hii i have req for tft will where like he gets absolutely bodied that one game by weatherspoon (against the penguins) and she is in the stands when it happens and then takes care of him after🥰🥰🥰 ily ur writing btw!
tft master list masterlist
Pairing: tft!will smith x fem!reader
wc: 3.6k
Content Warnings: cursing, mentions of bruising and dislocation, suggestive at the ending.
AN: I made up a lot about his injury and Macks but trust me it cooks! Sorry this took so long to get out :(
Synopsis: the req ^^ !!
there is a mention of this fic in it! It doesn't hinder your understanding of this story but I thought I'd mention it since I recently edited it :)
The security guard was a wall of a man, his arms crossed with a practiced, immovable stoicism that made you feel like a trespasser in your own life. He didn't even have to speak; the set of his jaw and the slight shake of his head were enough to halt your momentum.
"Hi, I need to get through," you said, already reaching for your phone to pull up your lock screen, the photo of you and Will from last summer at Cape Cod.
"Badge?" the guard asked, his voice a flat drone.
You looked up from your phone. "I don't have one. I'm sitting in the stands tonight. But I'm Will's girlfriend, I need to—"
"No badge, no entry." He didn't even glance at your phone screen. "Arena policy."
"Okay, I get that, but he just took a really bad hit and I need to make sure he's—"
"Ma'am, I understand, but I can't let you through without proper credentials." His tone was practiced, like he'd given this speech a hundred times before.
You tried to keep your voice level, reasonable. "We grew up together. He's gonna be asking for me, and I just need five minutes to—"
"That's great, but it doesn't change the policy." The guard's expression didn't shift. "Plenty of people 'know' the players. I still need to see a credential."
The lilt in his voice made you feel crazy.
"Can you at least radio down and ask someone? Just tell them Will's girlfriend is here. They know who I am."
The guard didn't even blink. "That's what they all say, sweetheart. Step back behind the line, and wait for the players to come out of the arena like the rest of the fangirls. I'm not radioing anyone during an active game situation."
The frustration bubbled up from a place in your chest that had been dormant for years, a sudden, sharp flash of memory from eleventh grade. You could almost feel the cold air of the high school rink and hear the voice of the new assistant coach. That specific brand of bureaucratic arrogance had infuriated you then, and it was making your blood boil now.
"I am not a 'fangirl,' and I am certainly not a 'sweetheart,'" you snapped, stepping closer to the guard, your eyes narrowing.
He shifted his weight, somehow making himself look even more immovable. "Step back behind the line, please."
"Are you serious right now?" The words came out sharper than you intended. You took a breath, trying a different approach. "Look, I'm not trying to make your job harder. I just—he's dramatic about injuries, okay? And, this is going to sound so possessive, but I'm the only person who can actually get him to calm down and listen to the medical staff. If you just let me through for… two minutes—"
"Ma'am, I've heard every story, trust me. I don't make exceptions. Not for supposed girlfriends, not for family, not for anyone without credentials."
"Oh, fuck off."
The guard's jaw tightened, but before he could respond, the heavy sound of steps reverberated through the tunnel, and relief flooded your senses.
Macklin stepped out, still clad in his full gear, his helmet making his head look twice his actual size.
You'd tell him if you weren't so agitated.
One side of his face was beginning to swell, a deep, blooming purple bruise closing his eye he'd got defending Will. Without missing a beat, Macklin looked past the guard and locked eyes with you. "She's with me," he grunted, his voice gravelly. "Come on, let's go."
You didn't wait for the guard to pivot. You slipped past him, your focus shifting instantly to Macklin as you reached up, your fingers grazing the tender, swollen skin of his cheekbone. "Shit, Mack, your eye," you murmured, your brow furrowing in genuine worry. "You really went for it, didn't you? Wish I saw the whole thing."
He gave a small, crooked smile, leaning into your touch for a brief second, the adrenaline still humming off him in waves. "Q, I'm fine, honestly. It's Will I'm worried about."
The security guard, suddenly realizing he had just spent five minutes obstructing the partner of a star player and insulting the teammate who had just cleared the way, looked frantic. He stepped forward, his voice now stripped of its stoicism and replaced with a hurried, nervous politeness. "My apologies, Mr. Celebrini. Truly. There was some confusion with the credentials..." he stammered, his eyes darting to Macklin while completely ignoring your presence.
Bitch.
Macklin didn't even glance over. He just put a heavy, padded arm around your shoulder, steering you toward the hallway. "Yup, don’t worry about it," Macklin said, though his tone suggested he didn't actually care about the apology as much as he cared about getting you to Will.
