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Wrong Team

Connor Bedard x fem!Reader

Summary: Connor sees his celebrity crush at one of his games. The only problem, she is wearing the other team’s jersey. Don’t worry though, Connor has a plan to change this.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warning(s): Swearing, ONE use of Y/N, switching POV

Tags: Soft Connor, Lovestruck Connor, Confused Reader, Connor just being a big softie, fluff, Reader is a famous singer (I pictured Laufey’s music but you obvs can picture what you want lol)

Note: This is my first time writing for an NHL player! Please lmk if I have not used the correct terminology etc!

I hope you all enjoy! Please feel free to like, comment and reblog! My requests are open so feel free to send them but please be specific when requesting!! Thank you!

#x reader #fanfic #starrrzer #connor bedard imagine #connor bedard x reader #connor bedard #nhl x reader #nhl imagine #nhl fic #nhl fanfiction #nhl #x female reader #x fem!reader #chicago blackhawks #x y/n #x female y/n #x you #imagines

Snowed In

Pairing: Connor Bedard x Reader

Word Count: 2798

Request open!

Sidney Crosby Masterlist | Hockey Masterlist

The snow starts as a suggestion,soft, polite, like it might change its mind. By the time you and Connor step out of the team bus and into the hotel’s covered drop-off, it’s a full-on whiteout, wind whipping flakes sideways like it has a personal grudge against Chicago.

Connor pulls his beanie lower, shoulders hunched, duffel bag on one side. He looks up at the sky like he can negotiate with it.

“Okay,” he says, squinting. “That’s… a lot.”

You laugh, hugging your coat tighter. “Welcome to the Midwest.”

He turns his head, eyes narrowing at you in mock suspicion. “You sound like you’re proud of it.”

“I’m proud I survived it,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

Inside, the lobby is warm and crowded,players and staff dragging luggage, hotel employees moving like they’ve done this exact dance before. You spot the screens above the front desk: FLIGHTS CANCELED in bright, cheerful letters that feel almost rude.

Connor notices too. He pauses.

“No,” he says, like the word might undo it.

You read the ticker scrolling beneath it. “Yep.”

He stares. “They can’t cancel all flights.”

“They can, and they did,” you say, leaning in. “See? It’s even in bold. Bold means serious.”

He groans, tilting his head back. “We’re stuck.”

A few staff members are already directing people toward elevators. Someone calls Connor’s name and waves. Connor lifts a hand in return but doesn’t move right away. He looks at you, expression caught somewhere between annoyance and relief,like being forced to stop might be the worst thing and the best thing at the same time.

“You good?” you ask softly.

“Yeah,” he says quickly. Then, a beat later, quieter: “Yeah. Just… was ready to be home.”

Your chest tugs at that, because you know. You’ve seen the calendar. The travel. The games stacked like dominoes.

He exhales through his nose and shifts his grip on his duffel. “Come on. Let’s go see how bad they messed up the room situation.”

“Why would they mess it up?”

Connor gives you a look. “Because it’s a snowstorm and everyone is suddenly living here.”

You follow him to the front desk, where the line is longer than it should be for people who were supposed to leave hours ago. A hotel employee smiles in that way that says, I am holding on by a thread.

When it’s finally your turn, Connor steps forward. He’s polite, always, even when he’s tired. That’s one of the things you love about him,one of the things you don’t say out loud because you’re not sure your heart would survive it.

“Hi,” he says. “We’re with the Blackhawks group.”

The employee nods like she’s been repeating the same words all night. “Yes. We have you. Unfortunately we’re fully booked, so we’ve had to consolidate some rooms.”

Connor blinks. “Consolidate.”

“Yes,” she says. “We have one room for you and…” She looks at her screen, then at you. “…and you.”

Your stomach drops.

Connor’s eyes flick to you, wide and helpless. “Wait.”

The employee keeps talking, unbothered. “It’s a king bed. One bed. We can bring up extra blankets. If you need a cot, we’re out at the moment, but we can add you to the list.”

Connor clears his throat. “A… list.”

“Yes,” she repeats, still smiling. “A list. The snowstorm has been very popular.”

You press your lips together so you don’t laugh at how dead inside she sounds.

Connor’s cheeks are turning pink. “We’re,uh,we’re friends.”

“We don’t police friendship here,” the employee says cheerfully, like she’s said that too. “Enjoy your stay.”

You grab the room keys before Connor can combust. “Thank you. Seriously. We know it’s chaos.”

Her expression softens. “It is. Stay warm.”

As you walk away, Connor mutters, “We don’t police friendship here,” under his breath, imitating her tone.

You elbow him. “Be nice.”

“I am being nice,” he insists. “I’m just… processing.”

You reach the elevator bank. People are crammed inside every car. The air smells like wet coats and impatience.

Connor leans closer, voice low. “One bed.”

You shrug like it’s nothing, because if you don’t, your pulse might betray you. “It’s fine.”

He frowns. “Is it?”

