maggie jeanne (she/her)

history major // lover of vintage fashion // abba fan // stressed gal with too many fandoms

[kniesonice]

WILL YOU STILL LOVE ME TOMORROW?

MAT BARZAL | series masterlist

[summary] you and your roommates newly ex-boyfriend are trapped in a time loop together. you already can’t stand him and his go lucky personality, so being forced to work side by side to figure out why you’re stuck, is a challenge in itself. at first, it seems obvious: you’re meant to help mat win her back. but the longer the loop lasts, the harder it is to ignore the way it keeps pulling you and mat closer—and the growing suspicion that maybe he isn’t meant to be part of your toomates love story at all… maybe he’s meant to be part of yours.

prologue: will you still love me tomorrow?

🎶 bye bye baby by bay city rollers, miss sunshine by mgk, will you still love me tomorrow by amy winehouse, am I high rn? by quinn xcii, before you by benson boone, and I love her by the beatles, ride by lana del rey + basic being basic by djo

part one: boy you turn me inside out, and round and round

🎶 upside down by diana ross, meet me in the hallway by harry styles, dive by olivia dean, I thought I saw your face today by she & him, sorry i’m here from someone else by benson boone, I only have eyes for you by the flamingos, giver / taker by lacey musgraves, who you are by djo + cowboy like me by taylor swift

part two: to make a mess of it, then the best of it

🎶 all the things she said by harrison, beautiful now by zedd & john bellion, ain’t no mountain high enough by marvin gaye, it isn’t perfect but it might be by olivia dean, im scared ill never sleep again by 5 seconds of summer, honey by taylor swift, show me what im looking for by carolina liar, fool for you by zayn + the promise by when in rome

part three: everybody wants something, you just want me

🎶 I told you things by gracie abrams, daylight by taylor swift, I drink wine by adele, mess by noah kahan, time after time by lennon stella, anything could happen by ellie goulding, the man who can’t be moved by the script, everybody loves somebody by dean martin + i’m yours by jason mraz

{tags; time loop. au. frenemies to lovers. grumpy x sunshine. slow burn. forbidden romance. forced proximity.}

[monchouchouu]

gardenias on the tile | will smith²

all will had ever known was you as his winger, his best friend, and then suddenly, you're none of those things. as you both navigate adolescence, coming together and breaking apart, does will finally come to understand that the burning desire in his heart can only be quelled by you

wc: 10.8k

tags! wsh x childhood friends to lovers!reader, ANGST, so much angst you might want to throw your phone away, hockey player!reader, miscommunication/no communication, will smith hockey the biggest loser of the century speedrun, you’re both childhood bruins fans, timeline: kids to high school to college, macklin mention, no use of y/n

warnings! descriptions of reader getting hit and bullied by other boys as a kid, mentions of blood, misogynistic language used, lots of curse words, alcohol consumption, BRIEF mention of masturbation (like genuinely just alluding to it it’s not descriptive)

a/n! i use so much repetition (sorry). this is LOOSELY based on like six lines from nettles. i didnt want it to be that gut-wrenching. please read my dumb fanfiction about will smith hockey and it also became feminist kinda. i did not play hockey growing up so im sorry if there are inaccuracies

p/s: I make up a random guys name for the plot. take the name and interpret it how you want to :) or not, you can hate me

The thing about Will Smith was that at one point, he wasn’t just the precious blue-eyed starboy of the NHL, touted as this mysterious young man with pearly white teeth and a real good knack for the game. He was groomed to look the perfect part of an all-american hockey player: flushed cheeks, blond hair, dirty mouth, and a borderline narcissism only found in the freedom land. 

For a time, he wasn't all this. He used to be just yours. 

Sprawled out on your front lawn, watching the fireworks on the fourth of july, there was a time you two had no worries in the world. He was your line partner. You both used to show up to practice at the same time, tying your skates shoulder to shoulder on the bench. He used to have dinners at your house more often than not.  There was an extra chair on the dining table right next to yours. 

You joined a U8 boys team when you were six. You were inexplicably good. The girls’ team closest to you barely had games scheduled. Lack of teams in the area. The boy’s team traveled, and they played in tournaments, and that excited you. Besides, on your first day of tryouts, you met Will. He was all wide-eyed when you first talked to him, like you were some four-leaf clover in a valley of threes. 

Since then, you two couldn’t be separated. You loved most of all being able to nerd out about hockey with him. You’d go down to the sports store and buy packs of hockey cards to unbox as you ate frozen yogurt in the sweltering heat of summer. You had a built-in friend who happily obliged when you wanted to play street hockey in twenty-degree weather. You were both really bad at math and needed a tutor. He talked about the NHL with you as if it were possible you could be drafted.

He just thought the same way as you, which felt so achingly sweet and innocent. That was why it was so hard to let it all go.

The first time you were called a bitch on the ice, you were nine. The first jab of the knife to your stomach. It shocked you, and you came off that period in tears. The kid probably didn’t know what it meant, only that he knew it would hurt you, that he would feel for those few seconds on top of the world. You let it sting the rest of the day, then decided you wouldn’t let it upset you. You would be the bigger person. 

That role was so hard. It all just got worse as the years went by. The knife twisted, got stuck deeper beneath your ribs. Different variations of the word bitch or whore would be muttered under feeble breaths. They were echoes of the words those boys would hear their fathers call other women. At some point, you became numb to it. You were faster than them — Will always reminded you of that — so you would simply score instead. It made you feel good. It helped even more when Will celebrated with you, pulling you in a sweaty hug, your helmets bashing, and you’d have to shove him away because he was too busy smiling that bunny-toothed smile at you to notice the other three players on the ice coming to share in the celebration.

You didn’t want your friendship to ever change. You wanted to go to the rink and push him around and score goals with him on your line. You wanted to eat sliced apples at intermission and whack him across the head with your stick when he said a bad word or kept his mouth open too long. You wanted him to still see you as a boy, as someone equal and no lesser than. 

You’re forced to quit when another boy punches you clean across the nose after you score at the age of 12. You were skating towards the bench, taking your cage off prematurely, and then it happens. Blood immediately spurts down your face, forcing its metallic taste into your mouth.

Nothing monumental came out of it.

It needed to be kept quiet.

His parents were so apologetic. They cried to the league’s president that their little boy didn’t fully understand what he was doing. He was just emulating what he saw in the big leagues. You’re forced to sit across from him and his pig nose and dirty hair. His eyes never lifted from the floor as he apologized. One of the worst apologies you’ve ever heard. Just a sorry is all he can muster, and then everyone thinks it’s okay. So it’s okay. You won’t make a big deal out of it.

“I can hurt him for you,” Will says, with large eyes, so worried when he comes over to your house the next day. You’re lying down on the rug in the living room while both sets of parents whisper about grown-up stuff down the hallway.

“No!” You say, turning your body to his. Your voice is all stuffy because your nose is still blocked — it will be for a couple of weeks. You’re already starting to get that purple swelling on your under eye, and the redness on the bridge of your nose has not subsided yet. The only thing that’s gotten better since your trip to the ER is that you weren’t bleeding anymore. “That’s embarrassing. Please don’t.”

“The refs broke us up before I could do anything.” Will needs to get a haircut. His hair falls over his eyes.

You gawk at him, “What?”

“I tried to get him, you know, but I wasn’t fast enough.” Your vision went black so fast when it happened, you never got to see or hear the aftermath. You didn’t think about what happened then, in the background, but Will, with his long limbs and prepubescent voice, tried to start a fight with your perpetrator. 

You lie flat down again, staring at the ceiling. He does the same as you both let the silence fill the room.

“But when we play them again, it’s over.” He says abruptly.

“I won’t be there. I’m not playing anymore.”

Will jumps up, “Are you joking?”

“That’s what they’re talking about,” you gesture over to the sounds of your parents talking to his. “I can’t anymore. You guys will be too strong for me soon. Better to leave now.”

“But you’re our best winger!” Will can’t believe it, like it never occurred to him that you’d have to quit. You knew all along, you had just wanted another year at least. You wanted to end it on your own terms, but alas, this was the way the tide turned. You just look at him because you don’t know what to say. He looks back. “I’ll kill him.”

“Stop!” You hit him in the arm.

“I’m serious.” He puffs his chest out, hands on his hips. You laugh, getting up to hit him with a throw pillow from the couch. He lets you beat him up with that soft thing, he thinks, because he wants to feel the quiet punishment he deserved for not protecting you then. For it all spiraling out of control, while he stood there, dumbstruck, as you held your hand to your nose. Blood was dripping down your forearm in a small puddle by your feet, he remembers, tainting the ice forever with the last of your innocence.

—

When you’re thirteen, Will decides to stop making an effort to see you at lunch time or sit by you in class. You’re off the team, so you weren’t part of the immediate group he ‘needed’ to be around. Now that there are no afternoon hockey practices, there’s not much reason to talk about professional teams with him at school, either, especially when he was trying to fit in with the other guys. 

You guess you didn’t help either. You busied yourself with girl friends, forcing yourself to pick up new hobbies, trying to be feminine. Maybe trying to be the person everyone wanted you to be. Besides, you didn’t want to get confused and start liking Will romantically in all the chaos that puberty rushed in, so spending as little time with him was good, you thought, in the long run. It felt like rebelling a bit when every girl in school was in love with him. That was all a facade, though, because at the end of the day, you’d write about him in your diary, locked with a key and hidden underneath those hockey card binders you left to dust. 

Hockey became an afterthought. You tried out for a U16 team at the age of 14, when you stopped having flashbacks and nightmares of the fight. You cried on the way home because your limbs felt heavy and you declared you hated the sport. Not necessarily because you were playing with other girls now, but because it wasn’t fun. Every pass felt like a chore, every backcheck so mentally exhausting you wanted to break your stick in half and walk down that hallway. If you didn’t get any goals in a game, you curled up in your bed and didn’t talk to anyone the rest of the day. 

Most girls in sports stop playing at that age. You knew that. You weren’t going to be the outlier as much as your younger self would have wanted you to be. There’s so little hope. Not much to dream about. Men get everything. They can dream of million-dollar salaries, of luxury sports cars, of pretty girlfriends, and it’s dangled so close to their heads they can reach out, grab it, and make it true. 

You think it came into focus sitting on that hospital bed, napkins stuck in your nose, dried blood staining your neck, doctors touching and prodding at you as you try not to wince. As you try to be the big girl hockey taught you to be. Even though you were only twelve, you realized the world wasn’t made for you. So you gave up on that dream. When you think back on it now as an adult, you don’t blame yourself. You blame everyone else. You don’t blame Will, though. He tried to be there until he realized you gave up on your own, and then there was nothing else he could do. 

—

He actually comes up to you one day in the first month of high school, voice still a bit shaky, tall but not as tall as you know he’ll be, and all tanned skin from the summer, asking if you were going to join the women’s team at the school. There had never been a women’s program until that year, and he thinks you’d be fucking great. Really. He goes out of his way because he wants you to keep playing. Because maybe, despite what you thought, he still cared.

It’s not like you aren’t friends. You still saw him at neighborhood barbecues, saw him playing street hockey as you walked your dog, maybe managed a couple of polite words to each other, but it was just different now. He was sort of a revered figure. Everyone knew he was going to leave eventually, go and join a development team. He was the talk of Boston suburbia.

“Eh, I don’t think so.” You say, cramming your huge history textbook into your locker. “It’s a big commitment.”

“I don’t understand. You loved hockey.” 

“Key word: loved, Will.” 

He purses his lips, reels back in whatever he was going to say. 

“Just wanted to let you know is all.”

“I know, the coach already tried to recruit me.”

“Why aren’t you playing then?” He whines. His eyes are darting all over your face, scanning that default look of annoyance you used to have when he’d slide the puck between your legs or pull the one player you wanted in those card sets. “You’re so good.” 

The compliment is not in the past tense. Your heart bloomed. Then you quickly shut it down. You force that lump in your throat to go away. “Not really.” Is all you say before you see your friend over his shoulder and you give him a hasty goodbye.

—

You only hear about Michigan and the NTDP through social media. There’s a goodbye party, but you don’t go. He’ll come back in the summer. It’s not like he’s dying or anything. You tell yourself this.

Until Sunday the following week, he’s at your door bright and early asking for you. You ask your mom if she’s being serious. You wade over to the front door, nerves prickling your cool skin. 

“Hi.” You’re wearing a boston bruins t-shirt two sizes too large and long, formless gray sweats. His heart almost jumps out of his chest. 

“Hey.” He says back, “Did you hear?” He must have been out for a run before the day got too hot. There are beads of sweat running down his neck. He’s wearing a gray sleeveless tank and white shorts, and the juts of muscle along his thighs make your mind go blank. He’s still partly gasping for air, pretty pink tongue running over his dry lips. 

“Yeah,” you reply sheepishly, rubbing a hand over your cheek, trying to pretend like you don’t care about Will standing two feet away, acting like he has no idea what he looks like. He actually doesn’t, which makes you more annoyed. He was still as dumb as a rock when it came to things non hockey-related. 

He stutters. You’re so pretty. You’ve grown into your face so well. You still have that dusting of color on your cheeks. It’s always there when he’s around. 

“I’ll be back next summer.” He breaths out. It’s August now. He runs a hand through his damp hair. 

“You’ll do really well, you know that, right?”

He blushes, though you can’t tell because he’s already red from the run. “Don’t say that.”

“You’re so humble that it’s really annoying, Will.”

“You are too. Humble, I mean.” He says without any second thought.

You tilt your head. “Really?” 

“Yeah,” he looks at the ground, then back up at you, “Sometimes I wish you didn’t have to quit.”

You’re stunned by this statement. Ever since the moment you lay on your carpet years ago and Will complained about the boy who hurt you, you’ve spoken maybe 100 words to each other. 

“I can’t— I can’t do anything about it now.”

“I know. I just wanted to tell you that.”

“I wish I were born a boy. Then I could take the hits.” You laugh, he doesn’t. You also think that if you were a boy, Will would never have disappeared. You try to believe that he did it unconsciously: the missed eye contact, the pretending he didn’t notice you when he was with his male friends. It makes your heart break thinking about your worth to him after quitting. You often thought bad things, like hypotheticals about being prettier, because you felt that if you somehow were, he’d have kept his eyes on you. If you weren’t helping him score goals, then what were you to him? Why the hell did he have to grow up and have long eyelashes and pale cheeks flecked with moles and that stupid, perfect nose? Why the hell did anything have to change?

“I wish they respected you, though. They could have at least done that.”  

You roll your eyes. “Not how the world works, bud.”

He drags his hand across his face and groans. “I know, I know.” He repeats. “Doesn’t make it right.”

“Can we… be friends?” You ask now, all timid. You roll on your toes, all shifty and nervous.

“What do you mean? Aren’t we friends?”

“Well…yeah,” not really, you internalize, “but when you leave too. Like texting and stuff. I want to know about your team and everything.”

“Oh, of course.” He beams, “I’ll do that, yeah.”

“Cool.” And now there’s an awkward pause. You’re both sixteen, an overflowing bottle of hormones and shame and he’s dripping sweat. You put your hand on the doorknob. 

“Okay, I’ll go back now. I’m already late for church.”

You grin. You felt like you’ve fixed something.

—

Will has been in love with you since the moment he heard your voice behind that helmet. He wasn’t paying attention at first, thought you were just a boy because your hair was tied back. You were quiet. At the end of practice, when you took your helmet off, everything fell apart for him.

He latched onto you very quickly. He figured out you were really fun to play with. Maybe the other boys poked fun at him, but it didn’t matter. You loved assisting him, and he loved scoring.

That day, when he saw your body fall back, red everywhere, his world stopped. 

He managed to shove the boy down, and before he could do anything else, he was pulled back by a referee. Usually when scrums happen, the auditorium is loud, full of parents arguing and the other teammates ragging the two on. That day, it was dead silent. All he could hear was the sound of skates on ice. The sound of his coach running towards you. He tried to see what you looked like, but there were about five adults crowded over you, blocking his view. He was so worried. He’d never felt that way before.

Then you quit, and he relinquished his tight hold on you. The others were right. He was like a little love-sick puppy waiting for your attention. When you went off and spent time with girls your age, the excuse he had to spend time with you at the rink was gone, and he begrudgingly forced himself not to think about you. He spent the hours he used to be sitting in your living room on the weekends watching the Bruins, at practice, alone. Hitting the same pucks over and over from different angles. 

He wasn’t supposed to keep falling for you. When you weren’t looking, he watched you push the loose strands of your hair behind your ear from across the classroom. He envied the people who were making you laugh. His temples felt like they were going to burst when he saw another boy talking to you. 

When he lies in his new stiff bed in Plymouth, there’s nothing else he can think of. In his mind, he sees you in jean shorts and a tank top, ice cream cone dripping down your fingers, looking at everyone but him. He imagines you lying on a chair, sweat and chlorine water from the neighborhood pool sticking to your forehead as you click your tongue and ignore him. He feels like a loser.

He sends you some pictures of the rink his mom took because she was so excited. A couple of photos with his new teammates.

Fuck that’s so cool

I know right, he responds. He’s biting his fingernail, phone all pushed up to his face. 

im going to a boston game this weekend

lucky :(

hopefully there’s a goalie fight

if that happens when im not there im going to murder you

oooo im so scared

And it goes back and forth like this for the year. Sometimes he gathered enough strength to call you after a game and tell you how it went. You always told him about how impatient you were waiting for those stats websites to update his point record. Who was he to deny you of anything you asked?

—

He comes back, so much taller, his voice deeper, exuding the confidence of a man. 

Of course, it’s all awkward. Sandwiched between your families, not sure how to greet one another again. You’d been texting like you were best friends for the last eight months. Later that night, he asks you to come to a house party by the lake that one of his friends was having that weekend. You enthusiastically agree. It was the summer before your senior year, and Will was going to go back to Plymouth anyway. You wanted to force as much time out of him before he got drafted. He always shook his head and denied it whenever you joked about the draft, about being drafted to the Canadiens. He wouldn’t even entertain the jokes anymore because it was all so serious now. He was worried sick about the future. He’d say he needed to perform well during the season again because nothing was guaranteed, like he wasn’t always the top goal scorer of any team he was on.

He comes to pick you up then, feet scuffing up your doormat in anxiety. He’s wearing a stupid polo shirt his mom got him and black shorts, a backwards baseball hat to tame the hair that the humidity made so frizzy. You’re yelling out over your shoulder to your mom a series of yes’s before you shut the front door behind you, leaning back and sighing so loud that Will laughs.

“Giving you a hard time?” 

“You don’t even want to know.”

You straightened your hair. It accentuates the bare skin on your shoulders, your pretty collarbones. You’re the definition of sun-kissed. He can’t help but find your socks and beat-up sneakers endearing too. He thought about kissing you the whole day. He thinks that this might be the night he can summon the bravery to do it.

At the party, you decide to drift off from Will. You didn’t want to seem too attached. Besides, your friends were already getting on your ass about him. You didn’t want one of them to say something stupid to his face and ruin your teenage life. 

He’s holding a beer bottle, in the middle of a conversation, when his eyes scan the room. He’s had his eye on you the whole time, just in glances that made sure you hadn’t left the vicinity, but he got distracted by something for a couple of minutes, so he’s trying to find you again. He does a double-take when he sees you leaning against the wall on the far corner of the room, only a couple of inches separating you from a man who’s leaning forward, trapping you there. He squints, tries to focus on the side profile, on the hair he can hazily remember, and then it clicks.

You’re talking to one of the idiots from your hockey team all those years ago. One Will visibly remembers was a shithead to you. Jack.

And then he notices Jack’s eyes falling down to your lips as you talk. He’s not listening to a word you’re saying. It makes him sick because you look so bubbly, so keen about your topic of choice as the alcohol courses through you. Will has no idea what his friends are talking about at this point. 

Jack asks for permission before he dives in, which you found out of character, but you don’t think about it much. You let him close the distance. He pulls your hips flush to his, and you let out a surprised noise before he kisses you. It was nice, actually. Nothing electrifying, but something close to what your friends described the experience to be. You kiss back.

“The fuck are you doing?” You don’t ever hear Will’s raised voice. The only reason you recognize it now is that you saw a blurry video of a scrum he got himself into a few months back, posted online. He said some things you never thought he would then, but you guess you didn’t really know him anymore.

You break apart from Jack. His hand is still at your waist, and you slap it away. All six feet of the blond is suddenly in front of both of you. It feels like you’re about to get reprimanded by a coach. Your heart drops in your stomach, pivoted to the hardwood floor.

“Hey, what’s wrong with you, man?” Jack asks, turning fully toward him now. You’re helpless, watching the way Will’s eyes narrow as he looks between both of you. You feel the press of the other man’s lips still there, and it fills you with a guilt so sharp you feel your stomach turn. 

“Fuck’s wrong with you?” He counters, taking a step closer. The other man laughs in his face, takes a glancing look at you, then at Will, knowingly.

“Sorry. Forgot you two still got a thing going on.” Your brows furrow. You don’t understand the harsh tone of his voice, the smirk that plays on his lips in the dimly lit room.

“What are you talking ab—“ You’re cut off with Will’s own string of expletives. 

“Don’t act stupid. You’re an asshole.” He spits out. Jack doesn’t deserve to touch you. The scene he just saw made his vision all blurry. Feels like the world was spinning twice as fast. The taller man turns to you, “We’re leaving. It’s late, and your dad’s gonna kill me.”

You try to protest, but Will, despite his attitude, grabs hold of your wrist gently to guide you through the packed room. You hadn’t processed what happened enough to be angry yet. You let him take you. You like the feel of his large palm wrapped around your wrist. Although this only lasts for a minute before you’re hit with the sudden chill of the late evening. You can hear the crunch of both your feet from the scattered leaves and branches allowed to fester on the driveway. You wriggle out of his touch, hand dropping at your side, stopping completely. When Will realizes this, he sighs and turns one hundred and eighty degrees as if it were an obligation to hear you out.

“Why did you do that, Will?”

“Are you serious? Is this what you do now?” He huffs out.

“What are you insinuating?” Your voice gets weaker. He notices and sees the wobble of your lower lip in the vanishing light reflecting off the lake. 

“No, it’s just…” He grabs his keys out of his pocket, moving over to his side and unlocking the car. He didn’t want to have this conversation in the middle of a quiet street. You follow, only because you want to get home as fast as possible. 

“What is it then?” You ask as he starts the ignition. He pulls off the curb, waiting a few long beats until he’s at the stop sign at the farther end of the cul-de-sac to reply. 

“It’s the same Jack that pulled your hair and never passed when you were open.” He says this like you’d had amnesia. He also says this like youre still a child, incapable of your own decisions. It infuriates you.

“We became friends this year,” you confess, lying lightly. You had one class with him and he was only nice to you so you would finish his part of the group project. You didn’t really ever like him. But in the moment, you wanted someone to find you pretty and kiss you. God knows Will never did. It was dumb, but you weren’t going to let Will, someone who once saw you as an equal, a teammate, make you feel bad for kissing someone. For putting your lips on someone else’s. A mortal sin, apparently. You were sure he was getting up to much worse things in Michigan. 

“But…he was so mean to you then.” His voice falters; he doesn’t understand. His grip on the steering wheel tightens. How could you ever look twice at the boys who used to make jokes behind your back, who made you out to be some sort of witch when they’d get pissy you had a better backhand? How could you when he was right there the whole time? When he’d shut the conversation down in the locker room, even when you weren’t there to hear the gross remarks. When he’d have to take the heat of the other boys saying he was in love, that he was a little suck-up to the one girl who would pay attention to him. 

Granted, you never saw those things happening. He did it without you knowing. But he wants you to know now, in a stupid childish way, he wants you to know that you were the only person that mattered to him on that team. Everyone else had three measly leaves, and you were his four-leaf clover. 

But now he’s left thinking he didn’t do enough.

“So? It was like seven years ago. He seems fine now.”

“But he’s not!”

“How do you fucking know? You keep saying that. You weren’t here this year!”

The muscle in his jaw ticks as he grinds his teeth.

“I know enough to know they’re assholes, and you shouldn’t be around any of them, especially Jack.” He never looks at you, keeping his eyes on the beam-lit road that seems to never end.

“Jesus, William. I’m not 10 anymore. You don’t have to save me. I know full well what it feels like to get hit. I’ll call you if it happens again. Maybe then you’ll feel good that you were right about something. And I was wrong, because I’m always wrong.”

“I never fucking said that.” His voice cracks the tiniest bit at the curse word. He’s taken aback when you say his full name. He takes offense to the notion that he would ever bask in your hurting. He would be the last person in the world to do that. He steals a quick glance at you, your head is turned down, the oversized sleeves of someone else’s jacket covering the hands that you use to furiously wipe at your eyes. 

“Well— that’s what it sounds like.” He can hear the tears coming through your voice now. The sniffles and the quivering and the hurt all wrapped into one.

You shut your eyes and try to forget this all happened. That you never went to this party and that Will was still in Michigan. How it was supposed to be.

When he pulls up to your house, he tries so hard, but his mouth opens and closes like a fish because he doesn’t know how to console a girl who’s inconsolably crying in his passenger seat because of him. There’s a soft swoosh of the car doors unlocking.

“For your information, that was my first kiss. I don’t ‘do’ that now, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not a whore.” You turn to him fully, using quotation marks around the do, trying to emulate the way it came out of his mouth ten minutes ago. Tears won’t stop falling down on your lap. He can’t look at you like that. He looks out his driver’s side window instead, watches the way your neighbor’s trees sway lightly in the summer breeze.

He says a quiet, “alright,” jaw tight, still refusing to make eye contact, and waits for you to open the car door. He taps the steering wheel in anticipation.

You mutter an angry bye before you slam the door and walk down the front yard and up to your porch, keys in jittery hands. He waits, of course, till you’re inside, and even still until he sees the light from your bathroom turn on. You’re probably washing your flushed face, rubbing your face raw of the damage he inflicted. He hits his forehead on the top of the wheel, then drives a street over back to his house.

A week later, you wake up to a message from him: im sorry. i didn’t mean any of what i said. i just worry about you. i hope you’ll forgive me.

You don’t respond.

—

It’s a year later.

All you could manage was congrats, with a red heart emoji, the night Will signs his NHL contract with the Sharks. If you stared at your phone too long, you would have kept typing and rambling about all the big things that have happened in your life that he wasn’t there to see. Maybe you would have berated him, asked him why he ever had the nerve to imply the thing he did that night. Or you would have just deleted the message and never sent anything in the first place. The congratulations text looked stupid underneath his apology from eleven months ago that you never bothered to acknowledge. 

You felt so much guilt following that night. You know he just wanted to make sure you were okay. He was the first witness to that hit on the ice. It probably hurt him to see you get constantly beaten down by your own teammates and opponents. It hurt him to see you kiss someone who used to chirp about how weak you were at practice. It didn’t matter if it was all ten-year-old boys being stupid. They knew what they were doing. 

The guilt didn’t help you respond; in fact, it made it all worse. You couldn’t gather the courage to text him. You wouldn’t even know where to start. 

Hey sorry I got so mad at you that night where I was trying to rebel and make you look my way because I was a bit tipsy and desperate and I hadn’t seen you in eight months so I wasted my first kiss on someone I actually hated. I wanted to pretend like I changed over the year and that maybe I was mature but obviously I’m not and blah blah blah. You were right Will. 

This was not anything you were willing to type out and send. The congrats was as close as he was going to get.

Will has hundreds of messages that night — all blurs of long sappy text that he’s surely grateful for, but he’s not in the headspace to care now. He scrolls all the way down his contacts, scared to type your name and it coming back with nothing, coming back with his half-assed apology that made him burn so hot whenever he thought back on it his mom had asked him once if he was running a fever. It worsened when he was reminded he was planning on kissing you that night, too. So he buys time by reading each celebratory text with glazed-over eyes and a leg that won’t stop bouncing. When he sees your name (just your first, because your full name in his phone felt too impersonal) and next to it that blue dot that tells him you’ve texted, he shuts his eyes. He selfishly wanted his draft to be an excuse to talk to you again. If only about hockey, if only about his stats, and maybe just to argue about the bruins again. He didn’t need anything else unless you’d give it to him.

His heart melts at your text. Relief floods him. He doesn’t know what he expected; maybe this was the greatest outcome. You were watching, and you cared enough to reach out. He can’t help himself. All you did when he won gold in Sweden was like his post. 

He’s overthinking this. People he’d known for two months back in middle school had texted him. It’s not that big of a deal. He groans, flopping back on the bed, keeping his phone close to his face, reading the single word over and over again. It’s almost more heartfelt than those long essays he’s received. All that history left unsaid. So simple it makes him believe that you always knew this was his path, that he was always good enough, so why make it a big deal?

He doesn’t know how to keep the conversation going. You left it so open. He should just thank you and leave it at that. He should.

thank you

you’re going to bc right?

Of course, he already knew. Your mom told everyone, and the information eventually snaked its way back to him in passing. He had to pretend he vaguely remembered you. He repeated your name in questioning, then acted like the image of you just dawned on him, when it was always in the back of his mind. 

It’s the worst five minutes of his life turning his phone off and back again, throwing it on the opposite side of the bed, then grabbing it back.

yes

no one will believe I’m friends with the big hot-shot on campus

He sends a flurry of crying emojis and with it, don’t call me that

too late

your new title is mr. hot-shot nhl player

don’t get ahead of yourself, he typed out. It still wasn’t a given. He often thought about the worst things, like getting injured before he’s able to play professionally, or flaming out and being stuck as the wonder-boy that never was. It’s what keeps him up at night. That and the distressing thought of losing you forever. 

oh shut up

everyone knows it

He doesn’t know what to say. Friends. His mind blanks. He hopes there will be another excuse to talk to you again.

—

The issue is there isn’t. The summer before the first semester, you’re rarely home. You’re hanging out with people he’s never seen before in his life. Then freshman year starts, and he never stumbles upon you on campus organically. He swears he’ll see the friends you post on instagram walking to class, in the dining hall, but he never sees you. It feels like some sort of divine punishment. It gets so bad he has to force himself to look forward, to not hope that after every turn of the corner, he’ll see you all bright and smiling and doing so well without him. He thinks bitterly on that term friends, and how it didn’t mean anything. But how could he blame you? He was the one who let you drift away from hockey. He was the one who left for Michigan. He was the one who blew up at you last summer because of his insecurities. The word friends was actually a nice thing for you to say, all things considered.

You don’t go to games, is what he assumes, because you don’t post about it like the other hundreds of women that follow him do. You don’t go to the hockey house’s parties on the weekends, though he secretly wishes you’d show and take him from the pounding music, sweaty bodies, and disgusting alcohol. Because you’re a good girl — focusing on your studies and being a part of clubs and organizations, and not stuck up on things that happened a decade ago.

Because you don’t care about hockey anymore, and that’s what he believes is the only thing he can offer you. You’re so three-dimensional. You have passions and interests he’ll never understand, and you’re involved with a different crowd. He wonders if you still had your binders full of cards stacked by your desk, or if it was packed away in the attic now, completely forgotten. 

He doesn’t understand why he can’t move on. A thousand other people were waiting to sink their teeth into him if he let them. Is it nostalgia for a time before everything was so serious? The knowing that he can’t get the one thing he wants? Or is it real, deep yearning love that bubbles up and can't be traced? He figures, the covers all twisted around his limbs one late morning, it was a mix of all of it, and unless he shut his brain completely off, he was never going to stop thinking about you when he tuned his coach’s speeches out at intermissions, when he drove by your house in the summers, when he saw women with your features at the bar. If love could be explained, then he’d be able to leave you as a memory. A biological instinct that could be replicated over and over again with other women, but, obviously, that wasn’t true. It left him sick sometimes, that thought.

— 

Then he’s hit in the gut by your presence. 

He can’t mistake your hair, your dusty bookbag, and the swing of your hips as you walk down the hallway, away from him. You’re in the NCAA training facility, someplace, technically, you’re not allowed to be. Then he thinks about how you really should be there — you should be on the women’s team. You were supposed to do it with him. He shakes his head, trying to physically rid himself of the thoughts of this alternate reality he may or may not have created when he was bored on an away game road trip.

There’s a beat where he thinks he should stay quiet, then he gathers all the stupid courage he has left and says your name from across the hallway like he was 13 again. He was just exiting the trainer’s office, a large pack of ice wrapped around his thigh from a nasty purple and yellow bruise he got the other night.

You turn and see Will, his hair freshly washed, a tight BC shirt on, and his shorts hiked up to accommodate the tape job. He’s gained a couple of inches and filled out, and he runs his hair through that thick blond hair like he always did. You’re wearing a winter coat. It’s December. You smile, say hi, and manage a wave as you lean on the door. You’re stuck between awkwardly staring at him and leaving to go to class.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Oh!” You say, suddenly the ground looks really inviting. “I was just…walking my friend over here. We had class, and I was already heading this way for my next one. It’s also warmer in here.” You nod at your own explanation. He’s puzzled, but can’t manage another question that doesn’t sound invasive. Does this friend happen to be on the baseball team that has weight training after us? Have you seen those stupid banners on all the campus lamp posts with my face on them? Do you hate me?

He mutters an ah instead. There’s a good ten feet between the two of you.

“Well, it’s nice to see you.” That’s safe, he thinks. Maybe it kills the conversation, but he doesn’t just want to say bye. How does he even start to reconfigure a friendship in the middle of a ridicuously hot, carpeted hallway, where anyone else could come through?

“Yeah, you too.” You lean on the door, slowly turning away from him before he sees you halt. Your hand comes up to your forehead as if you’d had an epiphany.

“You played really well last night. I don’t have time to go to the games, but I still watch them sometimes.”

