reino: love you, baby.
reino: say in the mic, say it in the mic, tell me you love me.
kerf: yeah, I did, I did, I do,
reino: you did? kay, perfect.
[kerf wins the face-off]
reino: arghh, love you a little less.
summary: You’ve convinced yourself that your feelings for Clayton Keller are nothing more than a passing infatuation. But when the Utah Hockey Club forward starts inching closer to your heart, you’re left wrestling with emotions you swore you’d never entertain.
warnings: denial, pining, no clue what else though lol
author’s note: this is definitely one of my favs, hope you guys like it too because clay deserves some love! also side note, completely unrelated but as I’m posting this I’ve hit 300 followers 🥹 can’t even believe it!
word count: 2,209
The rhythmic clatter of skates against ice fills the arena, the crisp chill in the air wrapping around you as you settle into your usual seat. You tell yourself that you're here for the game, for the love of hockey—but your eyes follow #9 a little too closely, lingering just a second too long when he glides past with a flick of his wrist and an effortless goal.
Clayton Keller. The name alone sends an inconvenient warmth through you. But it's not like that. It can’t be. You’re not one of those people who falls for a guy just because he has a killer smile and the kind of talent that turns heads in an instant. You like to believe you’re above all that.
And yet…
You shake your head, dragging your gaze away from the ice. It’s just hockey. He’s just a player. The way your heart picks up speed when he glances up at the stands? Coincidence. The way you find yourself at nearly every home game, your eyes searching for him the moment he steps onto the ice? Routine. Nothing more.
Nothing at all.
———
“You coming out tonight?”
Your best friend nudges you as you step out of the arena, the lingering roar of the crowd still buzzing in your ears. Utah won, and Clayton played like a man possessed—two goals, one assist, and a dazzling move that had the entire building on its feet.
You should be celebrating. But your stomach is tied in knots, and you can’t figure out why.
“I don’t know,” you mumble, shoving your hands into your jacket pockets. “I’m kinda tired.”
“Bull. You just don’t want to admit that you’d rather go home and overanalyse every second of that game, especially where a certain #9 is concerned.”
You glare at them. “That’s not true.”
They smirk knowingly. “Sure. And I’m the next first-round draft pick.”
You groan but say nothing, because denying it feels like feeding into something you shouldn’t even be considering. The truth is, you don’t know what’s happening inside your head. Or maybe, more accurately, inside your heart.
———
The bar is already alive with energy by the time you step inside. Warm light flickers across polished wood, the steady pulse of music thrumming beneath the hum of conversation. It’s the kind of place that feels both intimate and chaotic, where time stretches and blurs under the influence of good drinks and even better company.
You slip through the crowd, finding an open spot at the bar. The familiar weight of a drink settles into your hand before you even have time to second-guess this whole night. You take a slow sip, the burn of alcohol grounding you, drowning out the thoughts you don’t want to acknowledge.
“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
The voice is smooth, edged with quiet amusement, and it cuts through the noise with an ease that makes your pulse stutter.
You turn your head—and freeze for half a second before catching yourself.
Clayton Keller stands beside you, one arm resting casually against the bar, his body angled toward you like he’s been here all along. His hair is still damp from the shower, and the sleeves of his jacket are pushed up just enough to reveal the veins along his forearm. Up close, he’s even more magnetic than he is on the ice—sharp features softened by something unreadable in his expression, an easy kind of confidence that doesn’t demand attention but holds it effortlessly.
You blink, forcing your brain to catch up. He’s never spoken to you before—not in the weeks you’ve spent watching him from the stands, not in the moments when you swore his gaze lingered on you between plays but convinced yourself you were imagining it.
And yet, here he is. Talking to you.
You raise an eyebrow, masking the way your heart picks up its pace. “And you look like you don’t have that problem.”
His lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smirk but feels just as dangerous. “Guess that depends on the company.”
You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Smooth.”
His eyes flick over you, assessing but not in a way that makes you feel scrutinised—more like he’s committing details to memory. “Haven’t seen you here before.”
