Over Ice (Part 15)
Hockey!Rhysand x Reader
Summary: Anon Req: She’s walking around Campus and BOOM right smack dab into Broody McBrooder!! She THEN finds out he’s the tutor for one of her hardest courses (personally Psych would be a good one) and they become super duper close with him and the team!!!
Warnings: Mentions of readers recently passed father.
Word Count: 3120
(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) (Part 11) (Part 12) (Part 13) (Part 14)
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“Iced vanilla latte for (Y/N)!” The barista shouts. She barely glances at the throng of people loitering like vultures around the pickup counter before she’s spinning on her heel to begin the next order. Your thanks goes unacknowledged, lost in the chatter of the coffee shop, the post-dinner rush larger than normal for a Thursday night.
You reach for your drink, eyeing the extra-large Frappuccino with all the toppings, almost wishing you ordered that instead. The thick swirl of chocolate syrup around the sides of the cup, the overloaded whipped top, scattered with sprinkles has your mouth watering.
Glancing at the other drinks, you look for any sign of something Rhys may have ordered after a text you received that he was on his way and sent in a mobile order. You haven’t heard the barista call his name, but other than the frap, there’s a steaming cortado that’s gone unclaimed. Perhaps his hasn’t been prepared yet.
“Sorry I’m late,” a voice startles you and your cup almost slips from your grasp. Something bumps your hip as he reaches forward and you shuffle out of the way of your frantic tutor.
A few strands Rhys’ dark, damp hair hangs across his brow, brushing the bridge of his nose. The urge to brush your fingers through it consumes you. You clutch your cup tighter and avert your gaze, right to the Frappuccino you were just envying that Rhys grabs.
You tuck your teeth between your lip, amused. When he sets those striking violet eyes on you, it takes all of your effort to keep your breathing even, but your body betrays you. Your heart kicks up in pace and the tingle that always accompanies his easy-going smile converges between your thighs.
You don’t care that he’s late. At this point, it’s expected for the captain of the hockey team to arrive late to your study session. You’ve began strategically arriving to psychology tutoring twenty minutes late, knowing you’d still beat Rhys.
Tonight, you’re glad you asked to meet at the coffee shop a few blocks from campus, tired of staring at the white walls of the library’s study rooms and allowing yourself to become distracted by people-watching through the glass wall. With the semester quickly coming to a close, you’ve witnessed a total of 3 students collapsing their heads into their books in frustration, one napper who must have been snoring loudly as many other occupants glaring in his direction—no, it wasn’t your tutor—and two girls snapping at each other over notecards.
Rhys brings his drink to his lips and your gaze zeroes in without your permission as they wrap around his straw for a deep sip. His tongue peeks out to lap the taste and you wrench your betraying eyes from the scene with a sharp reminder of exactly who he is, and that you’re just friends.
Mirth swims clearly in his violet eyes, and with that look, it’s much easier to draw yourself back into the present. It’s a shame you can’t ignore the heat in your cheeks.
You raise a brow, flicking your attention to the chocolate overloaded drink in his hand.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Rhys begins, and someone clearing their throat interrupts. You and Rhys scoot out of the fray as customers join the waiting crowd. Someone snags their drink from the counter and shoots toward the front door.
“I swear,” Rhys continues as you lead the way to the table you somehow managed to snag when you arrived. Your books are already spread across the wood surface of the table, organizing your notes and flashcards the way Rhys taught you. You’ve even managed to highlight most the important parts of your chapters and less of the entire paragraph. “This is the only thing keeping me from falling asleep on my feet right now.”
Your heart pinches with sympathy. He does appear more tired than usual, circles under his eyes, voice holding a groggy tone despite it being half past seven. Between being captain of the hockey team, a tutor, and a student himself, his schedule must be jam-packed, but no matter how many times you ask if you need to find a new tutor so he can actually get some sleep, Rhys refuses.
You won’t admit it, but his vehement protesting fills you with warmth. You don’t want another tutor, not really, especially when yours is so handsome.
