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Will Smith x Hughes!Reader

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Summary: You swore off hockey players, comparisons, and living in anyone’s shadow, but then a spilled cup of coffee and a very persistent boy make you look back and realize it was never about the sport.

This is part 1! Part 2 here!

Your house was never quiet growing up. Chaotic and full and most of all loud. Full of sticks clattering against the garage floor, arguments about who’s turn it was in the bathroom and who was taking too long. ESPN playing in the background like the soundtrack of your childhood. Rancid gear drying on the vents even though your mother protested it being left there.

You were the youngest. The six years between you and Quinn meant that he always felt like some kind of guardian towards you, even as a kid. He would retape your stick without being asked, give Jack stern talking-tos when he got a little too rough.

Jack, four years older, was full of drama and clear talent. He grew up chirping you, roughhousing, picking on you, but he’d also step in and shove boys twice his size when they bumped into you at open skates. He was the one yelling at you to skate faster from the bench.

Luke was your built in best friend since birth. The two years between the two of you was nothing when you were kids. You were inseparable, constant mini sticks in the basement. Tournaments that ended with someone crying (usually you), and someone else getting grounded (more often than not, Jack). Luke would let you win usually, not all the time, but just often enough that when you were little you didn’t suspect anything of it.

And when you started playing hockey seriously, they treated you like you were one of them.

That was the problem.

You were good, actually good. You could skate before you learned basic math, taping sticks and lacing up skates with ease. You were fast and had quick hands.

But none of it mattered when you were constantly being compared to one of the three. Constantly hearing things like, “she skates like Quinn”, “she’s almost as fast as Jack”, or “not quite as sharp as Luke”.

You were never just you.

At first the three of them tried to help. Jack would stay after practice with you to work on your shot. Luke would stay up late passing with you in the driveway until you were both 90% mosquito bites. Quinn would quietly pull you aside and tell you that you had “nothing to prove, just play.”

But even their help felt heavy sometimes. By the time you were twelve, almost thirteen, the fun had been drained out of it. You’d sit in the car after practice staring blankly out the window while your brothers argued about lines and ice time and who had the better coach. And you realized something that made your chest tight, you didn’t love hockey the way they did. You loved the ice and the skating, but not the sport. So you quit.

It caused exactly the kind of stir you’d expect. Jack thought you were being overdramatic, he gave it two weeks before you’d come around. Luke though maybe you just needed a break for a bit, a little rest from the stress of it all.

But after dinner, Quinn had pulled you aside quietly.

“Are you sure?” He had asked, gently searching your face.

You nodded. You were absolutely positive about your decision.

You traded bulky gear for delicate figure skating costumes. The first time you stepped onto the ice without pads felt so freeing, you almost cried in relief. There was no one yelling from the boards, no comparing stats, just you and the music and the empty space. It was something that was finally yours in the world of chaos you lived in.

The three of them were busier now, with development camps and being NHL prospects, but they still came to your competitions when they could. They were still protective, still loving, but they just struggled to understand sometimes. They were confused about why you didn’t want the same thing they all did.

Then came the summers at the lake house. By fifteen, your brother’s friends had become permanent fixtures, all of them basically having their own spots at the dinner table by now. A rotating cast of sunburnt hockey boys who were already convinced they were NHL superstars.

The house was always full, you were never bored for long. Boat days, late night swims, bonfires. And girls, so many girls. Girls who laughed too hard at jokes that weren’t funny, girls who’s names you knew the boys didn’t remember.

You were old enough to notice everything by then. The way they talked about girls like they were stats, how the attention would shift when someone more attractive walked into the room. They had the cocky, invincible energy of boys who knew they were good at something and knew that other people were starting to notice.

You saw the way they craved attention like oxygen and treated women like accessories.

And your brothers weren’t innocent in it all. Quinn and Jack were playing professionally by now, and you saw how easy it was for them. How quickly girls attached themselves to the name, to the idea of that world.

And you made a decision then. You were fifteen, sitting on the end of the dock with Luke while laughter echoed from inside the house. You turned to him.

“I’m never dating a hockey player.” You’d said flat out.

He laughed like you had said something ridiculous.

“I’m serious.” You insisted.

Later, when you told Jack, he had rolled his eyes.

“Good. They’re all idiots.” He had added.

And you wanted to point out the irony of that statement, but he had already turned away. Quinn just nodded once and seemed to understand what you had meant.

It wasn’t you being dramatic, it’s was protective. You weren’t going to be someone’s story, someone’s “yeah I hooked up with the Hughes sister”.

You loved your brothers but you didn’t want to date someone that saw you as nothing but an extension of them.

By the time college applications rolled around, you were becoming more confident in your sense of identity, of existing outside the bubble of “Hughes”. But then all that pressure returned.

Luke and Quinn had gone to Michigan. The block letter M was hung in various places around your house, the school colors on blankets and mugs and sweatshirts.

“You’d love it.” Luke told you. “You’d already know everyone.”

And you wanted to point out that no, you wouldn’t know everyone, they knew him, and in some weird way that meant they knew you. But you had no idea who anyone was.

Jack had already cemented himself into New Jersey and Luke was working his way through that too, so they had their own pitch.

“Come to school in Jersey, you could be close to me and Lukey.” He had said, grabbing his younger brother at the annoying nickname.

“Yeah, that’d be easier.” Quinn had chimed in. “Mom wouldn’t worry as much.”

Easier. You were so tired of that word. It didn’t really mean easier in the way you wanted. It meant walking into a room and already being known, professors recognizing your last name because it’s broadcast on the local sports network every night. You didn’t want easier. You wanted something that was yours.

So when the acceptance letter came in the mail from Boston College, you confirmed it immediately. Boston wasn’t Michigan, it wasn’t New Jersey. It was new, neutral ground. And it had hockey, of course, you couldn’t escape it completely, but it wasn’t your hockey. It’s wasn’t your brothers’ school or rink or friends. It was new.

When you told them, they had stood there in silence.

“I don’t want to follow you guys,” you said carefully. “I love you. I just… I want something that’s mine. Not an extension of something you’ve already had.”

That was the first time they really saw it. That this wasn’t teenage rebellion or moodiness, it was survival. You didn’t resent them for it all, you just didn’t want your life to orbit theirs forever.

Eventually, they came around. Luke helped you move in, Jack complained the whole time about the dorm mattress like he’d be the one sleeping on it. Quinn lingered the longest when when the other two had gone back down to the car.

“Call if you need anything,” he had said.

“I won’t,” you teased.

He gave you a look, that same one he’d given your whole life that said he knew more than you did. “You will.”

