the cart before managing to pay. Celebrini watches the whole thing with an expression that clearly says what are you doing.
“Thanks,” Smith says.
“No problem,” you reply.
You start to drive away, but as you pull past them you hear Celebrini mutter quietly:
“You forgot to ask her name.”
Smith groans.
You grin to yourself as the cart hums down the fairway.
The next time you see them is three holes later.
You’re parked near the edge of the ninth green when their cart rolls up.
Smith jumps out first this time.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
“Can we get two more drinks?”
“You guys drink a lot of Gatorade.”
Celebrini shrugs. “Athletes.”
You laugh.
Smith clears his throat slightly. “Also… what’s your name?”
“There it is,” Celebrini says immediately.
Smith shoots him a look.
You tell them your name.
Smith repeats it like he’s committing it to memory.
“That’s a nice name,” he says.
Celebrini snorts.
“What?” Smith says defensively.
“You sound like you’re ordering at a drive-through.”
You hand them their drinks.
“So,” Celebrini says casually, leaning against the cart. “Do you work here every day?”
“Most days.”
“That’s cool.”
Smith nods like that’s the most fascinating information he’s heard all week.
You look between them.
They’re both trying very hard to act normal.
It’s not working.
“So how’s your round going?” you ask.
Celebrini gestures toward Smith. “He shanked his second shot into the trees.”
“Once,” Smith protests.
“It was impressive.”
You laugh again.
Smith looks pleased about that.
For some reason.
“You should watch him putt,” Celebrini continues. “That’s where the real entertainment is.”
Smith points at him. “You missed a two-footer earlier.”
The gym was quiet except for the squeak of someone dragging their feet — Kenma, slowly packing up.
You crouched beside him. “You okay?”
He didn’t look at you. “We lost. I was too slow. Too predictable.”
You gently touched his hand. “You were brilliant.”
He gave a weak snort. “We still lost.”
“I don’t care about the scoreboard,” you said softly. “You always think you're not enough, but I see how hard you try. How much you care.”
His fingers paused, clenching slightly. “I hate feeling like this.”
“I know,” you whispered. “But I’m here. You don’t have to carry it alone.”
Kenma leaned his head against your shoulder, silent but grateful.
Nishinoya
Noya sat in the corner of the gym, fists balled, jaw clenched. You approached quietly.
“Noya?”
“I should’ve gotten that last receive. I knew the angle. I just—” He shook his head violently. “I messed it up.”
You knelt in front of him, placing your hands on his. “You don’t have to be perfect. No one expects that from you.”
“But I expect it from me!” he burst out, voice cracking. “I let them down.”
You gently pulled him into a hug. “You didn’t let anyone down. You fought with your whole heart. That’s more than enough.”
His grip tightened around you, and you felt the tension slowly melt away.
Tsukishima
Tsukishima sat alone in the stairwell, glasses discarded beside him, eyes red but dry. You sat down next to him in silence.
He didn’t look at you. “What, here to tell me ‘good game’?”
“No,” you said honestly. “I’m here because you look like you’re about to break and pretend you're not.”
He let out a soft scoff. “I should’ve blocked that last spike.”
“You did everything right,” you said. “Sometimes it’s just not enough. But that doesn’t make you not enough.”
He swallowed hard, jaw tight.
You leaned your head on his shoulder. “You’re allowed to be upset. You’re allowed to need someone.”
“…Thanks,” he murmured, barely audible.
Tanaka
Tanaka paced behind the gym, teeth gritted, hair clinging to his forehead. He looked like he was ready to punch the wall.
“I blew it,” he muttered when you approached. “They trusted me, and I—”
“Hey,” you said, catching his arm. “No one plays harder than you. You gave it everything.”
“Doesn’t matter! We lost!”
“It matters to me,” you said firmly. “Because I saw the way you fought. The way you lifted your team every second. You’re not just a player. You’re the heart.”
He turned away to hide the tears in his eyes, but you stepped in and hugged him anyway.
“You’re still our hero. Mine too.”
Oikawa
Oikawa sat on the bench long after everyone had left, staring at the court like it might rewrite itself.
