note: hope you all enjoy. requested by anon: 'can you please do a fic where gavi is dating a new pwhler and it's super cool bcz they're two of the best in their sport? maybe she's born in barcelona and they're dating for a while.' make sure to follow me for more fics like this! feel free to send in requests (check out my rules). my spanish is mid at best, but i did use google translate for the catalan (and some of the spanish) bcz i'm very bad at it- or i just wrote [translated] if i didn't trust google
pairing: gavi x (not really secret) girlfriend!reader, toronto sceptres!player reader, catalonian!reader.
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youruser:
liked by pablogavi, pedri, hockeycanada & others
youruser: from waking up at 5am for practice, to flying halfway across the world for the sport, to signing my first professional contract. i have no words, beyond grateful for everything. thank you to the spanish ice hockey federation, hockey canada, my parents, and siblings for everything. let's go sceptres 💙💛
renatafast: i'm still screaming-
-> darylwatts: can confirm. i think i've blown out an eardrum
-> youruser: ilysm <3 can't wait to see you guys again!!
user: omg my fav player is coming to play for my fav team !!
user: I'VE NEVER SEEN HER BEFORE BUT I'VE DECIDED TO BE HER BIGGEST FAN
-> user: you'll have to fight me for it
hockeycanada: congratulations! can't wait to see you repping the blue and gold!
user: idk how i feel about this-
-> user: what?
-> user: like... why not wait for the draft in a few months? what's the point of signing early?
-> user: maybe she felt like it
pablogavi: vamoss 💙💛
-> youruser: 🩷🩷
pedri: felicidades!
-> youruser: gràcies!!
ferminlopez: ayyyy i better find you repping the blue and red, even if you're across an ocean [translated from spanish: see original?]
-> youruser: not to worry! home is barca always [tranlated from catalan: see original?]
user: ummm why are there so many soccer players here??
-> user: footballers*
-> user: shut up
-> user: she's born in barcelona and lives there part-time. i assume she's a fan of the team and been following along. since some of them are the same age i guess they became friends 🤷♀️
-> user: nooo that is not why- she is dating gavi on barca for many years now
-> user: don't lie to me
-> user: i swear! she is always at the games in his jersey, and a lot of times they go to each other's matches
user: omg can't wait to see you in toronto again queen!
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pablogavi has posted on his story!
[ captioned in spanish ] congratulations my love 💙 see you in toronto!
youruser reposted a story.
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youruser & pablogavi
liked by yourbestfriend, ferminlopez, pedri & others
youruser: meu amor por la vida 🩷🩷 my love for life
comments have been limited
pablogavi: mi amor ❤️ te queiro
-> youruser: t'estimo ❤️❤️
user: i'm actually so jealous of them both- they're so perfect for each other
emmamaltais17: ahh my favourites
-> youruser: 💋💋
user: never expected this but i freaking love it so much
user: hottest couple in sports frr
user: the way they're literally trending everywhere- ohh mom and dad are the best to ever do it
It started with a takeaway coffee, a crooked smile, and someone new in the locker room who didn’t care whose shadow they were walking into.
Tattooed forearm.
Smart mouth.
Three minutes flat and already under her skin.
No one’s done that since Poulin in 2014. And even she didn’t flirt through chirps with the same kind of reckless confidence.
So now, it’s late.
The arena’s long since emptied.
And Hilary Knight is out on the ice, circling the rink like a ghost trying to exorcise something she doesn’t want to name.
It’s late at Climate Pledge Arena. Empty ice. Dim lights. Just Hilary in her skates. Helmet off. Headphones forgotten around her neck.
She glides.
Long, powerful strides. The kind that usually bring peace. Discipline. Solitude.
Tonight?
Not even close.
Her blades cut into the ice like it said something unforgivable. Each lap tighter, sharper.
“Rookie thinks she’s funny.”
“Cocky, loud, messy - exactly what we don’t need this year.”
Another turn. Her breath fogs in the cold. Her hands settle on her hips, fingers twitching.
“She’s got talent. Obvious.”
She slows at center ice. The Seattle logo beneath her. No crowd. No noise. Just the low hum of the arena holding its breath.
And still,
The thought lingers.
That smirk. That audacity. The stupid way she popped the collar of her team warmup like it was a runway, not a locker room full of legacy.
“She’s not serious.”
“She still thinks this is a game, not a statement. Not survival.”
But the truth?
That’s not what’s bothering her.
Not really.
Because when she closes her eyes, she sees a flash of ink - lightning bolt, bold and unapologetic - and remembers the way it felt to be challenged. Just a little. Just enough.
“Tattoos don’t make you fearless, kid.”
The words slip out, soft and bitter.
She pushes off again. Faster now.
Harder.
Up and down the rink like she can outskate the echo.
It doesn’t work.