“Thank you,” he breathes out a bit too quickly, “You should try to come to one. I can get you tickets for Friday night, if you want.”

“I don’t know. I think I have plans.” As soon as he’s built up some foolish belief, it’s all shattered.

“That’s okay.” He musters, cheeks violently flushing. You mistake it for the heat pumping through the hall.

“Sorry, I have to go. I’m going to be late,” and you’re gone into the hazy morning, wind whipping your hair before the door shuts and he’s left staring at nothing. He’s spent a good part of the latter half of a decade watching you disappear behind closed doors.

There is a lingering hope now, as he quickly turns, snow flying up on the boards, slotting the puck in the upper left corner on Friday night, that he didn’t have to rely on the fluttering fantasy of you in the stands anymore. He hopes you’re watching, even if you’re at those “plans” you made, smiling at your phone when he scores the game winner.

—

Involuntarily, he thinks about you when he has his palm around himself. As he’s trying to imagine something else, someone not you, you’re there, underneath a man with no face. Maybe you like girls too. He wouldn’t know. He doesn’t know much about you these days. And then he’s getting angry all over again about how he fucked everything up. So much so that he can’t release and just groans and tries to sleep with a red-hot ache deep in his stomach that won’t go away.

He doesn’t let himself look through your Instagram following because then that would be crossing the line — as if everything he’s been doing hasn’t already crossed this imaginary barrier. He only lets himself watch your stories. Sometimes, he clicks on them too fast when he reloads the app, and then he’s sat staring at a picture of you and your friends, you out on a hike, your notebooks and energy drinks as you study late on a Saturday night in the library. 2 minutes ago. 53 seconds ago. 25 seconds ago. That one was a new record. He was sitting on the couch in the middle of a frat party. It was utterly ridiculous.

He can’t hide behind an ambiguous history like he can when he screws up with the other women he tries to pursue. You can’t look the other way at his shortcomings because he knows his hockey boy novelty doesn’t exist for you as it does for other people. Because you know he’s not just this shallow athlete he tries to portray himself as for protection. He can’t just text you, ask you if you’ll go out with him, and pretend like your rejection wouldn’t alter everything. The truth is that he’s always been that scared boy, watching you leave. Never closing the distance and sealing his lips to yours.

—

The year Will leaves college to join the Sharks, your sophomore year, you try your hardest to forget him. He spent his summer getting ready for the season in San Jose. You had to trust that time would mend whatever he unknowingly broke in your heart.

Now that he’s not there on campus, you feel less suffocated. His presence isn’t there as a reminder of how badly you messed up your friendship. You feel like maybe you can branch out and date people so you can finally get over this hump.

Your friend picks out some guy she thinks you’ll be compatible with, and forces you to go out on a Thursday night.

Unfortunately, the date was at a nice little bar downtown, and Will decided to be on the fucking television. Not just on one TV, but practically all of them. Must have been a dull night in sports. He’s suffocating you via broadcasting networks now. 

You shifted the whole time nervously, eyes somehow knowing to snap up at the screen when they’d do a close-angle shot of him. He was annoying: biting his useless mouthguard, spitting on the floor, and saying quiet vulgarities under his breath.

The man across from you had brown eyes. He didn’t smack on a large piece of gum just to irritate you like a certain someone used to. How boring. There wasn’t a second date. If you could place blame on anyone, it would be on #2. 

You decided not to tell people about Will when you got to college. You couldn’t really explain your history with him in a way that made sense to other people. It was cliché, but you had something other people didn’t. Maybe for good reason. Most people didn’t want to have a horrible unrequited crush on a boy; their feelings all jumbled between the confusions of womanhood, and their self-worth being tied to a sport that wouldn’t love them back. It was kind of a nightmare. Besides, it was hard enough having your friends tell you in vivid detail how hot they thought he was. 

“Why didn’t you want to come with us last year?” One of your friends asked. You shrug. You’re three rows up at a boston college hockey game. They’re winning quite comfortably that day, even without Will.

“It’s obviously because she was scared to see Will Smith. You’re so stupid. If I were you, I would have drafted our marriage contract and sent it to his DMs.”

One night, they all ganged up on you, trying to figure out why you were such a stickler when it came to guys. You always brushed them off or said they weren’t your type. They were scrolling through your following as you jumped on them, trying to steal their phones. 

“Why do you follow Will Smith?” One of them squeals as you lunged at her. Your face turned into a tomato.

“More importantly, why does he follow you back?” Another one of your friends gasps. All their jaws dropped.

“He follows everyone.” You tried to deflect, “I think we went to the same high school for a year or two. I don’t know. It was a big school, and I never talked to him.” You rambled on.

“He does not follow everyone.”

“God, I wish he followed me.”

“This conversation is over!” 

— 

Even Macklin figured out who you were before he met you.

Originally, Will was going through his camera roll out of boredom, trying to delete the things he didn’t need, but Macklin was nosy and bored, too. They were both lounging on the couch, scrolling absentmindedly. The older boy was stuck flipping through ten pictures, all from similar years. As he glances over his shoulder, Mack recognizes Will’s younger self, but in the pictures, there’s always the same person next to him. There’s one of him with you, maybe at age nine, all dressed up in your too-big hockey gear and holding a small trophy. Another one at a Bruins game. The next one is you making a terrible attempt at an American flag with face paint on Will’s chubby cheek at some sort of backyard summer party. The way the sun emits a hazy light through the dark exposure and pixelated image makes Will’s body tense up. To him, those days didn’t seem that long ago. 

“Who’s that?” 

Out of instinct, Will covers his phone like he’s just been caught watching porn. And Macklin has caught him doing that once, so he recognizes it.

“No one.”

“Uhhh, I don’t think so.” Macklin would have shrugged it off, but his best friend is flushing violently, and you can’t exactly just forget about a reaction that strong. “Who is it?” He tries again.

“Literally no one. I don’t know what you’re talking about. They’re just childhood pictures.

“That’s not your sister though.”

Will grunts, looks away like he’s contemplating punching Mack in the face.

“I didn’t know you had girls on your minor team as a kid,” Macklin adds.

“Just one.”

“Does she still play?”

“No— no, I fucked that up.” Then Will has his hand over his eyes.

“Holy shit, man. Is this the love of your life or something?” And at first, Mack says it as a joke, trying to tease him, but then he quickly realizes it’s not one at all. He hit the dart dead center. Will stares at his stunned face, frowning, and it’s an answer.

“Have you ever even told her that?” Will shakes his head.

“Isn’t that a good place to start, buddy?”

“Fuck you.”

—

You’d only be envious of Will if you also weren’t so goddamn enamoured by him. He had such a great rookie season. You should be mad that he gets to live this life and you don’t, but you don’t have the energy to think like that anymore. He’s just really good, and it’s not his fault.

One of your friends from high school is getting married in July. Then someone mentions that Will was invited at a dinner and your heart drops. You didn’t know what you were thinking. You thought you wouldn’t have to see him again for some reason, even though the Boston suburbs was such a clique and you knew better. Maybe you thought you would have had a boyfriend by now, and Will would be left in your most formative years, trapped in the distorted memories of fleeting touches and half-crooked smiles you convinced yourself might have meant something at one point.

He notices you first. You’re a little bit late to the pre-ceremony gathering, placing your carefully wrapped gift on the overflowing table, looking around for people you know. You’re wearing this pretty lilac sun dress because that’s all the heat afforded you. 

It’s in the groom’s parents’ backyard. One of these huge ones with perfectly mowed grass that can fit two hundred people somehow. It’s still the early afternoon, the sun hasn’t started slipping, so your face is illuminated in bright light, like the sun’s rays are favoring you. He ached in every bone in his body. He’s standing by the open bar talking to some people he barely remembers, nursing a beer to be polite, and when he even remotely sees your face turn in his direction, he’s looking away. He grimaces at this childish behavior you always elicit in him. He swears he can feel your eyes land on him.

Everyone is taking their seats now before the ceremony. Will finds his.

He feels a small finger poke him on his shoulder from behind. “Hey, Will, you’re blocking the view.” 

He turns his head and sees you smiling at him like a dream.

“Oh, I can switch with you?” He questions, body unintentionally sliding down a bit in his seat.

“No, I’m just joking. I can see. You’re bigger, though, than when I last saw you.”

“Had to. Was getting my ass handed to me in the big leagues.”

You suppress a laugh, not well, because when he smiles at your expression, you end up giggling. 

“You look pretty.” It just slips from his mouth. He didn’t mean to say it.

“Thank you,” you stutter out, smoothing your dress with your palms, unable to look at the way his eyes scan over you. Big blue eyes that seem to swallow you whole.

Then he notices people around you stifling their conversation, and maybe it’s a cue for him to turn around. “Anytime,” says it loud enough for you to hear, then turns his attention over to the altar, where apparently some people were getting married today. 

When the ceremony ends, the dinners all served, some lackluster speeches made, the night stretches into clusters of people and terrible dancing on a woefully made platform. Again, he’s reminded he’s good at multitasking. You’re flowing between groups and couples, a glass of champagne, then a glass of wine. The backyard is lit by string lights. Your hair gets more unkempt as the night drags on.

Then, in a lull of conversation he’s having, he’s able to spot you sitting alone at a circular table, on your phone. He makes a lame excuse, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows thickly, walking in your direction before he can convince himself not to. He sits down next to you. You hum, telling him you know he’s there. 

You both say nothing until Will breaks the silence first.

“What do you think about it, the happy couple?” He asks, honestly. The noise from the dance floor dulls as you give him your full attention. You can hear the sound of the late summer crickets.

“They’re way too young.” He forgot how brash you were. It’s what he liked when you’d argue who should be on the World Juniors American team at eight years old. You’d mix your hockey cards with his on the floor of his room, and try to make up your own lines as if you were the head development coach — the one who’d make the call to tell them their dreams were going to come true. “You know how it goes…21 and married? Never works out.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe they’re different.” He jokes, letting the way his voice lightens tell you that he agrees. He smiles, focusing on the way your face shifts to the couple in question, your expression all tight-lipped cause you’ve already made up your mind. 

You rolled your eyes. “I bet you he doesn’t even know what her favorite color is. And she doesn’t know he’s got a secret bank account and they’ll divorce over it.”

Will remembers your favorite color instantly. He refrains from saying it out loud because it would sound like a love confession… or something.

“You’re making things up now.”

You look at him, eyes glimmering, then your eyes wander to something else in the distance. You hesitate, mouth open, then you just say it.

“I’m sorry for not being a good friend. For never responding to you after the whole…car thing. I felt so bad after that. I was immature.”

Will takes a second to respond. He didn’t think this would ever be brought up again, but he’s glad it is.

“I, uhm, I was the one who hurt you though,” long pause, “I was so jealous that night.” He scoffs at his own actions while they flicker through his mind.

You tilt your head at him, hair falling so perfectly around your face. 

“Like, I couldn’t bear the thought of another man kissing you.” He thinks now, head already hot with embarrassment, to just finish what he started. “It still irks me, to be honest.”

“You…what?” You whisper, as if there weren’t twenty feet of distance between you and another group of people all drunk out of their minds.

“Yeah. I mean, it made it worse because it was him, but I would’ve had the same reaction to anyone else kissing you,” he laughs. If anything, he’s fueled by the thought that he can say this and maybe he’ll never have to see you again. That he can finally get it off his chest. He thought about it a lot these past few months after Macklin figured you out. His career was taking off, and you were about to start your own work career. It would be the best time to close this chapter of his life. To finally be man enough to take the risk. Maybe it’d eventually help him be a better hockey player. He didn’t know. He just needed to get rid of the twinges of regret he’d feel at random parts of the day.

“Are you joking?” You breathe out.

“No,” Will says, “Definitely not.”

“You’re just saying that,” tearing your eyes away from him and his intense stare, “because im like a sister to you or something.”

“You think I want to kiss my sister?”

“Ew, gross, Will!” You say, before what he said is repeated in your head, and you understand what he’s implying. Your hands that we’re fidgeting in your lap come up quickly to find your wine glass, but you’re kind of erratic, and the glass falls over. Falls over onto his white dress shirt.

“Oh shit!” You jump out of your chair. He’s in a daze. Watches you grab the empty glass from his lap and assesses the damage. It’s drenched the bottom half of his button-up deep red. He watches your concerned face as your hands feel the fabric, your feathery touch just a layer away from his abdomen.

“I’m so sorry,” you plead at him, face so close he just wants to kiss you and get it over with now. You turn your head to look at the party. No one’s even noticed what you’re so worked up about. “Maybe we can clean it up inside.”

He nods, stuck on the way your small hand grabs his forearm to lead him towards the wooden deck and through the sliding glass door. He lets you pull him around a corner, flicking on a light from an open bathroom door.

You rummaged through their towels, finding the one in the darkest shade of gray. “Uh, hopefully they don’t get too mad about this.”

“They’re having a wedding at their house. It’s fine.” Will argues. You flounder a bit before stepping closer to him, lightly dabbing the towel over the dampest parts, trying not to spread it any further. He starts undoing the buttons, slowly revealing the expanse of his chest. You want to tell him that he doesn’t have to do that.

“I really like you too, I mean, obviously. It was very obvious this whole time, Will. I don’t know how you didn’t know.”

He stops his movements. The towel in your hand is still pressed to his body. You said this while staring directly at his bare sternum. “And please don’t ever mention sisters or kissing a sister ever again, please.”

“It was not obvious.” His voice is soft. He’s staring at the top of your scalp. You pull back to look at him now. His lips part.

“Yeah, you’re stupid. I had to spell it out for you.”

“Hey!” He’s smiling again, and it feels like the air gets thinner in this cramped bathroom. “Mine was also very obvious too.”

“Don’t call me stupid. You’re pushing your luck right now.”

“When did you know?” The towel falls between both your feet.

“I’m not sure. Maybe thirteen or fourteen?” You flush because it’s so embarrassing to admit you’ve been pining after him for that long. You were sure his answer would be tamer.

“Oh, jeez.” His hand covers his face.

“What? I know it’s really young—“

“No! Oh, God.” He says again. 

“What?” You say impatiently. If he was going to make fun of you, he might as well say it.

“I liked you since we were six.”

“Why are you lying to me? Are you trying to fuck with me?” You push his chest half-heartedly. He stumbles back, grinning from ear to ear.

“I’m not! I swear!”, he stops laughing, “seriously.”

You look at him warily. He responds, “We’ve been lying to each other too long to start now.”

“When did you get so poetic?”

“Communications major, remember?”

You groan. “Shut up. Can’t you just kiss me? All you do is talk and talk—“ and then he does. 

He tests you first, plush lips softly angling into yours. When you withdraw, foreheads touching, there aren’t any more reasons to wait. He’s on you again with a quiet hunger. The smacking sound of your lips fills the room, and it all becomes a tangle of your hands in his hair, one of his hands cupping your cheek, and the other firm on your side, afraid to let you go. You don’t know how long you stand there, finally half of him.

You would be wasting so much time worrying about all the little events that should have made you two realize it sooner. You were both scared kids, afraid to hurt the other. It didn’t matter now. You had him breathless against your body, and that sight alone made it all worth it.

You’re the one to pull away. You need oxygen, and he’s been depriving you of it your whole life. He stares at you, love-struck. 

“Can you cover up now? You’re indecent.” You pat his chest. 

“I’m so decent and you know it.” His hands fumble around the small buttons. You pick up the towel, folding it nicely on the counter.

“They should make a button that immediately turns you off when you’ve reached maximum stupid word limit.” You glare at him like he didn’t make your cheeks turn the color they are now.

“You would get so bored you’d have to turn me back on.” He wiggles his eyebrows at his poorly structured double entendre.

“I’m done with you. Goodbye.” You try to get past him, to evade his broad shoulders, but you can’t. All he needs is one hand on your shoulder to make you stop. 

“Okay, sorry, but I can’t really go back out there.” He gestures to his shirt.

“Did you congratulate the bride and groom?” You ask.

“Yeah, like two hours ago.”

“So we can leave.”

“Like…together?”

“Are you twelve?”

“Why are you asking me when you know the answer is yes?”

You sigh. You finally brush past him, and he’s all eager, his hands on your shoulders, practically jumping up and down behind you.

As you walk down the paved concrete, he's holding your hand, and not because he was trying to drag you through a packed td garden, down the stairs to watch the bruins warm up before a game, but because he’s able to hold you like he always wanted to.

“It was all for you,” he says. You stop, and he turns to look at you in the darkness. It feels like a recreation of that night, without the tension and anger and stupid decisions. “College, the NHL. Wanted to make you proud somehow. Wanted to do it because you couldn’t.”

“That’s dumb.” Your eyes water, and he knows you mean the opposite of what you say.

[into-the-gap]

i had so much fun drawing pwhl teams as snoopy! please do not repost outside of tumblr. dm or send an ask to request a specific player or different image size :)

[youunravelme]

to all the girls you've loved before masterlist

summary: being a nanny for rich people was probably the worst thing that ever happened to you, until you started working for mat.

pairing: single dad!mat barzal x reader

warnings: children, rich people, mentions of absent parent

part one / part two / part 3 / part four / part five / part six / part seven

slowly then all at once

what i thought was a realistic mat pov turned alternate ending aka i didn't fully plan out how i thought the fic was gonna turn out

blurbs

mat's insecure about ella not loving him forehead kisses possessive mat what do you want to watch?

[sophsbookstore]

Sidney Crosby x Social Media Admin!reader

Word count: 13.4k

NHL Masterlist

A/N: I had like 5 different requests for this, I made it HELLA long and I hope I did you all justice!! also ive been editing a bunch of stuff so a Nate and sid spam is either happening tonight or tomorrow idk yet

The first thing people assumed about your job was that it was easy.

They saw the finished posts, the polished thirty-second clips, the chirpy captions with orange and black emojis, the little behind-the-scenes moments that made players seem more human and fans feel like they were in on something special. They saw the smiling headshots, the goofy locker room trivia videos, the pregame tunnel fits, the rapid-fire questions on the bench during morning skate, and they thought your work mostly consisted of pointing a camera at attractive hockey players and hitting upload.

What they never saw was you sprinting through the Wells Fargo Center with two cameras hanging off one shoulder, a backup battery clenched between your teeth, and your phone buzzing so violently in your back pocket you were half convinced it was about to catch fire.

What they never saw was the planning.

The color-coded spreadsheets, the weekly content calendars, the caption drafts, the sponsor approvals, the last-minute changes from PR, the constant balancing act between what was fun, what was safe, what the players would actually agree to do, and what would make the internet collectively lose its mind in the most useful way possible. Your job was creativity, yes, but it was also speed and instinct and relationship-building. It was knowing which rookie would happily do a dumb little “who’s most likely to” video five minutes before warmups and which veteran would stare at you like you had personally offended his bloodline for even asking.

You loved it anyway.

Maybe because you were good at it. Maybe because you liked chaos more than you had any business admitting. Maybe because there was something addictive about catching tiny, unscripted moments before they disappeared—a laugh in the hallway, a teasing shove at practice, a muttered one-liner that ended up becoming the clip fans quoted for weeks.

By your late twenties, you had already worked for two smaller sports media teams, one college athletics department, and a brief, soul-withering stint at a lifestyle marketing agency where someone in a blazer had once asked you to “make the brand voice more aesthetic.” You’d escaped that disaster on purpose. When the Philadelphia Flyers hired you to help lead social content, you’d thrown yourself into the role with enough energy to make up for every terrible office job you’d hated before it.

Now, a little over two seasons in, you were one of the people the players actually liked seeing coming.

That had taken time.

The first few months, most of them had treated you with the polite suspicion reserved for cameras, dentists, and reporters asking stupid questions after losses. But you’d learned them. Learned who liked to joke, who needed warming up, who pretended to hate attention but secretly loved it when fans ate up a clip, who only agreed to interviews if you kept it short and painless. You figured out how to make content feel less like an obligation and more like a bit. Once the guys realized you weren’t there to embarrass them—unless it was lightly, lovingly, and with their approval—they started relaxing.

That was how you ended up standing outside the Flyers’ locker room on a cold January afternoon with a handheld mic, a tiny camera rig, and three players arguing over whether cereal counted as soup.

“It’s in a bowl,” Travis insisted, already grinning because he knew he sounded ridiculous. “Liquid base. Spoon. That’s soup.”

“It is literally breakfast,” Noah said flatly, tugging one glove tighter under his arm as he headed toward the tunnel. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You walked backward in front of them, camera trained on their faces, laughing. “So your final answer is yes? Cereal is soup?”

Travis leaned toward the lens like he was making a formal announcement to the nation. “My final answer is that some of you are too closed-minded for culinary innovation.”

Noah made a face. “That sentence alone should get you scratched.”

You snorted, nearly clipping your shoulder against the concrete wall before regaining your balance. “Perfect. That’s the clip.”

“Absolutely not,” Noah said, but he was smiling now.

“Yes, absolutely,” you shot back. “The people deserve to know where you stand on major societal issues.”

The social intern trailing behind you nearly ran into the back of Travis because she was trying so hard not to laugh. You gave her a quick look over your shoulder, silently checking that she was still with you, still getting behind-the-scenes footage on her phone for stories. She nodded, breathless, and you turned back just in time to avoid walking straight into a cart stacked with towels.

Game days were a blur built from instinct. You could have navigated them in your sleep by now. Pregame skate content. Tunnel arrivals. Quick sponsor spot. Warmup footage. Bench-side reaction clip if you were lucky. A little trivia video if someone had enough energy. Then into the media room, then back out, then scrambling for second intermission edits while your laptop fan whined in protest.

There was rhythm to it. A weird kind of music. You were good at hearing where the beat changed.

“Hey.”

You turned at the voice and saw Olivia from PR leaning against the wall, holding a laminated credential and a coffee like both were keeping her alive through sheer force of habit.

“You get the pregame fit walk?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“Did Cam finally stop trying to speed-walk through frame like he’s avoiding taxes?”

You looked at her blankly for half a second. “No. In fact, he somehow got worse.”

Olivia sighed toward the ceiling. “Tragic.”

You grinned. “I’ll send you the clip later.”

“Please do. Also”—she tipped her coffee in the direction of the locker room doors—“Danny wants to talk to you when you have a second.”

Your brows lifted. “About?”

She shrugged. “No idea. He had the face on.”

You immediately frowned. “What face?”

“The operations face.”

“That means literally nothing.”

“It means he looked annoying and managerial.”

“That narrows it down even less.”

Olivia laughed and pushed off the wall. “Good luck.”

You watched her go, suspicion already crawling up your spine. Danny, the team’s director of digital content, only ever wanted to “talk for a second” when something complicated was about to be added to your workload. He was perfectly nice. You even liked him. But he had an almost supernatural ability to appear right before your busiest stretch of the week and say things like, “Quick question,” which were never quick and never questions.

You finished the segment with the players, handed the camera card off to your editor for ingestion, and found Danny near the media workroom ten minutes later.

He was standing at one of the high tables with his laptop open, scrolling through what looked like next week’s schedule. He glanced up when you approached, then gave you the kind of smile bosses used when they were trying to make extra work seem flattering.

Immediately suspicious.

“No,” you said before he could speak.

Danny blinked. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“You’ve got the face.”

“The face?”

“The one people make when they’re about to ruin my life professionally.”

He laughed under his breath. “Dramatic.”

“Efficient. Saves time.”

He tipped his head toward the hallway. “Walk with me.”

That was never a good sign either. You fell into step beside him, weaving around arena staff and equipment managers moving with practiced urgency. “So?”

“So,” he said, in the carefully casual tone of someone absolutely not being casual, “you know we’ve been trying to push more personality-driven road content.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds suspiciously like a setup.”

“It’s not a setup.”

“It’s always a setup when a sentence starts with ‘you know.’”

Danny ignored that. “Numbers are good at home. Strong engagement, especially on the short interview stuff you do. But road content still isn’t where we want it to be.”

You crossed your arms around the camera tucked to your chest. “Okay.”

“And,” he continued, “our travel content has been pretty bare lately because we’ve been stretched thin.”

There it was.

You let out a long breath. “Danny.”

“Hear me out.”

“No.”

“You haven’t heard it.”

“I can feel it.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, like he was already preparing for resistance. “We want to send you on the next trip.”

You stared at him.

He kept talking like you hadn’t. “Not the whole swing. Just the Pittsburgh game to start. Maybe more later if it goes well. But definitely Pittsburgh.”

For a second, the hallway noise seemed to dull around the edges. It wasn’t that the request itself was shocking. You had done road content before, just not much with the Flyers at the NHL level. Short travel assignments, prospect camp coverage, one development tournament in the offseason. But NHL regular season road coverage was a different beast. More logistics. Tighter timelines. Less room for mistakes.

Still, underneath the immediate panic, something bright sparked.

Pittsburgh.

Flyers versus Penguins.

One of the rivalry matchups that always drew extra eyes, extra engagement, extra heat.

You shifted the camera against your hip. “You want me to go to Pittsburgh?”

Danny nodded. “You, one shooter, and probably Mason for editing support remotely unless I can get budget approval to send him too.”

“That’s in, like, a week.”

“Six days.”

“That’s basically a week.”

He smiled despite himself. “I’m aware.”

You looked away, thinking fast. Travel. Content capture on the road. Access limitations. Opposing arena rules. A rivalry game meant fans would devour anything even remotely interesting. The potential for numbers was huge. So was the pressure.

“You’re serious,” you said.

“Very.”

You huffed out a laugh that was half nerves. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“Why?”

“Because road content is a logistical nightmare, the game will be chaos, and if anyone asks me to get one more ‘day in the life’ clip at baggage claim, I might simply walk into traffic.”

Danny gave you a long look. “So that’s a yes?”

You pressed your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to break loose. He knew you too well.

“It’s not a yes,” you said. “It’s an extremely reluctant, professionally burdened, heavily conditional maybe.”

“That’s basically the same thing.”

“It absolutely is not.”

But it kind of was.

The rest of the day moved around you in fragments. The game. The content queue. A quick postgame locker room clip. A last-minute graphics swap. By the time you finally sat at your desk upstairs with your laptop open and your hair half-falling out of the clip that had been pretending to hold it together since noon, the building had shifted into that postgame exhale you always liked best. The loudest part was over. What remained was the hum—wheels rolling over concrete, muted voices, a vending machine clunking somewhere down the hall, the scratch of your own fingertips against keys.

You should have been finishing the recap package. Instead, you were staring at the team schedule.

Philadelphia at Pittsburgh. A Saturday game.

National eyes, rivalry traffic, a whole audience beyond your usual followers waiting for anything remotely compelling to latch onto. Good road content there could hit hard. Especially if you handled it right. Especially if you found the balance between funny and polished and just candid enough to feel intimate.

Your phone buzzed on the desk.

Olivia: Heard you might be going to pittsburgh

You smiled and typed back.

Y/N: rumors are dangerous

Olivia: omg you ARE

Y/N: i said rumors are dangerous

Olivia: bring me back something from the gift shop

Y/N: absolutely not

Olivia: fake friend

You tossed the phone aside and tried to focus.

Once you got home to your apartment and kicked your shoes off by the door, you found yourself opening notes on your phone and drafting ideas before you had even changed out of your work clothes.

Travel day fit check. Plane card game content if players were willing.

“Who on this team would survive a zombie apocalypse?”

“Most likely to forget their passport?”

A rivalry edition of quick-fire questions. Maybe a “describe Pittsburgh in one word” bit. Maybe something with playlists.

Maybe something a little more cinematic too—city shots, loading into the arena, skates on concrete, gloves being tightened, the kind of moody footage people ate up before big divisional games.

You sank onto your couch and stared at the ceiling, phone balanced on your stomach. You reached for your laptop again and started building a rough Pittsburgh shot list before common sense could stop you.

By the next morning, you had three separate content concepts, a proposed travel schedule, and a color-coded document titled PIT ROAD GAME POSSIBILITIES, which was probably either deeply impressive or slightly unwell.

Danny responded to the email in six minutes.

“This is exactly why I’m sending you.”

—

By Thursday, your travel had been confirmed.

You would leave with the team the day before the game, shoot arrival content, get a small window after the team meal if players were available, then film morning skate and pregame pieces in Pittsburgh. You’d have limited access in the visiting arena compared to home, but enough to make something good if you moved fast. You spent half the day charging batteries, labeling equipment, checking storage space, and making sure your portable hard drives weren’t about to betray you at the worst possible moment.

At some point in the middle of all that, you caught your reflection in the black computer screen at your desk and laughed quietly to yourself.

You looked exactly like what you were: tired, busy, slightly over-caffeinated, and deeply in your element.

—

Friday came fast.

Travel day always made the whole organization feel looser around the edges. More duffel bags. More movement. More scattered conversations in hallways. You arrived before sunrise, coffee in one hand and gear slung over both shoulders, and found the loading area already alive with staff and players filtering in.

The air outside bit at your cheeks. Philadelphia in winter had a way of feeling gray all the way down to the bones.

The team bus to the airport was exactly the kind of controlled disorder you expected—players half awake, headphones already on, staff juggling bags and coffee, somebody in the back loudly insisting they were not playing cards on the plane this time because last time someone cheated and “everyone knows it.”

You boarded with the social shooter assigned to travel with you, a quiet but incredibly competent freelancer named Sam, and slid into one of the front seats reserved for staff. Your camera case went by your feet. Your phone was already open to notes.

You watched players in reflections more than directly. The familiar shapes of them. Hoodies, ball caps, long legs wedged awkwardly into seats clearly not built for hockey players. A few nodded hello to you. One immediately asked whether you were filming anything yet, with the air of a man hoping the answer was no.

The airport transfer, the private terminal, the boarding—it all happened in the quick, well-practiced blur of team travel. You caught what you could without being annoying. Bags getting loaded. Players stepping off the bus into the brittle morning air. A few clean shots of travel fits. Nothing intrusive. Just atmosphere.

On the plane, things settled.

This was where you had to read the room better than ever. Travel content could be great, but only if it didn’t feel invasive. Some guys wanted to disappear into sleep or music or whatever ritual got them ready for the weekend. Others got restless and started chirping each other fifteen minutes into the flight.

You got lucky.

About halfway through, a loose cluster of players toward the back started a card game. Someone else was already recording little clips on a phone. The mood had tipped toward playful. You looked at Sam, tipped your head toward the aisle, and the two of you moved quietly.

—

Pittsburgh greeted you with cold air, low clouds, and the sharp, practical rhythm of road arrival. From the airport to the hotel, from the hotel to check-in, from check-in to quick room drop and back downstairs again. The city outside the bus window looked steel-gray and river-cut, winter light catching on glass and bridges in a way that felt a little cinematic if you were in the right mood.

You were in the right mood.

Not because it was Pittsburgh, specifically. Though even you had to admit the rivalry of it all gave the trip extra charge. More because this was new enough to feel exciting and familiar enough not to be terrifying. You could do something with that combination.

The hotel content went smoothly. Arrival footage. A few lobby shots. One player who tried to duck the camera and got caught smiling anyway. Another who fully posed despite claiming thirty seconds earlier that he hated being filmed. You collected moments the way some people collected receipts—evidence that the day had happened, evidence that the mood was real.

By evening, after the team meal, you had a small window to grab optional content from the lounge space the players were filtering through. Nothing intense. Just quick stuff if anyone felt up for it.

Tomorrow would be the game day.

Tomorrow, you’d be in the visiting arena, working in tighter spaces, moving faster, trying to get content good enough to justify why they’d sent you at all. You should have felt overwhelmed. Maybe you did, a little. But stronger than that was the hum you always got before good work. The anticipation.

—

You were up before your alarm.

Not by much, but enough to make it annoying.

For one disorienting second, you didn’t know where you were. The hotel curtains were still mostly drawn, leaving the room dim and gray-blue, the kind of early morning light that made everything feel a little unreal. Then the shape of the unfamiliar armchair by the window registered. The hard-shell camera case near the desk. The laminated credential hanging from the lamp. Pittsburgh.

Right.

Game day.

You let out a long breath and rolled onto your back, staring up at the ceiling for a moment while the day arranged itself in your head. Morning skate content. Arrival shots if the bus timing worked. A few interviews, maybe. Practice-day atmosphere, even though “practice day” was never really what morning skates were—it was lighter, sharper, more controlled, the kind of routine that looked casual if you didn’t know enough hockey to see all the tension underneath it.

By the time you made it to the hotel lobby, you had your hair pulled back, your credential clipped on, and enough energy to pass for a functional adult. Olivia was already there, somehow looking more awake than anyone had a right to at that hour, one hand around her coffee and the other scrolling through emails on her phone like she was personally at war with them.

“You look tired,” she said.

“You look judgmental.”

“I am judgmental.”

“I know.”

She handed you the second coffee without argument, and the warmth of it seeped into your fingers in a way that felt briefly life-saving. Around you, the hotel lobby had that strange, muted hum team hotels always seemed to have on travel mornings. Staff moving with purpose. Players filtering in with headphones on and hoods up, looking half asleep and six feet taller than the furniture around them. Equipment personnel wheeling cases through the polished floor space like they owned the building. Everything quiet, but not relaxed. There was always a pulse under game day.

You and Olivia took seats near the windows while you waited for bus call.

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

“Enough.”

“That answer means no.”

“It means I had content ideas at one in the morning and had to write them down or risk becoming unbearable.”

She took a sip of coffee. “You were already unbearable.”

“You’re so supportive.”

“I’m consistent.”

You smiled into your cup and looked down at your phone again, skimming the day’s rough plan. Nothing too ambitious. Capture the guys arriving at the rink. Some clean morning skate visuals. Maybe a few quick questions if the mood was right and the team staff didn’t need everyone moving too fast. A little atmosphere, a little personality. Enough to feed the game-day machine without getting in the way.