You walked over slowly. “Tooru…”
He chuckled bitterly. “Always the same story, huh? Fall just short of greatness.”
“You were amazing,” you said gently.
He shook his head. “It wasn’t enough. It never is.”
You knelt in front of him. “You are more than wins. You inspire people. You lift them up. Me included.”
His eyes finally met yours, glassy and vulnerable.
“You always act like you have to carry everything,” you whispered. “But you don’t. Let me carry some of it too.”
He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch, finally letting go for a moment.
Kuroo
Kuroo tried to laugh it off, stretching and joking with teammates, but you saw the slight tremble in his hands.
Later, alone outside the gym, he finally let out a heavy breath.
“Captain of a team that couldn’t win when it mattered,” he muttered.
“You gave everything,” you said.
He gave a tight smile. “Not enough.”
You stepped closer, hand finding his. “You’re allowed to be disappointed. But don’t ever think that your worth starts and ends with a scoreboard.”
His fingers laced with yours. “I feel like I let everyone down.”
“You didn’t. And even if you did — I’d still be proud of you.”
“…Thank you,” he whispered.
Hinata
Hinata sat on the bench, towel over his head, shoulders shaking. You walked up slowly, your heart breaking.
“Hinata…”
“I could’ve jumped higher. Reacted faster,” he mumbled. “I promised myself I wouldn’t let them down.”
You knelt in front of him, gently tugging the towel away. “You shined out there.”
His eyes welled up. “But we lost.”
“And you’re allowed to grieve that,” you said. “But never doubt this — you inspire everyone around you. Me included.”
He looked at you, lip trembling.
“You’re my favorite player, win or lose.”
He finally let the tears fall as he collapsed into your arms.
Suga
Suga kept smiling — for the team, for the first-years, for the coach. But when you caught him alone, the mask slipped.
“I thought we had it,” he said softly, staring at the floor.
“I know,” you said. “You fought so hard.”
He looked up, eyes tired. “I keep thinking, ‘what if I’d set differently? What if I’d—’”
You cut him off with a gentle touch to his face. “Stop. You gave it everything. There’s nothing more anyone could ask.”
His breath hitched. “It hurts.”
“I know,” you whispered, pulling him close. “But I’m proud of you. Always.”
a/n: needed to do this cutesy thing while writing a long ahh zegras fic hope u enjoy
wc: 1.6k
based on THIS request
pt.1
The cart hums softly as you roll it down the path, wheels crunching lightly over the gravel edges where the manicured grass gives way to something less perfect. The sun is higher now, warm enough that the iced drinks on your shelves are already sweating through their plastic sleeves.
You’ve learned the rhythm of the course by now.
Left turn after the oak tree. Slow down near the bunker. Smile at people who think they’re funnier than they are. Keep moving.
You spot them before they spot you this time.
Will Smith is mid-swing correction, talking with his hands again like the club is only loosely involved in what he’s trying to accomplish. Beside him, Macklin Celebrini is watching in that quiet way of his, like he’s mentally replaying physics rather than the moment itself.
Will notices you first, of course.
“Oh, it’s you again,” he calls out like this is a reunion instead of the third time in an hour.
“I work here,” you reply, stopping the cart.
“That’s exactly what someone trying to avoid us would say,” Will says.
“I assure you, I am not trying that hard.”
Macklin looks up at that, faint amusement in his expression. “She’s better at this than you are.”
Will points at him immediately. “See? That’s favoritism.”
You lean slightly against the cart. “Do you want drinks or just emotional validation?”
Will gasps like you’ve wounded him personally. “Both.”
Macklin shakes his head. “Gatorade again.”
You hand it to him. Same motion as before. Same brief brush of fingers. Still nothing you can justify paying attention to, and still something your brain decides to keep anyway.
“Thanks,” he says.
It’s simple. Always is with him.
Will is still complaining. “Why does he get Gatorade like he’s training for something and I get judged for wanting flavor?”
“You’re both training for something,” you say.
“See?” Will turns to Macklin. “She gets it. She understands my journey.”
“I don’t think she’s supporting your journey,” Macklin replies.
You move to refill a cup, hiding the small smile that keeps trying to form.