By the time she stops again, sweat slicks her neck, and her heartbeat won’t slow. She’s staring up at the rafters - empty, silent, waiting.
No banners yet.
Just pressure.
And possibility.
“Don’t make me regret this.”
She doesn’t say who she’s talking to.
Another lap.
Slower. Controlled.
Then she’s back in the locker room, pulling her hoodie on, sleeves tugged down over her hands like it could bury the heat rising in her chest.
Her gaze drifts.
One stall. Your nameplate and number.
She looks too long.
Just a second.
Then she’s gone, walking out into the quiet Seattle night - jaw set, pulse loud, and something restless still burning beneath her ribs.
In the glittering haze of the PWHL Seattle team welcome dinner, all eyes are on the poised and untouchable Captain Hilary Knight until a new winger walks in and brings the room to a standstill.
One night. One stare-down. One problem Hilary Knight wasn’t ready for.
And the season hasn’t even started yet…
The private event space glowed with warm, ambient light. Crystal glasses clinked gently, and a string quartet played a moody cover of “maneater” that somehow made it sound elegant. The PWHL Seattle welcome dinner was in full swing - players, coaches, and front office staff drifting through clusters of small talk and cocktails, dressed in their business-casual best. Blazers, pressed shirts, smart dresses. Polite, professional, preseason charm.
Hilary Knight walked in early, as always.
Her navy suit was tailored to perfection, accented with subtle gold. The shirt beneath was crisply tucked, collar sharp. Her hair was slicked into a low bun that didn't move, even when she turned. She didn’t need to announce herself - her presence did that for her.
The rookies, scattered near the bar, all straightened their postures the second they saw her.
Captain America.
The Standard.
She exchanged a few words with Alex Carpenter, calm and composed, her smile tight but genuine. Then the doors opened again.
And the room shifted.
The woman who entered didn’t walk - she sauntered, like she already owned the place. She wore a sleek black pinstripe suit, tailored close to the body. No shirt beneath, just a cropped waistcoat with a sharp collar that framed her bare midriff like an exclamation point. Her hair was down, falling in casual waves over her shoulders. One silver chain. No tie. Doc Martens. She looked like she had just stepped off the runway or maybe out of someone else’s relationship.
The room froze for a breath.
Then came the whistles, the laughter, the scattered applause.
“That’s our second-line winger?” one of the rookies blurted. “I thought she was the entertainment.”
“No one warned me about the abs,” muttered the goalie. “I’m religious now.”
Hilary turned at the noise - and saw her.
Every muscle in her body went rigid. Jaw clenched. Shoulders square. Her spine, somehow, got straighter.
You’ve got to be kidding me, she thought.
The new winger strolled toward her, hands in her pockets, a grin curling at the corners of her mouth - slow, deliberate, unbothered.
“Sorry,” she said, smirk in place. “Was the dress code not ‘show-stopping bisexual nightmare?’”
Hilary’s expression didn’t flinch. “It was professional.”
The newcomer tilted her head. “And I am. I’m professionally hot.”
A few snorts escaped from the rookie section. Hilary didn’t laugh but the tips of her ears burned red.
“Maybe try dressing like you’re here to play hockey,” she said coolly, “not host the VMAs.”
“Maybe try relaxing before your face freezes that way.”
The tension between them landed hard, sharp, immediate, impossible to ignore. Hilary opened her mouth, likely to deliver a signature Captain Knight shutdown
But the chime of glass on microphone cut through the room.
“Alright, alright,” came the voice of GM Meg Turner. “Before anyone else falls in love with our newest winger, let’s bring it in.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Hilary didn’t join. She stared into her water glass like it had betrayed her.
Meg launched into a speech, classic Meg: direct, insightful, laced with dry wit. She spoke of opportunity and championship culture with the kind of charm only a GM who doubled as everyone’s slightly terrifying gay aunt could pull off.
But as she spoke, her eyes flicked briefly toward Hilary.
And she saw it.
Hilary Knight, ever-focused, ever-locked-in, was not listening. Her gaze was across the room.
On her.
The new winger now lounged in her seat, one arm draped over the backrest, smirking like the night belonged to her. That absurdly hot suit still worn like it was nothing. She met Hilary’s eyes
And winked.
She is a problem, Hilary thought. An actual, physical threat to my composure.
Meg didn’t call her out. But her brow arched subtle, sharp.
Well, well, Meg thought. The statue cracks.
After the speech, the room loosened. Players toasted. The string quartet transitioned to something softer. Conversations flared back to life.
Hilary made her rounds, but briefly. Politely. Avoidant.
The winger never approached her again, not directly but she was always near. Floating into the periphery. Close enough to be felt.
They didn’t speak again that night.
But the heat between them was undeniable.
As Hilary finally slipped toward the exit, she heard the voice again - playful, smooth, tossed casually over one shoulder:
“Try not to dream about me, Cap. I know restraint isn’t your strong suit.”