It should have felt routine.

Instead, your nerves were just a little louder than usual.

Not in a bad way. Not panicked. Just alert. Like your brain knew this day mattered a little more than most. Rivalry game. Bigger audience. Road environment. More eyeballs on every post. Even the smallest clip could overperform if it caught the right energy. You were already thinking in edits, already hearing caption ideas in the back of your mind, already sorting through what might look good in vertical and what might need to be held for later.

Across the lobby, one of the players noticed your camera bag and grimaced theatrically.

“No weird questions today,” he said as he approached.

You looked up at him. “Good morning to you too.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He pointed a finger at you like that would strengthen his case. “No ‘who’s most likely to cry during a movie’ or any of that.”

“That one is actually excellent, thank you.”

He made a betrayed sound and kept walking toward the elevators, and Olivia leaned closer to you, lowering her voice.

“You know you’ve won when they start pre-complaining before you’ve even asked anything.”

“I prefer to think of it as trust.”

“That is not what that is.”

But it kind of was.

The bus ride to the arena was quieter than the day before. More inward. Less chirping. Guys looked at their phones or out the window or nowhere at all, wrapped in their own routines. You took a couple of skyline clips through the glass, though the morning was overcast enough that the city looked all steel and river and pale winter haze. Still good, though. Especially for moody transitional footage.

Pittsburgh had a way of looking cinematic even when it wasn’t trying. Maybe it was the bridges. Maybe the water. Maybe the fact that hockey cities always seemed a little sharper around the edges in the cold.

When the bus pulled into the arena, everyone’s energy shifted without anyone saying anything. That was one of those details you only noticed after years around teams. The invisible click. Public space to work space. Hotel mode to rink mode. Whatever looseness had existed ten minutes earlier tightened into something more focused.

You and Sam got off with the rest of the traveling staff, the air outside crisp enough to sting the inside of your nose. You adjusted the strap of your camera bag and fell into your usual rhythm almost immediately. Arrival shots first. Players stepping off the bus. A couple of clean walking clips. Gloves tucked under arms, headphones still around necks, coffee cups, garment bags, the endless repetition of duffels. You moved fast, careful not to clog any pathways, stepping sideways around rolling equipment trunks and arena staff with the practiced awareness of someone who had spent years learning how to be present without being in the way.

Once inside, visiting access was exactly what you expected: tighter than at home, more controlled, more narrow in its freedom. Still workable. You got a few warmup-room atmosphere shots, some skates being laced, sticks lined along a wall, a trainer adjusting gear on a table. Nothing too intrusive. Mostly details. It would cut together beautifully later if you had enough coverage.

“Looks good,” Sam murmured, checking playback on one clip as the two of you stepped back into the hallway.

“Keep grabbing texture stuff if you see it,” you said. “Tape, gloves, hallway skates, anything that feels like road routine.”

He nodded. “Got it.”

You checked your phone and frowned at the battery percentage.

Fifty-one.

That wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t great either considering how early it still was and how much you relied on the social phone throughout the day. The team-issued phone was where quick vertical clips lived before they got sent off, where stories got posted in real time, where you could review what you had and keep track of platform needs without juggling too many devices at once. It also had the unfortunate tendency to drain like it had a personal grievance against electricity.

You tucked that concern away for later and headed toward the rink entrance for morning skate.

Practice-day shooting was always a balancing act between rhythm and patience. Morning skate didn’t have the dramatic frenzy of game warmups, but it had its own kind of clean energy. Less noise. More glide. Coaches in conversation near the boards. Players taking one-timers with sleepy precision, stretching against the glass, leaning on sticks in small clusters between drills. The ice still looked fresh in a way it never did later in the day, bright and untouched beneath the lights.

You loved filming on ice days like this.

There was room to breathe in the footage. Room for the little things. The scrape of edges. The casual toss of a puck from glove to glove. A goalie rolling his shoulders before dropping into the net. You and Sam split the workload without even needing to talk much about it by that point. He covered a wider angle from one corner while you worked your way along the permitted area, switching between the main camera and the social phone depending on what the moment called for.

A player tapped the glass in front of your lens in mock offense after you caught him missing a shot.

“Oh, that’s going up,” you called back.

He shook his head immediately. “No chance.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“Watch me.”

“You’d have to catch me first.”

He laughed and pushed off toward the faceoff dot again.

That was the nice thing about practice-day content. Lower stakes. Enough time to get human moments without anyone feeling too scrutinized. A few of the players leaned into it more than usual, maybe because the rivalry game had everyone a little keyed up and this was the last easy breath before it all tightened. You got one fantastic clip of two teammates mock-arguing over who had the better tape job. Another of someone trying—and failing—to chirp a coach who shut him down so efficiently that even you almost laughed out loud behind the phone.

Perfect social stuff. Easy, real, useful. By the time the skate wrapped and players started filing off the ice, your social phone battery had dropped to eighteen percent. You stared at the screen for a beat, offended.

“No, actually, that’s insane,” you muttered under your breath.

Sam looked up from packing one of the lenses. “What?”

“This stupid phone is dying.”

He checked the time. “Already?”

“Yes. It’s acting like I’ve committed some personal offense.”

“You have a charger?”

“In my bag. I think.”

That was the problem. You had multiple bags, multiple cases, and at least three places the charger could be depending on which version of yourself had packed the night before. Wonderful.

You glanced toward the hallway leading back toward the visitors’ room. Media flow had loosened a little now that morning skate was done and there was a short window before the next scheduled obligation. If you moved fast, you could run back, find the charger, plug the phone in for a bit, maybe dump a couple clips, and get back before anyone needed you elsewhere.

“I’m gonna go grab the charger,” you told Sam. “Can you stay here for like five?”

“Yeah.”

“If anyone asks where I am, tell them I’m being held hostage by battery percentage.”

He snorted. “Will do.”

You slung the social phone into your jacket pocket, adjusted your credential, and headed down the corridor at a brisk pace.

The visiting route through unfamiliar arenas always felt vaguely like navigating a dream someone else had designed. Too many similar hallways. Too many gray doors. Too many turns that looked like they should lead somewhere obvious and instead dumped you out beside a storage alcove or a security checkpoint or a staircase you definitely weren’t supposed to be near.

At first, you thought you were fine.

You retraced what you were pretty sure had been your route in. Past the equipment carts. Left at the corner with the framed arena signage. Straight down a narrower hallway. Then another turn. Then—you slowed.

This didn’t look right.

There was a long concrete corridor ahead with darker flooring than the one you remembered, and the wall signage here was for home locker facilities, not visiting. You stopped walking entirely and stared for a second, willing the arena to reorganize itself into something more familiar.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself. “Cool. Love that.”

You turned back the way you came, only to realize the last two turns had blurred together in your head. Great. Amazing. Perfect even. You had been in the building less than three hours and were already lost in enemy territory because a phone battery had personally betrayed you.

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it. There were worse problems. Plenty worse. But there was something uniquely irritating about being a grown adult with multiple credentials clipped to your jacket and still somehow wandering around a professional sports arena like a confused substitute teacher on a field trip.

You started walking again, this time slower, checking each sign as you passed.

Hallway. Training room. Staff access. Another hallway. A corner. A staircase. None of it looked familiar.

You dug the phone out of your pocket to maybe text Olivia or Sam for help, only to see the battery flash red at eleven percent.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered.

You were too busy looking down at it while turning the next corner to notice someone coming from the opposite direction until it was too late.

One second you were stepping around the bend with your attention split between the dying phone and your rapidly diminishing patience, and the next you nearly walked straight into a broad chest in a dark team-issued quarter zip.

You startled hard enough that your sneaker skidded against the floor.

Everything happened fast after that. A clipped breath. A flash of instinctive panic. The sick little drop in your stomach as your balance tilted the wrong way. The phone slipping in your hand.

And then a hand caught your arm. Another at your elbow, steady and firm and immediate.

You didn’t hit the ground. Didn’t even come particularly close once the hold settled you. But the surprise of it still sent your pulse jumping.

“Whoa,” a low voice said. “Easy.”

You blinked up and for one profoundly humiliating second, your brain supplied absolutely nothing useful, because standing in front of you, one hand still loosely braced at your arm like he was making sure you were actually steady, was Sidney Crosby.

Not on a screen.

Not in a media scrum.

Not from a distance while you were working a game and trying to stay neutral because that was your job.

Here. Right here. In a concrete arena hallway in Pittsburgh while you were lost, annoyed, and probably making the dumbest expression of your life. His brows lifted slightly, somewhere between checking that you were okay and maybe suppressing a laugh.

“You good?”

You became aware of several things all at once.

One: you were still half-leaning into the recovery of your balance.

Two: your phone was somehow still in your hand, miracle of miracles.

Three: you needed to speak immediately before your silence turned this into the single most embarrassing moment of your career.

“Yep,” you said, much too quickly. “Yes. I’m good. Totally good.”

His mouth twitched. Cool. Great. He thought you were an idiot. Understandable.

You straightened fully, smoothing one hand against your jacket like that could restore dignity. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“That much I figured.”

The delivery was dry enough that it took you half a beat to realize he was teasing.

You looked at him again properly then, which maybe was a mistake because now your brain had time to register details. Taller up close than people always swore he was, even though everyone knew his listed height and apparently still liked making it a whole conversation. Broad shoulders. Practice hair still slightly damp around the temples. That familiar face that hockey fans had spent nearly two decades reading like weather. Calm, watchful, a little amused now.

You swallowed back the first eight weirdly fangirl things that tried to rise up.

Because no.

Absolutely not.

You worked for the Flyers.

You were currently wearing team gear.

You had professional self-respect, at least in theory.

“Sorry,” you said again, more normally this time. “I’m just trying to find my way back to the visitors’ room and apparently your arena is built like a maze.”

That earned you a small, immediate smile.

“Our arena?”

You folded your arms, clutching the dying phone against your side. “Yes. Yours.”

“So you’ve already decided it’s not user error.”

“Oh, it is definitely user error,” you said. “But I’m choosing to blame the building.”

He glanced down the corridor you’d just come from, then back at you. “Visitors’ room’s the other way.”

“See?” you said. “Maze.”

He made a soft sound that might have been a laugh. “You took, like, three wrong turns.”

“That feels excessive to point out in my time of need.”

“You seem okay.”

“Physically, sure. Emotionally, I’m being humbled.”

That got a real laugh out of him, brief but unmistakable, and something in your chest gave an irritating little flip in response.

Unhelpful.

Very unhelpful.

You cleared your throat. “Thanks for catching me, though. That would’ve been a really tragic way to go.”

His expression went lightly skeptical. “Tragic?”

“Yes. Imagine the paperwork. ‘Local social media employee taken out by poor directional instincts in rival arena.’ Horrible look for everyone.”

He folded his arms now too, posture easy. “I think we could’ve spun that.”

“You think the Penguins PR team could’ve spun me eating it in the hallway?”

“Oh, for sure.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s evil.”

He shrugged one shoulder, still looking amused. “Occupational hazard.”

There was something unfairly disarming about how casual he seemed. Not guarded exactly, but measured in that way some athletes were after years of being observed. Still, there was warmth there too, and curiosity, and just enough playfulness to keep the whole moment from tipping awkward. It helped you relax by degrees.

A little.

Not much.

Your phone buzzed weakly in your hand and flashed the red battery indicator again, like it wanted attention.

You looked down at it in betrayal.

“Let me guess,” he said, following your glance. “Dead phone?”

“Dying phone,” you corrected. “Which is somehow more irritating.”

“That’s why you’re lost?”

“I was going to grab my charger.”

“And got sidetracked.”

“I got aggressively sidetracked.”

He tipped his head. “Who do you work for?”

You held up the credential clipped to your jacket instead of answering, because if he hadn’t seen the Flyers logo by now that would’ve been impressive.

His eyes dropped to it, then lifted again with clearer recognition.

“Social?”

“Yeah.”

“For Philly.”

You gave him a look. “I feel like the logo’s doing a lot of the heavy lifting there.”

He smiled again, slower this time. “Just making sure.”

“Well, yes. Flyers social.”

That seemed to amuse him for reasons you couldn’t entirely read. Maybe just the situation. Maybe the irony of running into the opposing team’s social media admin while she was lost in his hallway. Fair enough, honestly.

“You’re the one always doing those pregame questions?” he asked.

That caught you off guard enough that your brows lifted. “You’ve seen those?”

Now it was his turn to look faintly caught.

“Some of them,” he said.

You stared at him for a beat. “That feels a little traitorous, actually.”

His smile widened. “Traitorous?”

“You’re the captain of the Penguins.”

“And?”

“And you’re apparently watching Flyers socials.”

“I didn’t say I watch all of it.”

“That is not a denial.”

“It’s research.”

You let out a surprised laugh. “Research.”

“Division rival.”

“That sounds fake.”

“Probably.”

The back-and-forth was coming easier now, helped by the fact that he seemed perfectly willing to keep it going. There was something surreal about it, enough that a small part of you felt like you’d blacked out and wandered into a fanfiction prompt written by a particularly unhinged version of yourself. But mostly, standing there in the hallway, you just felt alert in that bright, sharpened way that happened when someone unexpected met you at your own level.

You shifted the phone in your hand. “Well, for the record, I’m only here in a deeply professional capacity. Any alleged admiration for your team’s facilities is false.”

“Our facilities?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“You’re the one insulting the building.”

“Because it deserves it.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It absolutely does. This place has the directional logic of an escape room.”

He chuckled under his breath, then nodded down the hall. “You need to go left at the next corner, then through the double doors. Visitors’ side is back there.”

You looked where he indicated, trying to map it mentally. “Left. Double doors. And if I somehow end up in, like, the Zamboni garage?”

“Then you took more than one wrong turn.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“It’s accurate.”

You huffed a laugh.

There was a beat after that—small, not awkward exactly, but noticeable. The sort of pause where either one of you could have ended the conversation cleanly and moved on. You probably should have. You had a charger to find, a phone on its deathbed, a job to do, and just enough self-awareness to know lingering in a hallway with Sidney Crosby while wearing Flyers gear was maybe not the most professionally neutral thing in the world.

Instead, because apparently your survival instinct had left the building long before your sense of direction, you said, “So what exactly does your research on Flyers social involve?”

His eyes flicked back to yours, amusement returning instantly. “Looking for weaknesses.”

“Through rapid-fire snack preference videos?”

“You’d be surprised what people reveal.”

“That’s a terrifying thing to say.”

“It’s true.”

“You sound like a spy.”

“Maybe I am.”

You angled your head. “That would honestly explain a lot.”

“Like what?”

“The mystery. The overly calm energy. The fact that half the hockey world talks about you like you materialize out of fog whenever Team Canada needs saving.”

That one made him laugh properly, shoulders shifting with it, and the sound of it cracked something lighter through the whole strange situation.

“Out of fog?” he repeated.

“You heard me.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“I work in media. It’s an occupational risk.”

He glanced down at your credential again, then back at your face. “So are you actually a Flyers fan, or are you just paid to be one?”

It was a good question. Better than most people realized, actually. Working for a team changed the shape of fandom. You couldn’t engage with it the same way anymore—not fully, not without blurring lines you needed to keep clean. But there was still pride there. Investment. Protection, maybe. The sort of loyalty that came less from childhood posters and more from proximity, from labor, from knowing the people behind the logo.

You smiled a little. “I work for them. That kind of answers itself.”

“That’s not exactly what I asked.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you trying to get me to defect in the hallway?”

“Depends how convincing you are.”

He nodded like he was considering it. “Fair.”

You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, mostly to do something with your hands. “For the record, I’m not saying anything nice about the Penguins.”

“You already blamed the building. I think I can live with that.”

“Good.”

Another beat.

It was ridiculous, the ease of it. Not because he was Sidney Crosby, though that part of it remained surreal enough to sit in the back of your skull like a blinking sign. More because the conversation itself felt natural. Quick. Dry. That clean little verbal tennis match where each return came easy. You hadn’t expected that. If you’d expected anything at all, it would’ve been polite distance. A nod, maybe. Directions. End scene.

Not this.

Your phone buzzed again and this time the screen dimmed so aggressively that you sighed aloud.

“Okay, wow,” you said to it. “You’re being a diva.”

He looked at the screen. “You should probably rescue that.”

“I know.”

“You need the charger that badly?”

“It’s the social phone. So yes. If this thing dies, I basically lose the ability to post half my day in real time, and then my boss starts using phrases like ‘workflow disruption’ and I have to pretend not to find that threatening.”

He smiled. “Sounds serious.”

“It is serious. This tiny rectangle owns my life.”

“Brutal.”

“The worst part is I probably packed the charger in the dumbest possible pocket and now I have to dig through three bags like I’m on some kind of scavenger hunt.”

“I can walk you back.”

The offer was simple, easy, like it hadn’t occurred to him it might land with the weight it did.

You blinked. “You absolutely do not need to do that.”

He shrugged. “I’m going that way.”

“You are not.”

“Eventually.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “That’s not a real argument.”

“It’s enough of one.”

“It really isn’t.”

He tipped his head, patient in a way that somehow made the whole thing worse. “You said it yourself. Maze.”

You looked down the hall, then back at him, suspicious mostly because accepting help from Sidney Crosby in the middle of a rivalry-game morning felt like exactly the sort of thing that would one day sound fake when retold.

And yet.

Your phone was at six percent.

You were absolutely capable of getting lost again.

And he was already turning slightly, as if this had been decided.

“Fine,” you said. “But if I end up on Penguins propaganda by accident, I’m blaming you.”

“I think we can avoid that.”

“That sounds like something propaganda would say.”

He gave you a dry look and started walking, and because apparently this was your life now, you fell into step beside him.

The hallway felt even more surreal in motion. Your sneakers on concrete. His stride easy, unhurried beside you. The two of you passing arena doors and equipment cases and bits of signage while your brain screamed intermittently about the sheer absurdity of the moment.

You kept your face composed anyway.

Professional. More or less.

“So,” he said after a few steps, “what kind of stuff are you getting today?”

You glanced at him. “For socials?”

He nodded.

“Mostly morning skate atmosphere. A couple funny clips if I can get them. Road-routine stuff. Probably some game-day content later. Depends what the guys give me.”

“What they give you?”

“Yeah.” You lifted one shoulder. “Some days they’re chatty. Some days they look at the camera like I’ve ruined their lives.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“You get that too?”

He gave you a look. “Media’s media.”

“Fair.”

You passed a staff entrance, turned left at a junction you definitely would have missed on your own, and continued down a corridor lined with framed photos from various eras of Penguins history. You caught sight of one from early in his career and looked away before it seemed too obvious you’d noticed.

“You’re pretty good at it,” he said after a second.

You looked back at him. “At getting lost?”

“At the content.”

That stopped you for half a step.

The compliment was delivered easily, casually, but not thoughtlessly. There was no joking edge to it this time. Just straightforward observation.

You recovered quickly enough, but still. “Thanks.”

He shrugged. “You get guys to answer stuff without making it look forced.”

“That is maybe the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my work.”

“It’s true.”

A weird warmth spread through your chest, deeply inconvenient and entirely out of proportion to the situation. You swallowed it down.

“Well,” you said, aiming for lighter, “I appreciate the cross-divisional validation.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

That pulled another smile from him.

By the time he led you through the double doors and into a more familiar stretch of visiting-side hallway, relief washed through you so fast it was almost embarrassing.

“Oh, thank God,” you said. “I know where I am.”

“So you’re safe now.”

“Debatable, but closer.”

He slowed to a stop near the point where your routes would obviously split, one way toward the visitors’ room and another back toward whatever part of the building he’d actually meant to be in before your near-collision rerouted his morning.

You looked at the door, then back at him.

“Well,” you said, tightening your grip on the dying phone, “thanks. For the directions. And the catching.”

“No problem.”

“I’m serious. That could’ve been deeply humiliating.”

“I think you would’ve recovered.”

“That’s generous.”

He seemed like he might say something else, then only nodded once. “Good luck today.”

The words were simple enough. Generic, almost. Something anyone might say.

Still, the way he said them landed a little differently.

You smiled before you could stop yourself. “You too. I mean—” You caught yourself and narrowed your eyes. “Not, like, too much luck.”

His expression shifted instantly. “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The Flyers fan.”

You lifted your chin. “Obviously.”

He laughed softly. “Right.”

“Right.”

For half a second neither of you moved. Then your phone screen went black. You stared at it in horror. Pressed the side button. Nothing.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

He looked at the dead screen and then at your face, openly amused now. “That seems bad.”

“It is bad.”

“You should probably find that charger.”

You pointed at him with the dead phone. “This is partially your fault.”

“How?”

“You distracted me.”

His brows lifted. “I gave you directions.”

“You also participated in banter.”

“That sounds voluntary on your end.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again because annoyingly, he was right.

“That’s not the point,” you said.

“It kind of is.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m not the one who got lost.”

You laughed despite yourself, full and helpless and a little disbelieving, because really—what else were you supposed to do with this? With him? With the fact that ten minutes ago you’d been cursing a hallway and now you were standing there trying not to smile too obviously at Sidney Crosby while your work phone lay dead in your hand like a tiny casualty of circumstance.

“Okay,” you said, backing a step toward the visitors’ room. “I have to go save my career.”

“That seems wise.”

“And just so we’re clear,” you added, “if the Flyers win tonight, I’m blaming this whole interaction for throwing off your routine.”

His smile sharpened at the edges. “That how that works?”

“Yes.”

“Convenient.”

“I believe in accountability.”

He nodded once, like he was accepting the terms of a deal. “Then if we win, I’m blaming the building for confusing you.”

You pointed at him again. “See? You do admit the building’s confusing.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It basically is.”

“It really isn’t.”

You were already grinning when you turned away.

“Bye,” you called over your shoulder.

“See you.”

The words followed you down the short stretch toward the visitors’ room, and the stupidest, warmest little thrill went through you at the sound of them.

Absolutely not, you told yourself.

Nope.

Hard no.

You pushed through the door and immediately got hit by the familiar bustle of your own team’s space again—staff talking, gear shifting, someone asking where an extra roll of tape had gone, another player halfway through changing out of practice gear. The normalcy of it was almost jarring after the surreal quiet of the hallway.

Sam looked up from near the equipment table. “There you are. Did you find it?”

You held up the dead phone. “Technically no.”

He frowned. “What happened?”

“I got lost.”

“For that long?”

“I was very committed to getting lost.”

He stared at you for a second. “Are you okay?”

“Yep.”

—

By the time game time rolled around, the whole arena felt alive in a way that had almost nothing to do with sound alone.

It was in the air first.

In the tightness of it.

The current running under every hallway and stairwell and concrete corridor. The way even regular movement seemed sharper somehow. Faster. More deliberate. Rivalry games always had a different kind of charge to them, but the Battle of Pennsylvania carried its own particular electricity. It was old, deeply felt, and impossible to fake. Orange and black scattered like sparks through pockets of the crowd, drowned out but never erased by the black and gold surrounding them. Every Flyers jersey in the lower bowl looked defiant just by existing. Every Penguins fan seemed half a second away from either starting a chant or a fight.

From your spot near the glass, camera in hand and credential swinging lightly against your jacket, you could feel all of it pressing in from every angle. This was why sports content hit differently on rivalry nights.

Even through a screen, people could sense it. The tension. The noise. The immediacy. The way every check landed harder in the building than it ever could in a replay clip. The way a routine save drew a reaction that felt almost disproportionate, because in games like this nothing was routine, not really. Every shift meant a little more. Every goal meant a lot more.

You were already working before warmups had even properly settled in.

Quick vertical clips of the Flyers coming onto the ice. A pan of the crowd as boos rained down at the first hint of orange and black. A close-up of skates carving through fresh shavings near the boards. The way the lights caught helmets, visors, breath. You kept moving, adjusting angles, crouching lower by the glass to get cleaner shots, then rising again to catch a wider sweep of the rink.

Your replacement social phone—freshly resurrected after the morning disaster—was finally fully charged and clipped to your side with a portable battery attached like a life support system. You were not taking chances today.

A few rows up, the fans were already loud enough to rattle the glass every time a Flyer drifted too close. Someone behind you yelled, “Crosby sucks,” with enough passion that you almost admired the commitment. Another voice shouted back something about the Flyers that you definitely weren’t repeating in a work environment.

You stayed focused on the ice.

That was easier during warmups.

Warmups had structure. Purpose. Players moved through familiar arcs and patterns, taking shots, stretching, joking lightly when they could. It gave you something to work with. Game time itself was harder because you were always balancing. Capture enough to feel present without becoming a distraction. Keep your angles clean. Stay aware of pucks, players, officials, staff, and the hundred small variables that could turn one second of inattention into a disaster.

Still, your mind kept drifting.

Not too far.

Not dangerously.

Just enough that when the Penguins took the ice and the crowd volume swelled again, your eyes found Sidney without meaning to.

It happened instantly and involuntarily, like your brain had marked him as a point of recognition now whether you liked it or not. He glided through warmups with that same contained energy he always seemed to carry, not showy, not overstated, but impossible not to notice once you were looking. He exchanged a few words with a teammate near the blue line, then turned toward center and joined a passing drill, movements crisp and economical in a way that somehow made everything else on the ice look slightly louder by comparison.

You should not have been aware of him this much.

It was deeply inconvenient.

The worse part was that you couldn’t even fully blame yourself, because he had, in fact, walked you back from getting lost that morning, and then somehow managed to be funny and disarming and entirely too easy to talk to in the process. Since then, every time you remembered the conversation, some embarrassing little warmth lit under your ribs all over again.

Unhelpful.

Wildly unhelpful.

You crouched lower at the glass and focused your lens on the Flyers instead. That was your team.

Your job.

Your side of the content feed, literally and metaphorically, everything else was noise and for a while, once the game actually started, it was easy to let the action take over.

The first period was chaos in exactly the way good rivalry hockey should be. Fast, ugly, sharp-edged, loud. Every hit got a rise. Every whistle got opinions. The crowd swelled and dipped like a living thing, and the benches looked keyed up enough that even line changes carried a little extra bite. You bounced between camera angles and social clips, filming where you could from your designated space near the glass, catching quick reaction shots after scrums, the Flyers bench leaning forward after a near chance, the raw rhythm of the game in fragments.

You didn’t have time to think too much.

That was good.

The Flyers struck first midway through the opening period, and the tiny islands of orange in the arena erupted like someone had set off flares. You caught the celebration from the far side as cleanly as you could, then whipped toward the bench to get the players slamming gloves and yelling. Your phone buzzed immediately with internal messages—clip that, send that, story that now, great angle, need replay if you have it. Normal game-day chaos. You moved with it, fingers flying, adrenaline already steady in your bloodstream.

Pittsburgh answered before the end of the first.

Of course they did.

The building detonated around you, black and gold suddenly in motion everywhere at once, and you instinctively kept filming even as the noise punched through your chest. That was your job too. Not cheering. Not reacting. Capturing. Documenting. It didn’t matter that it was the wrong celebration for your feed. You still needed the atmosphere. The scale. The emotional contrast. Rivalry content only worked if it felt real.

By intermission, your notes app looked like a battlefield.

Post later: crowd shots

Use bench reaction after Flyers goal

Need moody b-roll from end boards

Possible caption: hostile environment etc etc

Olivia leaned over your shoulder while you were sending a few quick selects to Mason. “You look like you’re fighting for your life.”

“I am.”

“Great. That means it’s going well.”

You shot her a flat look. “I hate the way you phrase things.”

She smiled. “You love it.”

The second period somehow came out even hotter than the first.

That happened sometimes in rivalry games. Everyone spent the opening frame pretending it was still just hockey, and then by the second the game remembered what it actually was. Checks got heavier. Whistles got meaner. Every net-front battle turned into a negotiation with violence hovering just beneath the surface.

You moved lower along the glass during a stoppage, re-centering yourself for a better angle on the Penguins’ zone if the play came your way. The arena was so loud now that individual sounds were harder to isolate. Everything blended—music, chanting, glass rattling, skates cutting, the raw roar that rose every time the puck got near either crease.

The score was tied 2–2 when it happened.

The Penguins broke through neutral ice fast off a turnover, the kind of sudden transition that made everyone around you rise half out of their seats before the play had even fully formed. You were already tracking the rush with your camera, instinct taking over. Pass up the wing. Quick give-and-go. A lane opening just long enough to matter.

Sidney took the return feed near the circle and snapped the puck past the goalie before anyone in orange could close the gap.

The goal light flashed.

The building exploded.

Your camera kept rolling.

He curved away from the net in celebration as the arena came apart, teammates converging, gloves lifting, the glass around you vibrating beneath the force of thousands of people losing their minds all at once. You got the shot—clean enough, steady enough, electric in that live-wire way only raw game footage ever was. He peeled past your side of the ice during the celebration route, close enough to the boards that for one disorienting second it felt less like watching and more like being caught in the same current.

And then he turned his head slightly.

Toward you.

Just enough.

His mouthguard shifted at the edge of a grin, and over the roar—faint but clear enough that you knew you hadn’t imagined it—he threw out, “You get that for social media?”

You stared. It was absurd. Ridiculous. So specific you nearly laughed on instinct.

But before you could even process the fact that Sidney Crosby had just chirped—or maybe teased, or maybe whatever the hell that had been—your social media job in the middle of a live rivalry game, two Flyers on the ice clearly noticed.

One of them snapped his head in Sidney’s direction immediately. The other skated over with the kind of offended energy that suggested whatever he thought he’d seen or heard, he had interpreted it in the most aggressively loyal way possible.

“Oh my God,” you muttered under your breath.

The next shift was ugly.

Not out-of-control ugly, not yet, but the tone had changed. The Flyers were already physical when they got angry; now there was something personal layered into it. A harder finish on checks. More shoving after whistles. One of the defensemen jawing visibly every time he passed the Penguins’ captain near the boards. You didn’t need to hear it to guess the general message.

Your stomach sank.

No.

No, absolutely not.

There was no way they thought—But then during the next stoppage, one of the Flyers skated near enough to the glass to throw you a quick, heated look that all but confirmed it.

Message received.

They thought Sidney had chirped you. Not in the ordinary rivalry sense, either. Not generic nonsense. Specifically you. Their social media admin. One of theirs.

Your grip tightened on the camera. “Guys,” you muttered uselessly to the glass. “No. That is not what happened.”

The glass, shockingly, did not respond.

The period went on, and with every shift your discomfort grew teeth.

Because now you were trapped in the worst possible position—aware of something maybe no one else had caught correctly, unable to do anything about it, and watching the consequences play out in real time on the ice while thousands of people screamed around you. Every heavy hit involving Sidney made your pulse tick up. Every scrum near the boards made your shoulders tense. Once, during a commercial timeout, two Flyers near the bench said something to each other and then glanced your way, and the guilt hit so hard and fast it made your throat feel tight.

This is stupid, you told yourself.

You did not cause this.

These are professional hockey players in a rivalry game. They do not need a personal excuse to go after each other.

And logically, you knew that was true.

Emotionally, though, every time one of your guys took a run at him after that hallway memory of his laugh and his easy, “Good luck today,” your chest squeezed in a way that felt awful.

Late in the second, it got worse.

The puck got rimmed deep into the Penguins’ zone, and Sidney went back to play it near the boards on your side. One of the Flyers forwards—the same one who had looked ready to commit emotional arson on your behalf earlier—came charging in on the forecheck.

You saw it before it happened. That was the horrible part. The angle. The speed. The line of contact. Enough time to know it was going to be hard and absolutely no time to stop it.

The hit slammed Sidney into the boards with a crack that echoed even through the arena noise. The crowd sound warped instantly—part outrage, part excitement, part that sick jolt every building gets when something tips from aggressive to dangerous. Players converged at once. Gloves in faces. Officials rushing in. The Flyers bench up and yelling. The Penguins bench exploding right back.

And Sidney—Sidney stayed down for one beat too long.

Then two.

Your breath caught.

He pushed up eventually, but not cleanly. One hand braced awkwardly against the boards, the other tucked in too close to his body, and even from where you stood you could see it in the line of him immediately—something was wrong. Not dramatic enough to collapse the whole game, but wrong enough that your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

The officials were still sorting bodies when he turned, escorted by staff toward the tunnel.

And as he passed your side of the glass, he looked at you.

Not for long.

Just a second.

But long enough for it to register. Long enough that the guilt already clawing through you sharpened into something meaner.

Then he went down the tunnel.

You forgot to breathe again.

The Flyers bench was still loud behind you, players leaning over the boards in the aftermath, adrenaline high and tempers higher. You shifted automatically toward them to grab some post-sequence atmosphere because that was still your job, but before you even lifted the phone properly, you heard one of them say, “Serves him right for chirping our social media admin.”

Another voice answered, “Yeah, keep her name outta your mouth.”

Your whole body went cold.

For half a second the arena seemed to tilt. They really had thought that.

Not abstractly. Not as a joke.

Actually thought Sidney had been taking a shot at you and now he was hurt. Your skin flushed hot and cold all at once, shame and panic tangling so tightly you almost couldn’t separate them. You lowered the camera immediately, the sounds of the game around you suddenly muffled and wrong.

It wasn’t your fault.

You knew that.

You knew that in the rational, objective, adult way.

But it felt like your fault anyway.

If you hadn’t talked to him that morning. If he hadn’t skated by. If he hadn’t said anything. If the players hadn’t seen. If, if, if—

“Hey,” Olivia said, appearing at your side with a hand lightly against your elbow. “You okay?”

You swallowed hard and nodded too fast. “Yeah.”

She looked unconvinced. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

That was a lie so obvious it barely qualified as language.