And then they were gone. And for the first time in your life, you weren’t someone’s little sister, you were just you.

And that’s how you find yourself here.

It’s early September and the air in Boston is still warm. You’re carrying way too much as you make your way out of the campus cafe. There’s the backpack over your shoulder, textbooks you’d just checked out under one arm, coffee in your other hand, and your phone pressed between your shoulder and ear while you argue with Luke about some family thing happening in early November that you definitely don’t actually need to be at.

“I have midterms.” You insist as you walk out the door, the bell dinging softly behind you.

“You don’t even know when midterms are yet.” Luke argues.

“Yes I do.”

“You definitely don’t.”

You roll your eyes and step off the curb–

And slam directly into someone. Hard.

Your coffee goes first, hitting his chest and splashing over the front of your sweater and his gray BC Hockey hoodie.

There’s a split second of stunned silence.

“Oh my god, I am so, so sorry.” The guy says.

You look up at his face and immediately recognize him. Will Smith. He plays for the Eagles, freshly drafted by the San Jose Sharks this summer. You’ve seen enough hockey in your life to recognize talent. And standing in front of you is talent.

But right now? He looks horrified.

“I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He rushes to get the words out. “I swear I’m not usually that clumsy.”

You slowly pull your phone away from your ear.

“–hello? You still there?” Luke is still talking.

You hang up.

“It’s fine.” You say automatically, even though coffee is actively seeping through your sweater.

“It’s not fine.” He insists, already taking off his own, equally drenched, sweatshirt. “I ruined your coffee and your shirt. And probably your day.”

He looks genuinely upset by this, and it throws you off a little. Most hockey guys you grew up around would’ve laughed or even blamed you for walking into them.

“I’ll buy you another one.” He says, then at your lack of response he adds immediately, “I’ll buy you five more. Whatever you want.”

You just stare at him, slowly realizing that he hasn’t recognized you. There's no pause, no double take. You’re just some girl he bumped into. And you could tell him.

You could say, Hey, funny story, but I grew up watching guys like you treat girls like me like side characters.

But you don’t say that. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, smiling at him.

“Five more?” You ask.

He nods. “Minimum.”

You almost laugh. “One replacement is fine.”

He visibly relaxes at that.

“Thank God.” He laughs slightly.

So you turn around and follow him back into the coffee shop. There’s thankfully no line so you follow Will up to the counter. He looks to you when the barista asks for the order.

“Iced caramel latte.” You say and Will nods like he’s committing that to memory.

He pays and then the two of you move to the side to wait.

“So.” You start casually, nodding at his hoodie. “You play hockey?”

His face shifts and he almost looks sheepish.

“Yeah. For BC.”

“Mm. I thought you looked familiar.”

He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. I got drafted over the summer. Sharks. I’m gonna play here a year though.”

And he still seems anxious talking about it, not quite embarrassed, but like he doesn’t want you to think that’s all he is. And that’s what cements it for you, he really doesn’t know who you are. He has no idea you grew up on the rink, or knew how to tape a stick before you learned to drive. He has no idea that it’s your last name that’s being woven into the league he just got drafted to. And you’re not going to tell him.

Instead you say, “Cool. That’s impressive.”

He smiles at the praise. “Thanks.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else when the barista slides your drink onto the counter. Will grabs it and hands it over to you. You thank him and then you sit in silence for a second. You break first.

“I really should go. I’m gonna be late for class and I should really stop by my dorm to change.” You say, gesturing at your coffee-stained sweater.

“Oh. Uh, yeah, for sure. Sorry again.” Will says, the words tumbling out.

“No worries, seriously. We’re all good.” You say lightly, smiling.

Will nods, and then you turn, offering a quick wave before you head out the door. Will just watches you walk away, still staring at the door even after you’ve disappeared.

“Fuck.” He mutters to himself.

He didn’t get your name or your number. He doesn’t even know which building your dorm is. All he knows is your coffee order and that you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

“Idiot.” Will mutters again, running his hands through his hair.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

Will can’t focus at practice that afternoon. He misses an easy pass, whiffs a shot wide, almost skates straight into Voter because he wasn’t looking.

“Dude.” Ryan Leonard says skating up next to him. “Are you good?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You’re not playing fine.”

“Well I’m fine.”

Gabe Perreault skates over too. “Your head is totally somewhere else right now.”

Will sighs, finally giving in. “I met a girl.”

Both of them make the same surprised face and it would almost be funny to Will if he could think about anything but you.

“You met a girl?” Leno asks.

“Yeah. A girl. I spilled coffee on her.”

Gabe tries and fails to hide a chuckle. “Romantic.”

“No, it wasn’t romantic.” Will snaps. “It was an accident. But I bought her another one. And we talked after that and she was really cool.”

Ryan quirks an eyebrow up. “And?”

“And I didn’t get her name.”

“You didn’t get her name?” Ryan repeats.

“No.”

“So you didn’t get her number either?” Gabe guesses.

Will shakes his head, looking back to the ice.

“Aw, you’re down bad and you don’t even know her.” Leno laughs, poking Will in the shoulder.

“I’m not down bad.”

“You’re moping around at practice.” Gabe points out.

Will skates off before they can keep teasing him, but Ryan and Gabe are both grinning like mad. They’ve never seen him like this, usually he’s confident and smooth without even trying. But he’s spiraling now.

After practice, Will finds himself going out of his way to walk past the cafe again, instead of taking the quickest route back to the dorms with Gabe and Leno. You’re not there, of course. But he lingers outside the window for a second longer, wishing you were.

He shakes his head and continues on his way. He has to see you again. Campus may be big, and he’s never seen you before today, but he’s determined. There’s no way the universe is cruel enough to dangle you out in front of him and then steal you away forever.

Back in your dorm room, you’re drying your hair after a shower when your phone buzzes.

A call from Luke.

You decline it. You don’t need him asking why you hung up earlier, and even more you don’t want to explain it. You flop onto your bed and stare at the tiled ceiling of your room.

You think about Will, about how he didn’t recognize you and about how freeing that felt. You smile to yourself.

And across campus, in a dorm full of hockey players, Will is lying on his own bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the exact same thing.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

You don’t see Will again for three days when you run into him outside of Fulton. You’re cutting across the yard with your headphones on, listening to the audio version of the book you were supposed to read for class today. You notice the small group of guys in your way too late. You run right into one of them.

You look up and Will is already grinning.

“Okay, this is either fate.” He says, smiling. “Or we need to work on spatial awareness.”

You pull your headphones off. “You again?”

“Me again.” He confirms, looking much too pleased with himself.