“Connor,” you say, meeting his eyes. “We’re best friends.”

His gaze holds yours a fraction too long. “Yeah,” he says, and the word sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “Best friends.”

The elevator dings, doors open, and you both step in. You’re pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers for twelve floors, and Connor’s presence is the one thing that makes it bearable.

When you reach your floor, the hallway is quiet except for the muffled storm outside. Connor swipes the keycard, opens the door, and freezes.

The room is… nice. Too nice. Warm lighting. Clean sheets. A little couch. And, yes, one massive king bed, like it’s proud of itself.

Connor steps inside like he expects the bed to attack.

You drop your bag by the couch and glance toward the window. Outside, the city is blurred by snow, streetlights glowing like soft lanterns.

“Well,” you say, forced casual. “At least it’s not a bunk bed.”

Connor stares at you. “That’s your optimism? ‘At least it’s not a bunk bed’?”

“I’m working with what I’ve got.”

He sets his duffel down and paces two steps, then stops. “You can take the bed.”

You lift your eyebrows. “And you’ll sleep where?”

“On the couch,” he says immediately.

You look at the couch. It’s not small, but it’s not “6-foot hockey player” friendly either.

“Connor.”

“What.”

“You’ll fold in half.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll wake up shaped like a question mark.”

He crosses his arms. “You can’t just,”

You point at him. “I’m not letting you do that.”

He points back. “I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“So what,” you say, fighting a smile, “we duel?”

He hesitates, then his mouth twitches. “I could win.”

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “I have rage strength.”

He snorts, the tension easing. “Rage strength.”

“Yep. Fueled by canceled flights and injustice.”

Connor looks toward the bed again, then away. “Okay,” he says, voice softer. “We can… share. It’s fine. We’re adults.”

“We are adults,” you agree quickly, like if you say it fast enough, your heart won’t sprint.

Connor opens his mouth, closes it, then rubs the back of his neck. “This is weird.”

“It’s only weird if you make it weird,” you reply automatically.

He looks at you. “Right.”

Then,quietly,“I’m making it weird.”

You laugh, relieved. “Okay, yes. You’re making it weird.”

Connor drops onto the edge of the bed like it might explode. “I just… I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

You sit beside him, leaving space. “I’m not uncomfortable.”

He studies your face like he’s searching for the truth. “Promise?”

“Promise,” you say. Then, because honesty feels safer than pretending: “I mean, I’m… nervous. But not uncomfortable.”

He nods slowly, eyes dropping to his hands. “Same.”

The word hangs between you, warm and dangerous.

To break it, you clap your hands once. “Okay! Hotel survival plan. We order room service, watch the worst movie we can find, and then pretend this is completely normal.”

Connor’s mouth quirks. “Worst movie?”

“Like, objectively bad,” you say. “The kind where the dialogue makes you want to apologize to the actors.”

His eyes lighten. “You have a specific one in mind, don’t you.”

You grin. “I always have a specific one in mind.”

Room service arrives faster than expected,two burgers, fries, and something Connor insisted was “vegetables” because he’s still Connor even on snowstorm nights. You eat on the bed with a towel spread out like a picnic blanket.

The movie you pick is spectacularly terrible. The lead actor delivers a line about destiny that sounds like he’s reading it off a cereal box.

Connor chokes on a fry. “No way.”

You point at the screen. “Oh, yes.”

“Why would anyone,” Connor gestures wildly. “Why would they say that?”

“Because art,” you reply solemnly.

He laughs, full and unguarded, leaning back on his hands. “This is so bad.”

“You’re welcome,” you say.

Half an hour in, Connor’s phone buzzes. He glances down, then sighs, shoulders tightening.

“Everything okay?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just… messages.”

“From who?”

He hesitates. “Everyone.”

You nod, because you know what that means,family, friends, teammates, random people, reporters, fans. The world reaching for him like he’s public property.

Connor flips his phone face-down. “I’m tired.”

You take that in, the way he says it like it’s not just about sleep. “Then don’t answer.”

He looks at you like that’s illegal. “I should.”

“Connor,” you say gently, “you don’t have to be available to everyone all the time.”

He stares at the movie for a second, but he’s not really watching. “It feels like I do.”

Silence settles, softer than the snow outside.

You keep your voice light, offering him an exit. “Want to switch to something less painful?”

He shakes his head. “No. Keep it. It’s distracting.”

You smile, but your chest aches a little. “Okay.”

A few minutes pass. The bad movie stumbles through a dramatic monologue. Connor doesn’t laugh this time.

Then he says, almost like he doesn’t mean to: “Do you ever feel like… if you stop for one second, everyone will realize you’re not enough?”

Your head turns to him. “Connor.”

He doesn’t look at you, eyes fixed on the screen like it’s safer than your face. “I know it sounds dramatic.”

“It doesn’t,” you say immediately.

He swallows. “People keep saying I’m… this thing. Like I’m supposed to carry everything. Fix everything. Be perfect.”