As you walked, the tension in your chest began to shift from anger to a tight lump in your throat. You knew Will and knew the way he tended to downplay the pain until the moment he actually collapsed. The air in the corridor felt sterile, smelling of ice-melt and athletic tape, as Macklin slowed his pace, glancing at you with a softened expression. "He's okay," Macklin promised quietly. "Just being a dramatic pain in the ass. First thing he said when he got to the bench was a complaint about his jersey being ripped."
You laughed, the sound echoing off the cinderblock walls.
"Seriously, though," Mack said, pausing in front of the medical office. "He's pissed. Not just about the jersey, either."
You reached up and planted a quick, grateful kiss on Macklin’s bruised cheek, making him wince and chuckle at the same time. "Thanks Mack. Go get some ice on that face. You look terrible." He gave you a playful shove toward the room, his heavy equipment clanking as he stepped aside, leaving you to face the door alone.
His jersey was indeed torn at the shoulder, hanging in a sad, frayed strip on the table next to him, and he was holding his arm at an awkward angle against his ribs.
"Finally," Will said, his voice sharp with irritation. "I was starting to think you'd decided to just stay up there and watch the fuck up I caused."
The team doctor glanced up from her clipboard and gave you a look that was equal parts relief and exhaustion. "Finally indeed," she muttered. "Maybe you can get him to actually sit still for thirty seconds and stop complaining about everything."
"I'm not complaining about everything," Will shot back immediately.
"Will—" the doctor started.
"No, seriously, look at this!" He gestured emphatically at his torn jersey with his good arm, wincing as the movement jostled his shoulder. "This was brand new. I wore it for the first time tonight. First time. And now it's completely destroyed because Wotherspoon decided to be a complete asshole for no reason."
You crossed the room, dropping your bag on a nearby chair, trying not to smile at how genuinely upset he was. "What's the actual damage?" you asked the doctor.
"Well, according to him, his entire career is over and he'll never play again," the doctor said dryly, moving toward Will. "But realistically, we're looking at some significant bruising and a possible minor strain. The bruising is for him to see and figure out, though. I need to finish the examination to know for sure about mobility, but he keeps—"
"Your hands are freezing," Will interrupted, flinching away. "And you keep pressing directly on the part that hurts, which seems counterproductive."
"That's her job, Will," you said, coming to stand beside the doctor whose patience clearly wearing thin. "She needs to assess the injury."
"Yeah, well, maybe she can assess it more gently," Will muttered. He looked at you, his expression shifting to something more plaintive. "She's been poking at me for ten minutes. Ten minutes of just—" He made an aggressive jabbing motion with his good hand. "—pressing on bruises."
With a hum, the doctor turned back to her desk and flipped through some papers, giving you the opportunity to stand directly in front of him. You smoothed your hands down the fabric of his compression shirt until they reached his knees where you rested them. "Will. Look at me."
He did, immediately, though his jaw was still tight with frustration. But there was something softer underneath it now. It was the same look he'd given you a thousand times over sixteen years, the one that said he was genuinely glad you were there, even if he was going to make a production out of everything.
"Hi," he said, quieter but still edged with irritation.
"Hi," you replied. "Take a breath."
"I'm breathing fine."
"Mhm."
His mouth twitched despite himself. "It was a really nice jersey."
"I know it was."
"And it's completely ruined now. Like, I can't even wear it anymore. The whole shoulder is just—" He gestured at the frayed fabric again. "—gone. Ripped to shreds. And like, how did it even happen?"
"I can see that," you said, keeping your voice gentle but firm. "But right now I need you to focus on letting the doctor do her job so we can figure out how badly you're actually hurt."
"I already told her how badly I'm hurt," Will said, his frustration bubbling back up. "My entire right side feels like it got hit by a truck. Because it basically did. Wotherspoon is like six-three and two hundred pounds and he came at me full speed when I didn't even have the puck anymore." His voice was rising now, the words coming faster. "I didn't have the puck, and he still hit me directly into the boards. Like, completely unnecessary. Completely dirty."
"I saw," you said, squeezing his knees. "I was watching."
"Of course you were watching, you're always watching, I love you," he continued, barely pausing to notice the smile grace your face at his words. "So you saw how bullshit that was. The ref didn't even call anything. Not even a minor penalty. Nothing. Wotherspoon just gets to skate away like he didn't just board me for no reason, and I'm sitting here with a destroyed jersey and a shoulder that feels like it's been ripped out of the socket—"
"Is it actually out of the socket?" you interrupted, glancing at the doctor with genuine concern.