“First time,” you admit, swirling the ice in your glass. You hesitate before adding, “Got dragged out by a friend. Thought it might be a mistake.”
“And?”
You glance at him, considering. “Jury’s still out.”
His grin is slow, easy. “Guess I’ve got work to do, then.”
The way he says it is light, almost teasing, but there’s something else beneath the surface. Something careful. Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll meet him halfway.
You should be more composed about this. You should be asking yourself why Clayton Keller is standing here, making conversation like he’s been looking for an excuse to talk to you. But instead, you let yourself hold his gaze, feeling the weight of it settle in your chest.
“I’ve seen you at games.” His voice is quieter now, not quite hesitant, but deliberate. Testing.
Your fingers tighten slightly around your drink. “Oh?”
He leans in just a fraction, close enough that you catch the clean scent of soap and something else, something uniquely him. “Yeah. A few times.” His gaze flickers over your face, searching. “Thought I might be imagining it was you at first.”
Your breath catches, but you refuse to let it show as you make a pathetic excuse of a joke. “And now?”
He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Pretty sure I wasn’t.”
The air shifts—just slightly, but enough that you feel it, enough that the noise of the bar seems to fade into the background.
You should say something. Shrug it off, play it cool, make some effortless remark about hockey players and their egos. But all you can do is watch him, pulse thrumming in your throat, and wonder what would happen if, just for a moment, you didn’t pretend you hadn’t been hoping for this all along.
And that? That might be the most dangerous thought of all.
———
Days pass. Then weeks. And somehow, against all logic, Clayton becomes a fixture in your life.
You don’t know when it started happening, not really. One moment, he was just another player on the ice, a name you cheered for from a distance. The next, he was everywhere. Inviting you out after games. Sending texts that made you roll your eyes and smile against your will. Standing too close when he talked to you, like he thrived on testing your patience.
And the worst part? You let him.
Because as much as you hate to admit it, there’s something about him that makes it impossible to walk away.
“You’re staring again.”
You blink, snapping out of your daze to find him watching you, amusement flickering in his eyes. The two of you are sitting on the hood of his car, parked outside your favourite diner, a late-night tradition that’s started to feel dangerously close to something real.
“I’m not.”
He smirks. “Liar.”
You roll your eyes, shoving his shoulder lightly. He laughs, but there’s something softer in his expression now, something that makes your breath hitch.
“You know,” he says, voice quieter this time, “you can stop fighting it.”
Your pulse stumbles. “Fighting what?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you, really looks at you, until you feel like he’s seeing every thought you’ve refused to say out loud.
“You know what.”
And maybe you do. Maybe you always have.
But saying it? Acknowledging it? That would mean admitting that everything you’ve tried to convince yourself of—that this was nothing, that you didn’t care—is a lie.
And you’re not sure you’re ready for that yet.
———
The realisation comes when you least expect it.
Maybe it’s the way he looks at you after a game, searching the crowd like he needs to see you there. Maybe it’s the late-night conversations that stretch into dawn, the easy way he makes you laugh when you’ve had the worst day. Maybe it’s the way he touches you—light, fleeting, like he’s waiting for permission to make it something more.
Or maybe it’s just him. All of him. And the fact that, somewhere along the way, he stopped being just another player to you.
You hate it. Because it means you’re already in too deep. Because it means that every wall you’ve built is crumbling under the weight of something terrifyingly real.
And that scares you more than anything else ever has.
———
“You’re running.”
His voice stops you in your tracks. You should have known he’d catch on.
“I’m not.”
Clayton steps closer, eyes dark with something unreadable. “Then tell me why you’re pulling away.”
You swallow hard, but the words won’t come. Because how do you explain that you’re terrified? That you never meant for this to happen, that you don’t know how to handle the way he makes you feel?
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I like you, you know.”
Your heart clenches. “I know.”
“Do you?” His voice is softer now, more careful. “Because you keep acting like this is something you don’t want.”
You look away. “Maybe I don’t.”
He studies you for a long moment, then shakes his head with a small, knowing smile. “Liar.”