The rest of the second period passed in a blur you only half inhabited. You still filmed when you had to. Still moved when needed. Still sent off a couple clips because muscle memory and duty overrode whatever was happening in your head. But inside, all you could think about was the tunnel. The line of his shoulders as he’d left. The look he’d given you. The bench comments. The sinking, impossible feeling that somehow a stupid, playful line about social media had turned into a body check hard enough to send him out of the game.

By the time the horn sounded to end the period, your nerves were shredded.

The Flyers headed off in a cluster of agitation and momentum, still talking, still keyed up. The Penguins disappeared more quickly on the other side. Staff moved. Arena music crashed in over the break. Fans surged toward concourses. The usual intermission chaos.

You stood still for maybe three seconds, then made a decision. It was probably a terrible decision. Possibly insane, and definitely not in your job description.

But once it landed in your brain, it became impossible to ignore.

You turned to Olivia. “I need, like, five minutes.”

She stared. “For what?”

“I just need five.”

“That is not an answer.”

“I know.”

She studied your face once, saw enough there to stop pushing, and only said, “Be smart.”

You gave her a look that probably did not inspire confidence and hurried off anyway.

The back hallways were even busier during intermission, but you moved through them on pure nervous momentum. You ducked into a quieter side corridor first and looked around until you spotted a discarded Penguins warmup jacket hanging on a rolling rack near a laundry cart—probably left by some support staff in the rush of the period break. You hesitated for exactly one second.

Then grabbed it. “This is insane,” you whispered to yourself as you shoved your arms into it over your own clothes.

The black and gold swallowed your Flyers gear just enough to pass at a glance, especially with your credential flipped inward against your chest. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t remotely official. But it was better than walking toward the Penguins’ medical area in orange and black like some kind of cartoon villain.

You moved fast before you could talk yourself out of it.

The training and medical area outside the home room was guarded loosely by staff who were too busy and too accustomed to people moving in and out during intermission to scrutinize every face with equal intensity. You kept your head down, your pace purposeful, and clutched the phone and small camera to your chest like you belonged there for work.

One of the staffers near the door glanced at you. “Need something?”

Your mouth went dry.

Think.

“I was asked to check if media’s getting any update,” you said, pitching your voice into that bland, competent tone that made people ask fewer questions. “Just for internal.”

He looked tired enough not to care. “Trainer’s with him. Make it quick.”

Relief hit so hard you nearly swayed.

“Yep. Quick.”

You slipped inside before anyone could reconsider.

The room beyond was quieter than the arena, quieter than intermission, quieter than your heartbeat deserved. Not silent—there were low voices, a cabinet door closing somewhere, the rustle of medical tape—but contained in a way that felt almost intimate after the violence of the game outside.

You spotted him near the far side, seated on the edge of a training table while one of the medical staff finished checking something at his shoulder. No pads now. No gloves. Just black baselayer gear half peeled down and a towel draped nearby. He looked up at the movement of the door opening.

And saw you.

For one impossible second, neither of you said anything.

Then the trainer stepped back. “Try not to move it too much. We’ll re-check between periods if you’re staying out.”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

The trainer turned, noticed you lingering, and frowned faintly. “You needed something?”

Your courage nearly failed on the spot.

But Sidney answered before you could.

“She’s with me.”

You blinked.

The trainer, apparently deciding that was enough explanation for now, gave a distracted nod and moved off toward a supply cabinet.

That left you standing there in a stolen Penguins jacket, looking at the captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins like you had not lost your mind but had in fact come here for a totally normal reason.

He glanced once at the jacket, then back at your face.

A smile touched the corner of his mouth despite the situation.

“Well,” he said. “That’s a look.”

Your throat tightened with something painfully close to embarrassment and relief all at once. “I panicked.”

“I can see that.”

“I didn’t want anyone to stop me.”

“So you stole a jacket?”

“I borrowed a jacket.”

“That’s generous.”

You took two steps closer, then stopped, suddenly aware of how absurd and vulnerable and real this all was. Up close, he looked a little paler than before, jaw tighter around the edges. Not wrecked. Not catastrophic. But sore. Pulled somewhere between adrenaline and pain. Your guilt surged all over again.

“I’m sorry,” you said immediately.

His brows knit. “For what?”

“For—” You broke off and gestured helplessly. “For all of this. They thought you were chirping me. I heard them on the bench. They thought you were being a dick to the social media admin and now you’re hurt and I know it’s not exactly rational but it feels like this is somehow my fault and I just—I’m sorry.”

The whole thing came out too fast, tangled and breathless and humiliatingly sincere.

He stared at you for a second.

Then, very gently, “Hey.”

You stopped.

“It’s not your fault.”

“But—”

“It’s not,” he repeated, firmer now.

You looked at him, trying to argue, and found absolutely no room in his expression for the idea.

“They didn’t hit me because of you,” he said. “It’s a rivalry game. Guys get worked up. Stuff happens.”

“They literally said—”

“I know what you’re saying.” His voice softened again. “Still not your fault.”

You let out a shaky breath, folding your arms like you could hold the anxiety in place physically. “I feel insane.”

“You look a little insane.”

That startled a laugh out of you before you could stop it.

He smiled, quieter this time. “There you go.”

You shook your head. “You’re injured and you’re still making fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you.”

“You are a little.”

“Maybe a little.”

Your eyes dropped involuntarily to the shoulder he’d been favoring. “How bad is it?”

“Not too bad.”

“That sounds suspicious.”

“It’s hockey.”

“That is somehow even more suspicious.”

He gave a small shrug with the uninjured side. “Banged up.”

You pressed your lips together. “I’m still sorry.”

He leaned back slightly against the table, studying you with that same steady, unreadable-open look he’d had in the hallway. “You really came back here just to apologize?”

When he said it like that, it sounded far more unhinged than it had in your own head.

You glanced down at the black and gold jacket around your shoulders and winced. “In my defense, I did realize halfway here that this was a terrible idea.”

“And you kept going.”

“Obviously.”

“Why?”

Because I felt awful. Because you looked at me when you left. Because this stupid little thing between us stopped feeling little about ten minutes after you caught me in the hallway.

You did not say any of that.

Instead, you said, “Because I wanted to make sure you knew that wasn’t what happened. This morning. At the glass. Any of it.”

Something shifted in his face then—small, but unmistakable. A warmth maybe. Or satisfaction. Or just the confirmation of something he’d already suspected.

“I knew,” he said.

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

He looked faintly amused by the question. “You don’t exactly seem subtle when you’re panicking.”

You stared at him. “That’s rude.”

“It’s observant.”

“That is the same thing said by a meaner person.”

He laughed softly, then tipped his head toward your borrowed disguise. “Still, I gotta say…”

You narrowed your eyes preemptively. “What?”

“I like you in black and gold.”

Your breath caught so stupidly hard that you were grateful no one else in the room was close enough to hear it.

He had said it lightly.

Maybe even teasingly.

But not empty. Not casual in the way casual comments usually were. There was something in his expression when he said it that made the whole line land low and warm and dangerous.

You recovered just enough to say, “That’s actually a deeply offensive thing to say to someone in Flyers employment.”

His mouth curved. “And yet.”

“And yet nothing.”

“The jacket looks good.”

You folded your arms tighter, painfully aware of the heat in your face. “I am literally stealing from your organization.”

“Borrowing.”

“Don’t use my words against me.”

“I think I will.”

You laughed again, quieter this time, the tension finally starting to leak out of your shoulders in pieces. The room still felt strange and hidden and too close somehow, like time had narrowed just around the two of you while the rest of the game continued somewhere else entirely.

Outside, the period break would be ticking down. You knew that. You should probably go. Should probably hand back the jacket, slip out, get your head back in the game, pretend none of this had happened until you had the privacy of your hotel room to lose your mind properly.

Instead you stayed.

And he let you.

“You really watch the Flyers’ socials?” you asked after a moment.

He looked unbothered by being caught on that again. “Some.”

“Why?”

“I told you. Research.”

“That answer gets less convincing every time.”

He smiled but didn’t argue.

You shifted your weight. “So what, you score and decide to chirp me personally from the ice?”

“I wasn’t chirping you.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was asking a legitimate media question.”

You stared. “A legitimate media question.”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to believe that in the middle of scoring a goal in a rivalry game, you were concerned with my content strategy?”

He looked you dead in the eye. “Maybe.”

You laughed helplessly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Says the one who broke into the medical room in disguise.”

“Okay, first of all, that is a wildly dramatic way to describe what happened.”

“You stole a jacket.”

“Borrowed.”

“And came back here during intermission.”

“When you say it like that, it sounds weird.”

“It is weird.”

You exhaled through a smile, then shook your head at yourself. “I cannot believe I’m in here.”

“I can.”

“Why?”

He looked at you for one steady beat too long.

“Because you wanted to see me.”

The words landed softly. Not smug. Not joking. Just clear.

And because there was no easy way around that kind of honesty, all you could do for a second was look back at him and feel your pulse leap right into your throat.

“Maybe,” you said, which was not a denial at all.

His expression warmed into something that made the whole room feel smaller.

“Maybe?” he repeated.

You lifted one shoulder. “You did save me from eating it in the hallway.”

“So this is gratitude.”

“Partially.”

“Only partially?”

“Don’t push it.”

He smiled again, then glanced toward the closed doorway before looking back at you. “You know, most people wait longer than a day before sneaking into the back hallways to flirt.”

You blinked. “I was not sneaking in here to flirt.”

His brows lifted.

You held his gaze for a second and then sighed. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“That’s honest.”

“That’s humiliating.”

“Not really.”

“It is from where I’m standing.”

“From where I’m standing,” he said, voice lower now, “I’m glad you came back.”

The warmth that moved through you then was so immediate it was almost dizzying.

You looked down, just for a second, collecting yourself. When you looked back up, he was still watching you with that maddeningly calm focus, like none of this felt strange to him at all. Or maybe it did feel strange and he just wasn’t running from it.

Either way, it made it very hard to think.

“You should probably be focusing on not being injured,” you said weakly.

“I can do both.”

“That sounds arrogant.”

“It’s efficient.”

You laughed under your breath. “That was my line.”

“I know.”

Of course he knew.

You were in trouble.

The realization arrived fully formed and weirdly peaceful. Not dramatic, not catastrophic. Just true. Whatever this was, whatever had sparked in one hallway and somehow carried itself all the way here, it was real enough that neither of you was pretending otherwise now.

A noise outside the room shifted—footsteps, a voice, the beginning of movement that meant intermission was thinning. Reality, returning.

You straightened slightly. “I should go.”

“Probably.”

Neither of you moved right away.

Then he tipped his head toward the jacket again. “You can keep that, you know.”

You looked down at it. “Absolutely not. I think this is already ethically murky.”

“It’d suit you.”

“There you go again.”

“I’m just saying.”

You slid one arm out of the sleeve. “You are impossible.”

He watched you shrug off the jacket, amusement still sitting easy at the edge of his mouth. When you stepped forward to hand it back, he took it with his good arm, fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than they needed to.

It was such a small thing.

It still sent a spark straight up your spine.

You cleared your throat. “Well. Glad you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

“And for the record”—you tilted your head, fighting a smile—“I still hate your arena.”

He laughed softly. “I figured.”

You started to step back.

Then he said, “Wait.”

You stopped.

His expression changed, just enough to tell you this next part mattered.

“When this trip’s over,” he said, “let me take you out.”

Your heart kicked hard.

The room went very still around the words.

Not as a joke. Not hidden in banter. Not softened into something you could politely dodge if you wanted to. Just there. Honest and direct and impossible to misunderstand.

You stared at him for maybe a second too long.

“A real date?” you asked, because apparently your brain had decided clarification was the best it could do under pressure.

His smile came back, slower this time. “Yeah. A real date.”

“With a Flyers employee.”

“With a Flyers employee.”

“That seems dangerous for your reputation.”

“I think I can handle it.”

You felt your own smile break loose before you could stop it, bright and helpless and probably giving away far too much.

“Okay,” you said.

His eyes stayed on yours.

“Okay?” he repeated.

“Yes,” you said, laughing lightly now because the happiness of it was suddenly too big to hold quietly. “Yes. I’ll go out with you.”

Something in his face softened then in a way you knew you would remember later. After the game. After the trip. After all of this. The kind of look that settled into memory before the moment had even ended.

“Good,” he said.

“Good?”

“Good.”

You shook your head, still smiling. “Very smooth.”

“I’m injured. Give me some credit.”

“You know what, fair.”

A voice called from outside the room, something about timing, something about updates. The spell of the moment loosened just enough to let the rest of the world back in.

You took one more step backward toward the door.

“I should really go now,” you said.

He nodded once. “I’ll text you.”

You blinked. “You don’t have my number.”

His mouth curved. “I’ll get it.”

“Very confident.”

“Usually works out.”

You laughed under your breath and reached for the door. “Bye, Crosby.”

“Bye.”

You slipped back into the hallway with your pulse still racing and your face warm and your whole body humming with the kind of adrenaline that had absolutely nothing to do with hockey anymore.

The sounds of intermission flooded back in all at once—staff voices, skate blades clicking somewhere nearby, the deeper thud of arena life resetting for the third period. You leaned briefly against the wall just outside the door and covered your face with one hand.

This was insane.

Actually insane.

You had started the day filming rivalry content at the glass and ended the second period accepting a date from Sidney Crosby in the Penguins’ medical area while disguised in stolen team gear.

No one on earth could know.

No one.

You pushed off the wall, fixed your credential, and headed back toward your side before anyone started asking where you’d gone. By the time you reappeared near the Flyers media lane, Olivia took one look at your face and narrowed her eyes.

“What happened?”

You forced your expression into something that you hoped read as normal and not like your entire internal life had just been rearranged. “Nothing.”

“That is the least believable thing you’ve ever said.”

“Please,” you said, lifting your camera back into position as the teams prepared to return, “out of respect for our friendship, don’t ask me anything right now.”

Her stare sharpened with immediate interest. “Oh my God.”

You looked determinedly toward the ice. “Olivia.”

She made a tiny, delighted noise of horror. “Oh my God.”

The third period was about to begin, the arena roaring back to life, the rivalry still burning hot all around you.

And somehow, against all reason and all timing and all professional logic, all you could think as you lifted your camera toward the ice again was this:

Later.

After the game.

There was a real date waiting for you on the other side of all this.

And for the first time all night, the electric feeling in the building no longer belonged only to the rivalry.

It belonged to you, too.

[kniesonice]

Everybody Falls In Love Somehow ╰┈➤ JS20

summary: juraj has always thought of himself to be a smooth talker, and dare he even say, doesn’t have any problems talking to women. but when the canadiens new social admin comes in a whirlwind of strawberry perfume and stunning smiles, juraj turns back into that 18 year old rookie who can’t properly string together a cohesive english scentence. but he likes you, and despite the way he looses the ability to breathe too deeply in your presence without the fear of collapsing, he’s determined to get you to fall for him. in his own awkward way, that is.

[word count] 12.7k

warnings: social admin! reader | idiots in love | obviously pining | general awkwardness | humour / crack | mentions of modern day trends and social media | sickly sweet amounts of fluff | mentions of sex / sexual tension but no actual smut | a kiss obviously | one google translated word | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion

pairing: juraj slafkovsky x reader

authors note: oh heyyyy! never ventured into juraj before so like, here’s this! i’m not completely opposed to a part two, but I also have no plans on it.

🎶 everybody loves somebody by dean martin, be like a woman by chris rainbow, clumsy by fergie, aperture by harry styles, lonely eyes by lauv, thirst trap by audrey hobert, stateside by pinkpantheress and zara larsson, misses by dominic fike + would I lie to you by charles & eddie

juraj slafkovský has always considered himself to be a pretty smooth talker. not in an obnoxious way that people would rather gauge their eyes out than be around—he's not that guy—but he's never struggled the way he’s seen some of the single guys on the team do. maybe it’s because he was pretty popular throughout school, or being thrusted into such a high profiled nhl team so young, but conversations come easily to juraj.

locker room banter, media scrums, chatting with fans after games. even talking to women has never really been a problem for him. it’s always a smile, a joke, and maybe a little accent charm—usually that's all it takes. some people think he’s cocky, but juraj calls it confidence. comfortability.

entirely capable of forming full, coherent english sentences despite growing up in a different country. and not just in the hockey world, but with the kind old woman behind the counter at his favourite bakery, and the super fan teenager who he passes on the sidewalk on his way to every morning practice.

but that all changes on a random tuesday in march.

juraj is halfway through unlacing his dirty skates, leaning forward in stall as he mercilessly tugs and pulls the white strings loose, when the door opens and the room falls in a half hush, and half something he can’t decipher.

reporters move throughout the room, busy bouncing between players from post practice comments that always drive him up the wall. thankfully, the team is winning right now, meaning the media isn’t going too hard. that, and juraj has already had his 15 minute seized and abused—so he’s free for now.

he can hear a voice, feminine in a way that makes him smirk, and unfamiliar in a way that tells him whoever the bodies belongs to is new. juraj can’t spot anyone yet, due to the reporters and media and josh anderson walking around half naked like that’s a normal thing.

then—the soft scent of sweet fruit. strawberries to be exact, delicate and sweet. and it’s not the artificial candy smell that you’d find in the kids section of body wash either, it’s something warmer and lighter. like fresh shampoo or maybe perfume. carried over the smell of rubber picks and sweaty shoulder pads.

if he wasn’t intrigued before, he is now. juraj pulls the tape off his socks, quickly balls it up into a textured sticky mess and then moves towards the garbage can in the middle of the locker room. he glances towards the sound of the voice without thinking. casually like he doesn’t want to seem too curious.

and then he promptly forget how lungs work. because moving through the room like a beautiful fairy, is you. he can only see the side of your face as you introduce yourself to jakub and sam, shirtless but still in there goalie pads like they haven’t had the chance to get out of them quite yet. but juraj can see that you’re smiling, bright and easy like you already know half the room even though you definitely don't.

a camera hangs from a strap across your shoulder, phone already in hand as you move on and begin introducing yourself to the equipment staff. he catches your voice again

"hi! sorry—hi. i’m the new social media admin.”

your voice is warm, a little breathless with nerves but still cheerful, and juraj watches as a few of the guys glance up from their stalls as they too realize that you’re new and pretty and walking through the room like it’s your new home. his brown eyes track over your figure, taking note of your professional yet trendy outfit, sneakers that have a tiny sharpie doodle of a heart by the toe. you probably forgot it was even there, and he’s smiling at the thought.

“you good slaf?” arbers voice rings out beside him, and juraj is blinking hard, surroundings coming back to him in a flash of sticky tape and spitty floor.

he clears his throat, avoiding his friends knowing smirk. “i’m good, yes.”

not wanting to finish that conversation, especially considering the way arber’s eyes have that teasing twinkle that only means bad things, juraj pushes through the room and sits back in his stall. he begins removing his shin socks and guards, but his eyes are entirely too keen on flying back to your moving form.

nick is standing up to greet you, because of course he is. and he’s smiling—laughing even—leaning in close as you show him some ideas for socials like tiktok and the other ones juraj doesn’t understand.

all the while he’s just staring at the two of you like someone has unplugged his brain. because this is all so ridiculous. he’s spoken to reporters in two languages, and has done live television interviews. hell, he once flirted with a girl at a café in toronto for only two minutes and still managed walked away with her number and a free pastry.

and yet now—watching you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear while laughing softly at something nick says—juraj suddenly feels eighteen again. new to the league, new to the english language, and definitely new to the horrifying experience of opening his mouth and realizing absolutely nothing intelligent is about to come out of it.

and dear god are you ever pretty. that much is obvious, and juraj thinks that’s maybe why he’s suddenly feeling so overwhelmed by the idea of having to look you in the eye, shake your hand and act like talking to people who look like you is a totally normal thing for him.

he sits up straighter as you move further into the room, introducing yourself to the remainder of the team as the rest of the hustle and bustle that is the montreal canadiens locker room slowly clears. offering polite smiles and quick handshakes that already have his hands sweating with anticipation.

juraj grimaces and wipes them down his undershirt, which is wet with his own sweat and only makes his palms worse.

you’re close enough now that he can taste the smell of your perfume or shampoo or whatever the hell you’ve used to make yourself smell so good, and it’s got him feeling light headed. which once again is just so stupid.

two stalls away now, laughing at something cole says—and knowing cole, probably something dumb and not really funny. but then whatever has come out of his friends mouth as you both looking towards him.

juraj immediately panics. because there’s no hiding now, not when you’re looking right at him, smiling that same bright smile like it’s a part of the job to be so beautiful.

and juraj slafkovský—first overall pick, professional hockey player, allegedly smooth talker—suddenly cannot remember a single english word if his life depended on it. which is a problem. a very big problem.

you’re on the move, doodled on sneakers moving effortlessly between the small space until you’re right in front of him, still wearing that smile and skin glowing like it’s a neutrogena commercial, shifting the camera strap a little higher on your shoulder.

"hi," you say brightly. "i’m the new social media admin."

juraj knows this because he’s practically been stalking you like some kind of predator as you’ve introduced yourself to the entire room. but apparently his brain has decided that remembering information is optional now, because he blinks back at you like this is groundbreaking news.

"hi," he manages to blurt out, too loudly for the now quieting locker room. good start.

your grin widens, and you hold out your hand like this is an interview and you’re doing your best to impress him. little do you know, if that was the case, juraj would’ve already given you the job.

“sorry, I’m y/n.”

at first, he leaves you hanging because he is currently focused on the same three things that he has been for the last 5 minutes since he first saw you. your smile, the fruity smell that now you’re closer juraj can definitely confirm is strawberry, and the horrifying realization that you are, objectively, the prettiest person he has ever spoken to or seen.

he grabs your hand a second too late, saving himself from major embarrassment. "oh—yes. hi. I am juraj."

unfortunately for him, your handshake is quick, but warm nonetheless. professional. "I know," you say with a small, almost sheepish laugh. "you’re kind of hard to miss around here."

juraj feels his brain reboot slightly. but all he can settle on is a stupid—“oh.”

you swallow, switching your weight between feet. “so um,” you start, thumbing over your shoulder in the direction you just came from. “cole said you’d be down for some media stuff later. and I know that’s probably the last thing you wanna wait around for on your free afternoon, but do you mind?”

he blinks, not having an opportunity to answer—or mentally curse out that fucker cole for that—before you’re continuing. “and you can say no,”you glance down at your phone for a moment, clearly checking something. “but it’s just a small promo thing for instagram, like a day at practice thing the higher ups are pushing. you know, connect to the young audience and all that.” you finish with a breathy giggle and wave of your hand, and juraj feels his heart pounding.

surprisingly enough, and even shocking himself a bit, he nods almost immediately. he wants to remember the way your eyes brighten forever and ever. “yes. yes, I can do clip.”

you almost grin, tilting your head with curiously and a little humour. you lift a gentle eyebrow, “a clip?”

he gestures vaguely, attempting to swallow the sandy paper feeling away in his mouth. it doesn’t work. “yes, with phone. the video you need, I can do the clips.”

your smile widens again, like this is the most normal sentence you've ever heard. mind you, it’s barley broken english. juraj internally scolds himself to chill the fuck out and get it together. especially if he has to spend prolonged periods of time with you.

"oh, wow perfect! thank you."

he nods again, a little too enthusiastically. but if you notice that, you don’t comment on it.

"yes. of course.”

a brief pause settles between you, a little awkward and something else he can’t place. juraj knows he should say something, make you feel even more welcome in the locker room and especially with him—he just has no idea what that something is.

thankfully, you save him from the silence with a short laugh. you adjust the camera strap again, and the heavy electronic lands against your hip. he averts his eyes from your curves before something totally embarrassing happens—like getting hard at the thought of your hips. jesus.

“well, I don’t really know my way around yet, so you may have to find me once you’re done.”

he subtly shakes his head, removing all thoughts of his dick and your body and everything else in between. juraj nods again like a doofus, scratching at the muscle of his shoulder like a nervous tic. “i’ll find you.”

you breathe out a breath of relief. “okay, thanks.” you pause, looking around the room. it’s mostly empty know, saved for a few linger-ers that are still in the shower. juraj hopes that you’re either gone by the time they come back out, or his teammates remember you here and they have the decency to wrap a towel around there hips.

when you look back at him, you’ve got your bottom lip between your teeth. “I should go. let you shower or whatever,” your eyes deliberately flicker down to his damp under armour shirt. he sits up straighter like some kind of peacock, hoping he looks big.

your grin widens like you know what he’s doing and he wants to bash his head against the stall. “but i’ll catch you later?”

“you will,” he assures quickly.

you smile at him once more—he’ll never get tired of seeing it, he’s already decided—and then turn heel, already pulling your phone back out to what looks like replying to emails.

juraj stands before realizing what he’s doing, still half dressed and praying his shirt covers his half hard dick. it doesn’t help that now he’s got a great view of the way your pants wrap snugly around your ass.

he takes two steps to follow you, almost walks right into the garage bin, and then his brain completely betrays him.

"I like strawberries."

you turn back towards him before you can leave, blinking in confusion. your eyes dart towards the empty stall, and then back to him like you didn’t even hear him get up.

“strawberries?” you blink, nose scrunching in confusion.

immediately realizes what he’s just done, and juraj to fight every demon in his large body to not just turn heel and book it out of there. but realistically that’s not an option, because he’s standing in front of you and you’re looking at him like you’re actually curious and not weirded out by how weird he’s acting.

he gestures awkwardly towards you. "you smell like—I mean not like smell—good smell. like fruit."

when you don’t immediately say something, there’s a full two seconds that he considers retiring from professional hockey and moving to a remote forest so he’ll never have to face you.

but then, you laugh. and it’s not awkward, or mean or laced with pity. it’s just soft and surprised, like it’s maybe the best thing you’ve heard all day.

"oh! my shampoo," you hum, tugging at the ends absentmindedly. "that’s so funny, I forget it smells that strong."

juraj just nods like this is very normal conversation to have with a girl he met less than 10 minutes ago. “yes. very strawberry."

"well, that's good then. i’m glad it's not a bad smell." you smile again, completely unbothered.

"no," juraj says too quickly, and then digs how own grave a few feet deeper. "very good smell."

you seem shockingly pleased by that information. “great,” you start to slowly walk towards the door, not quite looking away from him yet. “you’re pretty funny, you know?”

he almost does a cartwheel. “yes?”

you laugh, “yes.” you step out of the locker room, sending him one last friendly smile over your shoulder. “you’ll see me soon?”

juraj blinks. “I will?”

another cheerful laugh. “for the content?”

“right, yes.” he runs a shaky hand through his wet hair. “i’ll be quick.”

“no rush,” you say, and then you’re gone.

he doesn’t move for at least a minute after watching you walk out, committed to remembering every detail about you until he can recite it in his sleep. your yummy, soft looking hair. your round cheeks that remind him of a baby animal when your smile. how small and dainty your hand looked in his. the sound of your voice. the way your hips swayed when you were walking away—

he exhales slowly, embarrassingly worked up and flushed.

cole, who juraj completely forgot about, pipes up from his stall, unstrapping his elbow pads with too much amusement considering. "dude," he fucking snickers. “you are so hopeless.”

he slumps back down into his own stall and then bows his head. "I know." he scratches at his scalp roughly, looking back up towards his teammate before continuing solemnly. “I think I love her.”

cole tosses his nasty towel at juraj, and juraj doesn’t even make a move to throw it back. because despite the fact that being within five feet of you seems to short circuit his entire brain and possibly his respiratory system, he’s determined to try.

he is absolutely determined to make you fall for him.

——

let's just say the next two weeks are nothing short of a disaster. because for the life of him, juraj cannot just act normally around you. no matter how badly he wants to come across cool and totally fine, he's doing or saying something that portrays the exact opposite.

the first time it happens again after your first, nothing short of messy meeting, is in the locker room a few days later. like usual, the montreal canadiens room is loud with post practice chaos, but unlike yesterday when noah dobson hadn't declare himself indecent before you walked in and got a eyeful of his junk—which obviously has juraj feeling weirdly possessive of you—everybody is dressed and happy to participate in your silly videos.

in all honesty, juraj didn't even realize you'd already come into the room, so he walks out of the showers still dripping wet and only wearing briefs, showing off everything—from his abs, down to his defined thighs and contained (thankfully) dick.

your eyes meet across the room. you're already briefing cole and nick for whatever tiktok video you're planning on posting. you've got a camera around your neck like usual, but today you're wearing cheetah print slacks and a tight black top that make you look dangerous. sexy.

you smile at him, and then you're looking at his practically naked body and quickly looking back towards the phone screen once you realize. nick asks a question about whatever you're showing them, and juraj tunes out your response.

he's never gotten dressed quicker in his life, and when he lets his eyes wander back in your direction, he sees that you're leading his two teammates into the hallway—presumably to give the rest of the guys some privacy to finish up before shoving a camera into their faces.

the team's social channels love the little interviews—fast questions, dumb jokes, things fans can repost and interact with easily. juraj knows this, he's done them before not just with you, but with the last social admin. plus, tiktok's are always quicker and easier than full length youtube videos that have him wanting to bash his skull in.

but that being said, he'd film a 24 hour long video if you asked him too.

telling himself to be chill, he walks towards the three of you fully intent of making some breezy comment and walking behind frame. fans will love it, and maybe you'll laugh and juraj will get his groove back.

but of course it's not that easy. suddenly, he's completely forgot what a normal walk looks like. instead he stiffens halfway through the hallway like someone's pulled invisible strings through his shoulders. his stride goes strange and overly careful, like he's crossing thin ice instead of rubber flooring.

nick spots him first, mouth twitching, and then cole sees and absolutely looses it. "bro," cole starts, "why are you walking like that?"

and juraj straight up panics, and not subtly, either. because you look away from the phone as soon as cole starts laughing, eyes finding juraj like a month to a flame.

"like what?" he asks, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly.

nick snorts from where he's half leaning against the wall painted to look like the montreal logo. "like a baby giraffe."

cole continues. "no control of the limbs. just... everywhere."

his mouth parts, but nothing comes out. he's not sure why he looks back at you—maybe for help, or maybe a desperate attempt to try and get you to see through this awkward drought he’s got going on.

"leave him," you giggle, but despite that you're finding some kind of humour in this situation, you're still technically defending him, right? juraj's heart thumps and grows at the thought like the grinch.

you look between him and the montreal captains, something gentle in your gaze that makes juraj want to pull you into his arms and kiss you hard. because not only are you externally beautiful, but also internally sweet and kind and perfect.

"he was skating faster than the both of you at practice," you tell them cheekily, gaze flickering back to juraj. he immediately straightens, maybe too much. "he's allowed to have sore legs."

"yeah," he croaks out, feigning a confidence that you couldn't even locate with a microscope, and his teammates see right through it.

cole raises a brow, "practice got your legs all weak slaf? or something else?" his tease is far too knowing, and juraj feels himself go stiff. arms hanging at his sides like they're brand new. neck muscles pulled so tight that they're cramping up.

nick presses his lips together at the comment, failing miserably at containing his laughter. like cole, he too has very quickly caught on to the 21 year olds big fat crush on you.

juraj shoots them a glare over his shoulder, already abandoning his cool guy plan so he doesn't have to embarrass himself any further—if that's even possible at this point. "you guys are bullies," he mutters, trying to maintain what he clearly thinks is a smooth, confident exit.

but unfortunately, that's the exact moment he turns—and walks directly into the doorframe.

the sound of forehead meeting wood is a dull, solid thunk, and it has you gasping from a few feet away before you can stop yourself, hands flying to your face while your eyes go all wide with concern.

juraj doesn't see that of course, because he's frozen, eyes squeezed closed in an attempt to not scream out in frustration.

cole absolutely loses it, which is no help. his laugh cracks high and loud, doubling him over as he slaps a hand against the wall. nick is no better, shoulders shaking as he buries his face in his sleeve.

he straightens again with forced dignity, like maybe if he pretends it didn't happen the entire room didn't just see it in real time.

"are you okay?" you ask, hands falling from your face as you step towards him, concern tugging at your voice.

juraj grimaces, rubbing the side of his head. "i'm fine," he insists quickly. then, after a tiny pause and a look from you that says you definitely don't believe him—"...just stubbed my toe."

cole makes a strangled noise that turns into another round of laughter, all while nick manages to at least some what cool his expression. "your toe is in your forehead now?" his teammate asks.

juraj glares at them again before finally looking at you, the tips of his ear almost as red as the jerseys they wear. "...I meant to say forehead," he lets out a weak laugh.

you wince, and then because apparently you want him to pass the fuck out, you reach out and way up. then delicately, you brush your fingers over his soft forehead where it definitely looks like a goose eggs is forming.

your eyes flick to his chocolate ones. "do you need to team doctor?"

he swallows and shakes his head, which only makes it ache. and when you pull your hand away, juraj has to try really hard to to grab it and hold it in his.

"i'll be fine."

—

the next time is worse. much worse.

like you usually are during morning practices, you're stationed just by the entrance of the rink with the team phone in your hands, the canadiens logo decal behind you slightly crooked because someone—probably arber—bumped into the wall earlier and it fell off a notch.

the hallway smells faintly like ice, rubber, and that sharp sports detergent they use on the jerseys, but by now you're used to it and it doesn't hinder the chance of getting quick and easy content.

you've already filmed a few of the guys, which means there's been lots of stupid jokes and terrible answers for your little daily question. even anderson, who usually gives you one word responses or ignores you completely in the morning grumpy haze, gave a funny response.

between guys, you glance down at your phone, adjusting the angle slightly so you catch the players even sooner. then through the lens you see the locker room door swing open, and out walks the 6 foot 3 inches of muscle also known as juraj slafkovsky.

you immediately smile.

he's not yet got his helmet on, the strap hanging off his thick fingers loosely. hobbling down the padded hallway like a penguin because of his big ol’ skates. then, he spots you and the red glittery phone case covered in little stickers.