"No," the doctor said firmly. "It's not dislocated. But I can't confirm anything else until he lets me finish the examination."
"See?" Will said, looking at you like this proved his point. "She doesn't even know yet. I could have a separated shoulder. I could have torn something. But apparently I'm just being dramatic."
"You are being dramatic," you said, though your voice was warm. "But you're also hurt, and you have a right to be upset about what happened."
"Thank you," Will said emphatically. "Finally, someone who gets it."
"However," you continued, "you need to let her do her job. Which means sitting still and not flinching every time she touches you."
"I'm not flinching."
"Will."
"My entire side is bruised!" he protested. "When someone presses on a bruise, the natural human response is to flinch, Y/N, you know that! That's not me being difficult, that's just biology!"
"Biology wasn't your strong suit in school," you pointed out, and despite everything, he almost smiled.
"It wasn't yours either," he countered.
"Which is why we're both going to trust the actual doctor," you said. You turned to look at her. "What do you need him to do?"
"I need him to let me finish the range-of-motion tests without commentary," she said, moving back toward Will with the cold pack and a determined expression. "And then we'll get some imaging done later in the week to rule out anything serious."
He looked at you for a long moment, his jaw working like he wanted to argue more. But then he sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly—though he winced at the movement.
"Fine," he muttered. "But for the record, I'm still mad about the jersey. And about Wotherspoon. And about the fact that no one called a penalty on that hit."
"Noted," you said, stepping slightly to the side so the doctor could access his shoulder. "You can tell me all about it while she examines you. But you have to sit still."
You caught the doctor's eye and she gave you a look that clearly said I don't trust this. You bit back a smile and reached out to take Will's good hand, lacing your fingers through his.
---------
Will sat on the edge of the hotel bed, scrolling through what you assumed were messages from the team group chat. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the heating unit and the occasional buzz of his phone.
"Macklin says his eye looks like a plum," he said, holding up the screen to show you. "He sent a picture. It's actually impressive."
"I saw it in person, remember?" You moved to stand in front of him, your hands gentle as you took the phone and set it on the nightstand. "Arms up. Carefully."
He obeyed, lifting his arms slowly, and you caught the way his breath hitched, that sharp intake he was trying to hide. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt, and you worked carefully, so carefully, to ease the fabric up over his torso.
When his skin came into view, you felt your stomach drop. The bruising bloomed across his ribs in deep purples and blues that looked almost black in the center. The edges were already turning that sickly yellow-green, and you could see where the impact had left its mark.
"Oh my god," you breathed, and your hands were shaking slightly as they hovered over the bruise. You couldn't touch it, couldn't bring yourself to press against something that looked so painful. "Will, this is—this is really bad."
"Hey." His voice was soft. "It's okay. It looks worse than it is."
But you were already shaking your head, your eyes tracing the extent of the damage. "This is worse than I thought. So much worse." Your voice cracked slightly on the last word, and you bit your lip, trying to pull yourself together.
"Baby." Will's good hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheek. "Look at me."
You did, and you knew your expression was giving everything away. You'd never been good at hiding your feelings, especially not from him.
"Your face is doing that thing."
"What thing?" you managed, though your eyes kept darting back to the bruise.
His thumb traced along your cheekbone. "It's actually really sweet. You get this little crease right here—" He touched the space between your eyebrows. "—and your eyes get all big and worried."
You protested, but your voice was too thick to be convincing.
"Okay," he said gently, clearly not believing you. "But I'm okay. I promise."
You took a shaky breath and nodded, then carefully helped him ease the compression shirt over his head. He winced as the fabric pulled across his shoulder, and you felt your heart clench.
"You need a shower," you said, your voice steadier now that you had something practical to focus on. "A warm shower. It'll help with the stiffness and the pain."
"Yeah, probably," he agreed, but he was still watching you with that soft expression, like he found your worry endearing rather than annoying.
"Come on." You offered him your hand. "Let's get you cleaned up."
He took your hand and let you help him stand, moving slowly. As you guided him toward the bathroom, he said quietly, "You should come with me."
"Don't start," you said, your voice gaining a playful edge as you caught the specific, hopeful glint in his eyes. "After everything you've been through tonight, I am absolutely not having sex with you. Your body needs to heal, not… I don't know... perform?"