You slide into your seat, taking a sip of your drink. You sigh. It’s made to perfection. Sweet and cold and perks you up just enough that not even the sight of your jumbled notes can deflate your mood.
Rhys’ apology draws you from your delicious drink. He’s sheepishly apologizing to the girl he accidentally whacked with the large duffle bag over his shoulder. When their gazes connect, the girls glare softens, and she begins twirling a strand of her strawberry blonde hair around a finger, batting her eyelashes.
A wave of envy creeps up your throat and you catch your gaze sharpening, so you avert your gaze. Rhys isn’t yours, and you can only pretend he is when his ex is around. Outside of those run-ins, you’re friends. Nothing more.
It doesn’t stop the sick feeling swirling in your gut at the sight of his attention on another girl.
The chair across the table creaks as Rhys settles into it. His frap slides onto the table with a heavy knock, and his bag slips from his shoulder to the floor, where he kicks it haphazardly under the table.
“Wow,” he says, clearly impressed as his eyes rove over your neatly set-up work space. You only did so since he was running later than expected. Next time, you’re going to show up half an hour later than the time agreed upon. “All ready to go?”
You refrain from mentioning the time. “Yep. I’ve been taking notes how you suggested, and you know I hate to compliment you,” you tease at the way his eyes light. Your heart stumbles at his pride. You press on before he can respond in jest. “But I think it’s actually helping me retain information.”
“Glad to be of service,” Rhys beams. He crosses his arms over his chest and his biceps bulge with the motion. You avert your gaze. “When’s your next test?”
You sigh. “I have a quiz the day before Thanksgiving break,” you hum, flipping open your agenda where you wrote down all of the important dates. Your shoulders deflate. There isn’t much time before the semester ends, and your grade isn’t anywhere close to where you want it to be. There’s no way you’ll get an A, and at this point, you’d just like to pass. “And then the final. Besides homework, I have to ace them both to get a C.”
“Any you will,” Rhys shakes his head assuredly.
“You think so?” You ask sheepishly, uncertainty creeping in.
Rhys pauses, drink halfway to his lips. He places the cup back down and for a fleeting moment you think he might reach across the table and take your hands because he has that look in his eye. The same one as the night you kissed.
Your name is gentle yet firm on his lips. “If I have anything to say about it, you’ll pass.”
You can’t help that your thoughts immediately turn to his faults as your tutor. His distractions, his tardiness, his own busy schedule.
You shove the thoughts away as quickly as they form.
“Okay,” you nod softly. “Let’s do this thing.”
“Are you excited for break in a few weeks?” Rhys asks, grasping for anything to talk to you about. Despite you reassuring him you didn’t need an escort home, her refused to let you walk alone. For one, it’s dark, and second, he doesn’t want to stop spending time with you.
You shrug, and manage to keep your feet from dragging with the weight of what break brings. What it reminds you of. That if you do go home, it will be to an empty house, the traces of a once happy family lingering in the dark.
You can feel Rhys’ sidelong glance at you, his violet eyes softening with concern the longer you take to respond. Every so often, his arm brushes yours, sending a sluice of sparks to the bone. At least you can blame the goosebumps on your arm on the chill.
You don’t want his pity; you don’t need it. You’ve been on your own so long that you’re used to it. Mom’s long trips, working much harder in the past few years than you remember, and your dad…the picture you have in your dorm doesn’t do him justice, but it’s all you have. That, and his memory.
But there’s something about Rhys’ sympathy that has you feeling warm, comforted.
“I’m not going home,” is what you decide to go with, peering down at your shoes.
“You’re not?” You can practically hear the way his brows furrow.
“Mom has a business retreat in Oklahoma. I don’t mind, really.” The lie is sour on your tongue. “We haven’t celebrated Thanksgiving since…” You trail off, throat thickening at the thought of the last time you celebrated any holiday. Since your fathers passing, holidays haven’t been the same. You don’t think they’ll ever be the same again.
Tears prickle your eyes and you swallow thickly.
“I’m used to it.” You say as if you’re completely fine with the constant avoidance of your mother. She can hardly step foot in her own home, and you can’t blame her. If you lost the love of your life, you’d never want to go anywhere that reminded you of them.