"juraj!" you say cheerfully, stepping into his path before he can escape down the hallway, not that he was planning on it. you lift the phone towards him. "quick question for tiktok—favorite post game snack?"

and it shouldn't be hard to answer, because juraj eats like he's the farthest thing from a professional athlete. he has snacks in his stall, in his car, keeps them in his bag. once you watched him demolish an entire sleeve of crackers during a media break like it was a competitive sport.

he could list fifteen snacks right now; chocolate bars, chips, or even those weird protein waffles he buys in bulk. but because it's him, and it's you, it's the hardest question he's ever had to answer.

his eyes go wide the second the camera points at him. and not the polite, media trained wide. no, it's the oh no she's looking at me kind of wide.

"snack?" juraj repeats after a beat.

"yeah," you say patiently.

he nods hard, like a bobble head. "yes! snack!"

behind the camera your mouth is already twitching, because he looks like someone just asked him to solve advanced calculus. you watch him think, clearly very hard, and for a moment you hope that he can properly understand the question, and it's not too complex inside his translating brain.

"probably...uh..." trailing off, his gaze flickers to your face for half a second—quick and uncertain—then back to the phone like it's a dangerous animal. silence stretches that you'll have to edit out, and somewhere on the ice a stick clatters to the ground.

"...čokoláda... maybe also protein thing? And sometimes—how you say—"

juraj's brain switches languages mid sentence, which you're starting to realize happens whenever he gets nervous. you watch with the kindest gaze as he lifts his hand vaguely in the air like he's trying to sculpt the answer. "—little salty stick breads."

"pretzels?" you offer, hopeful yet certain you know exactly what he's thinking of—and you are.

the relief that floods his face is immediate and dramatic. "yes!" he points at you like you just solved a physics equation. "pretzels."

you grin—that full, bright smile that seems to take over your entire face whenever you're pleased with something—and juraj feels it. It hits him straight in the chest first, then travels up to his ears where his pulse starts thudding louder than it has any right to.

he's still not used to the way you smile at him like that—like a little baby bunny he wants to coddle. the way it feels a little too directed and like maybe, you're charmed by his weirdness.

much to his surprise, you tuck the phone away after that, sliding it neatly into the pocket of your jacket. the hallway outside the locker room is still half active—equipment managers passing by, a few players' voices echoing somewhere deeper inside—but there are definitely a couple guys who haven't come out yet for morning practice.

normally you'd be waiting, catching everyone with the lens for the silly videos. but you don't seem to  worried about missing anyone.

"solid answer," you hum approvingly, rocking slightly on the balls of your feet. your hands tucked into your back pockets, shoulders relaxed, like you're settling in.

juraj lets out a breath that turns into a quick laugh—too sharp, almost pained. "I think so."

you tilt your head a little, studying him in that casually observant way you have that always makes him feel like you're seeing way more than he intends to show.

"how's your head?" your gaze flickers upwards.

but juraj's brain immediately short circuits. because there are two ways that sentence could be interpreted, and unfortunately the first one that pops into his mind is absolute wrong one.

his thick eyebrows jump. "uh—what?"

you blink at him, clearly confused by his confusion. "from the door yesterday?"

oh. right. the blood that had been rushing to his ears immediately redirects straight to his face. juraj clears his throat, suddenly very interested in the scuff marks on the floor. "oh right." he rubs his shoulder pads, attempting something that resembles casual composure. "it's better. i'm better."

you stare at him for a beat longer, and then like the thoughts starts clicking into place, your mouth slowly curves upwards. "...what did you think I meant?"

he chokes on absolutely nothing as he attempts to splutter out a response. "I—nothing."

you take one slow step closer, curiosity bright in your eyes now. "juraj."

he loves the way you say his name.

"I just thought you were asking about my head."

you raise an eyebrow. "that is what I was asking."

he gestures vaguely in the air like the explanation exists somewhere between you. "but like—different."

your lips press together, clearly fighting something. "different how?"

juraj immediately regrets every life decision that has led him to this moment. because he feels dirty and like the boy he was back when he went to high school in slovakia. he shifts his weight, tall frame suddenly awkward in the narrow hallway. "you know."

"do I?" you absolutely do know, and the way your eyes light up tells him you're enjoying this way too much.

he groans quietly under his breath, a deep berry flush to his cheeks as he realizes in real time that you're messing with him. "you're doing this on purpose."

finally, you completely crack in the form of a bright laugh, slipping out from deep in your belly, completely unconfined as it echos down the hall.

"relax," you muse, nudging his arm with your elbow as you pass him to lean against the wall. "I was just making sure you didn't give yourself a concussion."

juraj exhales through his nose, trying very hard to recover some dignity.

"after all, you did run into a door frame," you add.

"I walked into a door frame."

"full speed."

"I was distracted." he adds quickly before thinking, only after realizing that what he just somewhat admitted.

you glance up at him again, almost all traces of laughter gone as you let a beat of silence sit thick between you. "by what?" you ask innocently.

juraj can only just...look at you. the strawberry scent you always wear lingers faintly in the space between you. and your hair's still a little messy from the early morning. the canadiens media badge clipped slightly crooked to your jacket.

you're watching him with that same open curiosity you bring to your interviews and reels, and suddenly his brain forgets how to operate again.

"nothing," he finally manages to speak, although he's not sure how sure that sounds to your ears.

your eyes narrow just a little, but before you can press him on it, the locker room door swings open behind him with a loud bang. one of his teammates steps out—and immediately clocks the two of you standing there and fucking smirks like it’s the best thing he’s seen.

juraj doesn't even turn, but he can feel the grin forming behind him. his eyes linger on you for another second too long, like he forgets where he is and what's going on. something warm and uncertain flickers across his face before he seems to realize what he's doing.

and then he straightens abruptly, like he's been burned by you. your smile falters ever so slightly, but you don't let him see it.

"...okay well, I need to go," he says awkwardly.

"okay," you echo.

juraj nods, like that concludes the interaction, then awkwardly sidesteps around you to escape down the hallway. but before he steps out onto the ice, he takes one more look at you over his bulky shoulder pad.

then promptly smacks his elbow into the glass.

you bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing as he corrects course and sends you a quick nod. all you do is wiggle your fingers in a wave.

—

soon enough, the locker room becomes unbearable for juraj. and not because of practice, or games, or shitty media days—but because of you. or rather, his teammates tearing into him about you.

professional hockey players might occasionally miss a defensive assignment, but they absolutely do not miss the way juraj suddenly goes rigid every time you walk into the room, or the way his voice drops two octaves whenever you say hello to him. the teasing starts subtly, little comments slipped into filming sessions or interviews. josh drags juraj into frame during a video and insists he answer a question. arber loudly suggests you go ask juraj something whenever you're looking for a player.

and each time, he reacts exactly the same way—freezing, stumbling over his words, looking like he's been caught doing something illegal just by standing next to you.

the problem only gets worse as the weeks go on. the moment you enter the locker room, someone inevitably calls your name just loud enough for juraj to hear, and his head snaps up every single time, betraying him instantly. a few of the guys start narrating his behavior for you, far too happily. one afternoon someone—cole—casually mentions that juraj checks his reflection in his phone camera several times before you show up, which apparently is wildly out of character for him.

to make matters worse, you laughed at that—light, amused, not even remotely mean—but somehow that makes the humiliation worse.

and what nobody mentions out loud—but what everyone clearly notices, minus slaf himself—is the way you seem to gravitate toward him too. not in a dramatic way, but in just small things. when you're filming clips, you somehow end up near his stall more often than anyone else's. during group videos, you look toward juraj first when you're asking questions.

sometimes you linger near him a little longer than necessary, smiling that bright, easy smile that makes juraj forget basic language skills. and he, unfortunately, cannot act normal about it.

one afternoon he walks over while you're standing near the equipment table organizing clips on your phone, clearly intending to say something. you look up and greet him casually, but the moment he realizes how close he's standing, panic visibly sweeps through him. juraj tries to step back—once, twice—and bumps straight into the corner of the table. a water bottle tips. he catches it instantly, athlete reflexes saving him at the last second, but the movement knocks a roll of tape onto the floor instead.

you bend to pick it up, assuring him it's fine. when you stand again, juraj is staring at you like he's completely forgotten why he walked over in the first place.

you ask if he needed something.

he hesitated, "yes," then, after a long moment of very obvious thinking, quietly confessed that he forgot what it was.

you needed to bite back a smile.

—

the moment that finally makes you call him out happens a few days later, after practice while you're filming some of the guys in the locker room for a question of the day kind of thing.

on camera, juraj is perfect. relaxed, confident, tossing out answers without hesitation like the man you knew before you actually met him. when you ask who on the team is most likely to forget their gear on a road trip, he immediately says "cole," which earns a loud protest from across the room and a laugh from everyone in the vicinity—including you.

once you've declared the clip perfect, and have fluttered your lashes at him, juraj's throat has gone so dry that it feels like the pits of hell. without thinking twice, he reaches for the water bottle beside him—and completely misses it.

his gigantic hand knocks it off the bench, sending water spilling across the floor like a waterfall. and all juraj can do is stare down at it like the bottle personally betrayed him. when he looks back up, you're openly laughing now—not trying to hide it at all.

"what?" he asks, a half grin pulling at his mouth.

you shake your head, still smiling. "i'm trying to figure you out."

he blinks at you, confused, while you cross your arms and gesture vaguely toward where the phone is still clutched loosely in your hand. "on camera you're like—confident and smooth and like a media pens best case scenario." he smiles a little at that, but you continue, clearly entertained. "but when you're just talking to me you drop things. or forget what you're doing. or stand too close and then panic."

juraj immediately goes very still. "...I do not panic."

you raise an eyebrow. "you so do."

he opens his mouth to argue, then stops, mostly because he's not sure what to say—and also because you're completely right. for a moment, juraj is worried that you think he doesn't like you, which in hindsight feels worse than if you knew he was actually completely hopeless in the sense of you and your everything.

the silence stretches until you tilt your head at him, teasing. "do I make you nervous or something?"

the question lands squarely between you, and he looks like someone unplugged his brain entirely. for several seconds he just stares at you, before finally rubbing the back of his neck, embarrassed. "...maybe little."

your grin widens. "a little?"

he sniffles, "yes."

most of the canadiens roster have dispersed now, either in the showers or upstairs for lunch, leaving just you and juraj with the quiet hum of the locker room. he can't decide if that makes his racing heart more unbearable or not—so much so he almost clutches his chest.

you study him for a moment—dark eyes, the slope of his nose, plump lips that people would pay for—before leaning just slightly closer, curiosity sparkling in your eyes. juraj forgets how breathing works almost instantly, taking quick shallow breaths that drown in strawberry and something else that is just so you.

"that's funny," you settle on, making his eyebrows pull together above the bridge of his nose.

"why?"

"because, like I said, you're very confident everywhere else."

juraj swallows before answering quietly, almost like the truth slips out before he can stop it. "that is because you are not there."

your laugh comes softer this time, the sound quieter than before, almost thoughtful. something about your expression shifts—something warm replacing the easy teasing that had been dancing in your eyes moments ago.

your smile grows again, small and fond, the kind that lifts your cheeks just enough to make your eyes crease at the corners. "I see."

for a second neither of you say anything. the hallway outside the practice rink hums faintly with distant noise—someone rolling a cart somewhere, a burst of laughter from outside the room—but it all feels far away, muffled by the strange little bubble that has settled between you.

juraj suddenly becomes very aware of how close you're standing. close enough that if he looks down even slightly, your eyes are right there waiting. and your cleavage.

so obviously he looks down. and immediately regrets it.

because you're looking at him like a dream, all big eyes and long lashes. a hopeful yet knowing twinkle in your gaze that has him shivering. it's not teasing—never is—just attentive and sexy and like you know exactly what you're doing to him and thrive on it.

juraj clears his throat quietly and rubs the back of his neck, suddenly fascinated with the scuffed rubber floor. "you are very...confident today," he mutters, not even sure if it's the right word he's looking for.

your eyebrows lift. "today?"

he glances at you again, immediately flustered by the amused little tilt of your head. "usually also," he corrects quickly, and that only makes your smile widen.

"i'll take that as a compliment." you rock forward just enough that your jacket zipper brushes his abs, and for juraj, it might as well have been your naked boobs according to the way he flushes bright pink.

"it was," he says after an embarrassing clear of his throat. he pauses, eyebrows drawing together again like he's not sure of his coherence. "...I think."

you laugh that pretty sound again, and he feels the sound of it somewhere uncomfortable near his ribs. you rock back slightly on your heels, still facing him, hands tucked loosely behind your back like you're in absolutely no hurry to leave.

"so," you start lightly, "are you always this smooth with women or am I just special?"

and he nearly fucking chokes. his eyes go wide for half a second before he tries—very unsuccessfully—to recover. "I am normally very good," he insists, a little defensive now. "very charming."

"oh, I'm sure."

"I am."

your grin is downright mischievous now. "you walk into doors."

"that was one time."

"you also dropped, like six pucks when I smiled at you one time."

despite himself, juraj has to press his lips together to try not to smile. "in my defence they were stacked poorly."

"of course they were." you tease.

if he wasn't completely stupid, he'd probably reach out and tug your hair now. maybe even tickle your side until you're squealing, begging for mercy—which he'd smooth out with a kiss and one more playful tickle just because he's a jerk.

if he's being honest, there's a hundred things he wish he could do with you, and say to you, but the words just won't come out. he wants to ask you for a candle lit dinner that ends with a kiss on your doorstep and nothing more because he insists on being a gentlemen. a morning coffee run where you'll inevitably argue that your hazelnut iced latte is better than his hot americano—it is, but juraj wouldn't admit that.

he wants the late nights and the kisses and the domestic bliss he sees all around him in the form of his friends and teammates. he wants you on his arm at team events just like their partners would be.

juraj shifts his weight slightly, the rubber sole of his shoe squeaking faintly against the padded floor. you can see that he wants to say something else—like the thought is there, hovering just behind his teeth—but he keeps hesitating, eyes flicking briefly toward the locker room doors and then back to you again.

you watch him with an easy patience, head tilted a little, like you can see the gears turning.

without wanting to beat around the metaphorical bush any longer, he does his best to collect his jumbled thoughts and force them out in english.

he clears his throat. "so... uh—" a pause. rubs the back of his neck, fingers brushing through the short hair there. "there is...charity night on friday."

you blink once, mouth curving slowly when the implications start puzzling together. "yea," you hum lightly, as if this is very obvious information—because it is. "there is."

juraj nods, immediately aware that that had been a terrible opening sentence. "I mean—" he tries again, shoulders squaring like he's regrouping. "the casino gala thing. the team goes."

"I know," you say, the smile in your voice growing. "I helped organize half the media coverage for it."

fucking obviously. he presses his lips together for a second, looking briefly at the floor before glancing back up again. this is going horribly. despite his brain telling him to abort mission, juraj tries again.

"well," he prompts, attempting some version of casual, "I was wondering if...you will be there."

the question lands between you like a spoonful of honey in a warm cup of tea—thick, sweet and right. for a split second, you just look at him, half surprised and half digesting what is happening. then, your eyes brighten.

"oh," you say, almost delighted. "I will be there, working, but there nonetheless."

and the way you say it is light, but there's something playful tucked into it—something that makes juraj suddenly very aware of how quickly his heart just picked up. hell, he doesn't even know what nonetheless means but he doesn't even care.

he shifts his weight, knees feeling weak. "yeah?"

you nod once, very seriously. "i'll be the one in navy."

as if he would need help trying to find you in a room full of people. juraj almost laughs at the thought, exhaling through his nose in a quiet exclamation despite the attempt to stay cool. "i'll see you there then."

"of course." you take a small step backward, the moment loosening just a little as the hallway noise drifts back in—the murmur of voices in the showers, the clatter of equipment somewhere around the corner. then you lift your phone in a small goodbye gesture. "see you friday night, juraj."

you turn and start walking towards the grand entrance of the locker room, your steps easy and unhurried.

juraj watches you go, smiling with disbelief. 

halfway down the corridor, you glance back over your shoulder, just once and quick. and you smile before disappearing through the threshold, swept into the chaos of the hallway.

he stands in the middle of the room for a moment, staring at the hallway with his heart in his ass. for the first time since you met, juraj doesn't feel as hopeless. because now, he's pretty sure, you like him. and maybe not more than a friend, but he'll take that over the opposite.

then, just before cole walks back onto the locker room with a mouth full of saucy chicken, juraj laughs to himself, muttering quietly, "...navy."

—

the annual charity casino gala thing—you're still not sure what it's actually called—is loud in the comfortable, polished way charity events always are. soft music drifts through the decorated ballroom over the sound of poker chips and slot machines, glasses clink at the bar, and the low hum of conversation fills the room.

round tables glow with candlelight, and a large canadiens logo is projected softly across the far wall beside the stage. it looks great, even better than you could've imagined, but you don't allow yourself to properly enjoy any of it.

you've been moving all night, navy silk dress soft around your ankles and phone in your hand like the pounds of makeup and million pins in your teased to the heavens ponytail aren't weighing you down. for at least three hours now, you've been weaving between between players and guests capturing quick clips—short interviews, little candid moments, the kind of content fans love from team events.

you've been too wrapped up in the hustle and bustle of your job to even remember the flirty conversation from a few days ago with juraj. which is surprising, because every night in bed it's all you can think about. since the moment you introduced yourself to the tall slovak all those weeks ago, it's been hard to focus on anything but him and that tummy fluttering accent of his.

you didn't even mean for your silly crush to get to this point—seeking him out in every room, staring at his hands while he taped his stick (disguised as a how to video, obviously), and looking forward to his inevitable stumbles and trips in your presence. but somehow, you're here, feeling like you might really like juraj slafkovsky, and feeling stupid thinking he might feel the same.

although you were originally certain that he totally had some sort of feelings for you, that small seed of doubt in your brain told you otherwise, and the last thing you want to do is come onto a player—risk your job—for a guy who's simply just a clutz.

you take a deep breathe and stop at one of the high tables lining some of the poker tables. setting your phone down, you try and take some weight off your aching feet—you regret choosing heels for tonight, but how could you not when they matched your dress so perfectly?—by half leaning onto the table.

a few moments of humming silence pass before a shadow settles over you, and when you look up, you're met with the sight of jakub dobeš. he grins, always happy, holding a champagne flute the wrong way.

"hey." he leans on the table, miming you.

"jakub, hi." you raise a playful brow, "giving up on the night already?"

you've always like jakub. mostly because he's easy going and agrees to all your crazy content ideas—even the cinnamon challenge which was a hard pass from everyone else, even juraj despite his best efforts to eat that spoonful of spice. but he's also just nice, which can be hard to find in your experience with athletes. of course, he's no match for your favourite slovak.

"slot machines are taking all my money," he blows out a humoured breath, eyeing said machines with hatred.

you laugh, loud and unbothered, head thrown back to expose your throat. "well, thank god you're a millionaire."

jakub flushed at that, always humble when it comes to the amount of money he makes. "well." he hums in agreement, eyes landing on you once again once the laughter settles. "are you enjoying the night?"

"enjoying is a strong word," you wince. "I've been running around all night getting content, I think if I ask juraj to answer one more question he might throw a poker chip at my head."

he almost rolls his eyes. but he can see that there's a truth behind your words—doubt swimming in your eyes as you brush your own comment off. like juraj doesn't mean anything to you. as if. you're both just as clueless as the other.

"he would never," jakub says gently, letting the words wash over you like a warm wave. "he likes you too much."

you blink, looking towards the goalie like you're trying to gauge if he's fucking with you. he's not. "he...doesn't really."

"it's true." he leans in closer, like he's letting you in on a secret. "i've been with him all night, for the most part, and the entire time he's been watching you."

and it's true. even know, you can feel the heat of those melted chocolate eyes boring into you from somewhere in the room. maybe at a table with a loosing hand, maybe in a group that's not really paying attention to where juraj's eyes are trained. but he's somewhere, watching. admiring. listening to your loud laughter and jealousy simmering in his pit knowing jakub is the one getting that sound out of you.

you swallow, picking at a flower petal that's fluttered down from the extravagant arrangement in the middle of each table. "I haven't noticed." it's a lie, one jakub notes but doesn't call you out on.

"like you said, you're busy."

you push away from the table, and grab your phone with more heat than you intend to, and it almost slips out of your hand. you clear your throat, “yeah. I should get some more content, unfortunately it doesn't do it itself." you're walking away already, avoiding the feeling of juraj's eyes following your movement from somewhere deep in the venue. "i'll catch you later?"

jakub half smirks, nodding with a teasing understanding that makes you feel funny. "yes. have fun."

the room is a little louder now as more people arrive and start drinking, but you welcome the distraction with open arms, and hop right back into work mode when you find sam and his wife, looking all too keen on answering some silly questions for the candiens tiktok account.

you float around the room once again, the same best dressed of the evening question pumping through your veins and spewing out your mouth. hell, you even got martin st. louis to participate, to which he obviously answered himself because he's just that guy.

moving like a woman on a mission once you're back in your groove, you tackle any player you come across, sometimes not even registering who you're taking to until the camera is pointed in there face.

you spot a smaller group standing around one of the tables, laughing over some disastrous fold during one the poker games and sipping drinks like they're used to it. you walk towards them, not noticing juraj until you're right at the edge.

you falter, barley, not enough for him to even notice—not when you plaster on your usual smile.

juraj speaks first, because of course he does. the dim lighting somehow illuminating the light flush across his cheeks. "hello."

"hey," you beam right back at him for a second too long, and have to force yourself to look at the the other guys. "you guys wanna film a little video for me?"

"yes." he decides before his teammates even get the chance. the eagerness has you feeling a little bashful, so you hide that behind your phone—pointed in the direction of the closest person, who happens to be poor cole.

"best dressed tonight?" you practically yell because you're all floaty, and the fucker has the audacity to snort in your face. your talk with jakub has your feeling very different and not as confident as before, which is a whole new learning process.

cole recovers quickly, saving you from embarrassment. "easy, me."

"you wish, dude." jake evans pipes up across the table, the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone, like he'd gotten too warm. you can relate.

you pan the camera to him, repeat the question and try really hard to ignore the familiar feeling of eyes on your face. unfortunately, you don't last too long and take a peek at juarj.

he is still clearly blushing, and when you're eyes meet for that brief moment, he's immediately averting his gaze. that has you grinning a little as you turn your attention back to jake. "I don't know, sam is looking sharp."

then it's nick, who hums over the question you're getting tired of asking like it's some crazy thoughtful thing. "best dressed? probably marty."

you laugh, "respectful answer." then you mention that their coach also said himself, and that gets a round of deep chuckles from all the guys, who expect nothing less.

and then—then, you're looking at him. phone clutched loosely in your hands because it feels like your entire body has gone numb just from the way juraj was just eyeing you and your navy silk. full of adoration and desire. at least, you hope.

you swallow. "juraj?"

he blinks hard, then once more softer as his eyes flicker back to yours, cheeks flashing deeper at being caught. "sorry, what was the question again?"

nick drops his head in defeat, but he's grinning like this is an episode of the office. "dude, you're hopeless."

"best dressed tonight?" you repeat, ignoring the captain and everyone else.

juraj doesn't even pretend to think about it, answering the question before he even realizes how it may sound. "you."

you splutter, "me?"

"yes." he nods, voice gravely.

cole slaps juraj's thick arm, a combination of disbelief and joy. "oh my god you idiot, you can't say our admin."

you can only stand there in silence and something fond flickering across your face, watching as he shrugs without a care, like juraj is finally tired of feeling so hopeless. "but y/n is the best dressed."

he looks at you, through the phone, so you lower it just enough to see him properly. "that's not how the game works," you remind him, voice light and teasing and wordlessly telling him you're like really fond with his answer. "you're supposed to pick a player or something."

to everyone's discretion, juraj considers that for about two seconds. then he gestures vaguely around the grand room. "they all dress the same," chocolate eyes drift back to yours. "you look nicest."

you make a sort of choking sound, and cole looks at you like he's debating if he should smack your back or not.

jake mutters a very humoured and very audible oh my god while already walking away.

nick mumbles something about needing another drink, and then grabs cole by the collar and all but drags the clueless right wing away—leaving you and juraj alone and you can only watch the leave, a pit in your belly that you can't quite grasp.

for the first time ever, you're nervous to be alone with juraj. and not because you should be afraid of him, but because you're afraid of your feelings and what the means for the friendship you've grown to cherish with the awkward slovak.

with pursed lips, you turn back to face him. "hey." plastering on an exaggerated smile, you hope to bury your nerves, not wanting him to mistake them for something else. like hatred.

he smiles, although it looks a little pained, which only makes him cuter to you. "hi." then, with as much nonchalance he can manage, leans his elbow on the table and rest's his chin on his fist. but he misses the first time, head jerking before correcting himself.

now you're smiling for real.

"best dressed huh?" you ask, resting your own elbows on the table across from him, palming your own chin like a naughty child.

for a moment, the question catches him off guard, but juraj should've also known you'd bring it up at the first chance of alone time. he lets out a short breathless laugh. "very much so." as if to emphasize his point, his gaze wanders over your beautifully fitting dress, and then the rest of you because he's greedy.

you have the urge to shy away, but you don't. it feels nice to be admired, even if it's just in your head. "well," you start, eyes flirtatious as they connect with his once more. "I think i've got some competition in you."

he swallows, nervous, and your smile widens, successful. you jerk your head towards his almost perfectly fixed tie. "did you tie that yourself?"

juraj follows your gaze, and then touches the end of his tie shyly. "yes, youtube helped," he admits, accent thicker than usual.

before you can think otherwise, your mouth moves faster than your head. maybe it's because you're feeling extra gooey when it comes to juraj tonight, or maybe it's because he looks unfairly good in his perfectly tailored plaid suit and a watch that costs more than your rent. but you say—"lucky youtube."

your eyes widen the same time as his. "sorry, I uhm should go intercept noah before he can escape me." bashful, you push off the table in a hurry, so much so that in your haste the flower arrangement in the middle wobbles dangerously.

hands fly towards the vase, both yours and his, and they tangle together in a poor attempt to keep it upright. thankfully, by some miracle, it's saved. your eyes meet over the lilies and you both breathe a laugh.

"close call." you say.

he nods. "just catching up to me." as if just remembering your fingers are half intertwined, juraj pulls back, much to your dismay.

schooling your features, you run your hand through the ends of your ponytail to give them something to do. "seems so."

you watch his mouth open as he stutters, but before he can get any kind of words out, you're cutting him off, completely oblivious. "content. right. I'll see you around juraj."

then you're gone, disappearing into the crowd in a haze of strawberry and silk.

you last about an hour before your feet start really screaming at you. the first chance you get without someone infront of you for content opportunity, you're hobbling away and away—not stopping until the chilly spring air is washing over your feet skin and entering your lungs.

less than graceful, you throw yourself down to the steps of the building, and the cold stone seeps through your dress. it feels nice, but it feels even better when you ease your cramped toes and blistered ankles out of the demon heels.

immediately, you're groaning in relief, rubbing at them like you're seasoning meat. and you do that for about 5 minutes, alone, before the doors behind you swing open with a distant squeak.

casting a glance over your bare shoulder, you're not surprised to see juraj—looking a whole lot sheepish standing behind you, big hands in the pockets of his slacks like he's unsure what he's even doing out here.

you look back down at your throbbing toes. for a second, you consider pretending you're not barefoot at this fancy event, but that feels impossible when there's literally no other explanation. so instead of feeling embarrassed, you kinda just laugh.

you lift your shoes slightly, waving them like surrender in his direction. "don't judge me."

he blinks, takes a tentative step closer. close enough now that if you really reached out, your nails could graze his leg. juraj laughs softly, "I would never."

a moment passes, the music from inside vibrating just enough to make out through the heavy doors. then, he takes another shuffle closer, until he's right beside you. he doesn't sit, not yet.

"are you okay?"

you tilt your head way back to look at him and nod once. "my feet are rebelling."

like he's only just realizing what you're actually doing, he glances down at them—you wish you repainted your toenails now—then back at your face. "...the shoes did that?"

"unfortunately." you find amusement when juraj nods like he deeply understands your struggle, despite likely never wearing heels in life.

he grimaces. "they look painful."

"they are painful."

then, internally, juraj hesitates, deciding whether to leave you alone or not. more specifically, if you and your sore toes are a hint that you want to be alone. but he tells himself that if that was the case, it would be more obvious—he's awkward around you, not fucking dense.

so despite the fact that you still make him a little nervous, juraj sits down beside you on the concrete. of course not too close, which is infuriating for your heart and goosebumps, but close enough that your shoulders are almost touching.

testing the waters because you can, you sway towards him until you do brush, and he doesn't pull away. you'll take it.

the quiet stretches comfortably between you for a moment, and you bask in the closeness and comfort of it all.

"you did good tonight," juraj notes after a second, hands dangling between his bent knees—because he's a giant who can't sit normally.

you glance sideways at him, the beginning stages of a beaming grin starting on your face. "yeah?"

he meets your gaze. "yes." a pause. then he nods towards the doors like an afterthought. "you make everything more fun."

now you're truly smiling, because he's just told you something that you're always striving to achieve in the workplace. once again, you lean in closer to him, arms now fully pressed together.

"thank you."

he shrugs but still doesn't pull away. "it is true."

a breeze picks up, sweeping through the packed lot of cars that belong to staff and the team alike. it smacks against you, moving your dress and sweeping some escaped ponytail hairs into your vision. you shiver, cool, and attempt to push them behind your ears—it doesn't work.

and for the first time since you waltzed into his life and flipped it on its axis, juraj acts on confidence and instinct, not even thinking before shedding his suit jacket and offering it to you. "take this."

your heart swells. "I'm okay."

he shakes his head, "you're not."

you're still hesitant, even though you want nothing more than to wrap yourself in his expensive smelling jacket. because you're polite, because you're nervous. whatever it is, you're feeling it.

but juraj? he's not taking no for an answer. "please, I am warm anyways." he blinks at you like a puppy dog, you're pretty sure he doesn't even mean to, but it has you nodding, accepting the jacket he slips over your bare shoulders. 

you simply just watch him, maybe a little lovesick, but you don't even care. because he rubs your shoulder like he can't stop himself—then catches your eyes and plays it off like he was just getting off some lint.

he clears his throat, bringing his hands back to himself. "better, yes?"

"much. thank you." you draw your knees up to your chest, looking like a little cozy ball, and juraj's lip curls upwards at the sight. you catch his gaze, and smile back.

"I hope that I don't annoy you too badly." you tell him soon after, tilting your head as you study him, curiously. "with all my questions and videos." you add on quickly, covering up what you really mean—your personality, because of course your brain decides to remind you that juraj slafkosvky could still very well hate you.

"you could never." he reassures you so quickly that you have to wait a few seconds for it to register. he continues, a blush high on his cheeks, "and I meant what I said, you are dressed very nice."

"I told you i'd be in navy." you hum playfully, but it barely overpowers the nervous tremor to your tone. because you could never annoy him. he said so himself.

juraj snickers. "you did."

"good choice?"

the night breeze whirls again, blowing your hair all around, making you scrunch your nose in annoyance. once again, you try and scrap all the face framing pieces up and away, but the wind only makes them fall again, right across your face like paint.

before you can try again, juraj raises a gentle hand, gathering the strands and hooking them with two fingers—so delicate and so tender that you can only hold your breath and...watch. feel.

he tucks them behind your ear and miraculously they stay—and so does his touch. fingers lingering in your hair, by the child tip of your ear, eyes searching your face like a map. then, his voice, breaking through the humming quiet.

"si krásna."

his mother tongue slips out like syrup over fluffy pancakes, and you want to dive right in. your lips part, but juraj is pulling away too fast for you to even start asking questions.

"i'm sorry." he runs his palms down his thighs, roughly.

you shake your head. "what does that mean?"

he makes a grunting noise, rubs at his sharp jaw while very obviously avoiding eye contact.

you sit up straighter, almost turning your full body towards him, beaming and eager. "don't get all shy again, what does that mean?"

finally, after a more than tense beat, he looks back at you, and fortunately for you, it doesn't take much for the 6 foot something athlete to crack. he's turning red again before he can even form a proper scentence, "its means...uh..it just means that...I said you're beautiful."

you rear back, and juarj immediately thinks he's fucked something up. he's crossed a line, or a boundary you've set that he's constantly tripping over. obviously, he instantly hops on the damage control train. "i'm sorry, is that creepy of me? I can leave now, and I will never speak to you again if that was too much—"

you grab his hand. his eyes dart down to where you're connected, saliva turning to cement at the sight of your small fingers against his much larger ones. hell, your entire hand barley covers the back of his palm.

"no," you breathe. "don't go."

he sucks in a disbelieving breath. "was I not creepy?"

your fingers curl. "you telling me that i'm beautiful is not anywhere close to being creepy."

"oh." he hums. "okay, good." before you can change your mind—not that you would—juraj flips his hand over, promptly sliding his fingers between yours. you're holding hands.

"and this?" he prompts, eyes meeting yours in a mixture of hope and caution. "this is okay too? because sometimes I say and do very stupid things."

"this is definitely okay." as if to accentuate your point, your squeeze his hand. you're now practically curled into his side, knees turned up near his hip and tit to his rib. you continue, "I don't think you do. say stupid things. or do them."

"no?"

"no." you grin, elbowing his side as best you can. it barley feels like a tickle. "besides, you've said worse things to me before."

juraj squints slightly. "when?"

your smile only widens at that, a teasing twinkle in your eye. "fruit."

and his face turns immediately red, because he knows exactly what you're referencing—and it's quite literally a moment he wants burned from his memory. "oh no."