They’re easier than most groups. Not in a polite way, just in a less exhausting way. They don’t tip poorly. They don’t make you feel invisible. They talk to you like you’re part of the environment instead of an extension of it.
That alone makes them stand out.
By Hole Ten, the dynamic has shifted slightly.
Will is still loud, still performing for no audience in particular, but Macklin has started asking questions.
Not many. Just enough.
“How long have you been working here?” he asks when Will is distracted arguing with a sand trap that cannot hear him.
“Long enough to know this course better than most of the people playing it,” you say.
He nods like that makes sense. “You like it?”
It’s a simple question. It shouldn’t feel like anything.
But it does.
You glance around, the symmetry, the quiet, the endless repetition of care disguised as leisure.
“It’s peaceful,” you say finally. “Most of the time.”
Macklin hums softly. Like he’s filing that away somewhere.
Will interrupts immediately. “She’s saying we ruin the peace.”
“I didn’t say that,” you reply.
“You didn’t not say it,” he counters.
At Hole Twelve, something changes slightly.
Not dramatically. Just enough to notice.
Will is farther down the fairway when Macklin lingers near the cart.
“You deal with a lot of groups like us?” he asks.
“Depends what ‘like you’ means.”
He considers that. “Annoying?”
You look at him. “Confident.”
That earns a quiet laugh from him again.
“Fair,” he says.
There’s a pause. Longer than before.
Then he adds, “You’re good at this.”
“At serving drinks?”
“At reading people,” he corrects.
That lands differently than anything else today.
You shrug lightly. “It’s not that hard. Most people want the same things.”
“Which is?”
“To be seen,” you say simply. Then, after a beat, “and not bothered too much while it’s happening.”
Macklin looks at you like that answer makes more sense than he expected. Before he can respond, Will’s voice cuts across the fairway.
“Hey! Are we bonding without me? That’s illegal!”
The moment breaks easily, like it was never meant to fully form in the first place. But something about it sticks anyway. Later, when the group slows down and the heat becomes heavier, you find them again near a shaded bench.
Will is sprawled like the world personally owes him comfort. Macklin is sitting properly, bottle half-empty, watching the course with a kind of calm focus that feels out of place for someone his age.
“You always this quiet?” Will asks him.
“Only when I’m thinking,” Macklin says.
“That sounds dangerous,” Will replies.
You stop the cart beside them.
Will immediately perks up. “Refuel station!”
You hand him a drink. “Try not to crash emotionally this time.”
“No promises.”
Macklin takes his water again. Same motion. Same brief contact. Still nothing said about it.
But this time, he doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he looks at you for a second longer.
“You don’t play?” he asks.
“No.”
“Ever wanted to?”
You think about it. The clean lines of the course. The control. The patience.
“I think I like watching people try more than doing it myself,” you say.
He nods slowly. “That makes sense.”
Will groans. “You two are having a philosophical conversation without me again.”
“You’re welcome to join,” you say.
“I don’t have the emotional bandwidth right now,” he replies dramatically.
The sun starts to dip slightly as the round continues. Shadows stretch longer across the fairways. The course begins to feel quieter again, like it’s slowly returning to itself after tolerating noise for a few hours. By the time you reach the final hole, something has settled.
Not a story.
Not a connection with a name.
Just familiarity.
Will is still Will, loud, unfiltered, impossible to fully ignore. Macklin is still Macklin, quiet, observant, saying more with pauses than most people do with sentences.
But when they both come up to the cart one last time, it feels less like strangers interacting and more like a rhythm you accidentally learned.
“Last drinks?” you ask.
Will sighs dramatically. “Last emotional support beverage of the day, yes.”
Macklin shakes his head slightly, smiling faintly. “Just water.”
You hand it over.
Same motion. Same touch. Still nothing you can point to.
Still something your mind decides to remember anyway.
As they walk off toward the final green, Will is already talking again. Macklin listens, occasionally responding, occasionally glancing back at you like he’s not entirely done with the moment.
You don’t follow.
You don’t need to.
The cart starts moving again, down the path you already know by heart. And for the first time all day, the quiet doesn’t feel like something missing anything.