But if there were children in the mix, you mind wanders, you would manage.
You can’t help but to fill the silence. You shouldn’t have admitted this. You should’ve just lied and told him you were going home, but now that it’s out there, there’s no taking it back. “And besides, it gives me a headstart to study for the final. If I’m going to pull off a passing grade, I need all the time I can get.”
You snap your mouth shut. All you’re doing is making yourself seem lonelier than you are. You swear, you’re fine. You’ll hunker down on the couch with a tub of ice cream and watch romcoms until you can recite them line for line. It will be fine. You will be fine.
The sudden urge to flee slams into you. Fuck. You glance to your right. You’re pretty sure if you jumped through the bush you’d come out with minimal scratches, and your dorm is only a few blocks away. You haven’t run in years, but your legs work well enough.
Before you can flee, Rhys says, “I’m not going home, either.”
This catches your attention. You blink, gaze finding his. Now he’s the one staring at the sidewalk, refusing to meet your eyes. “You’re not? But I thought you always spend this holiday with Mor’s side.”
You’ve only been hearing about it for the past two years you’ve been rooming with your best friend. Much opposite to your holidays, the entire Cunningham family comes together to drink and feast and play games. You wonder if Mor’s made anyone play TDB. The corner of your lips lift in amusement.
“Haven’t gone home for Thanksgiving break since I started here.” You can hear the longing in his tone. Your heart aches. His gaze is still pinned to the sidewalk, and when he refuses to meet yours, you refocus on the trail. There’s someone heading your way, and your heart slams in your chest when you recognize who it is. “We have one a game against one of our biggest rivals the night after. If you want to—” His words stick in his throat when you quickly reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers.
As if on instinct, his tighten around yours and he gives you a squeeze that makes something swoop low in your stomach.
Rhys’ breathing stutters in his chest. What the fuck is going on? He is in no way protesting your hand in his. In fact, he’s been thinking about this ever since your kiss in his room. Okay, he’s been thinking much raunchier things with you than holding hands, but this is still nice. Except that he has the urge to use your intertwined hands to pull you against his chest because surely, he can’t have been the only one to see fireworks when you kissed. He’s still cursing your roommate for barging into the room. He’s sure things would’ve gone further with you, and he hates the “just friends” rule you’ve put into place.
Violet eyes find yours, confused but smoldering. Your words stick in your throat at the heat in his gaze, and you want nothing more than to give into him, but he’s Mor’s cousin, and you can’t do that to her…again.
You nod slightly, down the pathway, toward Amarantha, who’s cat-like gaze has locked onto you.
Rhys face scrunches in confusion. He lifts his attention, only for his limbs to stiffen when he recognizes his ex-girlfriend closing in on you like a predator and you two are the prey.
He rolls his shoulders, shaking the disappointment off. Right. Showtime.
“Rhys,” Amarantha says sweetly. She clutches a book to her chest, using it to prop her perky breasts even higher. Her gaze flickers to your linked hands, then to you, where her smile puckers. She greets you, butchering your name.
You match her fake grin with one of your own. “Amara.”
Her face flattens.
Rhys squeezes your hand in amusement and there are those butterflies stirring in your stomach again. You squeeze back.
You go ignored as her attention slides back to Rhys. A thread of jealousy is tugged. You don’t want her here. You know Rhys doesn’t, either, but even his focus on her has you feeling possessive. He’s not yours to be possessive over, though, not really, so while she speaks, you work on unraveling the tightness in your chest.
“Are you ready for the game against the Predators?” She asks, moving to twirl a lock of deep red hair around her finger. She all but bats her eyelashes and you don’t realize your grip on Rhysand’s hand has tightened until his thumb begins brushing a soothing stripe across your skin.
Your fingers loosen immediately, and Rhysand squeezes tightly. He doesn’t want you to let go.
“Yeah,” he answers dismissively.
Amarantha doesn’t pick up on his apathy.