Behind him, his two teammates are glancing rapidly between the two of you, trying to figure out the story here. You recognize them from the hockey team, they both have their own NHL teams waiting for them, Gabe and Ryan you’re pretty sure.

“Practice?” You ask, nodding to the bag Will’s carrying.

“Yeah. Where are you headed?” He asks.

“Class.” You respond.

He shifts his weight, clearly having an internal debate about something. Then,

“Walk with me?”

You raise your eyebrows. “To the rink?”

“Just until our paths split.” He reasons.

You hesitate, because you have a very clear set of rules, established at fifteen after one too many summers spent at the lake house watching a revolving door of girls walk through with all of your brothers and their friends.

But Will’s not looking at you like that. He’s looking at you softly with his stupidly pretty blue eyes. So you give in.

“Fine.” You say. “But if you spill anything this time, you’re paying for my new sweater too.”

His grin gets bigger. “Deal.”

Gabe and Ryan walk in front of you and Will, giving you a little bit of space. You make conversation, Will asks what you’re studying and return the questions. Then the rink comes into view.

“Big game this weekend?” You ask.

Will looks surprised. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

You shrug. “Posters all over campus. Instagram posts. Hard to miss.”

That’s only partially true. You know because you checked the hockey webpage, scrolled down the game dates, and maybe the roster. Only out of curiosity, of course. Will’s giving you a weird look now.

“You follow hockey?”

“A little.” You say carefully.

“How little?”

You shrug again. “I know enough.”

Will smirks at that. “That’s pretty vague.”

You smile. “I know your power play has been struggling with getting through opposing teams' zones. You’re forcing passes and getting predictable.”

Okay, so maybe you watched a couple YouTube clips from their recent games too.

Will has suddenly stopped walking in the middle of the sidewalk now, people are walking around and giving dirty looks. Ryan and Gabe have turned around.

“What?” Will says after regaining the ability to speak.

You shrug. “You’re broadcasting your moves before you make them. Opposing teams are learning to stack the blue line. You gotta stay confident instead of resetting every time.”

There’s a long pause.

“Who are you?” Ryan asks, sounding shocked.

Will's eyes narrow slightly. “You said you followed hockey ‘a little.’”

“I do.”

He studies you like the version of you he pictured before this has suddenly vanished. “You ever play?”

You hesitate. There’s a flicker of old memories as something tightens in your chest. The cold air, Quinn lacing your skates for you even after you learned how to tie, the early mornings.

“Yeah.” You admit. “When I was younger.”

“How young?”

“Until I was like twelve.”

“What position?”

“Forward. Center, usually.” You answer without thinking.

Gabe makes a surprised, impressed noise. Will is looking at you differently now, curious.

“Why’d you stop?”

You think about it, about how you were always getting compared to your brothers, how it became more stress than it was worth. But you don’t know how to say that without revealing more than you want to.

“I switched to figure skating.” You tell them. “I wanted a change.”

Will nods slowly, like he’s trying to understand. You don’t really expect him to, not with how little he knows about you, but it’s nice of him to try. You reach the rink doors and Ryan and Gabe head inside. Will hangs back.

“Are you coming to the game? We could hang out after.” Will suggests.

You fold your arms, eyeing him. “I don’t date hockey players.”

The words tumble out, automatic and rehearsed. Will blinks, surprised.

“Okay…”

“It’s a rule.”

Will laughs slightly. “That feels targeted.”

“It’s not.”

“It totally is.”

You smile. “Not at you. Just… past experiences.”

Will steps a little closer, still giving you space but like he wants you to know he’s serious.

“So what if I just… asked you to the game as friends?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you going to try to impress me?”

He grins. “Well, now that I know you know your shit, yeah, probably.”

You should say no. You really should. But he doesn’t know who you are, and he doesn’t seem like all the other guys you used to know. He seems genuinely interested in you.

“I’ll think about it.” You say finally.

His smile grows slowly. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes either.”

“Yet.” He says shrugging.

You roll your eyes and take a step backwards. “Don’t read too much into it.”

“Too late.” He says lightly.

You laugh and turn away, smiling as you feel his eyes on you. As you walk to class, you start thinking about how your rule doesn’t feel nearly as important as it used to.

When Will gets to the locker room, Gabe and Ryan are already waiting.

“Did you get her number?” Leno asks.

Will frowns at the realization that, no, he didn’t. He glares at Ryan.

“No.”

Ryan leans back against the bench. “Tough.”

“Tragic.” Gabe corrects.

And then, of course, to make it all worse…

“Did you at least get her name?” Gabe questions.

Will doesn’t answer which is answer enough.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

Will doesn't get to rectify his mistake for another week. He had seen you at the game that weekend, but you left before he had gotten out of the dressing room. He doesn’t blame you, how would you have known he wanted you to wait for him, he had no way to contact you. But thankfully, a week later, he spots you again.

You’re walking across campus with your headphones half on, coffee in hand, iced caramel latte, Will thinks, and weaving through the busy sidewalk. You feel a hand tap your shoulder and you turn. There he is.

“Hey.” He says, smiling wide again.

You take your headphones off. “Hi?”

He shifts his backpack strap higher onto his shoulder, the nervous energy blending with something determined.

“I never got your name.” He says.

You tilt your head, smiling softly. “You never asked.”

His mouth drops open slightly, like he knows he walked right into that one. “Okay. Yeah. That’s– yeah. That one’s on me.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m asking now, though.”

“Oh?” You cross your arms, pretending to consider it.

“Yeah.” He nods seriously. “What’s your name?”

You tell him and he repeats it softly, and hearing it from his lips has an unfair effect on your heart.

“Pretty.” He mumbles, maybe for you, maybe to himself.

“Thanks. My parents worked really hard on it.” You joke.

He laughs.

“And you are?” You ask innocently.

“You know my name.” He says, narrowing his eyes.

“Do I? That’s awfully presumptuous of you.”

“Yes. You do know it. You said I looked familiar.”

“Lots of people look familiar. Maybe we’ve had a class together.” You reason.

He stares at you a second and then shakes his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet…” you shrug.

He nods like he knows what you mean. He’s still here.

“So.” He says, shifting again. “I also never got your number.”

“You didn’t ask for that either.”

“I’m aware.” He replies dryly. “I’ve thought about that several times actually.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah.” He hesitates, then admits, “I got a lot of shit from my friends about it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You told your friends about me?”

He freezes. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Like what?”

“I just told them that I met a girl and I didn’t get her name. Or number.” He grimaces and you bite back a laugh. “But apparently that makes me an idiot.”

You shrug, smiling sweetly. “Sounds accurate.”

“Can I fix it?” He asks.

You study him. He’s genuine, no cocky big hockey player energy that you’re used to.