The silence stretches between you, thick and weighted, as if the air itself is daring you to say something—anything—that might change the course of whatever this has become.
Clayton is still watching you, gaze steady, like he already knows what you’re going to say before you even say it. It’s infuriating. But more than that, it’s terrifying. Because you know he’s right. You’ve been running. And the worst part? You don’t even know if it was from him or from yourself.
Your fingers tighten at your sides, nails pressing into your palm as you force yourself to meet his eyes. “It’s not that simple.”
His jaw tenses for a fraction of a second before he exhales, shaking his head. “Yeah, it is.” He steps closer, close enough that the warmth of him cuts through the cool night air. “You’re the one making it complicated.”
The words sting because they’re true.
You don’t know how to do this—the whole letting someone in thing. It’s easier to pretend that feelings don’t exist, that the way your chest tightens whenever you see him is just admiration, that the thought of him not being around doesn’t make your stomach drop.
But deep down, you know. You’ve known for a while.
And the way he’s looking at you right now? Like he’s waiting, like he’s always been waiting? It makes you want to stop pretending.
You inhale sharply, the words catching in your throat before you finally force them out. “I like you.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but from the way his expression shifts—just slightly—you know he heard you. “I just… I don’t know how to do this.”
Clayton’s gaze softens, and the tension in his shoulders eases, just a bit. He’s quiet for a moment, then murmurs, “We’ll figure it out.”
And maybe that should scare you, the idea of stepping into something so uncertain. But when he says it, it doesn’t sound scary at all.
It just sounds right.
His hand brushes against yours, tentative at first—giving you a chance to pull away. You don’t. Instead, you let your fingers curl around his, the warmth of his skin grounding you, steadying you.
A slow smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Was that so hard?”
You roll your eyes, but the flush creeping up your neck betrays you. “Shut up.”
He laughs softly, then, in one smooth motion, lifts your joined hands and tugs you just a little closer. The space between you disappears, and for a second, all you can hear is your own heartbeat, pounding loud and insistent in your ears.
You should look away. You should say something to defuse the moment before you do something reckless. But then his gaze flickers to your lips, and suddenly, you don’t want to defuse anything.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, voice barely audible.
You don’t.
Instead, you tilt your chin up, just enough to close the distance, just enough to let him know exactly what you want.
That’s all it takes.
His lips meet yours, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorising the shape of you, like he’s making sure this is real. And god, it is. The warmth of his hands against your skin, the way he pulls you in just a little closer—it sends a shiver down your spine, but for once, it’s not fear.
It’s everything you’ve been too afraid to admit you wanted.
When you finally pull back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your skin.
“So,” he murmurs, a small, teasing smile playing at his lips. “Still running?”
You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “No.”
And for the first time in a long time, you mean it. Because, god…maybe you are in love.
this came to me after seeing that delicious gif of kess @captain-huggy-bear posted with her fic—check her out because GODDAMN lottie is amazing
nsfw, mdni: slightly mean kess, mentions of tattoos
you run your fingers over michael’s arm, enamored with the ink that runs along the skin. you trace one of them in particular, lightly scratching.
“what if we got matching ones?” you ask suddenly, causing michael to stutter mid-com to the people he’s playing some sort of video game with.
michael slides off his headphones, turning in his seat to look at you with a slack jaw and wide eyes. on screen, you watch as his character dies.
“what?” he asks, blinking away his shock. a grin slowly tugs at his lips, and you blink up at him with innocent eyes.
“i don’t know, it’s just an idea,” you tell him, pulling your hand away and toying with the hem of your oversized hoodie. “we don’t have to, if you don’t wanna—“
michael shakes his head quickly, “no, no, i do—holy fuck, i do,” he says. without turning around, michael forcibly quits his game, uncaring of any repercussions he might face later.
michael scoops you up into his arms, hauling you easily like you weigh little to nothing—and to him, you do. he drops you down on his bed, the memory foam swallowing your body. he places himself over you so his legs bracket your hips, strong thighs flexing in his sweats as he keeps himself up.