“My parents are coming into town for the break,” she explains. “They want to get out of the dreary Chicago weather. Maybe we’ll come by and watch.” Her attention switches to you, a wicked smirk on her lips. “Give you a crowd of support.”
You can’t help but bite. “That’s great, Amara. Maybe we can sit next to each other.” You’d rather shave your head than sit in the same arena as her, let alone beside her, but you want her to know you’ll be there supporting your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend.
Her brows lift in surprise. Clearly, you’ve caught her off-guard. But as quickly as her surprise flashes, her eyes glint with venom, her features morphing into something a lot more dangerous.
“Oh, we’d be more than happy to save you a seat. Just one? Are mommy and daddy too busy for a holiday?”
It’s a low blow, and she knows it. As far as you know, she doesn’t know a thing about your situation, nor will she ever, but she’s plucked a nerve.
Before you can react, and most likely unintentionally give her ammo to work with, Rhysand speaks, his voice sharp with warning.
“Don’t bother, Amarantha,” he all but barks. With the anger coursing through your veins, you haven’t noticed the way his body has gone completely frozen beside you. “You’re not welcome nor wanted at the game.”
Her façade completely falls. “But Rhys—”
Rhys tugs your hand, ignoring his ex. Your chest fills with triumph. You can’t help but smirk. “Come on, darling. Let’s go.”
You sidestep Amarantha and continue on your path back to your apartment. Behind you, you hear a hearty huff and footsteps all but stomping away.
The more space you put between Amarantha, the more the fight falls from your shoulders. You don’t want to admit it, but her words stung, and now you’re reeling.
When you’re sure Amarantha is gone, you slip your hand from Rhys’, crossing your arms tightly over your chest as you approach your dorm.
“I’m sorry,” he says, but you can’t force yourself to look. Not when he sounds like he’s kicking himself.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Rhys,” you respond tiredly. All you want to do is go upstairs and crawl into your bed.
“Then why can’t you even look at me?”
You swallow hard and lift your gaze. The both of you slow to a stop in front of your building and your heart aches in your chest at the sadness in his violet eyes.
“There, I’m looking at you. Happy?” You ask, voice nearing a tremble. Tears build in your eyes. As much as you hate to admit it, Amarantha’s words have gotten to you.
“No,” he says softly.
You can’t look at him. Not when he looks like this, features all soft with concern.
Just as you’re about to dip your head again, Rhys catches your chin. He lifts your gaze back to his, thumb stroking such a soft and soothing line across your cheek you almost melt, releasing the tears so desperate to escape.
“Come to the game. Or don’t, if you don’t want to. But please, come to my house for Thanksgiving.” You open your mouth to protest, but Rhys continues. “No stakes. The boys and I usually order in and hang out. There’s no ulterior motive here, (Y/N).” You almost wish there was. “No one deserves to be alone.”
His words strike you like an arrow to the chest. No, no one deserves to be alone. Maybe you and Rhys have more in common than you thought. He is just as lost and lonely without his family as you are. The only difference is, he has an entire family, yours is missing by half.
It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for you to decide. “Okay,” you agree. You fight the urge to nuzzle into his hand, instead taking a step back. His arm falls limply to his side, and he still wears his concern on his face, but this is just a friend not wanting their friend to be alone on a holiday. Nothing more. “I’ll come.”
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Over Ice Taglist:
@saltedcoffeescotch @acourtofbatboydreams @mrsjna @velarisdusk @bionic-donut @tenshis-cake @eleganttravelercloud @lilah-asteria @serena05 @bwormie @soph1644 @house-husband-of-castlemurdock @tothestarsandwhateverend @topaz125 @judig92 @se7enteen--black-blog @thecraziestcrayon @cherry-cin @itsinherited @justafictionalnerd @bookishbroadwaybish @405rry @w0nderw0manly @bbykaixx @marina468 @taechvita @marigold-morelli @esahintzkanen @miakxn @ssmay123 @webvics @shylahstarzz @yourallaround-simp @manicmanuscription @blessthepizzaman @jugodeshadowsinger @coeurdeveea