Your voice is soft. “You’re nineteen.”

He lets out a breath that shakes, tiny and controlled. “Yeah.”

You inch closer, careful like you’re approaching a skittish animal. “You don’t have to carry everything.”

Connor finally looks at you. His eyes are tired in a way that makes your stomach twist. “But what if I can’t? What if I… what if I don’t become what everyone thinks I will?”

You hold his gaze, steady. “Then you’ll still be Connor.”

He blinks.

You continue, quieter. “The same Connor who laughs at terrible movies. The same Connor who says sorry when he bumps into a chair. The same Connor who texts me ‘did you eat today’ like you’re my grandma.”

His lips twitch, but his eyes stay serious. “I do that because you forget.”

“Exactly,” you say. “You care. That’s who you are. Not a headline.”

Connor’s throat moves like he’s trying to swallow the knot there. “What if I let my team down?”

You shake your head. “You show up. You work. You try. That’s not letting anyone down.”

He whispers, “It doesn’t always feel like enough.”

Your heart squeezes. “Can I tell you something?”

He nods once.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” you say. “You’re allowed to have bad games and bad days and feel like you’re drowning. And you’re still… you’re still you. None of that makes you less.”

Connor’s eyes go glossy, and he looks away fast, like he’s embarrassed by it.

You don’t tease him. You don’t make it a joke. You just wait.

After a moment, he clears his throat. “I hate that you see all of it.”

You tilt your head. “Do you?”

He glances at you, conflicted. “No.”

The word is quiet. Honest.

You try to smile, but it comes out soft. “Good.”

Connor’s voice drops. “You’re like… the only place I don’t feel like I have to perform.”

Your breath catches. “Connor,”

He interrupts, rushing slightly, like he’s afraid he’ll stop if he slows down. “I don’t mean, I mean, I do, but, I just,” He rubs his face with his hand, frustrated. “I’m bad at saying things.”

“You’re not,” you say. “You’re just human.”

He laughs once, but it’s shaky. “That doesn’t feel like a compliment in my world.”

“It should,” you insist.

Connor’s eyes lift to yours again. “Do you ever get tired of… being my person?”

The question is so vulnerable it stuns you.

You reach out before you can overthink it and cover his hand with yours. His fingers are warm, slightly rough.

“Never,” you say. “Not once.”

Connor stares at your joined hands like he’s trying to memorize the shape of this moment.

“Okay,” he whispers, barely audible. “Okay.”

The movie keeps playing, forgotten. Outside, the storm continues to erase the city in white.

Connor squeezes your hand,once,like a thank you he can’t say out loud.

You squeeze back.

Later, you brush your teeth while Connor changes into sweats, turning his back like a gentleman even though you’ve seen him in far less dignified states,post-practice hair, half-asleep on your couch, wearing a hoodie you once stole and never returned.

When you crawl into bed, you stay to your side. Connor stays to his. There’s a cautious line of space between you that feels both respectful and ridiculous.

He turns off the lamp. Darkness fills the room, soft and safe.

For a while, there’s only the hum of the heater and the faint, distant howl of wind.

Then Connor speaks into the dark. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

A pause. “This is still weird.”

You smile into your pillow. “Stop making it weird.”

He makes a small sound,half laugh, half sigh. “I’m trying.”

You turn your head slightly, enough to see his outline. “Connor?”

“Yeah?”

“If you ever feel like you’re not enough,” you say softly, “tell me. Don’t keep it alone.”

His voice is quiet. “Okay.”

Another beat.

“And,” he adds, hesitant, “if I tell you… you won’t look at me different?”

You swallow. “I already look at you different.”

He goes still. “What?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. You could take it back. You could pretend you meant “different” like “with empathy.” You could,

But you’re tired of pretending. The storm has trapped you here, and maybe that’s the point.

You breathe in. “I mean… I’ve been looking at you different for a while.”

Connor’s voice is barely a whisper. “Different how.”

You stare at the ceiling, throat tight. “Like… like you matter too much.”

Silence.

Then Connor’s shaky exhale. “Oh.”

You hear him shift, turning slightly toward you. “You,” he says, carefully, “you like me?”

You laugh softly because if you don’t, you might cry. “Yeah, Connor. I like you.”

Another pause, and then his voice,small, almost disbelieving. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You turn your head, meeting the darkness where you know his eyes are. “Because you’re Connor Bedard.”

He swallows. “I’m Connor.”

“Exactly,” you whisper. “But everyone else forgets that.”

Connor is quiet for a long time. The storm presses against the windows like it’s listening.

Finally, he says, “I didn’t say anything because… I didn’t think I was allowed to want things.”

Your chest aches. “You’re allowed.”

He shifts again, and you feel the bed dip,just slightly closer. Not touching, but closer.

“I like you too,” he says, voice raw. “I think I’ve liked you for,” He cuts himself off, embarrassed. “A while.”

Your breath catches. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. Then, like he’s confessing a secret: “And it scares me.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he says, “this… feels like something I could lose. And I hate that.”