“where would you get it?” he asks, large palms pushing the fabric of your hoodie up and over your head. he slides his palms under your boobs, rubbing at the ribs under them. “here?” he asks, eyes hooded.
you let out a squeak, face warm at his boldness. “maybe…” you mumble. “but, what about somewhere we both can get it?”
michael grins, cocky and far too attractive. his hands move from your ribs and to your wrists, taking one in each giant hand and leaning over you. you squirm in his hold, whining incoherently as he rubs circles on the inside of your arms. he’s shirtless, pressing his warm skin to yours.
“what about here?” he asks, still thumbing your wrists. michael presses his hips down and you gasp at how hard he is just from the thought of matching tattoos.
“michael…” you whine, turning your face away from him to hide from his gaze. you shift your hips, pushing back against him, so painfully hot and needy for him.
michael laughs against the shell of your ear. the rumble of it is addicting, deep and gravelly. “what, baby?” he asks, punctuating his words with another soft press of his hips to yours. “you feel what you doin’ to me? my girl wanna’ get matching tattoos, show the world she’s mine, yeah?”
you let out a whimper, shutting your eyes tightly and nodding. michael sits up again, hands moving away from your wrists and to your hips. his thumbs press into your pelvis, warm and solid against you. you squeeze your thighs together, rubbing for any kind of friction to ease the ache between them. michael immediately catches the movement, smiling widely.
“just say the word,” he says to you, looking up through heavy eyelashes. “tell me what you want, sweet girl; can’t read that mind of yours unless you tell me.”
your face burns hotter and your thighs feel slicker. you let out a meek, “yes” and michael immediately understands but he doesn’t let in. he clicks his tongue, faux disappointment taking over his features.
“nuh-uh, gotta’ tell me, baby. i need more information.” he grinds his hips into you, his bulge catching on your clothed clit. “yes, what?”
you press up, eyes fluttering open to see him looking down at you, his own cheeks flushed. “yes, i want matching tattoos,” you cry. “want the world to know i’m yours, mikey—all yours. no one else’s.”
he’s on you within seconds, lips sucking and nipping at sensitive skin and a large hand under your waistband. he leaves wet kisses across your neck, trails them over your collarbones and up the front of your neck again. his fingers press harshly into the wet spot on your panties, and a rough laugh leaves his lips—something akin to disbelief.
“fuck,” he groans, “so fucking wet thinking about everyone knowing you’re mine, huh? like it that much?” he taunts, and you nod because you know he doesn’t mean his words in a cruel, condescending way—because you know he loves the idea just as much as you do.
michael’s quick to pull your pants down, tossing them away and into some corner of the room. he groans, choked and thick with want. his hands drag down your hips, your thighs, and stops on your calves.
“what about here?” he asks, eyes drawn to the mess between your legs but hands rubbing and pinching at the skin on the back of your legs. he looks up at you expectantly, patiently awaiting your response despite the way you squirm for him to just touch you. “could get matching calf pieces—fuck, that’d be so sexy, wouldn’t it?”
your walls flutter at his words, at the deep grumble of his voice. you nod, “y-yeah, would be nice,” you mutter, and michael grins. he drops your leg and makes a show of thinking, palm rubbing up and down his jaw.
“nah,” michael decides. “gotta’ be somewhere else.”
you whine, feet lightly kicking, and michael laughs. he pulls down his sweats and boxers and you immediately stop, damn near drooling at the sight of him, fully forgotten what you’d just been talking about.
michael looks down at your body and hums. his palms are suddenly on you again, manhandling your body so you’re on your stomach. you squeak as you’re flipped, his thick cock head prodding at your ass. his fingers slip under your hips and tugs them upward.
“maybe somewhere here?” he says, voice thick with pride. his fingers trail down your spine, causing electricity to flow through you. he gropes at your ass, squeezing the flesh as you whimper. “or here?” he asks, chuckling softly when you shake your head no. michael’s hand finally settles on the small of your back, big palm pressing your body down. “i think right here’s the winner,” he whispers, and you don’t argue.
not when he finally lines himself up with your entrance and gives you what you need.