"oh yes." you giggle.

the sound pretty much has him forgetting everything. he'd bet money on your laugh being the one of an angel.

juraj looks down at you, half smile fond in all the ways it could be. "you are making fun of me."

"only a little." you scrunch your nose again. he tries really hard not to lean forward and kiss the tip.

"wow," he muses, sarcasm lacing his tone though it hasn't in weeks. "I see your true colours now, yes?"

"shut up. i'm teasing you." you grin, pull your conjoined hands into your lap and run your thumb over his knuckles—well, you can only reach the first two, but the effort is there. "juarj?"

"y/n?"

he watches your brows pull in concentration.

"I think you're krásna too."

and you absolutely butcher the pronunciation. seriously, you should be put in slovakia jail for that. but juraj's heart cant help but to skip a beat, because you look so sure and so hopeful that he can't even tease you about it.

after a beat, you grimace. "did I fuck that?"

he gulps, the little amount of spit doing a pore job at soothing his dry throat. "no," he croaks.

you raise a light brow. "I think you're lying."

"never."

you make a face that tells juraj you don't quite believe him, but obviously you don't call him out. not when you've got him so comfortable with you, and definitely not when you're one shift away from straddling his lap.

"it's true," you continue, swallowing softly while peering up at him. admiring the littering of moles across his cheeks and glossy eyes. "i’ve always thought you were beautiful."

he stiffens—because huh? you think he's attractive? always have? it feels like a fever dream, one that juraj is sure that he would blink awake from if he simply just pinched himself.

"I did...not know that."

"well," you shrug lightly, "you were too busy panicking every time I talked to you."

he groans."I was not—."

"you dropped three water bottles one day."

"that was accident."

"you also told me I smelled like fruit."

he splutters through a grin despite himself. "I was trying to compliment you."

you just hum, but you're pleased and happy and still tucked into his side, wearing his suit jacket and holding his mitt. if you had told him that this would happen when he first met you—hell, even a couple days ago—juraj wouldn't of believed it. not with how badly he looses control around you.

just the thought has him shaking his head, trying to recover from your light teasing just now and the whole idea of you. but no matter what, he cannot help his gaze from drifting back to yours. and much to his pleasure, you're still looking up at him.

there's something about the way you're doing it—soft, amused, and a little warm—and it makes the world feel smaller. in this moment, he can't believe he was ever nervous around you. because you're in the same boat he is, juraj can see that now.

"you're staring," you note softly.

his stomach flips, letting out a breathless laugh at the act of being called out. for the first time though, he doesn't care. "sorry."

you brighten. "you don't look sorry."

he leans in close, so close that your noses could brush together if you tilted at just the right angle, then lowers his already gravelly voice like he's letting you in on a secret. "that's because i'm not really sorry."

and that has you actually tilting your head, allowing the tip of his nose to run over the bridge of yours. it feels more intimate that any kind of sex you've ever had.

your breath hitches in surprise as juraj's other hand slides over your lower back, beneath his suit jacket and over the navy silk you're wrapped in, then hooking around the fat of your hip—dragging you up his body.

"juraj." your voice wavers, lips brushing his with does his mind absolutely no favours.

thankfully, he manages to at least somewhat collect his racing thoughts. "okay?" his fingers flex over your ass. mouth just capturing your top lip, so brief that you can't register it before he's letting it go.

"you're allowed to kiss me, you know." you swallow, hand releasing his in your lap so you can hold the nape of his neck, fingers sliding through the hairs there. "I want you to. please."

unfortunately, juraj's brain shuts off completely. because this isn't a dream, the feeling of your nails scratching at his scalp is a reminder of that, and suddenly he's shitting bricks. because you're with him, breathless and begging for a kiss—and there's nothing he wants more expect to deliver you the kiss you fucking deserve.

you catch it—his hesitation and scrambled egg brain—and you rear back just enough to get a proper look into his eyes.

"you're thinking too much." you offer, lips brushing the edge of his bee stung mouth.

"probably." he admits.

and then juraj slafkovsky kisses you with as much passion he can muster up—pushing away every nerve and doubt and everything that's been holding him back for weeks, channeling it into his mouth sliding against yours, like two perfectly shaped puzzle pieces.

the hesitation disappears almost instantly, replaced with something deeper and far more confident. his hand tightens slightly at your ass as he pulls you closer, the kiss warm and eager and a little overwhelming in the best possible way.

in other words, he is very good at kissing

you pull him closer, tongues molding together as the kiss turns impossibly deeper. it's little sloppy now, spitty and teeth clanking together as your bodies attempt to get that bit closer.

juraj's hand cups your ass, half lifting you off the cold concrete. you attempt to straddle his thigh, but the silk material of your dress pulls tight, not allowing that.

you let out a quiet laugh against his mouth, and he can't help but to smile into it.

"would It be inappropriate if I hiked my dress up right now?" you suggest, tone that perfect mixture of playful and sultry that has him getting just that bit more hard under his slacks.

he squeezes your ass in that large palm of his, and you can't help but to giggle at the feeling. "yes because I don't want anybody else here to see you naked before me."

as if to prove his point of how bad it could be if you starting getting naked outside the montreal canadiens charity event, the grand doors swing open behind you, music and laughter spilling out in bursts.

you both pull away from one another. juraj even going as far as to jump a few feet away from you—very inconspicuous.

it's a couple of higher ups, assistant to the assistant general manger or something like that. they don't even notice you guys, but you're quick to slip your devil shoes back on—still grinning like a horny maniac.

"well," you say, standing carefully. "I think i've got plenty of fresh air tonight."

juraj stands too, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "yes, bit cold."

you hum, "and it's getting late. I should probably head home." you step forward, shoes bumping his. "walk me to my car?"

and he must catch the suggestive look in your eyes, because he's nodding like a dog, already itching to reach out and touch you again. "I should, It can be dangerous so late at night."

"I agree." you grin, fingers brushing the back of his hand so lightly that it should be illegal.

[pucksandpower]

Learning to Fall (and Get Back Up)

Quinn Hughes x single mom!Reader

Summary: you mistake an NHL captain for a sports store employee while panic-buying hockey gear for your six-year-old. He spends an hour helping you anyway. Then he pays. Then he shows up to her first practice. Then he- wait, why is Quinn Hughes in your kitchen eating pizza on a Wednesday? (A story about rocket feet, fresh starts, and falling in love with someone who sees you)

The Vancouver rain is a different beast entirely.

It isn’t the theatrical, angry downpour of a California thunderstorm, the kind that feels like the sky is throwing a tantrum. This is a persistent, quiet drizzle. A constant sigh. It’s been three months since you packed your entire life, and your daughter’s, into a U-Haul and drove north, chasing a job offer and escaping the ghost of a man who specialized in making you feel small.

Some days, the gray mist feels like a blanket, a safe, quiet place to start over. Other days, it just feels like … gray.

Today, however, the gray is being thoroughly obliterated by a six-year-old supernova of pure energy named Elsie.

“Mom, please? Please, please, please? Avery and Isla are on the Vipers and they said it’s the bestest thing in the whole world and Coach David lets them have two Timbits after practice if they listen good. Two, Mom!”

Elsie is bouncing on the balls of her feet on your worn-out living room rug, her hands clasped together under her chin in a pantomime of desperate prayer. Her pigtails, the same shade of brown as yours, are practically vibrating.

You press your fingers to your temple, feigning a headache that is rapidly becoming real. “Honey, I don’t know the first thing about hockey.”

“You don’t have to! I’ll know! I’ll be so good, you’ll see. I’ll be like … like …” She scrunches her face, searching for a name she’s heard on the playground. “Bo Horvat!”

You can’t help but smile. “He doesn’t even play here anymore, sweetie.”

“Quinn Hughes, then!” She declares, the name sounding triumphant. “Avery says he’s the captain and he skates like he has rockets on his feet. Vrooooom!” She demonstrates by skidding across the floor in her socks, nearly taking out a lamp.

You catch it just in time, your heart doing a familiar little lurch. A different voice, a ghost’s voice, echoes in your head. “Clumsy, Y/N. She gets it from you. Can’t you control your own kid?”

You shake it off, forcing the memory of Carl down, down, down until it’s just a dull pressure in your chest. You look at Elsie’s face, bright with a passion you haven’t seen since she discovered glitter glue. How can you say no? You came here for her. For this. For her to have a childhood filled with Timbits and rocket-feet dreams, not tiptoeing around a man’s moods.

“Okay,” you say, the word feeling momentous. “Okay, kiddo. Let’s do it.”

The shriek of joy is probably heard three apartments over.

***

Signing her up online is the easy part. A few clicks, a wince-inducing entry of your credit card information, and Elsie is officially a North Shore Winter Club Atom C3 Ice Cat.

The hard part is standing in the middle of a cavernous sporting goods store on a Tuesday afternoon, staring at what looks like a wall of medieval torture devices.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, clutching a printout of the ‘Required Equipment’ list. “Jock or Jill …”

“What’s a jill, Mom?” Elsie asks, popping up beside you after a full-speed lap around a display of goalie pads that were taller than her.

“I think it’s … protective underwear?” You guess, feeling your cheeks flush. “Let’s, uh, let’s start with skates. Skates seem manageable.”

You navigate the aisles, Elsie’s hand now firmly in yours to prevent further chaos. The place smells like rubber and new plastic. It’s overwhelming. You feel like a fraud, an imposter in this temple of Canadian identity. You find the wall of skates, a dizzying array of black, white, and silver boots with terrifyingly sharp-looking blades.

“Which ones?” Elsie asks, her voice full of awe.

“The … the right size ones?” You offer weakly.

You stand there for a solid five minutes, picking up boxes, reading technical jargon you don’t understand — T-blade, chassis, quarter package — and feeling more and more helpless. Elsie is starting to fidget, her earlier excitement curdling into the restlessness of a bored child.

You need help. You scan the store, looking for anyone in a red employee vest. You see a guy a few feet away, over by the hockey sticks. He’s not in a vest, but he’s wearing athletic pants and a hoodie, and he’s examining the curve on a stick with an intensity that suggests he knows what he’s doing. He’s focused, turning the stick over in his hands. He must work on commission.

Perfect.

You take a deep breath and approach him, pulling Elsie along with you.

“Excuse me?”

He looks up. His eyes are a warm, startling green. For a second, you forget what you were going to say. He’s younger than you expected, maybe mid-twenties, with an easy-going, friendly face.

“Hi,” you manage. “Sorry to bother you, but do you work here? I’m so lost.” You gesture vaguely at the entire store, a silent plea for help.

A small smile plays on his lips. He looks down at his plain gray hoodie, then back at you. “Uh, no. I don’t.”

Your face burns. Of course. The one competent-looking person. “Oh my god, I am so sorry. You just looked like you knew what you were looking at, and I’m … I’m clearly in over my head.”

He chuckles. It’s a nice sound. “No, don’t worry about it. What’re you looking for? Maybe I can help anyway.”

You hesitate. You don’t want to impose on a random stranger. “You don’t have to. It’s just … my daughter just joined a team.” You nudge Elsie forward slightly. “And I have this list, and I think it might as well be in another language.”

He crouches down a little, bringing himself closer to Elsie’s level. His whole demeanor softens. “Hey there. You starting hockey? That’s awesome.”

Elsie, who is usually shy with strangers, beams at him. “I’m gonna be an Ice Cat! And I’m gonna skate with rockets on my feet!”

He grins, a genuine, full-faced grin that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Rockets, huh? Well, you’re gonna need the right skates for that.” He looks back up at you. “Quinn.”

He offers a hand. You shift the list to your other hand and shake his. His grip is firm and warm.

“Y/N,” you say. “And this is Elsie.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Quinn says, his eyes lingering on yours for just a fraction of a second too long. “Alright, Y/N. Let’s see the list. We’ll get you sorted out.”

You hand him the crumpled paper, feeling a ridiculous wave of relief wash over you. He smooths it out, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Okay, standard stuff. Skates, helmet, shoulder pads, elbows, shins, pants, jill, neck guard, gloves … stick. Jersey and socks the team will probably provide.” He says it all so casually, as if he’s reading a grocery list.

“Right,” you say, trying to sound like you followed any of that. “Skates first?”

“Skates first,” he confirms. “Most important part. Can’t have rocket feet with bad skates.”

He leads you back to the wall of boots, and this time, he seems to know exactly what he’s looking for. He ignores the flashy, expensive-looking ones and pulls out a simple, sturdy-looking pair.

“These are good starter skates,” he explains, his voice low and easy to listen to. “Good support, but they’re not so stiff that she won’t be able to move. What size shoe is she?”

“A twelve,” you answer, amazed at your own competence in knowing your child’s shoe size. It feels like a small victory.

He finds the right box and kneels on the little sizing stool, right there in the middle of the aisle. “Okay, Elsie. Hop up.”

Elsie sits, and Quinn gently takes her foot, slipping off her sparkly pink sneaker. He slides her foot into the stiff new skate, his movements practiced and sure. You find yourself watching his hands. They’re strong, capable hands.

“How’s that feel?” He asks her. “Too tight anywhere?”

“It feels … hard,” Elsie says, wiggling her toes.

“That’s okay,” he says patiently. “We just need to make sure your toes aren’t all scrunched up at the end. Can you kick your heel back for me?” He taps the back of the skate. “You want your toe to just kinda brush the front cap. Now, stand up. Slowly.”

He holds her hands as she stands, a little wobbly on the foreign blades. You’re struck by how naturally he interacts with her, with a gentleness that sends a strange, unfamiliar pang through your chest. Carl was never like this. He was impatient, always treating Elsie’s childhood needs as an inconvenience.

“It feels weird,” Elsie announces.

“It’s supposed to,” Quinn says, smiling up at her. He presses his thumb against the side of the boot. “The fit looks pretty good. What you’ll want to do is get them baked.”

You blink. “Baked? Like … in an oven?”

He laughs, looking back over his shoulder at you. “Yeah, kinda. They have a special oven here. It heats up the boot so it molds to her foot perfectly. Prevents blisters. Big time.”

“Oh.” The word comes out small. Of course there’s an oven for shoes. Why wouldn’t there be?

“Don’t worry,” he says, as if sensing your bewilderment. “It’s all part of the process.”

He gets her other skate on, tying them with a practiced series of loops and pulls you know you’ll never be able to replicate. “Alright, Ice Cat. Skates are done.”

You feel a surge of gratitude so strong it’s almost overwhelming. “Thank you. Seriously. I would have been here for hours and probably bought her a pair of goalie skates by mistake.”

“No worries at all,” he says, standing up. He’s taller than you thought. “What’s next on the list of doom?”

You both laugh, and the sound is easy and natural. The tension in your shoulders, a permanent resident for the last few years, seems to loosen its grip just a little.

“Helmets, I think.”

“This way to head protection,” he says with a mock-serious tone, leading the way.

He helps you pick out a helmet, explaining the importance of the cage and how it should fit snugly without pinching. He has Elsie shake her head violently from side to side to test it, and she erupts in a fit of giggles. He moves on to the shoulder pads, which he calls ‘shouldies,’ and the shin pads, which he demonstrates how to tape on over his own athletic pants. He turns what felt like an insurmountable, anxiety-inducing task into … fun.

Elsie is completely enamored. She follows him around the store like a little duckling, asking him a million questions.

“Do you play hockey?” She asks, her eyes wide.

Quinn pauses in his examination of a pair of tiny hockey gloves. “Yeah, I do.”

“Are you good?”

He looks over at you, a playful glint in his eye. “I do okay.”

“My friend Avery says Quinn Hughes is the best. You have the same name,” she says matter-of-factly.

Quinn’s smile falters for just a second, a brief flicker of something you can’t quite read before it’s back, wider than before.

“Oh yeah?” He says, his voice a little strained. “Well, that’s nice of Avery.”

You’re only half-listening, trying to mentally calculate the cost of the mountain of gear now piling up in your shopping cart. It’s going to be a tight month. Maybe a tight two months. But seeing the pure, unadulterated joy on Elsie’s face as she tries on a pair of gloves that are too big for her makes it feel worth it.

“Okay, last thing,” Quinn says, steering you back towards the stick rack. “The weapon.”

He selects a few small, lightweight sticks. “You don’t want anything too heavy or too long. The rule is, on skates, it should come up to between her chin and her nose.” He hands one to Elsie. “How does that feel?”

Elsie grips it like it’s Excalibur. “It feels like I’m a real hockey player.”

“That’s because you are one now,” he says softly.

You look at the cart, a jumbled mess of black plastic, foam, and hope. “Okay. I think … I think that’s everything. I can’t thank you enough. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Honestly, it was fun,” he says, and you believe him. “It’s kinda cool, seeing someone get all their first gear.”

“Well, you saved this California girl from a total Canadian meltdown,” you say, pushing the overflowing cart towards the checkout. “I owe you one. A coffee, or … or something.” You feel bold saying it, but his kindness has unspooled something inside you.

“I might take you up on that,” he says, walking alongside you.

You arrive at the checkout, and a young kid with braces and a Canucks hat on backwards is manning the register. He’s humming to himself until he looks up and sees who you’re with.

His eyes go wide. His jaw literally drops.

“No way,” he breathes.

You look from the cashier to Quinn, confused. Quinn gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head, but it’s too late.

“You’re … you’re Quinn Hughes,” the cashier stammers, fumbling with the scanner.

The name clicks. Quinn Hughes. The captain. The one Elsie had mentioned. The one who skates like he has rockets on his feet. You feel the blood drain from your face and then rush back with a vengeance. You mistook the captain of the Vancouver Canucks for a store employee. You made him spend the last hour personally shopping for your six-year-old.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, looking at him. Truly looking at him this time, seeing the familiar face from billboards and bus ads. “I am so, so sorry.”

He just offers a sheepish smile. “Told you I do okay.”

“Okay? You’re … him!” You say, gesturing uselessly.

The cashier is practically vibrating. “This is … wow. Just wow. Can I, uh, can I get a picture after?”

“Yeah, man, of course,” Quinn says easily, turning his attention back to the counter.

You start unloading the gear, your hands shaking slightly. The pile grows and grows. The helmet. The skates. The pads. The stick. The cashier rings it all up, his eyes still darting over to Quinn every few seconds.

The final total flashes on the screen. It’s a number that makes your stomach plummet to your shoes. $684.32.

You take a deep breath, reaching for your wallet. This is for Elsie. It’s fine. You’ll just eat ramen for a month. No big deal.

Before your fingers can even touch your debit card, a different card is slapped down on the counter. Quinn’s.

“I got this,” he says simply.

Your head snaps up. “What? No. Absolutely not.”

“I want to,” he says, his green eyes holding yours. “A welcome-to-hockey gift.”

“No,” you repeat, firmer this time. Your independence, the very thing you fought tooth and nail for, bristles at the offer. You’re not a charity case. You’re not someone who needs a man to pay for her things. The ghost of Carl sneers in your memory. See? You can’t even do this on your own.

“I can’t let you do that,” you say, your voice tight. “You’ve already done way too much.”

“It’s really not a big deal,” he insists, pushing his card a little closer to the machine. “Please. I want to.”

“Quinn, no,” you say, your hand hovering over his, a ridiculous standoff at the checkout counter.

The cashier, your unwilling audience, looks between the two of you, then lands on Quinn with hero-worship in his eyes. He makes a decision.

“You gotta Huggy get it,” the kid says to you, a conspiratorial grin on his face. “It’s, like, for the good of the team. For the next generation of players.”

He quickly takes Quinn’s card and taps it on the machine. The screen flashes green. APPROVED.

It happens so fast you can’t even protest. The receipt prints with a soft whir, sealing the transaction.

You are mortified. You’re grateful. You’re flustered. You feel a hundred conflicting emotions at once. You stare at him, speechless.

“Seriously,” he says, his voice dropping lower so only you can hear. “Don’t worry about it. Seeing her face when she held that stick? That was worth it.”

The cashier bags everything with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics. He gets his picture, a shaky selfie with Quinn grinning and him looking like he’s about to pass out.

Quinn helps you get the two massive bags into your cart, and you walk towards the exit in a strange, charged silence. The automatic doors slide open, letting in a gust of cool, damp air.

You stop just outside, under the awning. The drizzle has picked up again.

“I …” you start, not knowing what to say. “I don’t know how to thank you. And I’m going to pay you back.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I do,” you insist, meeting his gaze. “I will. I’ll get your Venmo or … something.”

He shakes his head, a small smile on his face. “Tell you what. You want to pay me back?”

“Yes.”

“Let me know when her first practice is.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, a sudden shyness about him. “I’d, uh … I’d like to see how the rocket feet work out.”

Your breath catches. That’s not what you expected.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Okay.”

“And that coffee offer,” he adds, his confidence returning slightly. “Is that still on the table?”

“Yes,” you say, a real smile breaking through your embarrassment. “Yes, it is.”

“Cool.” He pulls out his phone. “Can I get your number?”

You give it to him, your fingers trembling slightly as you type it onto his screen. He texts you his name so you have his number. The whole exchange feels surreal, like something out of a movie.

“Well,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “I should probably … go.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Anytime, Y/N.” He says your name like he’s known it for years. He gives Elsie a little wave. “See ya, Ice Cat. Work on your slapshot.”

“Okay!” She chirps, brandishing an imaginary stick.

And then he’s gone, jogging through the misty parking lot to a car that is, you notice with a detached sense of absurdity, a very nice-looking black SUV.

You stand there for a moment, the receipt for $684.32 clutched in your hand. A receipt you didn’t pay.

You load the gear into the trunk of your beat-up Honda Civic, your mind reeling. You buckle a chattering Elsie into her car seat.

“Mom, was that the real Quinn Hughes?” She asks as you pull out of the parking lot.

“Yeah, sweetie,” you say, your voice a little shaky. “That was him.”

“Wow,” she whispers from the back seat. “He’s nice.”

You look in the rearview mirror, at her wide, happy eyes, and then at your own reflection. You look tired, a little overwhelmed, but for the first time in a very long time, there’s a flicker of something else in your eyes. A tiny spark in the gray.

“Yeah, kiddo,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. “He really is.”

***

The number sits in your phone like a secret.

Quinn Hughes.

It doesn’t look right, nestled between ‘Apartment Maintenance Service’ and ‘Elsie’s School Office’. It feels like a glitch in the matrix, a tiny, explosive piece of a different reality that has somehow landed in the middle of your very regular, very complicated life.

For five days, you do nothing.

You compose and delete at least a dozen different text messages.

Hey, it’s Y/N. Elsie’s first practice is Saturday at 8 am. (Too blunt. Sounds like a summons.)

Hi Quinn! Hope you’re having a good week. You really don’t have to come, but if you were serious, Elsie’s practice is Sat at 8. (Too wordy. The backtracking makes you sound insecure, which you are, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

This is Y/N (the crazy lady from the sports store). You are a ridiculously kind person, and I’m still planning on paying you back. Also, practice is Sat, 8 am, North Shore Winter Club. (Better, but still feels … off. Like you’re trying too hard to be cool about it.)

The truth is, you’re terrified. Carl’s voice is a venomous whisper in the back of your mind, a ghost you can’t seem to exorcise. “Someone like him? Don’t embarrass yourself, Y/N. He was just being polite. People with his kind of life don’t have time for … this.” He would gesture vaguely at your apartment, at your life, at you, as if you were something to be scraped off the bottom of a shoe.

So you don’t text. You convince yourself it’s the right thing to do. He’s a professional athlete. The captain of a goddamn NHL team. He has a life filled with things that are not you, not your daughter, not her first clumsy foray onto a sheet of ice. The encounter in the store was a fluke, a moment of kindness from a stranger who just happened to be famous. To text him would be to presume, to push, to ask for something you have no right to. It’s better this way. Safer.

You focus on the hockey. On Thursday night, you decide to do a practice run with the equipment.

“Okay, honey, let’s get you dressed,” you announce with a false cheerfulness that Elsie doesn’t seem to notice.

What follows is an hour of pure, unadulterated chaos.

You pull the ‘jill’ out of the bag and stare at it, turning it over and over. It looks like a bizarre diaper-thong hybrid.

“Does this go on the inside or the outside of the pants?” You wonder aloud.

“Inside!” Elsie says confidently, having no basis for this knowledge whatsoever.

You wrestle her into the shin pads, only to realize you’ve put them on backwards, the hard plastic shells facing her shins instead of outwards.

“Ow, Mom. That feels poky.”

“Right. Sorry. My bad.” You switch them around. Then come the hockey pants, which are stiff and ridiculously padded. Elsie looks like a tiny, Michelin Man version of herself. She can barely bend her legs.

“I can’t walk!” She giggles, waddling around the living room.

You get the shoulder pads on, then the elbow pads. You struggle with the straps, trying to get them snug but not too tight. Finally, the jersey. You bought her a simple, plain white practice jersey, and as you pull it over the mountain of padding, something shifts. She’s no longer just your little girl in oversized gear. She looks like a hockey player.

The helmet is last. You click the chinstrap into place and tighten the cage. Her small, determined face peers out at you from behind the bars.

“How do I look?” She asks, her voice slightly muffled.

You feel a lump form in your throat. You came here so she could have everything. So she could be anything she wanted to be. And right now, she wants to be this. A hockey player.

“You look,” you say, your voice thick with emotion, “like you’re ready to score a hundred goals.”

“A hundred?” Her eyes go wide.

“At least,” you confirm, blinking back tears.

****

Friday night. The night before the big day. You’re making pasta, trying to carb-load your child for her 8 a.m. athletic endeavor. You prop your phone up on the kitchen counter, a recipe for a simple marinara sauce glowing on the screen.

You’re stirring the sauce, lost in thought, when the water for the noodles suddenly boils over, hissing and spitting all over the stovetop.

“Shoot!” You grab the pot, move it off the burner, and frantically try to wipe up the mess with a dish towel. It takes a few minutes to get the situation under control, your attention completely diverted from everything else.

In those few minutes, Elsie, who is supposed to be setting the table with plastic forks and napkins, wanders over to the counter. She sees your phone. She knows this device. She uses it to FaceTime her grandma in California and to play her weirdly addictive penguin-stacking game.

She also knows how to use the little microphone button on the keyboard. It’s how she “texts” her grandma long, rambling stories about her day.

She picks up the phone. The screen is still on your text messages, the blank, unsent drafts to Quinn Hughes a testament to your anxiety. His name is right there at the top of the list. Quinn Hughes. She recognizes the name. The nice man from the store. The man who knew about rocket feet.

Her little finger presses the microphone icon. She holds the phone up to her mouth, just like she does with Grandma.

“Hi Quinn it’s me Elsie the Ice Cat my first hockey is on Saturday at the North Shore Winter Club at 8 in the morning AM that’s really early mom says but I’m gonna be so fast like vrooom okay see you there maybe bye!”

She hits send.

She puts the phone back on the counter, screen down, and goes back to her task of placing a single napkin at each place setting.

You return to the phone a moment later to check the cooking time for the pasta. And you see it. The blue bubble. The sent message. Your heart doesn't just drop. It ceases to exist for one full, horrifying second.

You read the transcribed message, a string of run-on words that perfectly captures your daughter’s chaotic energy. You feel a wave of nausea.

“Elsie!” You call out, your voice sharper than you intend. “Did you touch Mommy’s phone?”

She looks up, her eyes wide and innocent. “I texted Quinn to tell him about my hockey.”

“Honey, you can’t … you can’t just do that,” you stammer, running a hand through your hair. Oh god. He’s going to think you’re a lunatic. That you put your kid up to this.

You snatch up the phone, your thumb hovering over the message, as if you could physically unsend it through sheer force of will. Maybe you can delete it fast enough. Maybe he hasn’t seen it yet-

Your phone buzzes in your hand. A new message. From Quinn Hughes.

Your blood runs cold. You can’t look. You have to look.

You open it.

Vrooooom! Wouldn't miss it, Ice Cat. See you there. Tell your mom hi 🙂

The smiley face feels like a judgment. A polite, friendly judgment on your life, which is clearly so out of control that your six-year-old is now arranging your social calendar.

You sink onto a kitchen chair, the smell of garlic and simmering tomatoes filling the air. The pasta water is still bubbling. Elsie is humming to herself. Everything is normal, except for the fact that the captain of the Vancouver Canucks is now coming to your daughter’s first-ever hockey practice. Because your daughter invited him. Via a rogue voice-to-text.

You drop your head into your hands. This is a romantic comedy, you think with a sense of bleak irony. And you are the bumbling, flustered lead who is in way, way over her head.

***

Saturday morning arrives at an hour that should be illegal. 6:15 a.m. It’s pitch black outside, and the ever-present Vancouver drizzle is tapping against your windowpane.

Getting the gear on for real is even harder than the practice run. You’re clumsy with sleep, and the pressure of a real, actual timeline makes your fingers feel like sausages.

“Mom, the leg pad is on my arm,” Elsie points out helpfully.

“I know that,” you lie, quickly correcting your mistake. “Just testing you.”

By the time you have her fully suited up, you’re sweating. She looks impossibly small and brave, standing by the door with her new stick in hand and a giant gear bag at her feet. Your gear bag, really, since you’re the one who has to lug it.

The drive to the rink is a blur of dark streets and Elsie’s excited chatter. You, on the other hand, are a bundle of raw nerves. Your stomach is doing flips. He’s not going to show up, you tell yourself. He was just being nice. He had to say that. People don’t actually show up to things a stranger’s kid invites them to.

It’s a comforting thought. It’s also, you suspect, a complete lie. There was something in his text, something about the simple, direct ‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ that felt sincere.

You pull into the parking lot of the North Shore Winter Club. It’s already bustling. Cars are pulling in and out, and small, padded figures are waddling towards the entrance, flanked by parents juggling giant bags and cups of coffee.

The moment you step inside the arena, the change in atmosphere is visceral. The air is cold, at least twenty degrees colder than outside, and it carries a distinct, clean smell of ice and wet steel. The acoustics are all echo and reverb — the distant scrape of skates, the sharp crack of a puck hitting the boards, the murmur of a hundred conversations bouncing off the concrete walls.

You find the right dressing room, a cramped, humid space that smells intensely of sweat and rubber. It’s filled with other little girls, all in various states of dress, and a handful of moms and dads expertly lacing up skates and tightening helmets. You feel a fresh wave of imposter syndrome. These parents all seem to know each other. They move with a confidence you completely lack.

You finally get Elsie’s skates on, your fingers fumbling with the laces.

“Have a good skate, sweetie,” you say, kissing the top of her helmet. “Listen to your coach and have fun.”

“I will!” She says, and then she’s gone, waddling out of the dressing room and towards the ice with the rest of her team.

You make your way out to the stands, a disposable cup of surprisingly decent coffee in your hand. The bleachers are cold and hard. You find a spot midway up, giving you a good view of the ice.

The practice starts. It is, without a doubt, the most adorable and chaotic thing you have ever witnessed. Twenty little girls in helmets and oversized jerseys, swarming after a single puck like a school of fish. Most of them can barely stand on their skates. They spend more time falling than skating, picking themselves up with grim determination only to topple over again two seconds later.

Elsie is one of them. She’s all legs and arms, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. But she’s smiling. You can see it even through the cage of her helmet. She falls, she gets up. She chases the puck with a singular focus. Your heart swells with a fierce, protective pride.

You’re so engrossed in watching her that you don’t notice the shift in the stands at first. It starts as a low murmur, a ripple of whispers that travels through the rows of parents. You see a few people pull out their phones, not pointing them at the ice, but towards the entrance at the top of the stairs.

You follow their gaze.

And your heart stops. Again.

He’s here.

He’s trying to be low-key, wearing a dark beanie pulled down low and a simple black jacket, but it’s useless. You can’t hide that kind of fame. You can’t hide that face. It’s Quinn Hughes. And he’s looking for someone.

Before he can take two steps, he’s intercepted. A dad in a Canucks jacket claps him on the shoulder, says something that makes Quinn smile politely. Then another parent approaches, then a teenager from the team on the other rink. A small crowd forms around him, a quiet, reverent-but-insistent mob.

You instinctively shrink down in your seat, pulling your jacket tighter around you. This is a nightmare. This is a five-alarm fire of social awkwardness. He’s a public figure, and you, through your daughter’s technological meddling, have summoned him here, into the den of his most ardent fans.

You watch, half-horrified, half-fascinated, as he handles it. He is endlessly gracious. He listens to the dad tell a long-winded story about the ‘94 playoffs. He signs a napkin for a star-struck mom. He poses for a selfie with the teenager, crouching down to fit in the frame. He never once looks annoyed or impatient. He smiles, he nods, he makes eye contact with every single person who talks to him.

And all the while, his eyes are scanning the bleachers.

You know the exact moment he finds you. His eyes meet yours across the fifty feet of tiered seating. A look of genuine relief washes over his face, and his polite public smile transforms into the real, crinkle-eyed grin you remember from the store.

He says something to the group, a quiet apology, and starts making his way towards you. The crowd parts for him like the Red Sea.

Every parent on the bleachers turns to watch his progression. They watch him climb the cold metal steps, his gaze locked on you. You can feel their eyes on you, their unspoken questions hanging in the cold air. Who is she?

You feel your cheeks burn. You wish a hole would open up in the bleachers and swallow you whole.

He reaches your row and stops.

“Is this seat taken?” He asks, his voice a low, warm rumble that is somehow audible over the rink noise.

You shake your head, unable to form words. He slides in next to you, leaving a respectable but not-too-distant space between you. He smells faintly of coffee and cold air.

“You actually came,” you whisper, the words coming out breathlessly.