You stare into the dark, your hand inching across the sheets until it finds his. He takes it immediately, fingers lacing with yours like he’s been waiting.

“You won’t lose me,” you whisper. “Not like that.”

Connor’s thumb brushes your knuckles, gentle. “Promise?”

You squeeze his hand. “Promise.”

He exhales, and you hear the tension leave him like a tide pulling back.

“Can I,” he starts, then stops.

“Can you what?”

He hesitates, then asks, voice so soft it’s almost swallowed by the room: “Can I come closer?”

Your heart stutters. “Yes.”

Connor shifts again, slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid of moving too fast. The space between you disappears until your shoulders touch, warm through fabric.

He doesn’t do anything else. Just settles there, forehead almost against your hair, breathing steadying.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You smile, eyes burning in a good way. “I’m more than okay.”

Connor makes a quiet sound,relief, maybe. “Good.”

You lie there in the dark, hands tangled, snowstorm raging outside like the world is ending, while in here, it feels like something is finally beginning.

After a few minutes, Connor murmurs, “We’re still best friends, right?”

You laugh softly. “Always.”

He squeezes your hand. “Okay.”

Then, even quieter: “And… maybe more?”

You turn your head slightly, close enough to feel his breath. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Definitely more.”

Connor’s breath shudders like a laugh he can’t hold back.

“Okay,” he says again, like the word is an anchor. “Okay.”

And in the quiet, with the storm trying to swallow the city whole, Connor Bedard falls asleep holding your hand like it’s the safest thing he’s ever had.

Ughhh he is so gorgeeee

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #formula 1 #formula one #red bull racing #red bull f1 #red bull formula one #red bull formula 1 #red bull team #red bull gives you wings #charles leclerc #lando norris #oscar piastri #daniel ricciardo #starrrzer #fanfic #plz dont flop

Ughh he is just so beautiful

#x reader #fanfic #starrrzer #fic rec #plz dont flop #jack o’connell #jack o'connell #remmick #remmick x reader #sinners #oscars #academy awards #sinners x reader #remmick x you #remmick x y/n

After the Noise

Pairing: Connor Bedard x Reader

Word Count: 381

Request open!

Sidney Crosby Masterlist | Hockey Masterlist

request Wattpad:Anything with Connor Bedard would be amazing!!! You’re amazing

The arena is still loud when you finally slip into the hallway, the echo of skates on ice and fans yelling his name bleeding through the walls. You clutch your phone, heart still thudding from the game.

A win. A big one. And Connor had been unreal.

You’re halfway down the corridor when you hear your name.

“Y/N?”

You turn just in time to see him jog toward you, hair still damp, hoodie pulled on hastily like he didn’t want to waste a second. His cheeks are flushed , from the game, from adrenaline, from everything.

“There you are,” he says, a breath of relief in his voice. “I was worried I missed you.”

“You literally scored the game-winner,” you laugh. “I figured you’d be a little busy.”

He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly shy in a way that never makes sense to you considering what he does on the ice. “Yeah, but… I wanted to see you first.”

The noise fades when he steps closer. Connor always does that , makes the rest of the world feel quieter without even trying.

“Are you okay?” you ask gently. “You took a couple hard hits out there.”

“I’m good,” he says quickly, then pauses. “Better now.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Hey,” he grins, leaning in just enough that your shoulders brush. “You came. That’s my good-luck charm.”

“Pretty sure your shot has something to do with it.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But I still looked for you in the stands every shift.”

Your chest tightens in that warm, dangerous way.

The hallway door opens somewhere behind you, laughter spilling out, teammates passing by with knowing looks. Connor ignores them completely.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Where are we going?”

He hesitates, eyes softening. “Honestly? Somewhere quiet. I just want to sit. With you. No cameras. No noise.”

You nod, because you get it. You always have.

As you walk beside him, his hand finds yours , tentative at first, like he’s checking if it’s okay. When you squeeze back, his thumb brushes your knuckles, grounding.

Out there, he’s the future of hockey. In here, right now, he’s just Connor , tired, smiling, and choosing you after the noise.

And that feels like everything.

Age gap with Richie? She loves pissing him off, he likes it too, maybe smut if you write it! I always imagine him as a boob guy lol

Why Are You So Obsessed With Me?

Richie Jerimovich x F!Reader

Summary: You are convinced Richie is obsessed with you. He thinks you are the most irritating person he has ever met.

Word Count: 1103

Tags/Warnings: Smut, fluff, Richie is a little shit, swearing, arguments

(I think that’s everything but please let me know if I’ve missed anything)

Note: Ive actually never written smut before but I’ve given this rec a go! I hope you like it!!

Please feel free to leave any comments and/ or reblogs. They are very much appreciated!!

“Back off Richie” You shout, spinning on your heel to face him.

“Yeah? What are you gonna do if I don’t?” He threatened as he stepped closer to you, his face inches from yours.