“Maybe.”

He practically deflates and you almost feel bad.

“What does maybe mean?”

“It means,” you start, stepping around him and continuing your walk, “you should try asking properly.”

He falls into step besides you immediately.

“Okay.” He clears his throat. “Hi. I’m Will, I spilled coffee on the pretty girl I met. Would you maybe give me your number so I can make it up to you?”

You laugh before you can help it. “That was terrible.”

He’s grinning. “I panicked.”

You take his phone from his outstretched hand and type your number in. You hand it back to him. He looks down at the screen, smiling like an idiot. He looks back at you and his gaze noticeably softens. You try not to think about it.

“I guess I’ll see you around.” He says.

“You probably will.”

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

After that, the relationship you have with Will shifts. Not that you even had much of a relationship before, but it becomes easier. You grow closer, but you’re still just friends, that’s what you tell Will. And it’s what you tell yourself.

It starts with studying together. He texts you after he gets out of his English class

Will

This reading is kicking my ass

Wanna meet in the library?

You don’t even take a second to think about it before you head out the door.

He’s already there when you get there, sitting at one of the tables, highlighter cap in his mouth while he furiously circles lines in his notebook.

“You look stressed.” You say, sliding into the seat across from him.

“I am stressed.” He replies. “Why does everything in this book have to have a double meaning?”

“It’s Orwell, of course it’s that way.” You laugh.

He narrows his eyes and turns back to the book. It’s easy like that, with library tables and shared notes and knees bumping under the table and neither of you pull away.

Then there’s the parties. You’ve tried to stay away from the athlete-adjacent parties, it kind of ties into your rule, but Will somehow talked you into it, promising something “lowkey.”

It is not lowkey. The music is shaking the whole off-campus house, everybody is holding either a can or a red solo cup. You hover near the kitchen at first, arms crossed, already severely regretting the decision to come tonight. Will finds you within seconds.

“Hey.” He says surprised, like he didn’t actually expect you to stick to your word.

“Hi.”

He stays by you all night, not hovering or possessively, just choosing you as his buddy for the night. And it’s nice, he’s a warm presence in the sea of drunk unfamiliar faces.

Weeks pass. You get coffee with him between classes, he walks you back to your dorm after study sessions at the library. He keeps asking if you’ll go out with him, not aggressively, and it’s not constant enough to be annoying either. Just every once in a while like he’s seeing if you’ve changed your mind yet.

“Let me take you out.”

“We are out.”

“No, like an actual date. Please.”

“We’re literally at dinner, Will.”

“This is Chipotle.”

You shrug. “Still counts.”

He sighs dramatically and you think that if he wasn’t a hockey player, maybe he should do theater.

“You’re impossible.” He groans.

“You’ve known that.” You giggle.

“You’re worth it though.” He grins.

And you don’t know what to do when he gets all soft like that. When he looks at you with gentle blue eyes and his face peppered with light freckles. He never makes you feel bad for saying no or not being ready, he just patiently waits like he knows something will change eventually.

But you still mean it. You don’t date hockey players. You’ve seen how it ends, the egos, the stories, the speed of which gossip travels between locker rooms. You promised yourself you wouldn’t be a part of that.

But Will doesn’t remind you of any of them. He waits for you after class so that you can walk to the library together. He listens when you talk, nodding along and remembering little details. He doesn’t talk about you like that to his friends, he doesn’t parade you around.

One night, you’re both sitting on the steps outside your dorm building. It’s cold, you’re wearing his hoodie because you forgot your jacket inside.

He’s telling you a story from practice, gesturing animatedly, acting out every part, and then he pauses mid-sentence and just stares at you.

“What?” You ask.

“You know, we’re basically dating.”

Your stomach flips. “We are not.”

“We hang out like minimum four days a week.”

“Friends hang out.”

“You’re wearing my sweatshirt.”

“It’s comfortable.”

“At the party last weekend, you basically were glaring at that girl who was talking to me.”

You scoff. “I was not.”

“You were.” He smiles.

You open your mouth to argue but you can’t think of anything, because you definitely were glaring. He leans back on his hands smiling satisfied.

“I’m not saying we get hitched tomorrow or anything.” He says gently, not teasing anymore. “I just want to take you out. One real date. If you hate it, we never have to do it again. We can be just friends.”

Your heart is pounding in your chest. Your rule is echoing in your head. Don’t date a hockey player. You think about your brothers, their friends, the stories you’ve overheard, the way you swore you’d never be like that.

But then you think about Will. How he bought you a new coffee, how he stands next to you at parties and walks with you to classes. How he doesn’t push, he just waits patiently.

“I’m not like them.” He says quietly, like he knows what you’re thinking.

“I know.” You admit, looking up at him. You take a deep breath. “Okay.”

Will freezes. “Okay…?”

“I’ll go out with you.”

His entire face lights up. “Like, on a date date?”

“Yes, Will. A date.”

He’s smiling bigger than you’ve seen him before.

“Okay. I’m picking you up at six on Friday.”

“Oh, yeah?” You ask, smiling.

“Yeah. I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve got it planned.” He admits.

You roll your eyes but you can’t hide your smile. Will stands and offers you his hand dramatically.

“Miss Hughes.” He says, exaggerating a little bow.

You scrunch up your face at that. “Don’t make it weird.”

You let him pull you to your feet anyway. And maybe letting the rule bend for the first time in years won’t be such a bad thing.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

At 5:55pm on Friday there’s a knock on your dorm room door. You don’t even expect it to be Will because usually he texts first and usually he waits in the lobby, but when you open it he’s standing there. And oh. He cleans up good. Dark jeans, a fitted sweater instead of the usual hoodie, and he’s definitely put effort into his hair.

“You’re early.” You joke.

“I’ve been downstairs for ten minutes.” He admits, smiling sheepishly. “I didn’t want to seem too eager.”

“You are eager.”

“Painfully.”

You smile. He’s holding a bag, and when you give it a weird look he wiggles his eyebrows and mysteriously tells you, “for later”.

He doesn’t tell you where he’s taking you, so you have no idea what to expect. You walk through campus, following him along the sidewalks as the street lamps start slowly turning on.

“You could’ve just taken me to dinner.” You joke as he leads you down the sidewalk.

“I know.”

“But that’s not what we’re doing?” You guess.

“No.”

He stops outside Conte Forum. You stare at the building.

“Will.”

“Just trust me.”

He pulls out his phone and scans something at the side entrance. The door clicks unlocked. Your eyes narrow.

“How’d you do that?”

“I asked nicely.”

He holds the door open for you as you step inside. It’s quiet and empty, the rink lights are off except for a few over the ice.