Will let out a mock groan, leaning his weight against the bathroom doorframe. "You're making it sound like a job, Y/N. It's my favourite thing to do. You’ve spent the last four hours being the only thing keeping me sane, and you look so incredible when you're in whatever mood this is. It's very distracting." He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, his voice a low, suggestive hum. "I just want to show you exactly how much I appreciate you."
You tried to maintain a stern expression, but the corners of your mouth were betraying you. Even with a shoulder that felt like it had been through a meat grinder, he was still attempting to seduce you with a lazy, lopsided grin that had worked on you since the ninth grade.
"You are unbelievable," you sighed, though you didn't pull away. "You can barely lift your arm, Will. Get in the shower."
Instead of acknowledging your command, he continued. "And speaking of incredible… Mack told me about the security guard. He said you basically tore that guy a new one. God, Y/N, the idea of you standing your ground like that… it's doing things to me." He gave a small, wicked chuckle, his gaze dropping for a second before returning to your eyes.
You rolled your eyes, though the heat in your cheeks gave away the effect of his words. "I guess he heard more than I thought he did."
-------
The bathroom mirror was fogged over, a humid haze that blurred the edges of the room until you wiped a small circle clear with your palm to check your reflection for any lasting makeup. Your face was scrubbed clean, the adrenaline of the night finally receding to leave a lingering, heavy tiredness in your bones. When you stepped back into the bedroom, the air was cooler, smelling of hotel soap and the faint, medicinal scent of the ointment the doctor had prescribed.
Will was sprawled across the bed, looking far more comfortable in a pair of grey oversized sweats than he did in his uniform. He looked softer now, the harsh lighting of the arena replaced by the warm, amber glow of the bedside lamps, though the bruising on his ribs had deepened into a vivid, angry violet. He was watching you with an expression of pure, unadulterated devotion, his head propped up by his good shoulder as he tracked your every movement.
"Alright pretty boy," you said, walking toward him with the small plastic cup of pills and a glass of water. You stopped beside the bed, your voice shifting into that authoritative tone that usually only came out when he was ignoring a curfew or forgetting to hydrate. "Open."
Without a second of hesitation, Will tilted his head back and opened his mouth, his eyes locking onto yours.
You popped the pills into his mouth and tilted the water glass, watching him swallow. He looked at you, his gaze drifting down your body before snapping back to your face.
"If you don't squirm too much I can eat you out."
You felt a sudden, sharp spike of heat bloom across your chest, and for a second, the idea of him, despite the bruises and the fatigue, was almost enough to make you forget your own rules. He looked desperate, his pupils blown wide, his hand reaching out to weakly hook around your thigh to pull you closer to the edge of the mattress.
You leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his forehead, then another to the tip of his nose. "I appreciate the offer, truly," you murmured, your lips grazing his skin. "And believe me, the feeling is mutual. But—"
Will let out a sound that was halfway between a groan and a whimper, his fingers tightening slightly on your thigh. "I'll be careful. I promise. I'll kneel on the floor and— and you can sit on the edge of the bed. Please let me."
"No," you said, your voice firm despite the way your heart was drumming against your ribs. "You can't even stand up straight, Will. If you tried to kneel on that floor, you’d probably just slide right under the bed and I'd have to call the hotel staff to fish you out."
Will’s face collapsed into a mask of theatrical tragedy. He let out a long, shuddering sigh that ended in a sharp whine. "You're the worst," he groaned, staring up at the ceiling with a look of utter betrayal. "You're literally the cruelest person I've ever known."
"I know," you replied, a smile playing on your lips. You leaned over and gave him a gentle push back into the pillows, effectively pinning him to the mattress.
You stepped out of the line of fire and walked toward your side of the bed, the mattress dipping as you climbed in beside him. As you leaned over him, your hair falling in a curtain around your faces, you captured his lips in a kiss. It wasn't the frantic, hungry kind he had been angling for all night, but something nonetheless. Will’s eyes closed as his hand came to cup the back of your head, his entire body seeming to deflate as he finally stopped fighting the exhaustion and let the weight of the day catch up to him.
Reaching over to the bedside lamp, you clicked the switch, plunging the room into a soft darkness. You shifted, tucking your legs between his and resting your head in the crook of his neck, molding yourself to his side with a careful precision.
"Tell you what," you murmured into the warmth of his skin, your voice barely a whisper. "Maybe I'll let you in the morning. Once the big boy painkillers have worn off and you can actually move without sounding like a rusty gate."
He didn't move, but you could practically hear the mental image of him rolling his eyes in the dark.