His piercing blue eyes were suddenly ripped from your view and replaced with the back of Carmy’s unruly hair.

“Cousin. Back off” Carmy threatened, pushing Richie away from you.

Richie held his hands up in defeat, taking a step back.

“Alright, alright. I’m not the one that started it but alright”

You dropped the knife you were using and turned to face Richie at lightning speed.

“What the fuck did you just say?” You spat.

“You heard me. I’m not the one starting shit, you are” he said matter factly.

You tried to take a step towards him but Marcus put his arm in front of you and pulled you back to your station. You could hear Richie’s mocking laughter in the background. You threw him the most nasty, hateful look you could muster. He laughs even harder as he walks away.

You let out a defeated sigh. “He always starts shit” You say to Tina.

“I know baby but you just have to ignore him. It doesn’t help that you encourage his behaviour” Tina rationalises.

You let out a betrayed gasp.

“What? I don’t do that. It’s all him! It’s not even my fault, he just makes me so angry!” You seethe.

“I know baby”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You and Richie fighting with each other was a regular occurrence. It had been since you first started working at The Bear almost a year ago.

You had been hired by Carmen to stage in the kitchen. On your first day working at the restaurant, the first person you introduced yourself to happened to be Richie.

“Who the fuck is this?” Richie didn’t bother replying to your greeting. Instead he shouted for Carmen.

“This is our new stage” Carmy said calmly.

“What the fuck are you hiring a kid for?” Richie pointed at you.

“Erm I’m not a kid” you interrupted.

“Yeah Richie. Just because Carmy hires someone so much younger than you, doesn’t mean that he is going around hiring kids” Sydney chimes in jokingly, clearly trying to push Richie’s buttons.

“I’m choosing to ignore that Syd. What the fuck are you doing hiring someone so young.” Richie turned to Carmen and then back to you “Have you ever even worked in a kitchen before, honey?”

“Richie you can’t call people that.” Carmy shouted.

“Jesus Christ. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just something I say” Richie rolled his eyes.

“It’s okay. I actually don’t mind it. And yes I have worked in a kitchen before. I’ve worked in a few actually.” you mumbled. You didn’t want to make any waves by disputing the nickname.

“See it’s fine. There was no need to be on me about using a harmless nickname, Carmy” Richie’s tone snarky.

After that, Richie had taken to reserving that nickname just for you.

Over time the nickname had started to irritate you. Maybe it was the way he said it or the context of when he said it. He knew this which is why he took every available opportunity to use the nickname.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“You are literally so obsessed with me? It’s ridiculous. You actually need to get a life Richie” Disbelief evident in your voice. You barged through the back door and stormed outside. Richie following close behind.

“I’m obsessed with you? Seriously? Are you actually being serious?” He asked, leaning down to your height, catching your eye.

“Yeah I’m being serious. Look at you. Following me around all the time, always saying things that you know get my attention”

“Yeah. Like what? What do I say? What do I say that gets your attention?” He asks, his voice dropping to a whisper as he stepped closer and closer to you.

“You- erm-it’s” You tried to think of a snide comeback but you couldn’t take your eyes off of his lips. Richie’s face was now so close to yours that you could feel his breath of your cheek. If you tilted your head up slightly, your lips would be touching his.

“Hmm” Richie stepped forward, crowding you against the wall.

“I-erm. Oh fuck it.” You grabbed the sides of Richie’s face and pulled him towards you, crashing your lips together. He immediately deepened the kiss, pushing his body more into yours, making sure that every part of your body was touching his.

His hands went to your waist and squeezed harshly. He moved both of his hands down from your hips to your ass, needing your skin in his hands. You push back into his hands but they didn’t stay still for very long. He moved them back up and placed them on your hips again.

His fingers found the edge of your shirt and tugged it up, exposing your stomach. His hands roamed up your stomach before moving to harshly grab your breasts over your bra.

Richie pulled away from the kiss to look down at where his hands were.

“Fuck” he muttered, his voice cracking. “You wear that just for me?” He questioned, referring to your lilac lace bra.

Before you could answer he moved to trail kisses down your neck, causing your back arch more into him.

He lifted your shirt up more and dipped his head so his lips collided with the top of your right breast, just above your bra, his hand still cupping your left. He mouthed at your skin desperately. His hands trailed up your back, once again, to the clasp of your bra. Just as he was about to undo it, the back door swung open and hit the wall next to you with a loud bang.

You and Richie pulled apart quicker than you thought was humanly possible. You had just finished pulling down your shirt when you saw Carmy step through the doorway.

“Oh shit, fuck” Carmy said, taking one look at you and Richie’s disheveled nature and turning to walk back through the door and into the kitchen.

You made eye contact with Richie and he let out a loud laugh. You couldn’t help but lean into him again, resting your forehead on his shoulder.

“Fuck me” you muttered in embarrassment.