He turns to you, his green eyes bright and amused. “Of course I came. An Ice Cat summoned me. It was a direct order.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, burying your face in your hands for a second. “I am so, so, so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I was making dinner, the water boiled over, and she just … she knows how to use the voice text to call my mom and she just-”

“Hey,” he says, his voice soft, cutting through your panicked rambling. “Y/N. It’s okay. Seriously.” You look up. He’s smiling. “It was the best text I got all week. Way better than the ones from my agent.”

The sincerity in his eyes makes you believe him. You let out a shaky breath. “Well. I’m glad my parental negligence could be a bright spot in your week.”

He chuckles. “I wouldn’t call it that. I’d call it … efficient.” He nods towards the ice. “Which one is she?”

“Number twelve,” you say, pointing. “The one who just tripped over the blue line.”

As if on cue, Elsie, who had been skating with surprising stability for a full minute, catches an edge and goes down in a heap.

“Ah, a classic fall,” Quinn says with the authority of an expert. “Ten out of ten. Great form.”

Elsie scrambles back to her feet, unfazed, and immediately rejoins the drill.

“She’s tough,” he notes, a hint of admiration in his voice.

“She’s determined,” you agree, a wave of pride washing over you again.

You both sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the chaotic ballet on the ice. The other parents are pointedly not looking at you now, trying to give you privacy, but you can feel the weight of their curiosity.

“So,” you say, deciding to just address the other elephant in the room. “About the gear. I’m serious, Quinn. I want to pay you back. You can’t just buy my kid a full set of hockey equipment.”

He turns on the bleacher to face you more directly. “Why not?”

The question is so simple, so direct, it catches you off guard. “Well, because … because people don’t do that. It was too much. It was an incredibly nice gesture, but it makes me feel …” You trail off, not wanting to say ‘like a charity case.’

“Like what?” He presses gently.

You sigh, looking down at your coffee cup. “Like I can’t provide for my own kid. Which I can. It’s just … it’s been a little tight since the move.”

“I get that,” he says. “But I didn’t do it because I thought you couldn’t. I did it because I wanted to. There’s a difference.” He leans in a little, his voice dropping. “I make a pretty stupid amount of money to play a game. Every once in a while, it’s nice to use it for something that actually feels good. And seeing how excited she was? That felt good. So please, just let it be a gift. No strings attached.”

You look at him. There’s no pity in his eyes. Just honesty. You feel the tight knot of pride in your chest loosen just a little.

“Okay,” you whisper. “But the coffee offer still stands. And I’m buying.”

He grins. “Deal.”

He turns his attention back to the ice, and you fall into an easy rhythm. He points out little things you would never have noticed.

“See how she’s bending her knees when she pushes off? That’s really good. Most kids skate standing straight up.”

A few minutes later, he says, “Her stick’s a little long. After practice, we can grab a saw from the pro shop and take an inch off. It’ll make it easier for her to handle the puck.”

He’s not mansplaining. He’s just sharing. He’s including you in this world that felt so intimidating an hour ago. He makes you feel less like an outsider.

“So you’re from California, right?” He asks, changing the subject. “Big move.”

“Yeah,” you say, taking a sip of coffee. “New job. I work in marketing for a software company downtown. They have a new office here.”

“You like it so far? The city, I mean. Besides the rain.”

“I do,” you say, and you’re surprised to find you mean it. “It’s beautiful. And people are nice.” You glance at him. “Almost suspiciously nice.”

He laughs. “We lure you in with kindness, then trap you with the real estate prices.”

“I’m learning that,” you say wryly.

“So you moved up here by yourself? With Elsie?” The question is casual, but you know it’s not. He’s asking if there’s a dad in the picture.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second. “Yeah. Just us. It’s, um, it’s a fresh start.”

The phrase hangs in the air. It’s all you’re willing to give, and he seems to understand that. He doesn’t push. He just nods.

“Well,” he says softly. “Welcome to Vancouver.”

A whistle blows on the ice, and one of the coaches sets up a net for a shooting drill. The kids line up, each with a puck. It’s their chance to be a hero.

Elsie is fourth in line. She pushes her puck forward, her movements still awkward but full of intention. She winds up, a comically small wind-up, and swings her stick. It connects with a clumsy thwack.

The puck wobbles, slides, and trickles slowly over the goal line.

A goal.

You gasp, a surge of pure joy lighting you up from the inside. You let out a whoop without even thinking about it. “Yeah, Elsie!”

Beside you, Quinn is grinning. “Look at that! A natural goal scorer!”

You’re both beaming, two adults on a cold metal bleacher, celebrating the smallest of victories. It’s a shared moment, perfect and unscripted. You look at him, at his genuine, happy smile, and you feel something shift inside you. The fear, the anxiety, the ghost of Carl’s voice — it all recedes, replaced by a tentative, flickering warmth.

The practice ends a few minutes later. The kids swarm off the ice, exhausted and happy. You head down to the glass to wait for Elsie. Quinn follows.

The other parents give you a wide berth, stealing curious glances. You try to ignore them, focusing only on the dressing room door.

It swings open, and Elsie waddles out, her face flushed and her hair damp with sweat. She’s searching the crowd of parents for you.

“Mommy!” She yells when she spots you.

Then her eyes move to the man standing next to you. Her jaw drops.

“Quinn!” She shrieks, her voice echoing in the lobby. “You came! You came to see my rocket feet!”

She barrels towards him, her hard plastic gear making it an awkward, clanking run.

Quinn crouches down instantly, bringing himself to her level. He doesn't seem to care that they’re the center of attention.

“I did,” he says, his voice full of warmth. “And they were awesome. I even saw you score a goal.”

“I did!” She says, puffing out her chest. “Coach David said I have good listening ears!”

“That’s the most important thing,” Quinn says seriously.

You watch them, a lump forming in your throat again. He is so effortlessly good with her. So kind.

You spend another twenty minutes in the humid dressing room, wrestling Elsie out of her gear. By the time you emerge, the lobby has cleared out a little. Quinn is leaning against a wall, scrolling on his phone, but he looks up the second you appear. He kept his promise to wait.

“Hey,” he says, pushing off the wall. “Ready to go?”

“Ready,” you confirm, hoisting the now-stinky bag over your shoulder.

You walk out of the arena together, a strange little trio. Elsie is skipping between the two of you, still high on adrenaline and post-hockey praise.

In the cool, gray light of the morning, the spell of the rink seems to break a little. The awkwardness creeps back in. What now? Do you just say goodbye?

Quinn seems to be having the same thought. He stops by your car, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“So …” he starts, shoving his hands in his pockets. “All that gear needs to be properly broken in. And I’m guessing that goal scorer is pretty hungry after her first skate.”

You look at Elsie, who is already starting to droop, her energy crashing. “That’s a safe bet.”

“I know a great pancake place not too far from here,” he says, his gaze meeting yours. It’s not just a casual suggestion. It’s an invitation. “My treat. And,” he adds, holding up a hand before you can protest, “this part is completely non-negotiable.”

You look at him, at this kind, famous, impossibly genuine man who showed up to a six-year-old’s hockey practice because she sent him a garbled text message. You think of the lonely breakfasts you and Elsie have had for the last three months. You think of how easy it was to sit next to him, how normal it felt.

The fear is still there, a faint tremor in the background. But for the first time, it’s overshadowed by something else. Hope.

You smile. A real, genuine smile that reaches your eyes.

“Okay, Captain,” you say. “You lead the way.”

***

Three months pass in a blur of scraped knees, forgotten homework, and the surprisingly pungent smell of a hockey bag left in a warm car. The Vancouver rain has settled into a familiar rhythm, a constant companion to your new life. It’s a life that now, improbably, includes Quinn.

He is … something. 

He’s the text you wake up to in the morning. Morning. Hope the Ice Cat is ready to dominate today.

He’s the familiar face that appears at your door on a Wednesday night, holding pizza boxes and looking endearingly out of place in your small, cluttered apartment. He’ll sit on the floor with Elsie, helping her build a lopsided Lego castle, his long legs folded uncomfortably beneath him.

“The structural integrity of this tower is questionable,” he’ll say with mock seriousness, placing a pink brick on top.

“It needs more glitter,” Elsie will reply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

He’s the person you call when your car makes a weird noise, and while he knows as little about engines as you do, he’ll stay on the phone with you while you wait for the tow truck, telling you bad jokes to keep your spirits up.

He is woven into the fabric of your days in a way that is both thrilling and terrifying. You are happy. Genuinely, truly happy in a way you had forgotten was possible. But you keep the happiness in a little glass box, afraid to examine it too closely, afraid it might shatter. You haven’t defined what you are. The words ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’ hang in the air between you, unspoken and immense. He’s the Captain of the Canucks, and you’re … you. A single mom from California who still gets lost on the SkyTrain. It feels like two different universes, and you’re just waiting for the laws of physics to correct themselves.

One evening in late November, as a cold wind rattles the windowpane, your phone buzzes. It’s him.

Hey. Got a game Saturday against the Kraken. A big one. I want you guys to come.

You hesitate, your thumb hovering over the screen. You’ve watched all his games on TV, Elsie pointing and yelling “There’s Quinn!” every time he touches the puck. But going to the arena feels different. Bigger. More real.

Your reply is cautious. Are you sure? It’ll be a madhouse.

His response is immediate. That’s the point. I want to show you guys what I do. I want Elsie to see it for real. I’ll leave tickets at will call. Best seats in the house.

A second text follows before you can even process the first.

And during warmups, come down to the glass. Right by the home bench. Promise me.

***

Saturday night arrives, electric and cold. Rogers Arena rises out of the downtown core like a spaceship, glowing with blue and green light. The energy on the street is a palpable thing, a current of excitement that pulls you along with the crowd.

Elsie is vibrating next to you, clutching your hand so tightly her knuckles are white. “Is this where Quinn plays hockey for real?” She asks, her voice filled with awe as she stares up at the massive building.

“This is it, sweetie,” you say, your own heart thrumming with a nervous rhythm.

Inside, it’s a sensory explosion. The roar of twenty thousand people, the smell of popcorn and hot dogs, the dazzling sea of Canucks jerseys. It’s a world away from the quiet, chilly community rink where your hockey journey began.

The tickets are exactly where he said they’d be, and when the usher leads you to your seats, you have to stop yourself from gasping out loud. They aren’t just good seats. They are the seats. First row, right against the glass, a few feet from the players’ bench. You can see the fine scratches on the plexiglass, feel the faint chill coming off the ice.

“We’re inside the TV!” Elsie whispers, pressing her face against the cool surface.

You feel a thousand pairs of eyes on you. Who is this woman and her little girl, sitting in seats clearly meant for high rollers or VIPs? You feel like a fraud, a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s shoes. You pull your coat tighter around yourself.

Then, the lights go down for the pre-game show, and the roar of the crowd swallows your anxiety whole. Music blares, a light show dances across the ice, and when the team is introduced, the noise is so loud it feels like a physical force. Elsie is screaming with delight, completely swept up in the spectacle.

As the team streams onto the ice for warmups, you remember his instruction. Your stomach does a little flip.

“Come on, honey,” you say, taking Elsie’s hand. “Let’s go stand by the glass.”

You make your way to the edge of the rink, right beside the Canucks bench. The players are a blur of motion, skating in elegant, powerful loops, firing pucks that crash against the boards with the sound of a gunshot. They are bigger, faster, and more intimidating up close than you could have ever imagined.

You scan the ice, looking for number 43.

And then you see him. He’s skating near the blue line, talking to one of his teammates. He looks over towards the bench, and his eyes find you instantly.

His expression softens. In the middle of this roaring arena, surrounded by his teammates and thousands of fans, he smiles. And the smile is just for you. It’s a private, intimate thing in the most public of places.

He skates over, gliding to a stop directly in front of you. The inches of plexiglass between you feel charged with electricity. He’s in his full gear, helmet on, and he looks like a superhero. He winks at you.

Then, he crouches down slightly to look at Elsie. He taps the glass with his glove, right in front of her face. She giggles and puts her hand up to the spot.

He straightens up, catches your eye again, and mouths the words, “Watch this.”

He skates away a few feet, scoops up a stray puck with his stick, and with a casual, almost imperceptible flick of his wrists, he sends it sailing through the air. It arcs perfectly over the top of the glass, a black spinning saucer against the bright lights.

Instinctively, you put your hands out. You don’t need to. The puck lands with a soft thump directly in Elsie’s waiting hands, as if guided by a magnet.

It happens so fast. For a second, there’s a stunned silence in your little section of the crowd. Then, a collective groan of jealousy rises up from the kids and adults around you. A father a few feet away lets out a good-natured, “Are you kidding me?”

Quinn just grins, taps his stick on the ice in a little salute to Elsie, and skates off to join the drills.

Elsie stares at the puck in her hands as if it’s the holy grail. It’s heavy, cold, and stamped with the official NHL logo.

“Mom,” she breathes, her eyes as wide as dinner plates. “He gave it to me.”

You look from your daughter’s ecstatic face to Quinn’s back as he skates away, the number 43 looking bigger and brighter than ever. Your heart is doing something wild and untamable in your chest. He didn’t just give her a souvenir. He singled you out. In front of everyone, in his world, he chose you.

The game itself is a blur of speed and controlled violence. You find yourself screaming at the referees, cheering at goals, and understanding, for the first time, the passionate, tribal devotion of sports fans. You see Quinn in his element, a quarterback on ice, directing traffic, leading his team. You see the C on his jersey, and you understand what it means. It’s not just a letter. It’s a weight he carries with grace and power.

They win. A hard-fought 3-2 victory. Minutes after the final horn sounded and the team mobbed their goalie, you feel a ridiculous, overwhelming sense of pride. Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Did the Ice Cat approve?

You look down at Elsie, who is clutching her puck and babbling a mile a minute about a slapshot she saw. You smile and type your reply.

The Ice Cat is officially a Canucks fan for life. And her mom might be, too. You were amazing.

***

A week later, Quinn is over for dinner. The game puck has a place of honor on Elsie’s dresser. You’re clearing the plates when he speaks, his tone casual, but with an undercurrent of something serious.

“Hey, there’s another game I want to take you guys to this weekend.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Another one? Don’t you think you’re spoiling her a little?”

“Maybe,” he admits with a smile. “But this one’s different. It’s more important.”

He pulls out his phone and shows you the screen. It’s a schedule for the new PWHL team. The Vancouver expansion team, their inaugural season just underway.

“I want to take Elsie to see them play,” he says, his gaze steady and earnest. “I want her to see them.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You think of Carl, of the countless times he’d scoffed at women’s sports, dismissing it as a lesser version of the real thing. “It’s cute,” he would say, the word dripping with condescension.

And here is Quinn. This man at the absolute pinnacle of his sport, telling you that this game, a women’s game, is more important.

“Why?” You ask, even though you already know the answer. Your voice is barely a whisper.

“Because,” he says, his eyes finding yours. “I want her to know that those women on the ice are every bit the athletes that I am. I want her to see that her dream doesn’t have to have a ceiling. I want her to see women being strong and fast and fierce, and to know that there’s a place for her at the highest level if she wants it.” He pauses, his expression softening. “I want her to see heroes that look like her.”

The glass box around your heart doesn’t just shatter. It evaporates. The cautious, protected happiness you’ve been hoarding inside you floods out, warm and overwhelming. You’re looking at him, really looking at him, and all the fear, all the doubt, all the whispers of your past just … disappear. They’re no match for the man sitting at your kitchen table.

You can’t speak. You just nod, a lump forming in your throat.

He reaches across the small table and takes your hand. His thumb gently strokes the back of it. “So, what do you say? You guys in?”

“We’re in,” you manage to say, your voice thick with unshed tears.

***

The atmosphere at the PWHL game is completely different from the Canucks game. The arena is smaller, more intimate, but the energy is just as potent. It’s a different kind of energy, though. It’s less about corporate spectacle and more about pure, unadulterated passion. The crowd is full of families, of young girls in hockey jerseys, their faces painted, their eyes shining with excitement.

You don’t have glass seats this time. You’re just part of the crowd, and it feels wonderful. Elsie is practically bouncing in her seat, her eyes glued to the ice during warmups.

“She’s so fast!” Elsie exclaims, pointing at a player who streaks by. “Is she faster than you, Quinn?”

Quinn, sitting beside her with a bucket of popcorn, laughs. “Honestly? Yeah, Elsie, she might be. Her first three steps are explosive. She’s incredible.” He speaks about the players with genuine respect and admiration, pointing out a defenseman’s smart stick work or a forward’s creative passing.

He’s not just here to make a point. He’s a fan.

The game is a revelation. It’s fast, skilled, and incredibly tough. There’s a beauty to it, a flow and creativity that you didn’t see in the men’s game. Elsie is mesmerized. She doesn’t just see hockey players. She sees her future. She sees possibility.

During the second intermission, you turn to him, the noise of the arena fading into a dull hum.

“Thank you for this,” you say, your voice full of an emotion you can’t quite name. “This … this is one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me. For her.”

He just shakes his head, as if it’s nothing. “I told you. This is the important stuff.”

After the game — a thrilling overtime win for the home team — the crowd streams out, buzzing with excitement. But Quinn leads you in a different direction. Down a series of concrete corridors, past security guards who nod at him respectfully.

“Where are we going?” You ask, your heart starting to beat a little faster.

“Just a little surprise,” he says with a grin.

He pushes open a heavy door, and you’re hit with a wave of noise and the smell of sweat and victory. You’re in the hallway just outside the locker room. Players are milling about, laughing, their faces flushed, their hair matted with sweat.

A woman with a warm, familiar smile and a captain’s C on her jersey turns as you enter. It’s Sarah Nurse. A Canadian icon. An Olympic hero.

Quinn smiles. “Sarah, hey. Great game.”

“Hughes! What are you doing slumming it over here?” She says, her voice friendly and teasing. She gives him a quick hug.

“I’m scouting for the competition,” he jokes. “Listen, I wanted to introduce you to someone. This is my friend, Y/N. And this,” he says, placing a gentle hand on Elsie’s shoulder, “is Elsie. She’s an Ice Cat, and she’s your newest and biggest fan.”

Sarah’s famous smile turns to your daughter. All the intensity from the game melts away, replaced by a genuine warmth. She crouches down so she’s eye-to-eye with Elsie.

“An Ice Cat, huh?” She says. “I’ve heard you guys are tough. I saw you watching from the stands. You’ve got a good cheering voice.”

Elsie is completely star-struck, her mouth slightly agape. She just nods, clutching the strap of her little purse.

“You keep working on that skating,” Sarah says, tapping Elsie lightly on the nose. “It’s the most important part. You work on that, and you can do anything.” She straightens up and looks around, grabbing a stick that’s leaning against the wall. She takes a silver sharpie from a trainer. “How do you spell your name, Ice Cat?”

You spell it out for your speechless daughter, voice sounding distant to your own ears. Sarah signs the blade of the stick. To Elsie. Dream big. Skate hard. - Sarah Nurse

She hands the stick to Elsie, whose eyes look like they are about to pop out of her head.

You watch this scene unfold. You see Quinn in the background, not seeking any of the spotlight, just watching with a proud, happy smile on his face. You see this incredible, powerful athlete taking the time to make your daughter feel like the most important person in the world. You see Elsie, holding a stick signed by her new hero, her world cracked wide open, her future suddenly limitless.

Everything inside you clicks into place. All the fear, all the hesitation, all the baggage from your past that you’ve been dragging behind you for years, feels suddenly weightless. It all just floats away.

All that’s left is this. This man. This moment. This feeling of a love so profound and so real it takes your breath away.

***

The drive home is quiet. Elsie is in the back seat, fast asleep, the signed hockey stick lying carefully across her lap. The city lights blur past the car windows, painting streaks of color in the rain-slicked darkness.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s full. It’s brimming with the unsaid emotions of the night.

You pull up to your apartment building, and Quinn puts the car in park. He kills the engine, and the only sound is the soft drumming of the rain on the roof.

You turn to him. “Quinn.”

“Yeah?” He says, his voice soft.

“What you did tonight …” you start, your voice trembling slightly. “For her. Showing her all of that … I don’t even have the words to thank you.”

He looks over at you, his face illuminated by the dim glow of a streetlight. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yes, I do,” you insist, tears welling in your eyes. “Because it’s not just about hockey. It’s … you see her. And you see me. In a way that I don’t think anyone ever has before.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, his gaze searching yours. When he speaks, his voice is low and steady. “Y/N, from that first day in the sports store, when you thought I was a sales clerk and your daughter told me she had rocket feet … I knew.”

He reaches out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. His thumb brushes away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

“This isn’t just a casual thing for me,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m not just hanging out. I haven’t known how to say it, because your life is complicated, and my life is crazy, and I didn’t want to push.”

He takes a deep breath. “But I can’t not say it anymore. I love you. I’m completely in love with you. And I’m in love with your loud, funny, brilliant little Ice Cat, too.”

The words you’ve been so afraid of, the feelings you’ve kept locked away, come tumbling out. “I love you, too,” you sob, a laugh catching in your throat. “I love you so much.”

“I’m all in,” he says, his voice firm, a promise. “Whatever this is, whatever this becomes. I am all in. With you, with Elsie. If you’ll have me.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Always, yes.”

He leans across the console, and he kisses you. It’s not a frantic, passionate kiss. It’s a kiss of arrival. It’s a kiss that feels like coming home. It’s full of relief and certainty and the quiet, breathtaking promise of a future you had stopped letting yourself dream of.

He helps you carry a sleeping Elsie upstairs. You lay her in her bed, and he gently leans the signed stick against her nightstand, right next to the Canucks puck. They look like trophies from a life you never could have imagined.

He tucks her in, his movements sure and gentle. He kisses her forehead.

He turns to you in the dim light of the hallway, and he pulls you into his arms, holding you tight. You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

Outside, the Vancouver rain falls, washing the city clean. But it’s not just a gray drizzle anymore. It’s the sound of a new beginning. Not a frantic, running-away fresh start, but a real one. A quiet, beautiful, start of a life. With him.

“So,” he whispers into your hair. “What are we doing tomorrow?”

You smile into his shirt, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

“Anything,” you whisper back. “As long as we’re doing it together.”

[kniesonice]

Let It Happen | Mark Estapa

summary: fighting for the best seat in class with mark wasn't your first choice - neither is having to tutor him in the midst of it.

18.6 K

warnings: SFW! academia! tutor x jock | enemies to lovers | angst | umich!mark | college!au | suggestive comments + themes | unwanted touching + harassment | read at your own discretion

link to playlist

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row 5, 10 seats in: your ideal spot in any lecture hall. you've found that during your time at the university of michigan, that exact seat always proved to be the most practical. the viewing angle of the board was always perfect - not too close to the front to be picked on, but not too far back that you needed your glasses. not many people chose that area in a lecture hall - either opting for the first three rows or the very back, meaning you typically weren't bumping elbows with anybody while taking notes.

so in your junior year of university when you noticed your psychology class was in room 293 (a room you'd had classes in previously) that first day, you took your seat proudly in row 5, 10 seats in. you knew you'd get your perfect seat - meaning you'd have no problem in succeeding with a productive academic semester.

that is until you walked in on the second day of classes and a head of dirty blonde hair, accompanied by broad shoulders and big hands was found sitting comfortably in your seat.

you slow in your steps, feeling your facial expression fall as you take him in. he's looking to his right, not even paying attention to you - legs outstretched and books spread out in your seat.

it's fine, you think, tomorrow you'll just get here earlier to take your desired spot. today, you decide, you'll settle for a different seat.

then, the mystery boy turns his head in your direction and you think your face falls even more. mark estapa was in your seat.

you knew of mark through mutual friends. you weren't friends with him or anything, but you're sure you've probably smiled in passing before.

seeing mark in your seat made you feel....irritated. because even if he didn't know it was your unassigned assigned seat - wouldn't he much rather dick around in the back with his teammates? why did he need to be in the perfect academic position when he probably couldn't care less about the class.

"is this your seat or something?" marks deep voice has you blinking hard, snapping yourself out of your head.

your brows pull together, and you tug on the strap of your book bag laying heavy on your shoulder. "what?"

he shrugs, "you're looking at me all weird - like I just kicked a puppy or something. so I just assumed i'm in 'your' seat." mark air quotes the word your, and it has you squinting at him irritatedly, lips forming into a pull of disgust.

"why'd you say it like that?"

he laughs slightly, and it makes your stomach swirl unpleasantly. mark shrugs, toying with one of his ink pens between two thick fingers. "you just look like the type to have some weird thing about where you sit."

you scoff gently, taking a step closer to the wolverines forward. "I'll have you know, that seat 10 in row 5 is quite literally the perfect spot for learning - there are studies that prove it. I take great pride in my grades - so yeah, I guess you could say I have 'some weird thing about where I sit'" you use air quotations to mimic his earlier ones, which makes mark breathe one quiet chuckle, eyes meeting the ceiling quickly before finding yours again.

you're looking at him expectantly, arms crossed and brows raised.

"is that right?" mark questions.

you nod, "mhm."

"looks like I beat you to it then."

your mouth falls and that makes mark's cheeky smile widen. "might as well just sit there," he gestures to the empty chair next to him, "because today, i'll be getting the benefits from sitting in the perfect seat for learning."

you bite your tongue, wordlessly (and rather aggressively) taking the empty spot next to your seat. "mhm yup." you hum quietly, eyeing the professor as he makes his way into the classroom, "enjoy it today -because it will be the last time you sit in that spot."

you feel marks eyes on the side of your face. "we'll see about that," he smirks, slowly turning his attention back to the front of the classroom.

tomorrow, you think, you'll be back in your seat - mark be damned.

class 2

the next class day - you do get your seat. if that wasn't a sweet enough victory in itself, you also get to watch mark tongue his cheek in annoyance at the sight.

he slows in his steps in the aisle, eyes very much on you in the desired seat. you send him a teasing smile, watching his irritation grow - it's practically radiating off his large body as he tosses himself down in the seat you had to painfully endure last class.

when he roughly pulls everything out of his book back, your victorious smile grows.

throughout the lesson, you make a show of spreading out your books with enthusiasm and making sure you sigh with content whenever you shuffled or moved in your seat.

all mark can do is smirk to himself, barley looking over towards you when you move or make a noise. his smirk is evident though, and you can't help but catch it.

you're surprised that mark even chose to sit beside you after he'd seen you in the seat. you assumed after rightfully taking back your seat, he'd move rows completely - choosing the back of the class with luke hughes and ethan edwards - but no.

you know now that he was trying to take your spot again - purposely this time. the thought has you angry and you have to grit your teeth anytime mark shuffles around - the urge to curse him out for being an idiot threatening to spill out.

you're determined now to not back down from keeping your assigned unassigned seat - your academic well being depended on it.

when class finally ends and the professor dismisses you all, mark turns towards you - looking smug in a way that has you snaring. you think he may say something about the seat, or perhaps even apologize for destroying your peace all class. but instead, "game on," mark deadpanned, grabbing his book bag and hauling it  over one shoulder.

you laugh sarcastically, gathering your laptop and slipping it into your own bag. mark doesn't get too far away from you before you decide to respond. "can't play when you can't compete," you hum.

mark stops walking, eyeing you over his shoulder with that same stupid smirk on his face.

you don't stick around for him to say anything else, your shoulder brushing his sweater covered chest as you move past him.

class 3

the night before, you make sure you're alarm is set half and hour earlier than usual - and you check it at least 4 times before going to sleep: you were getting that damn seat even if it meant waking around like a zombie from loosing that extra bit of rest.

you woke frantically that morning, rushing through your brief morning routine so you could ensure you'd get out the door as quickly as possible - determined to get to class before mark - get to your seat before mark could wrongfully take it.

you walk through your psychology lectures door way with a victorious smile already on your face - happy that you will once again be more academically inclined for your class.

you look over to your row and slowly, and your smile fades as you resist the urge to scream.

mark is already there.

in your seat.

nobody else is in the lecture hall yet, and fair enough, you think, because it's still too early. you thought it was too early for anybody else besides yourself to get there....but you were wrong.

mark has all his books out on the small table infront of him, laptop open and ready on a blank document. there's a half drunken cold brew on his desk as well, meaning he's been awake long enough to not only beat you to class but get a drink on the way.

worst of all, mark is already looking at you - his body turned towards the entrance of the lecture hall like he's been waiting for you to arrive and watch the joy fade from your eyes.

you grit your teeth in irritation, slowly and with as much calmness you can manage, make your way to him.

"good morning," he chimes happily, eyes not leaving your face as you approach the seat.

you let your bag slip off your shoulder, hitting the floor beside his sneakers. sourly, you take the open seat right next to him.

"thought i'd get up early today." mark continues, picking up his coffee and taking an obnoxiously loud sip.

your glare at him before taking out your books.

two can play at this game, you think.

class 4

you've underestimated the michigan athlete once again. showing up that next week, 20 minutes earlier that the previous time - only to see mark there in your seat... again.

he's taken a more theatrical (and blood boiling) approach this class, with his long gangly legs propped up on the seat of the desks to his left and his arms behind his head - leisurely resting on not only your seat but the one you'd be stuck with beside it.

you scoff as you get close, eyeing his long legs on the desks, "must you look so proud?"

"oh, I must." mark says.

class 5

you can barley keep your eyes open because of how little sleep you've had, but the exhaustion is so worth it.

the morning of your class, you woke up ridiculously early - so early that your roommate sabrina was barley just asleep. so early you're sure mark wouldn't even dare think of waking up.

and yeah, you had to skip over the hair brushing, make up and the presentable clothing step in your morning routine, but you didn't care. all you cared about was getting to your lecture hall before anybody else could.

when you hear shoes squeaking to a halted stop an hour or so after you arrived to class, your tired eyes snap open. mark is looking at you with a shocked expression, his eyes processing the sight you in your seat already.

quickly, his expression changes. mark makes his way to you, squinting curiously at you as he analyses your pale skin. "you look tired." he states, sitting down.

you shrug nonchalantly, flipping your very much unrbushed hair over your shoulder. "you must be mistaking my victorious expression for one of fatigue."

mark hisses through his teeth, eyeing you once more. "careful, what good does the perfect seat have if you can't even stay awake to bask in its greatness."

class 8

in your last few psychology lecture races, you beat mark 2 wins to 1 in your shared seat debacle. you're still surprised he got his one win with how early you'd been waking up and getting to the classroom.

the feeling of victory has not gotten old though, and you have to picture marks face full of disappointment when you're feeling exhausted from your lack of full nights.

the look of pure irritation on the wolverines superstar player anytime he realized you'd beaten him to the lecture hall - the way you wiggled your fingers in a gentle wave in his direction as you happily occupied your seat - it was really fulfilling.

when you told sabrina about your and marks little tiff with your seat, she expressed how she thought it was dumb idea. sabrina said waking up early and loosing sleep over a seat in class wasn't going to help anybody's academics. as well, she says that arguing and taunting somebody as popular as mark estapa wasn't a good decision on your part because there was no good to come from it.

but you couldn't seem to care about any kind of consequence. you didn't care how popular he was, or how much he liked you - all you could think about was marks irritating smirk and big body plopped in your seat - tainting its essence.

the seat war would continue until mark gave up - you were determined.

it was another successful class morning of beating mark. your and mark's arrival kept getting earlier each time, but somehow you kept managing to just be that little bit earlier than him.

you're sipping your redbull delicately as he walks into the lecture hall, hiding your growing smirk behind the rim of the can as you watch mark deflate at the sight of your in the seat.

he curses quietly to himself before he makes his way towards you. "are you sleeping here or something?" he huffs annoyed, sitting heavily in the chair beside you.

you shrug nonchalantly, dusting off the imaginary debris from the hardcover of your psychology textbook. "no," you hum. then in all seriousness, you pause, directing your gaze towards him as you continue, "- but I wouldn't hesitate sleeping outside this classroom for this seat, mark."

slowly and with disbelief, mark puts his notebook down infront of him, eyes not leaving yours as he analyses you. "...you wouldn't dare."

"oh," you laugh once, "I'd dare."

he squints suspiciously at you before shaking his head once, breaking himself out of your mini staring contest. he straightens his back out, falling back against the seat - the dull thud echoing in the empty classroom.

you watch his suspicious expression change to one of curiosity and that has you feeling a bit nervous. you watch as he eyes you again, a raise to his one brow.

a beat passes.