“Did you book out the rink?”

“Technically I asked for an open hour of practice today. Don’t tell my coach.” He laughs.

“You’re crazy.” You say smiling.

He grins. “You love it.”

He disappears into a side room and comes out holding a pair of skates. Figure skates. A pair that’s definitely too small for him.

“You said that you missed it.” He shrugs.

You look at him carefully. “You remembered?”

“Yeah. I’ve been planning this since the first time I asked you out.”

Your breath catches. He kneels down casually and sets the skates in front of you.

“I figured you could teach me something.” He says.

You laugh. “You want me to teach you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re aware you’ve already been drafted by the NHL, correct?”

“Yeah, but that’s hockey. Teach me tricks or something.” He says grinning.

You shake your head but sit down on the bench anyway. You lace up your skates as he pulls on his own, hockey skates of course. You meet him over by the boards.

The second you step out onto the ice, something shifts. It’s muscle memory, clean edges, the smooth glide. He watches you go in genuine awe.

You circle back to him and take his hands, pulling him out with you.

“Bend your knees more.” You correct as you glide out to the center.

“I am bending.”

“More.” You laugh.

He bends deeper and you reach out to adjust his shoulders. His hands find your waist automatically to steady himself.

You show him jumps and turns that he attempts, usually ending with him flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling after eating shit.

After one particularly hilarious fall, you burst out laughing.

“You’re enjoying this too much.” He grumbles.

“I am.”

He reaches up suddenly and grabs your hand, and you almost fall on top of him. You catch yourself just in time, hovering over him.

“You’re smiling.” He points out.

“So are you.”

He could kiss you right now, and you almost want him to. But he doesn’t.

Instead he rolls up to his feet, pulling you up with him.

“There’s a part two.” He tells you, smiling.

You make your way off the ice and change back into your shoes. Will leads you back outside and around the rink, towards the reservoir. Then you see it, a small blanket on the ground, string lights between the trees, a small portable speaker. You freeze in your tracks.

“You’re kidding.”

“I said I’ve been planning.”

He pulls takeout containers out of his bag from earlier. Your favorite place near campus that you mentioned once a while ago without really thinking about it.

“And,” he adds, reaching into the bag again, “ice cream. Still cold, I packed ice.”

You stare at him, in awe of all the thought he put into this. He blushes slightly and pulls you to sit with him on the blanket.You stare out at the water while Will dramatically pours sparkling water into plastic cups like it’s a fine wine.

“To breaking your rule.” He says, raising his cup.

You raise an eyebrow. “Bold.”

“To giving me a chance.” He amends, smiling sheepishly.

You knock your cup against his. The conversation moves steadily as he tells you about getting drafted. How scary it was, how he’s scared he still won’t be ready after this year. In return you tell him about quitting hockey, how weird it felt to walk away from something that had taken up your whole childhood.

He listens to you, nodding along, asking questions like he really cares. And you think maybe he does really care. He’s not like any of your brother’s friends, nothing like any hockey players you’ve met in the past. He’s sweet, down to earth, soft.

The fairy lights glow warmer as the sky gets darker. You’re wrapped up in his sweater now because the air got colder, he’s in a long sleeve like he knew this is what would end up happening.

“You planned this before I even agreed.” You say quietly.

“Yeah.”

“What if I said no?”

“I would’ve waited.”

Your heart skips a beat. “You’re very sure about me changing my mind.”

He looks at you like that’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I am.”

The wind picks up slightly and you shift closer to him without thinking. He notices but doesn’t say anything right away.

“Would it be breaking your rule if I kissed you?” He asks quietly.

You tilt your head slightly, “No, I’d like that actually.”

That’s all the permission he needs. Will leans in, slow and gentle, his hand coming up to rest against your jaw. He pulls back smiling.

“So, was this a good first date?” He murmurs.

You pretend to think about it.

“You did fall a lot when we were skating.” You say frowning.

He laughs softly. “I was trying to show off.”

You laugh and shake your head. When you look back at him he’s still staring at you, smiling softly.

“You still don’t date hockey players?” He asks gently.

You look at him, then out at the water for a second, think about how he planned something that wasn’t about him at all.

“I guess,” you start slowly, “I date this one.”

His smile is brighter than the lights around you. And Will thinks that this was absolutely worth the wait.

He walks you back to your dorm that night. You take the long way, neither of you ready for the date to be over yet. He stops at the stairs of your building.

“Did you have fun?” He asks, even though he definitely knows the answer already.

“I did.” You smile.

He grins and there’s a soft pause as he reaches for your hand, grabbing it gently. You step closer to him, leaning in. The kiss is just as soft as the first one, careful, still testing the waters. But then it deepens slightly, warm, his hands settling on your waist as respectfully as he can manage.

He pulls back first, reluctantly and you almost whimper at the loss of contact.

“I should go.” He whispers, but he makes no move to leave.

“You don’t have to.” You offer.

He smiles a little. “I know. I just… I don’t want to mess this up.”

That surprises you but you try not to let it show. He kisses you one last time and walks down the stairs, back towards his dorm, walking backwards like he’s physically forcing himself to leave. You watch him go.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

That Friday night you show up to his game wearing his hoodie. The one he just happened to “forget” in your room after studying. It smells like him, faint laundry detergent and his cologne.

You told yourself you wouldn’t wear his number, but yet here you are with it strung onto a beaded bracelet one of your friends had made and given to you with a smirk.

When he skates out for warmups, your eyes find him immediately. He’s loose and laughing with a teammate, Gabe, you think, and then his eyes find you. His head turns once, then he fully does a double take. He turns away from Gabe and beelines toward the glass about ten rows in front of you.

You pretend you don’t notice at first, still talking to your friend next to you. When you finally look up he’s there by the glass, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only person in the arena. You feel your face heating up just from the attention he’s giving you. Gabe has to come over and almost drag him back to their side for warmups, he’s just standing there smiling and mouthing words that you can’t make out.

After the game, a win from the Eagles, he finds you outside the locker room. His hair is wet from the shower, team hoodie thrown on, a different one than usual because that’s the one you’re “borrowing”. He’s buzzing with energy, talking with his teammates animatedly, and then he sees you.

He doesn’t say anything at first, he just makes his way over and wraps you in a hug, lifting you off the ground slightly.

“We won.” He says into your neck, like you weren’t watching the whole game.

“I noticed.” You laugh.

“I had two points.” He mumbles, setting you down but not letting go yet.

“I saw that too.”

He pulls back just enough to look at your face now. “I’m happy you were there.”

He sounds so genuinely grateful it makes your heart flutter.