“I was trying” Richie jokes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐧𝐝

#x reader #richie jerimovich x reader #richie jerimovich #the bear fx #the bear #ayo edebiri #jeremy allen white #fic rec #ebon moss bachrach #sydney adamu #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto #x y/n fluff #x you fluff #tina the bear #marcus the bear #fx #smut #starrrzer

Hockey Masterlist II

🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒

Evgeni Malkin

Chosen, Always

Let Me Help You

Always Your Plus-One

Even If Only for Two Days

Engaged & Long Distance

🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒

Kris Letang

After Bedtime

Quiet After the Crowd

Between Periods

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Connor Bedard

Snowed In

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Will Smith

The Accidental Text

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William Eklund

Lucky Charm

Found In The Feed

Mo Chara (Liam Óg Ó hAnnaidh) x Reader

Summary: Mo Chara had no interest in social media in any way. But when he stumbles across your YouTube channel, he is immediately enthralled by you. Will you feel the same or will his feelings go unrequited?

Word Count: 2148

Tags: Use of Y/N, soft Liam, Lovestruck Liam, Liam is in love, Y/N has yet to have spoken lol, JJ & Naoise interfering, Change of POV(?)

Warnings: Swearing

Notes: I did give the reader’s friends names because I actually can’t stand fics that use (bsf name) sorry!

I was going to make this a series but changed my mind whoops.

I hope you enjoy this fic! Please feel free to leave any comments, criticisms or just any general thought! And also feel free to request any fics! I apologise for any mistakes!

Snowed In

Pairing: Connor Bedard x Reader

Word Count: 2798

Request open!

Sidney Crosby Masterlist | Hockey Masterlist

Connor pulls his beanie lower, shoulders hunched, duffel bag on one side. He looks up at the sky like he can negotiate with it.

“Okay,” he says, squinting. “That’s… a lot.”

You laugh, hugging your coat tighter. “Welcome to the Midwest.”

He turns his head, eyes narrowing at you in mock suspicion. “You sound like you’re proud of it.”

“I’m proud I survived it,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

Connor notices too. He pauses.

“No,” he says, like the word might undo it.

You read the ticker scrolling beneath it. “Yep.”

He stares. “They can’t cancel all flights.”

“They can, and they did,” you say, leaning in. “See? It’s even in bold. Bold means serious.”

He groans, tilting his head back. “We’re stuck.”

“You good?” you ask softly.

“Yeah,” he says quickly. Then, a beat later, quieter: “Yeah. Just… was ready to be home.”

Your chest tugs at that, because you know. You’ve seen the calendar. The travel. The games stacked like dominoes.

He exhales through his nose and shifts his grip on his duffel. “Come on. Let’s go see how bad they messed up the room situation.”

“Why would they mess it up?”

Connor gives you a look. “Because it’s a snowstorm and everyone is suddenly living here.”

“Hi,” he says. “We’re with the Blackhawks group.”

The employee nods like she’s been repeating the same words all night. “Yes. We have you. Unfortunately we’re fully booked, so we’ve had to consolidate some rooms.”

Connor blinks. “Consolidate.”

“Yes,” she says. “We have one room for you and…” She looks at her screen, then at you. “…and you.”

Your stomach drops.

Connor’s eyes flick to you, wide and helpless. “Wait.”

The employee keeps talking, unbothered. “It’s a king bed. One bed. We can bring up extra blankets. If you need a cot, we’re out at the moment, but we can add you to the list.”

Connor clears his throat. “A… list.”

“Yes,” she repeats, still smiling. “A list. The snowstorm has been very popular.”

You press your lips together so you don’t laugh at how dead inside she sounds.

Connor’s cheeks are turning pink. “We’re,uh,we’re friends.”

“We don’t police friendship here,” the employee says cheerfully, like she’s said that too. “Enjoy your stay.”

You grab the room keys before Connor can combust. “Thank you. Seriously. We know it’s chaos.”

Her expression softens. “It is. Stay warm.”

As you walk away, Connor mutters, “We don’t police friendship here,” under his breath, imitating her tone.

You elbow him. “Be nice.”

“I am being nice,” he insists. “I’m just… processing.”

You reach the elevator bank. People are crammed inside every car. The air smells like wet coats and impatience.

Connor leans closer, voice low. “One bed.”

You shrug like it’s nothing, because if you don’t, your pulse might betray you. “It’s fine.”

He frowns. “Is it?”

“Connor,” you say, meeting his eyes. “We’re best friends.”

His gaze holds yours a fraction too long. “Yeah,” he says, and the word sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “Best friends.”

The elevator dings, doors open, and you both step in. You’re pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers for twelve floors, and Connor’s presence is the one thing that makes it bearable.

When you reach your floor, the hallway is quiet except for the muffled storm outside. Connor swipes the keycard, opens the door, and freezes.

The room is… nice. Too nice. Warm lighting. Clean sheets. A little couch. And, yes, one massive king bed, like it’s proud of itself.

Connor steps inside like he expects the bed to attack.

You drop your bag by the couch and glance toward the window. Outside, the city is blurred by snow, streetlights glowing like soft lanterns.

“Well,” you say, forced casual. “At least it’s not a bunk bed.”

Connor stares at you. “That’s your optimism? ‘At least it’s not a bunk bed’?”

“I’m working with what I’ve got.”

He sets his duffel down and paces two steps, then stops. “You can take the bed.”

You lift your eyebrows. “And you’ll sleep where?”

“On the couch,” he says immediately.

You look at the couch. It’s not small, but it’s not “6-foot hockey player” friendly either.

“Connor.”

“What.”

“You’ll fold in half.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll wake up shaped like a question mark.”

He crosses his arms. “You can’t just,”

You point at him. “I’m not letting you do that.”

He points back. “I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“So what,” you say, fighting a smile, “we duel?”

He hesitates, then his mouth twitches. “I could win.”

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “I have rage strength.”

He snorts, the tension easing. “Rage strength.”

“Yep. Fueled by canceled flights and injustice.”

Connor looks toward the bed again, then away. “Okay,” he says, voice softer. “We can… share. It’s fine. We’re adults.”

“We are adults,” you agree quickly, like if you say it fast enough, your heart won’t sprint.

Connor opens his mouth, closes it, then rubs the back of his neck. “This is weird.”

“It’s only weird if you make it weird,” you reply automatically.

He looks at you. “Right.”

Then,quietly,“I’m making it weird.”

You laugh, relieved. “Okay, yes. You’re making it weird.”

Connor drops onto the edge of the bed like it might explode. “I just… I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

You sit beside him, leaving space. “I’m not uncomfortable.”

He studies your face like he’s searching for the truth. “Promise?”

“Promise,” you say. Then, because honesty feels safer than pretending: “I mean, I’m… nervous. But not uncomfortable.”

He nods slowly, eyes dropping to his hands. “Same.”

The word hangs between you, warm and dangerous.

To break it, you clap your hands once. “Okay! Hotel survival plan. We order room service, watch the worst movie we can find, and then pretend this is completely normal.”

Connor’s mouth quirks. “Worst movie?”

“Like, objectively bad,” you say. “The kind where the dialogue makes you want to apologize to the actors.”

His eyes lighten. “You have a specific one in mind, don’t you.”

You grin. “I always have a specific one in mind.”

The movie you pick is spectacularly terrible. The lead actor delivers a line about destiny that sounds like he’s reading it off a cereal box.

Connor chokes on a fry. “No way.”

You point at the screen. “Oh, yes.”

“Why would anyone,” Connor gestures wildly. “Why would they say that?”

“Because art,” you reply solemnly.

He laughs, full and unguarded, leaning back on his hands. “This is so bad.”

“You’re welcome,” you say.

Half an hour in, Connor’s phone buzzes. He glances down, then sighs, shoulders tightening.

“Everything okay?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just… messages.”

“From who?”

He hesitates. “Everyone.”

You nod, because you know what that means,family, friends, teammates, random people, reporters, fans. The world reaching for him like he’s public property.

Connor flips his phone face-down. “I’m tired.”

You take that in, the way he says it like it’s not just about sleep. “Then don’t answer.”

He looks at you like that’s illegal. “I should.”

“Connor,” you say gently, “you don’t have to be available to everyone all the time.”

He stares at the movie for a second, but he’s not really watching. “It feels like I do.”

Silence settles, softer than the snow outside.

You keep your voice light, offering him an exit. “Want to switch to something less painful?”

He shakes his head. “No. Keep it. It’s distracting.”

You smile, but your chest aches a little. “Okay.”

A few minutes pass. The bad movie stumbles through a dramatic monologue. Connor doesn’t laugh this time.

Then he says, almost like he doesn’t mean to: “Do you ever feel like… if you stop for one second, everyone will realize you’re not enough?”

Your head turns to him. “Connor.”

He doesn’t look at you, eyes fixed on the screen like it’s safer than your face. “I know it sounds dramatic.”

“It doesn’t,” you say immediately.

He swallows. “People keep saying I’m… this thing. Like I’m supposed to carry everything. Fix everything. Be perfect.”

Your voice is soft. “You’re nineteen.”

He lets out a breath that shakes, tiny and controlled. “Yeah.”

You inch closer, careful like you’re approaching a skittish animal. “You don’t have to carry everything.”

Connor finally looks at you. His eyes are tired in a way that makes your stomach twist. “But what if I can’t? What if I… what if I don’t become what everyone thinks I will?”

You hold his gaze, steady. “Then you’ll still be Connor.”

He blinks.

His lips twitch, but his eyes stay serious. “I do that because you forget.”

“Exactly,” you say. “You care. That’s who you are. Not a headline.”

Connor’s throat moves like he’s trying to swallow the knot there. “What if I let my team down?”

You shake your head. “You show up. You work. You try. That’s not letting anyone down.”

He whispers, “It doesn’t always feel like enough.”

Your heart squeezes. “Can I tell you something?”