“I told you I would be.” You say softly.

Later, when you’re walking across campus together, his hand finds yours naturally and there’s not an ounce of hesitation.

“Do you regret breaking your rule yet?” Will asks, squeezing your hand.

“Never.” You say smiling.

And it’s the truth, you don’t regret it. But it’s not the whole truth because something is shifting. You can feel it. It starts small. He starts saving you a ticket for games without asking first, he’ll ask you if you’re coming when he already knows the answer will be yes.

You start learning his routine, which days he has practice or a lift or recovery. You know which days he’ll be exhausted and which ones will be full of energy. You stop feeling like an outsider in his world, you’re integrating into it.

You keep going to the games, wearing his hoodie and not pretending like it’s an accident anymore. He knows where you’ll be when he skates out onto the ice, and he’s not surprised to see you smiling there anymore.

After the games are over, he doesn’t wait by the locker room doors anymore. He walks out, eyes already searching for yours. And when he finds you, he goes straight over and picks you up in a tight hug.

“Okay,” he says after one particularly good game. “I play better when you’re here. You’re my lucky charm.”

“That’s delusional.” You laugh.

“No, I think it’s science.” He says, grinning widely.

You laugh again.

Later, when you’re walking back across campus, one of his teammates, you're pretty sure this one is also named Will, jogs up to the pair of you.

“Hey, Coach changed it. Team bus is gonna leave at nine tomorrow instead.” He tells him, slightly out of breath.

Will nods. “Thanks.”

His teammate glances at you then. “You’ll be at the game?”

You blink, surprised.

Will answers before you have a chance to. “She will be.”

His confidence in that answer makes your stomach flip. He just knows now, and you don’t correct him.

It’s become normal, you sitting in the stands, waiting outside the locker room. You’ll do homework in his dorm while he’s at practice with his roommates. He’s started leaving your favorite snacks there without saying a word.

You reorganize his mess of a bookshelf one afternoon while he’s at the rink.

“You alphabetized my textbooks.” He laughs, but there’s no malice to it.

“You’re welcome.”

“I knew where everything was.”

“You definitely did not.” You laugh.

He laughs too and pulls you into his chest.

You notice he starts introducing you differently now. At first to Gabe and Ryan it was, “this is my friend”. Then it shifted to introducing you at parties just by your name. Then one night after a game he’s bringing you over to the other freshmen players, saying “this is my girlfriend.”

He says it like it’s obvious, like there was never another word for you. Something warm settles in you, and you want to keep hearing him say that, girlfriend.

Later, of course, you tease him about it.

“You didn’t even ask.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think I had to.”

“Still could’ve asked.” You laugh.

He turns dramatically to face you, taking both your hands in his.

“Y/n Hughes…will you make me the happiest man alive and be my girlfriend?” He asks in an overdramatic voice.

And he looks like an idiot, but you smile anyway and say yes.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

The first night you sleep over at his dorm is completely by accident. It’s late, you’re both stretched out as much as you can be on his twin bed. There’s a random movie playing on the TV that you’re not paying attention to. Your legs are tangled in his, his fingers running up and down your spine relaxingly.

“You look like you're gonna fall asleep.” He murmurs at one point.

“I’m awake.” You protest weakly.

He hums unconvinced. The room is dim and cozy and undoubtedly making you sleepy. At some point you succumb to it.

It’s dark when you wake up. Quiet too. Your cheek is pressed against something warm and solid, a steady rise and fall of Will’s breathing under you. You’re halfway on top of him somehow, your leg slung over his and his arm wrapped around your waist securing you there.

Under you, Will shifts slightly and inhales, like he’s surfacing from sleep too.

“You okay?” He mumbles, voice low and thick with sleep.

“Yeah.” You whisper.

He blinks slowly, eyes unfocused and working on processing the room. Then his gaze settles on you. His hand tightens on your waist automatically.

“You can stay here tonight.” He says quietly.

There’s nothing implied or expected behind those words. Just an offer, letting you know you’re welcome here. You nod before you can overthink it.

“Okay.”

He sighs, almost relieved, and buries his face in your hair.

You lay there in silence, listening to his breathing, relishing in how gentle the moment feels. At some point Will tugs the blanket up higher around your shoulders.

“You feel cold.” He mutters.

You don’t argue, you just sink back into the comfort of it all.

When you wake up again, morning light is slipping through the blinds. Will is on his back still, one arm still loosely around you. His hair is a mess and there’s lines on his face from the pillow. You admire him for a bit before he wakes up. Then he starts stirring slowly.

“You’re staring at me.” He mumbles.

“You drool.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

Will groans and rolls away as far as he can in the tiny bed. He pulls the blanket with him, away from you. You laugh and sit up. There’s a second where you both just look at each other in the soft morning light. You’ve never seen him like this before. You’ve seen him sweaty after practice, or broken down and unguarded after a bad game, but this version of him with the bed head and puffy eyes might be the best you’ve ever seen. It’s so domestic, so soft and real.

“Stay for breakfast?” Will asks, pushing himself up to sit.

“You can cook?” You question skeptically.

He scoffs. “Obviously.”

You should have questioned that harder, because now you’re sitting in the little kitchenette and it smells faintly of burnt food. Will is at the stove fighting with a pan of scrambled eggs and it appears to be a losing battle. He scoops the eggs onto two plates and pushes one towards you, watching in anticipation when you take a bite.

“Well?” He asks.

You chew slowly. “They’re…eggs.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “That is not an answer.”

“They’re edible.”

“Good. That was the goal.” He laughs.

You smile and take another bite.

“You don’t have to pretend.” He says after a moment.

“I’m not pretending.”

“You hate them.”

“They’re bad.” You admit. “But I don’t mind. You made me breakfast.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing but something in his expression betrays that.

“It’s not a big deal.”

But it feels like it. It’s not just about the eggs, it’s about him asking you to stay without making it heavy, without expecting anything in return, just taking care of you

You finish your plate anyway and when he steals a bite off yours and makes a face because they’re definitely worse than he thought, you laugh so hard you almost fall off the stool.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

Another night after a game, you’re lying side by side on your bed in your dorm, just talking. His arm is around you, lazily tracing circles on your clothed stomach.

“You ever think about after?” He asks suddenly.

“After what?”

“After BC.”

You hesitate slightly. “You mean when you leave?”

He nods slowly. You know he’s leaving for San Jose eventually, you’ve known from the beginning. But hearing him say it now makes it feel more real.

“You’re gonna be incredible.” You say.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You know that and he knows you know that. There’s no way around this.

“I don’t know.” You admit. “I’ve been trying not to think that far ahead.”

He nods like he understands that.

“I do.” He says quietly.

That does something to your chest. “You do?”

“Yeah.” He looks at the ceiling now instead of you. “I think about where you’ll be. If you’d visit me there. What it’d be like when I come home for breaks.”

“Really? You’ve thought about all that?”

Will rotates onto his side so he can fully look at you.

“You’re worth it.”

And he’s looking at you honestly, you know he means it. That’s what confirms it for you, that you’re falling in love with Will. Not slowly anymore, just fully headfirst into whatever this will be. And you can see it in him too, how he’s looking at you like he’s already afraid of losing something he just got.

He reaches out and brushes a piece of hair out of your face.

“I’m glad you gave me a chance.” He whispers.

You smile. “Me too.”

And it’s comfortable with him, you’re not connected to anything bigger than yourself, you’re just you. And that’s the version Will is falling for.

He likes that you curse more when you’re tired, he likes the way you annotate books, even the textbooks you’ll probably have to return, he likes the way you roll your eyes when he’s being dramatic. There’s something so unbelievably peaceful about the way he loves you, not that either of you are quite ready to say that out loud yet.

He makes you feel like you’re enough just the way you are, without your last name following you around carrying weight. And maybe that’s why you’re still not in a rush to tell him. Because once he knows, it might not just be you anymore. There are all these invisible strings threaded into your life, tying him to things he doesn’t even know about yet. But right now it feels steady and safe with the boy who’s looking at you in the quiet little space you’ve built just the two of you.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

Your dorm room is mostly quiet, just the soft hum of the mini fridge and Will reading dramatically from the text on your laptop.

He’s sprawled out across your bed on his stomach, feet hanging off the edge, his notebook open beside him. He’s using your laptop because his died and you refused to let him bail on studying when you both have a test tomorrow.

“The author’s use of imagery here symbolizes–” he squints at the screen, pushing his hair back, “the emotional decay of the familial relationships.”

You’re sitting cross legged at your desk next to the bed, scribbling notes down as he reads.

“Sure.” You murmur.

He nudges your shoulder lightly with his foot and you bat it away.

“Are you even listening?”

“Yeah. It’s just so stupid. Maybe the curtains are just tattered because the house is old as fuck.” You suggest.

He snorts, going back to reading. “This passage in particular highlights the–”

Your phone lights up next to you and you don’t look at it. But then the FaceTime ring fills the small room. Your stomach drops because it’s not just on your phone, it’s on your laptop too.

And Will has frozen mid-sentence. You look up slowly. On the laptop, completely filling the screen, is a FaceTime notification.

Incoming FaceTime: Lukey Pookie👹

And the contact photo behind it, a horrendous, terrible photo of Luke, maybe looking the worst he’s ever looked. But it’s unmistakably Luke. Luke Hughes.

Will is staring at it like he’s just seen a ghost. You move fast, lunging out of your desk chair with enough force to knock it over. You yank the laptop out of his hands to your chest.

It’s too late though, he’s already seen it. The ringing is still going. Will sits up slowly.

“…Is that–” his voice cracks and he clears his throat. “Is that Luke Hughes?”

You decline the call. There’s silence. Then it immediately starts ringing again. You decline again, much more aggressively this time. Will is staring at you with his jaw dropped.

“Why,” he says carefully, “is Luke Hughes in your phone as Lukey Pookie, with a Devil emoji?”

You set the laptop on your desk and refuse to look at it.

“It’s not what it looks like.”

“It looks like Luke Hughes is FaceTiming you.”

And with perfect timing, it starts ringing again. You hit decline without breaking eye contact with Will.

He runs both his hands through his hair, standing up and beginning to pace in your tiny dorm room.

“Okay. Okay. Wait, holy– Your last name is Hughes.”

You don’t say anything.

“You told me you have older brothers.”

You stay silent.

“You said you played hockey.”

You just stare at the floor, hoping it might swallow you up. Will’s eyes widen slowly.

“No.”

You wince.

“No.” He repeats, pointing at you like he’s accusing you of a crime. “No. No. That’s not–”

Your phone starts ringing again and you groan. “Why the fuck is he so persistent.”

“Because that’s Luke Hughes.” Will whispers.

“I know.” You snap, running a hand through your own hair. “You know.”

You close your eyes and when you open them he’s staring at you like his entire worldview has collapsed, which you feel is a bit dramatic.

“Your brothers are…” he trails off slowly.

You nod once and you see his breath hitch. He sits back on your bed like his legs are about to give out.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Since when?” He demands.

“Since birth.” You reply dryly.

He drags his hands down his face. “You’re a Hughes.”

“I’ve been pretty transparent about that.”

He looks up at you. “I didn’t think– I mean…” he waves his hands around. “There are other Hugheses. Normal ones.”

Your phone starts ringing again and you both look at it, terrified.

“You have to answer it.” Will mutters.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do! He’s going to think you’re dead!”

“I decline his calls all the time.” You wave off.

The FaceTime ends on its own and you both let out a sigh of relief. Then it starts up again.

“Do they know about me?” Will asks quietly, looking like he’s about to pass out.

Your silence is his answer. His eyes widen.

“They don’t know about me.”

“Correct.”

“Oh my god. We watched that Canucks game on TV last weekend and you let me chirp!” Will realizes, horrified.

“Quinn deserves it.” You shrug.

“But you never thought to mention that your brothers are three NHL players?”

“You never asked their names.”

Will freezes. “…I never asked their names.”

“Nope.”

Your phone finally stops ringing and it seems like it’s all over. Silence settles into the room.

Will looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time again. “This is why you didn’t want to date hockey players.”

You shrug slightly. “Partly. Mostly it’s their little hockey friends hoing about who left a bad taste in my mouth. Not with me, but just witnessing it all. But also, hockey guys get weird when I bring my brothers up.”

Will has the audacity to look mildly offended. “I haven’t been weird.”

You stare at him. Will sighs.

“Okay. I might have overreacted and been a little weird.”

“A little?” You grin.

He laughs, shaking his head. “I cannot believe this.”

The calm is broken by your phone buzzing with a text. You and Will both glance at your phone.

Lukey Pookie👹

Answer your phone or I will drive the three hours to Boston

I already have my keys

Will reads it and makes a strangled noise. “You have to answer it.”

You sigh. “Just relax.”

He grabs your wrist before you reach for your phone.

“Do not tell him I’m here.”

“No shit, Sherlock. That’s not how I want my brother to find out about you.”

Your phone starts ringing again and Will drops to the floor, like he’s trying to find somewhere to hide.

“This is your fault.” He whisper screams.

“You’re the one freaking out.” You point out.