He nods once.

Connor’s eyes go glossy, and he looks away fast, like he’s embarrassed by it.

You don’t tease him. You don’t make it a joke. You just wait.

After a moment, he clears his throat. “I hate that you see all of it.”

You tilt your head. “Do you?”

He glances at you, conflicted. “No.”

The word is quiet. Honest.

You try to smile, but it comes out soft. “Good.”

Connor’s voice drops. “You’re like… the only place I don’t feel like I have to perform.”

Your breath catches. “Connor,”

“You’re not,” you say. “You’re just human.”

He laughs once, but it’s shaky. “That doesn’t feel like a compliment in my world.”

“It should,” you insist.

Connor’s eyes lift to yours again. “Do you ever get tired of… being my person?”

The question is so vulnerable it stuns you.

You reach out before you can overthink it and cover his hand with yours. His fingers are warm, slightly rough.

“Never,” you say. “Not once.”

Connor stares at your joined hands like he’s trying to memorize the shape of this moment.

“Okay,” he whispers, barely audible. “Okay.”

The movie keeps playing, forgotten. Outside, the storm continues to erase the city in white.

Connor squeezes your hand,once,like a thank you he can’t say out loud.

You squeeze back.

When you crawl into bed, you stay to your side. Connor stays to his. There’s a cautious line of space between you that feels both respectful and ridiculous.

He turns off the lamp. Darkness fills the room, soft and safe.

For a while, there’s only the hum of the heater and the faint, distant howl of wind.

Then Connor speaks into the dark. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

A pause. “This is still weird.”

You smile into your pillow. “Stop making it weird.”

He makes a small sound,half laugh, half sigh. “I’m trying.”

You turn your head slightly, enough to see his outline. “Connor?”

“Yeah?”

“If you ever feel like you’re not enough,” you say softly, “tell me. Don’t keep it alone.”

His voice is quiet. “Okay.”

Another beat.

“And,” he adds, hesitant, “if I tell you… you won’t look at me different?”

You swallow. “I already look at you different.”

He goes still. “What?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. You could take it back. You could pretend you meant “different” like “with empathy.” You could,

But you’re tired of pretending. The storm has trapped you here, and maybe that’s the point.

You breathe in. “I mean… I’ve been looking at you different for a while.”

Connor’s voice is barely a whisper. “Different how.”

You stare at the ceiling, throat tight. “Like… like you matter too much.”

Silence.

Then Connor’s shaky exhale. “Oh.”

You hear him shift, turning slightly toward you. “You,” he says, carefully, “you like me?”

You laugh softly because if you don’t, you might cry. “Yeah, Connor. I like you.”

Another pause, and then his voice,small, almost disbelieving. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You turn your head, meeting the darkness where you know his eyes are. “Because you’re Connor Bedard.”

He swallows. “I’m Connor.”

“Exactly,” you whisper. “But everyone else forgets that.”

Connor is quiet for a long time. The storm presses against the windows like it’s listening.

Finally, he says, “I didn’t say anything because… I didn’t think I was allowed to want things.”

Your chest aches. “You’re allowed.”

He shifts again, and you feel the bed dip,just slightly closer. Not touching, but closer.

“I like you too,” he says, voice raw. “I think I’ve liked you for,” He cuts himself off, embarrassed. “A while.”

Your breath catches. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. Then, like he’s confessing a secret: “And it scares me.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he says, “this… feels like something I could lose. And I hate that.”

You stare into the dark, your hand inching across the sheets until it finds his. He takes it immediately, fingers lacing with yours like he’s been waiting.

“You won’t lose me,” you whisper. “Not like that.”

Connor’s thumb brushes your knuckles, gentle. “Promise?”

You squeeze his hand. “Promise.”

He exhales, and you hear the tension leave him like a tide pulling back.

“Can I,” he starts, then stops.

“Can you what?”

He hesitates, then asks, voice so soft it’s almost swallowed by the room: “Can I come closer?”

Your heart stutters. “Yes.”

Connor shifts again, slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid of moving too fast. The space between you disappears until your shoulders touch, warm through fabric.

He doesn’t do anything else. Just settles there, forehead almost against your hair, breathing steadying.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You smile, eyes burning in a good way. “I’m more than okay.”

Connor makes a quiet sound,relief, maybe. “Good.”

You lie there in the dark, hands tangled, snowstorm raging outside like the world is ending, while in here, it feels like something is finally beginning.

After a few minutes, Connor murmurs, “We’re still best friends, right?”

You laugh softly. “Always.”

He squeezes your hand. “Okay.”

Then, even quieter: “And… maybe more?”

You turn your head slightly, close enough to feel his breath. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Definitely more.”

Connor’s breath shudders like a laugh he can’t hold back.

“Okay,” he says again, like the word is an anchor. “Okay.”

And in the quiet, with the storm trying to swallow the city whole, Connor Bedard falls asleep holding your hand like it’s the safest thing he’s ever had.

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