“You’re the one who’s related to three NHL players.”

You hit accept and Will goes silent. Luke’s face fills the screen, he’s far too close to the camera, all nose and forehead.

“Finally.” He groans dramatically. “I thought you fuckin’ died.”

“Sorry, I was studying with Bella.” You lie, supplying one of your friends who would definitely cover for you if Luke managed to track her down.

From somewhere off screen you hear Jack.

“Who died?”

Then he appears in frame for a second, his hair messy, looking like he just woke up even though it’s four in the afternoon.

“No one.” You groan. “Luke’s being dramatic.”

“You’ve been declining my calls!” Luke accuses.

“You called me six times!”

“Because I was worried you died!”

“I wouldn’t be dead if I’m able to decline your calls.”

Luke pauses suddenly and squints at the screen. “You look flushed.”

“It’s hot in my room, I should turn the fan on.” You lie, ignoring the terrified look on Will’s face.

Luckily, Luke really doesn’t care that much, as he changes the subject quickly. He flops back on the couch.

“I’m bored.” He tells you.

“No way.” You deadpan.

Jack leans into frame now, getting up close and personal. “Where are you?”

You instinctively move the camera closer to you. “My room.”

“Can I see?”

Absolutely not. “No.” You say immediately, making a face.

Jack and Luke pause, you can literally see the thoughts forming in their heads.

“…why?” Jack asks.

“My room’s so messy right now.”

“Since when do you care? We grew up with you.” Luke counters.

“I always care.” You say, glaring at him.

In front of you, Will is backing slowly into a corner, as though that will help him disappear.

Jack narrows his eyes. “You’re hiding something.”

“I am not. My room is just messy!”

“You kept declining my calls.” Luke points out again.

“I told you I was studying.”

Jack groans loudly. “You’re such a nerd. Rather study than talk to your brothers.”

“Some of us value our GPA, thank you very much.”

Luke smiles at that. “You always did.”

You roll your eyes, hoping they’ve finally given up. Years of growing up with them have trained you for whatever interrogations they throw your way. You’ve survived worse. Will, on the other hand, looks like he’s seconds away from throwing up. You try not to look at him.

“So when are you coming home?” Jack asks.

“Thanksgiving break.” You say.

“Good.” Luke says. “Mom keeps asking us how you’re doing.”

“I literally call her multiple times a week.” You laugh.

“Yeah, but I think she thinks you’ll tell us more about that party lifestyle you’re living currently.”

You laugh again, because that is absolutely not true. You really haven’t been out much, and with it getting colder, that’s gonna cut down even more.

Luke and Jack start talking over each other then, something about some story from practice or something Nico said. You start to relax as the conversation shifts back into that chaotic older brother territory. Luke complaining about something stupid Jack did, Jack defending himself and yelling.

From the floor, Will is watching you, stunned at how comfortable this all is for you. How quickly you snap back at them, how you already know all the people from the stories. It’s a different side of you he’s never seen.

Eventually Luke checks the time and sighs.

“Okay. Well, we’re gonna go get food now. I just wanted to say hi to my favorite sister.”

“I’m your only sister.” You point out.

“Love you loser!” Jack says, leaning into the screen.

“Love you more!” You reply automatically.

Luke smiles. “Bye!”

Then the call ends. You lower your phone slowly and glance at Will. He stands up, once again running a hand through his very messy hair.

“That was terrifying.”

“You’re so dramatic.” You laugh.

“You just lied to Jack Hughes’ face.”

“I’ve been doing that since I learned how to talk.” You joke.

That finally gets Will to smile.

“I can believe this.” He laughs, shaking his head.

“Yeah.” Your smile fades slightly as you pause. “I’m sorry, Will. I should’ve told you sooner. I was just worried about it changing… all of this.”

He doesn’t answer right away and you feel a pit slowly sinking into your stomach.

“Changing how?” He finally asks.

You look down at your hands. “I don’t know. I didn’t want you to think I was… using it to get you or keep you around. Or that I’m like some hockey nepo baby.”

He looks confused. “You thought I’d think that?”

“I’ve had it happen before.” You admit. “The second guys find out about it, that's all they want to talk about. Like maybe I’ll introduce them and that’s all I’m good for. I didn't want that to happen with you, I didn’t want you to look at me and just see them.”

Will steps closer. “You really think I’d do that?”

“I hoped not.” You stare at the floor.

“Hey, look at me.” He sits on the edge of your bed and pulls you between his knees, his hands resting lightly on your hips. “When I met you I didn’t know your name, or your brothers. I just knew that you were so beautiful and unfortunately drenched in coffee and it was all my fault.”

“It was.” You mumble, smiling.

He smiles, but his eyes stay steady on yours.

“I kept asking you out because you’re funny and smart and you don’t treat me like some NHL prospect. I’m some idiot who spilled your drink.”

You shake your head. “You’re not an idiot, Will.”

He waves you off. “My point is, you think having your brothers makes you more interesting? It doesn’t. It gives you more depth as a person, it makes your life more complicated.”

“I didn’t tell you because I liked that you didn’t know.” You admit to him. “You didn’t ask about them or bring up stats to compare yourself. You just actually liked me.”

“I still like you.” He says, tilting his head.

“Even though I lied to you?”

“You didn’t lie.” He says. “You omitted some extremely terrifying information. But you never lied.”

You laugh despite how you’re feeling. Will has always been good at making you laugh. He brushes his thumb over your waist absentmindedly.

“Besides… if anything, this makes you tougher.” He adds.

“What do you mean?” You laugh.

“You grew up around all that and didn’t turn into an asshole.”

You laugh dryly at that. “Debatable.”

Will shakes his head and grabs one of your hands, his other still rubbing circles on your hip.

“No. You protected yourself from all that. You found a way to get through it without turning mean or becoming someone you weren’t. You made your rules.”

Your expression softens. “I didn’t want to be somebody’s story. You know how locker rooms can be.”

His jaw tightens. “I would never.”

“I know.”

And you do know, you trust him about all this. You finally let someone in and for once it doesn’t feel like it’ll backfire.

“Look.” Will starts after a second. “If you want to keep it all quiet for now, we’ll keep it quiet. If you want to tell them, we’ll tell them. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Your throat tightens a little. “You’re sure?”

He lifts his head to yours and kisses you, slow and soft.

“I didn’t start liking you because of your last name. And I’m not gonna stop because of it either.” He tells you softly.

The words are grounding and you sigh.

“Okay.”

He smiles softly, then it turns mischievous.

“But when they do find out… I’m gonna need at least a ten minute head start.”

You laugh, leaning into him. “Smart.”

“I value my life.” He reasons.

Part Two