"how do you know my name, y/n?" mark asks, a slight tug to the corner of his mouth. he sounds almost...impressed, and truly curious.

which you think is a bit odd, because who doesn't know mark estapa? not only was he on the schools hockey team and friends with some of the most popular athletes at the school (nhl stars included), but he was quite literally famous online. one time you got a tiktok edit of him...on your foryou page. you don't think you've scrolled past anything faster - the feeling of seeing clips of your classmate over a flo milli song was just too much.

instead of spewing out that inner monologue, you reach over yourself, pointer finger tapping the top of his dark green notebook - touching his name that was written out in black sharpie.

briefly, you wonder if its handwriting or somebody else's, but you also don't know why you would care, so you quickly tell your intrusive thought to get lost. you pull away, hands coming back you yourself.

mark nods in understanding, shrugging like it's an acceptable answer. "ah," he breaths, crossing his arms over his broad chest, his muscles moving under his compression top.

you blink hard, scolding yourself for letting your eyes wonder. what is wrong with you today, girl? you think. "annnnnddd how do you know my name?" you drag out, brow raises in question as you eye him.

wordlessly, mark uncrosses his arms so his hands are free. with a slight smirk, he taps the side of his head, mimicking your earlier point on his note book.

class 9:

"I should've brought you a neck pillow." are the first words your hear when you walk into room 293, marks voice making itself known as soon as your converse covered feet past the threshold of the classroom. "you know," he continues, "In case the early morning catches up to you."

you breathe out a sarcastic laugh, walking sluggishly to the dreaded 11th numbered chair beside him.

one of the worst things about waking up earlier to try and beat mark to the lecture hall was that he never even looks like he's tired - where as you looked like you just crawled from a bat cave. in the earlier mornings, mark is always smiling and looking bright eyes and bushy tailed - which has your annoyance spiking.

you choose to not say anything and you keep your tired eyes trained on the front empty hall. now you wish you stopped for a coffee, knowing it wouldn't of mattered anyway - mark had you beat. thankfully, mark doesn't say anything else, and scrolls tiktok quietly beside you. the noise is a nice distraction, and it has you feeling rather relaxed as the two of you sit together in the early morning silence.

an hour later when your classmates start arriving, you start to get your things out of your bag. reaching in you're immediately humbled feeling nothing in there. the night before, you had spilt a smoothie in your bag, and emptied everything out  to let it dry. this morning when you were rushing to get to class to beat mark to your seat (which proved unsuccessful), you had only grabbed the empty bag - leaving all your belongings at home.

you're left with no laptop, no textbooks, no notepad, not even a pen. you feel like you could cry. as the professor made his entrance, you're left with no choice but to borrow from your seat mate.

the thought of having to deal with him in the morning is already exhausting. you inhale deeply and look over at mark. you plaster on the best exaggerated grin you manage this early. "mark, can I have a pen and some paper?"

suprised, mark looks over at you. once he sees your faux smile and lack of supplies laid out, he mimicks your expression, the sarcasm of it all is practically oozing off him. "ahhhh - so now you want to talk to me."

he was trying to push your buttons, that much was obvious. you don't give in, only deepening your faux smile, even giving your head a little tilt. "well, technically I forgot my stuff because I was too preoccupied trying to get here before you could steal my seat - the least you could do Is let me borrow a pen and piece of paper because, after all, you did steal my seat."

mark tongues his cheek, the corners of his mouth tugging up in a victorious manner. a beat passes before he digs through his bag, emerging with a pen - holding it in his palm out to you. you pluck it from hand aggressively - making his smirk grow.

class 12

your psychology class has been pushed back an hour after your professor sent out an email the night before, offering his apologies after he needed to extend one of his meetings with the department.

you weren't complaining though. you were looking forward to that little bit extra sleep before getting up and trying to once again beat mark to your seat.

knowing you had that little bit of extra time, you chose to take your time walking towards the lecture hall building, sipping on your apple cider as you enjoyed the fall weather. the fall season at the university of michigan was always your favourite. there was something so magical about being away at school when the leaves were turning that resonated with you.

not too many students were around while you walked. just the odd group or individual as they made their way to their own lectures. that being said, it made spotting people very easy, as they weren't yet common.

so when you lock eyes with mark as he approaches on one of the side paths, you can't help but to curse yourself - walking too leisurely to the point of running into him.

mark slows in his steps only a few feet adjacent to you, swallowing thickly. you slow down as well, eyeing him suspiciously as he stares down at you. he clears his throat as you both come into step with one another, now walking side by side to your lecture building.

"mark." you greet quickly, eyes forward as the building comes into sight.

he nods, "y/n." mark begins to walk just a little faster at the sight of your destination, leaving you a step behind.

so you follow suit, taking quicker and bigger steps in order to keep up with mark. his legs are long and he's way more fit than you, so you're practically in a breathless jog trying to get in front of him.

"beautiful morning," you hum nonchalantly.

"the most," mark's step increase in speed as he answers you.

you curse to yourself, falling behind once again. you feel like your running at this point, desperately trying to beat mark without full on sprinting into the lecture building. you panick, knowing marks stupid long legs would have you beat in this foot race - and to your seat.

quickly, you conjure up a plan of attack. you groan behind him, crouching down and grabbing ahold of your sock covered ankle. you hiss loudly like you're hurting - loud enough for mark to hear.

he stops walking at the sound of your pain, turning around to see you bent down, nothing but discomfort on your face. mark starts walking towards you, the shiny dark oak doors to the lecture building long forgotten as he bends down to your level.

softly, he places a warm palm on your back, eyes searching yours. "hey, you okay?"

momentarily you feel guilty. he looks truly concerned for your well being and the feeling of his hand on your back isn't helping your act.

but then you remember how he quite literally stole your seat and the guilt washes away.

rather wobbly, you stand back up to your full height with the help of marks arm. you balance your weight on the ankle you were nursing, wincing as you do so.

mark still looks concerned. his brows are furrowed tightly as he watches your facial expressions, waiting for any further signs of discomfort and pain. you're pretty sure he was about to offer you a damn piggy back ride.

you sigh deeply, and then a smirk begins to pull at your lips. "nice guys finish last marky." you deadpanned.

"what?" he frowns, confused.

you take off, sprinting past him and up the stairs of the lecture hall. "the seat is mine!" you call out, pushing open the heavy doors and disappearing into the building.

class 14

you were running a little bit more behind than you preferred this morning, and you were practically running by the time you walked into psychology.

it's quiet in there, and you notice how mark isn't present. nobody is the lecture hall and even better, mark isn't in your seat. 

you let a triumphant smile overtake your bare face, and you adjust your bag so that it can finally still comfortably on your shoulder - your rush to class having your bag left to rub your shoulder raw.

then your momentary joy fades as you take in the note on the big whiteboard behind the teachers desk.

class moved to room 278.

you groan to yourself, immediately spinning on your heels to head back in the direction you had already walked through.

you can already picture mark - his smug face tucked into that beloved 10th seat in the 5th row. picturing that has you walking faster as you hope that mark wasn't too far ahead of you - or ahead of you at all.

you all but slide into the new lecture hall, slightly breathless and exhausted. you're confused, brows pulled taught as you also see this classroom empty. although it's still early, it was unlikely for absolutely nobody to have arrived.

quickly, your eyes dance around the room, finding the smaller dry erase board near the front. your lips form into an involuntary snare, your anger bubbling up as you read the note left.

would a nice guy do this? is written in blue, accompanied by a terrible drawn emoji - blowing you a kiss.

mark.

"you're fucking kidding" you whisper. you can feel your face flush with anger, deepening your irritation as you re-read(what you now realize) is marks handwriting - matching his name printed on that stupid green notebook he always uses.

you take a shaky inhale to keep yourself as calm as possible, leaving the classroom in an annoyed march - quickly making your way back to the correct classroom.

you can't even be bothered about how sweaty you've become or how your feet are beginning to ache from walking across campus three times before your first class - all your thoughts are focused on mark and his stupid prank and how he's definitely lounging in your seat - waiting for you to get back so he can bask is his prank.

most of the students are piling into the room when you arrive, but you aren't one of patience today. you weave through bodies as quickly as possible, pushing up the stairs.

there's a momentary pause on the incline and that's when you finally land your sights on his head of blonde hair, his eyes watching you in amusement.

immediately, you send him an accusing glare from your stopped position on the stairs, shaking your head in disbelief as you look at him.

mark just winks back at you - which sends your stomach turning in every possible way.

'idiot' you mouth at him. people start moving again, allowing you to finally get through the group of students and down the 5th row.

mark smirks happily, resting his chin in his large palm as he watches you sit wordlessly beside him.

class 17

you're almost out of the row of seats, your book bag slung over your shoulder -  your professor had dismissed you all for the morning. it isn't soon after making your way down the stairs, your professor says your name.

"y/n," he calls out, affectively grabbing your attention and stopping you in your tracks. "do you mind having a word?" he questions, adjusting his black framed glasses to sit higher on his nose.

you frown slightly, especially when you catch sight of mark, who seemingly has been asked to stay behind as well. mark isn't looking at you, but rather at the floor, nervously fiddling with his hands.

"sure," you hum gently, walking over towards them hesitantly. "everything okay professor?"

you can't rack your brain for anything that your professor needed to discuss with you and mark - unless, mark decided to be a total asshole about the whole seat thing, which would just be ridiculous.

"actually," the older man sighs, "there's a favour I need to ask of you." your professor eyes mark, who is standing just a few feet behind him.

"okay," you draw suspiciously, eyeing mark as well. he is still looking sheepish, eyes not meeting yours - which was, from what you gathered, very unlike mark.

in the few weeks you've been battling with mark, you've learned he is stubborn and determined - on top of that, he was very confident. the nervous act he was currently displaying had you feeling nervous.

your professor clears his throat, "mark here is having a hard time keeping his grades up in this class. obviously, it's still early in the year but his coach and I have discussed and decided it needs to be dealt with now, rather than later in the semester. this is an important class to mark's education here at the university of michigan, and he cannot have his grades slipping."

you nod slightly, your brows pulled together in confusion as you take in his words. "right, sorry, i'm just confused what that has to do with me." you admit.

the professor nods once, "yes. well, so far you have preformed excellently in my class - not only this semester, but in previous classes as well. that's why coach and I decided that you'd be the perfect choice to help mark and tutor him this semester."

neither you or mark speak, too shocked with the situation to register thoughts. the professor continues. "not only are your grades excellent, but it seems that yourself and mark happen to enjoy each others company - sitting together every class."

you face falls slightly. "seriously?"

"oh, seriously," mark finally speaks, an unreadable expression on his soft face. your professor turns to mark, a little wide eyed as if to tell him to smarten up.

mark sighs gently, "please tutor me, i'd really appreciate your help. I can't play with the team if I slip."

"i'll do it." finally, you agree, nodding a hesitant yes in their direction. immediately, your professor is joyful, giving you and mark the schedule and the study room bookings.

it was all a bit nerve wracking. knowing that you'd have to spend designated time with mark after the two of you had been purposely pushing one another's buttons was making you uneasy.

you don't show the true emotions you were currently battling - only nodding with a faux smile as the professor goes over what lesson plans you'll both start with and providing you with the upmost material you'd be needing.

you leave the classroom soon after your professor says he will email both of you with a more detailed schedule. as you walk back to your building, your mind is occupied with thoughts of tutoring mark and how you'll manage being in the same space with him without wanting to smack him.

and with your first session only a little more than 24 hours away, you'd hope to come up with a solution quickly.

tutoring lesson 1

"that makes no sense."

"that's because you're not even paying attention."

mark breaths deeply at your words, an exaggerated inhale echoing throughout the room. he runs a hand through his thick dirty blonde hair, tugging slightly at the root before releasing his grip.

you had received a text from mark only an hour before your designated study time. immediately, you frowned, because you didn't give him your number - but he had quickly followed up his initial text telling you that your professor gave it to him: invasive but you'd live.

he told you he had a game that night, so the study session would have to be fast and cut short. you gritted your teeth in irritation at his bluntness, but decided rather than telling him to fuck himself and pass the class by himself - you choose peace, responding with only the thumbs up emoji.

fast forward to right now, with you and mark in one of the campus study rooms with your class material from two weeks ago all spread out on the table infront of you.

although you could tell mark wasn't really trying to understand you, you could see true frustration behind his eyes - an indicator that he was at least trying is some capacity.

you take a deep calming breath and try again, "all you need to do is pick out the significant points of this paper and then with that information, you will write your own summary about its importance to the course."

across from you, mark is looking like a lost puppy, mouth slightly agape as he watches you explain the material for the 3rd time. it really wasn't a difficult concept to grasp, in fact, it was the easiest out of all the material you'd be going over.

you sigh gently, "listen, it should be relatively easy," you side eye him gently, his lost expression still very much present. "for some." you chime quietly.

marks mouth snaps shut, and he squints accusingly in your direction - your remark echoing in his ears. "for some," he mocks your words back at you, his voice turning all high pitched and squeaky in a way that makes you scoff.

"are you done?" you deadpanned, brows raised his his direction.

"no," mark groans for the hundredth time, his body falling back in the plastic chair. "that seat shit you read about is clearly crap - I'm not learning at all sitting there. considering it's 'the perfect spot for learning', I haven't learned shit." he air quotes your words from that second day of classes - the first time mark had stolen your seat.

"it's not crap." you state with a glare, "you have to believe it for it to work - clearly you think it's phoney. if you did believe in its natural greatness, you'd be fine - like me."

"whatever." he deadpanned, leaning back over the table - propped up on his elbows.

you bite your tongue for what feels like the millionth time since knowing mark - choosing to not snap back at his attitude.

slowly, you push the reading closer to him, slotting it between his arms, "read this again - slowly - and start with getting your significant points. that way you have that portion done before your game tonight."

wordlessly (and with another sigh, of course), mark drags the paper closer towards himself, sighing deeply as he begins to silently read.

a few minutes pass, both of you deep in school work - you creating lessons plans as well as catching up on your other classes work, while mark reads the assigned reading, occasionally jotting down points in his notebook just like you recommended he do.

your mid sectioning of a grid in your schedule, eyes squinted as you concentrate (you had already cursed yourself for forgetting your glasses). the gentle silence is interrupted, marks much too loud voice interrupting your peace.

"what's your favourite colour?" he questions, tone full of curiosity.

you can hear his pen hit the table, and slowly, you look up, eyeing mark through your lashes. your fingers pause on your laptops keyboard, "what?" you breath.

"your favourite colour. what is it?" he asks again, more firmly.

"how is this significant to our tutoring?" you question curiously, your pen resting on your bottom lip as you ponder at his sudden questioning.

"I'm trying to keep my mind active here," mark says in a tone that makes it sound like you should've known his intentions, "and if you're at least talking to me, then i'll be more inclined work."

you tilt your head gently, squinting playfully at the tall wolverines forward. "are you saying my voice is more boring than you doing your work?"

he gives you an annoyed look, mirroring your tilted head. "just...tell me your favourite colour. and don't say orange - I hate orange."

"what's wrong with orange?" you frown, "orange is the colour that beat communicates fun - It expresses frivolity and playfulness, connecting people back to inner child."

"of course you'd know that." mark says in disbelief after taking a momentary pause at analyze what you just spewed at him.

you choose to answer his initial question, not bothering at attempting to explain your knowledge on a colour - he probably wouldn't understand anyways. "my favourite colour is pink," you answer, back to working away on your laptop, keyboard clicking rhythmically as you talk.

"pink huh," mark hums with interest, "and what's the weird reason for that?" you can feel his eyes on you, boring into your face as you type. knowing that has you feeling slightly nervous, wondering how hard he is analyzing your expressions or features.

"it's just pretty." you say gently, a blush adorning your cheeks. you hear mark stifle a gentle laugh, and you look back across the table at him. he's not looking at you, but rather writing in his notebook, eyes darting between his writing and the reading.

you clear your throat quietly, getting back to your own work. "what's your favourite colour?"

mark eyes you gently once more. you aren't looking at him, so you can't see the way his lips tug up in a smile or the way he's focused on your side profile. "yellow." he answers after a beat. "it's the colour of most of my favourite things."

you hum, "like what?"

"the sun, my jersey, pineapples....baby ducks," you giggle softly at his last remark. finally, you look away from your screen, seeing that mark is already got his eyes on you. he continues softly, "the list goes on really." he is smiling at the sound of your gentle laughter, your eyes squinting naturally without your glasses - ones that mark has only seen you in a handful of times and he thinks you must forget them often.

he shakes his head slightly, eyes finding the clock on his phone. the time has him clearing his throat and he pushes his notebook towards you across the table. "i've got my points here, if you want to check them over before I go."

you blink hard, "right, yeah." you take the outstretched green notebook from him, making quick work of the little blurbs he took note of. "this is good, now you just have to compile it into a summary - in proper format obviously."

"obviously," mark teases. "i'll do it later, kay?" he begins to pack up his things, which only consisted of his notebook, a pen and his closed laptop. "i've gotta get in my suit and head to the rink."

"okay, just..don't forget. and please, send me the final product before turning it in."

mark is practically already out the door. "will do!" he says over his shoulder, shutting the glass enter ace of the study room and jogging away.

you sigh gently, packing away your own things.

11:37 p.m.

mark

just mailed you the summary. should be in your inbox

y/n

yeah, i'll go over it quick

y/n

how was your game?

mark

ehhh, it wasn't great. we lost

y/n

damn. does that happen a lot?

mark

not always

mark

have you never watched one of our games?

y/n

no. i've never watched hockey period

mark

WHAT

mark

i'm sick to my stomach hearing that

y/n

dramatic

mark

you're coming to watch a game

y/n

no i'm not

mark

you are. you'll like it

y/n

how do you know what i'll like ?

mark

i'm smarter than you think y/n

mark

you'll be at a wolverine game soon. promise you that

y/n

whatever helps you sleep.

y/n

sent you back an edited copy with a few tweak suggestions. after that you're good to send it in

mark

yes ma'am

tutoring lesson 7

"new plan," you say, slightly breathless from the jog over to the library. you drop your bag on the dark oak table, the sound thumping in the quiet room.

mark looks up from his phone surprised - your sudden appearance catching him off guard. he raises a brow in question, urging you to continue.

you nod, "you said keeping your brain active is good for you and helps you stay focused, yeah?" he nods for an answers, and you smile before continuing. "right okay, so instead of talking - which can be distracting, I thought -" pausing, you tug on the zipper of your bag, digging through your belongings until you locate your airpods. you pull them out, displaying them like a trophy - mark bites back a teasing smile at your theatrics.

"we can listen to music." you ta da.

his brows pull towards the bridge of his nose, a frown overtaking his face as he thinks about your suggestion. "how is listening to my music going to keep me focused? - I get way too pumped up listening to my playlists."

"your palylists," you state, sliding into the empty spot beside mark. he watches you curiously, eyes following your every move as you start to connect your earbuds to your phone. "that's why we will listen to my music. listening to music you don't care about helps you stay focused on your work because you're not actually dissecting the song."

"and what if we listen to the same kind of music?" mark says lightly, taking the airpod from your outstretched fingers, nestling it in his ear.

slowly, you eye him - looking him over from his head to toes. "we won't." you put your own airpod in, leaving the ear closest to mark free in case he had any questions.

a few tutoring sessions before this one, you gave mark the detailed outline of what you'd be helping him with. you provided him with the names of all the textbooks and materials he'd need, as well as a detailed list of all test and due dates.

you had told him that you wouldn't spoon feed him anything, and that if he wanted to get his grades up, he had to try his best. you were there for clarification on anything he deemed difficult, and for when he is struggling and to edit his notes: the way you believed tutoring should be.

seeing as mark clearly had his notes out before you arrived (late) to the library, you pulled out your own notebook, along with your textbooks, preparing for your hour long session.

"you can change the song whenever," you tell mark quietly, setting your iphone between the two of you face up on the table.

"sounds good." he nods once, fingers toying his his pencil in a way that has you feeling a little bit fuzzy.

you clear your throat, looking away as the soft melodies of gracie abrams filter through your ears. flipping open your psychology textbook, you decide you'll start to get a head start on your next assignment- not knowing when you'll have any other time to do it. between your part time job at staples, tutoring mark and your other classes: your schedule was pretty full - you didn't want to fall behind.

you just begin to read into the second paragraph of the text blurb, your highlighter moving slowly along your page - the song abruptly changes. the music pauses in your ear for only a moment and you look over to see mark as he skips the song.

he catches your stare, giving your a quick nonchalant shrug. "sorry," he mutters, going back to his notes as a new song starts to play through the mini speaker tucked in your ear.

you sigh calmly, focusing back on your textbook.

watermelon sugar doesn't even reach the chorus - harry styles' voice is cut short as the the song stops once more. you bite your tongue, choosing to ignore mark as he skips another song. but then he does it again as a lana del rey song starts to play and you grunt annoyed - turning to face mark as he skips through your phones music library completely unaware of his own annoyance levels.

"what the hell," you question firmly.

mark pulls a face, unbothered by your clear distaste, "I'm not into these songs." he says nonchalantly, skipping over shawn mendes.

you scoff, "yeah that's the whole point. just-" you push his hands away from your phone quickly, stopping him from skipping any more songs. "let the music play," you tell mark gently - reminding yourself of a mother telling her toddler to behave.

he grunts like you're the one being annoying and that sort of makes you want to punch him in the gut. obviously you don't, and you choose to ignore mark and get back to your assignment.

a good 20 minutes pass without the song switching unnaturally, and anytime you take a curious peek towards mark out of the corner of your eye, you can see that he looks focused on his work. you gloat to yourself, happy with the success of your music studying idea.

mark only nudges you to ask for clarification twice, which is another small victory. since your professor appointed you to be marks tutor, you and mark have met up a handful of times for lessons. it seemed like he still likes to tease you just like he always has and that can make teaching him and spending time with him very challenging- but you've gotten used to his antics now (for the most part).

mark has gotten better with understanding the readings you've been giving him over the past few weeks of tutoring as well. not only that, but his essays have needed less editing.

your professor is very happy with the success, and is very adamant to keep working with mark until he reaches a B average. he's brought his average up to a C rather than a D+ so it was very much a work in progress still but he was getting there.

your thoughts are halted when the music pauses once again - an abrupt change to silence from the soft melodies of the music. irritated, you turn to give mark an earful for stopping the song once more, but you pause.

mark looks a bit starstuck - giving you a perplexed look with his brows raised in questions. his plump lips are agape as his eyes dart between you and your phone.

"hold on..what did taylor just say?" he questions curiously, still looking very much shocked.

"mark, you're not supposed to be listening to the music." you tell him tiredly, exhaling deeply as you look over at him.

he gives you another look of perplexity, "how am I supposed to ignore lyrics like that? run that part back."

"no," you laugh once, pushing away his hand once he tries to reach out to rewind the song, "we are not dissecting taylor swift lyrics." you tell him.

"but i'm bored," mark all but whines, head falling as he rocks back in the wooden library chair. just when you go to scold him for his dangerous seating position, mark continues, "and im done all my work that you planned for today! so tell me what the hell dear john is about."

you give him one more look of unsureness, knawing on your lips as you glance briefly at your work and textbooks infront of you. one more look at marks soft features has you breaking, your shoulders deflating as you exhale a deep long breath. "fine," you say highly, "but buckle up - because it gets crazy."

1:54 a.m.

mark

I can't stop thinking about john mayor

mark

like what an asshole

y/n

it's almost 2 in the morning

mark

I didn't know taylor swift went off like that in her songs. are there more like that?

y/n

yes

mark

you gotta send me them because i'm getting into this

mark

wait, why are you awake?

y/n

why are you awake

mark

I asked you first

y/n

can't sleep yet

mark

why?

y/n

are you always so nosy ?

mark

always.

y/n

i've got a english lit test tomorrow and im still studying for it. idk if im prepared or if I will pass

mark

you're kidding right ? you're like the the smartest person I know. you'll ace it

y/n

maybe

mark

you will

mark

I think you should take a break and make me a taylor swift playlist

y/n

you're so bossy

mark

you love it

mark

don't stress about your test seriously. you do the best when you believe in yourself

mark

and if there's a 10th seat available in the 5th row...they better watch out

y/n

who are you and what have you done with mark estapa ?

mark

ha ha

mark

send me the playlist as an apology for that comment

tutoring lesson 11

you knaw on your lip, feeling the skin you've shredded between your teeth. your eyes dance over the white paper, marked with red pen once more, skimming the notes and numbers.

you release your lip, a small sigh coming out of your mouth. "it's okay."

mark groans at the sight of your face, very much indicating that it was indeed not okay. "I flunked it." he says disappointed, eyes drooping with what is no doubt exhaustion.

you knew that last night mark had a game, only after he had asked you to come watch what he claims is the 'best sport to watch live' - to which you declined...again. that combined with his busy schedule left him little to no time for the extra studying you suggested he should do before the test. clearly- that didn't happen.

"you didn't flunk," you remind mark again, placing his test down on the white table top in your booked study room, the shiny red C on the top right corner staring back at you. "it's a C. your grade won't change."

"but it won't get better," mark sighs, running his hands through his hair. "I studied as much as I could, I swear." he looks at you wide eyed and panicked, and you feel a pang of guilt all the way down to your toes.

"I know you did," you reassure him, "but sometimes in order to retain the information better, you need to switch up your study methods. for the next test we will change it up, and we can study extra. don't stress."

he sighs sadly, dropping his head backwards so his view is of the crisp white ceiling of the secluded room. "fuck, I don't want to fuck up and not be able to play." he admits with defeat, blinking heavily.

"we aren't going to get to that point, not when you got me - the smartest person you know - tutoring you, right?" gently, you nudge your elbow into his side, teasing him.

mark looks back at you, smirking softly at your attempt to get him out of his momentary slump. "right."

"okay, so let's just forget about this test for now, we can go over it another time." you push the paper away and off to the side of the table, hiding it from his line of vision.

mark watches you with a fond expression, that same smirk on his lips you've grown to learn is almost always present in your presence.

"today we will go over this new material first, sound good?" looking over, you find mark already looking at you - your eyes meeting softly.

ever so slightly, you feel your face fall - inhaling sharply at the fond expression on marks face. he is closer than you expected, and you don't think you've ever been this close to mark. at this proximity, you notice how prominent the freckles on the bridge of his nose are and how rich his eyes are.

"sounds good." mark says gently. you snap out of your head, and you clear your throat, turning your attention back to your textbook and the lesson plan that you had pulled up on a word doc on your laptop.

throughout the rest of your lesson with mark, you'd often find yourself admiring his face, weather it was his side profile or full frontal. you'd watch the way mark's tongue would dart out when he was writing and the way he'd roll his eyes anytime he had to read something boring.

you notice how his nose is perfectly shaped for his face, and how his stubble is starting to grow in, giving his usual baby face a more rugged appearance. you take notice of how often he runs his hand through his hair, and how when he was trying to understand something, he'd knaw on the skin around his thumb.

you also see how he was solely focused on spending this time working on the new material. mark never sighed with impatience, and he never once picked up his cell phone for a distraction- even when it was buzzing crazy on top of the table. 

the only time he stopped working was to annoy you - of course.

8:21 p.m.

....incoming facetime from mark

....missed facetime from mark

8:22 p.m.

mark

sorry didn't mean to call you

y/n

that's okay

mark

fuck. yeah I did

mark

I wanna talk to you

y/n

are you okay? what's up?

mark

nothing bad. i'm just bored

y/n

what do you want me to do about that ??

mark

entertain me obviously

y/n

oh my apologies your highness

mark

apology accepted

mark

what's your favourite movie ?

y/n

why..?

mark

don't be weird and just answer the question

y/n

okay fine

y/n

confessions of a shopaholic. what's yours?

mark

fast & the furious

mark

only the first one though

y/n

are the others ones bad?

mark

not the best

mark

wait...have you never seen fast & the furious ?

y/n

no

mark

omg. you have to ! like no i'm actually making you

y/n

okay then i'm making you watch confessions of a shopaholic 😗

mark

i've already seen it babe

y/n

did you just call me babe ? 🫣

mark

oh yeah i did. you love it ?

y/n

omg no stop 😭😭

mark

in fact it's going to be your new name in my phone ! bc you love it so much

y/n

you're annoying

"what's so funny over there?" your roommate sabrina questions - her voice full of amusement and curiosity. she pulls one of her earbuds out, eyeing you from her spot on the small love seat.

you look up at the sound her voice rather quickly, adjusting your position on your chair to seem natural. "nothing really." you're not sure why it feels like you've been caught doing something you shouldn't - but you can't help but feel guilty. you laugh once, running a hand through your loose hair. "nothing worth repeating."

sabrina quirks an eyebrow at your odd actions, and she eyes you over suspiciously. it doesn't take long for her brain to come to a conclusion- you can practically see a light bulb flick on above her head of blonde hair. her eyes widen and she springs up from her lounged position, her other earbud falling into her lap. "are you talking to a guy?" she squeals.

you scoff roughly and definitely too loud, giving your friend a perplexed look. "what? no."

"you so are." sabrina says giddily, covering her cheeks with palms. "only guys can get you smiling like that. spill - who is he?" she leans further forward on the couch, closer to you and your spot on the adjacent chair.

"sabrina," you sigh gently, a small laugh nonchalant following, "it's nothing like that...it's just mark - he's just annoying me like usual."

she hums once, leaning back into an upright position, "right. how is that going by the way?"

you feel your stomach swoop and your cheeks threaten to burn red. "how is what going?" you question nervously, toying with the string of your pyjama pants.

"the tutoring....obviously." she chimes, something between an amused smile and a confused one settled on her round face.

obviously she means the tutoring, you think. there is no other relation between yourself and mark estapa that warrants any type of questioning. but then why do you feel the way you're feeling - your brain questions you.

"fine," you answer quickly, dismissing the annoying turmoil in your own head.

if sabrina thinks your acting weird she doesn't say anything, only watching you as you tug on your string and answer her question. you continue, cheeks flushed at her curious stare, "we are really making progress."

she hums, "this is still the same mark estapa that was fighting you for a seat in class - right?"

you purse your lips, "mhmm."

her lips tug up in a way that's unfamiliar to you, but she looks happy so you don't question her "well, i'm glad there's no more hostility then."

you pause, tilting your head as you think. "not as much." you correct her.

sabrina just shrugs, tucking one of her earphones back in. "who knows," she chimes, giving you one last look, "maybe the two of you will become friends after all this." she doesn't give you a chance to respond, putting her second airpod in and continuing her netflix show.

you exhale, head falling back against the chair with exhaustion. "maybe," you whisper to yourself.

your phone buzzes against your thigh, and you pick it up, your text thread with mark still up on your screen.

mark

i've changed it! too late

mark

okay now you have to ask me a question. that's how this works

mark

oh so you're ignoring me

mark

ur gunna make me cry

you smile and begin to type a response.

—

mark had always loved street parties. the atmosphere of everybody gathered outside gave him a sense of belonging and comfortability - the fresh air combined with unlimited space to move around and mingle always trumped a cramped house party.

often, mark as well as the wolverines roster found themselves mingling with their friends and classmates at any and every street party they managed to catch wind of. after all, with their busy schedules, it was sometimes the only time they got to mingle with one another.

tonight was no exception. mark was nursing his second beer of the night, the condensation dripping down his hand and off his wrist anytime he brought the neck up to his lips for a gulp. beside him, ethan laughs loudly at something luca points out, and mark finds himself joining in - even through he's not sure what's so funny.

suddenly, luca turns his attention towards mark, a mischievous glint in his big eyes. "I think papa estapa should find dylan and get us some more drinks."

"what? why me?" mark groans unimpressed.

"because," ethan sing songs, crushing his empty can and tossing it into the trash bin that, conveniently, was near the trio. "I got them last time."

"right, okay." mark sighs, eyes already squinted as he searches the mass of bodies gathered in the street, trying to find their social butterfly best friend, dylan duke.

"you'll find him," luca says, "hard to miss dylan with that embarrassing cooler backpack."

ethan and luca laugh loudly once again, and mark even chuckles along at the thought of dylan's prized bag he wore at every party. it was a sunshine orange coloured cooler, with frayed straps and liquid stains all over - because yes he refused to wash it in case it would 'take away its magic' - whatever that meant.

the thought of dylan's weird superstition has mark thinking of you as he walks through the sea of people. he thinks about just 48 hours ago during a tutoring session - mark remembers how your hair had been slicked back into a braid, and how shiny and soft it looked as you moved around. although, he thinks he prefers your hair down because he likes the way you hide behind it like a curtain when you're writing - or the way you constantly fiddle with the ends.

mark has been suprised with how well you have managed to take to him - especially with his constant pestering and the way he knows he pushes your buttons. he was also suprised with how smart you truly are - but then again what else did he expect with all your random facts and weird superstitions.

mark takes a moment to glance behind himself to make sure dylan hasn't slipped passed him unknowingly, but as he does so, mark bumps into something - or someone rather.

immediately, he turns and finds you.

he blinks once hard, making sure his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. when mark realizes you were in fact standing there, his lips tug up, peering down at you with suprise. "oh shit it's you."

you giggle lightly, head tilted so you could look at him. "it's me." you say highly, swaying in your stance.

your blinks are a little lagged and your flushed under the street lamps - that combined with the scent of fruity tequila on your breath has mark squinting suspiciously, "are you drunk?" he questions.

you scoff and look like your going to deny his accusation, but you stop yourself - pursing your lips and slowly nodding. "I may be a little tipsy."

mark smirks slowly, eyeing you teasingly, "a little?"

you nod confidently, bringing your arms behind your back so you are holding onto your own wrists. the new position has you loosing your balance and you stumble forward, barley catching yourself before falling into marks chest.

mark looks like he's holding back a laugh at your tumble and immediately you eye him irritated. "don't start." you huff, standing back to your full height.

"I didn't think this would be your sort of thing," mark admits, stepping closer to your smaller frame so he doesn't have to yell over the sound of people laughing and music blaring - allowing you to hear him more clearly over the noise. "thought you'd maybe be home - studying or something scholarly." he teases.

"i'm not into it," you admit with a slur, "i'm actually heading home. my roommate - sabrina, she said if I didn't come out with her tonight she'd put nair in my shampoo." you thumb behind your shoulder, even though sabrina wasn't there.

"brutal," mark hisses, "so where is sabrina?"

you shrug gently, looking around quickly to see if you could spot her. "don't know. she wants to stay."

he quirks a brow at you, "so you're going alone?"

you nod.

"no, i'll walk you." mark says adamantly, already patting his pockets to make sure he has everything before leaving, "you're drunk and i'm not in good conscious letting you go alone - i'm a gentleman." he still manages to teases you even when he's telling you what to do.

"i'm tipsy, not drunk. remember?" you say matter of factly, crossing your arms over your chest and turning your nose up.

"right. my apologies," mark teases you again, pulling out his phone, shooting a quick text to ethan that he'd not only be leaving the party but he didn't find dylan and couldn't yet their drinks - fend for yourselves boys.

"alright," mark hums, slipping his phone back into his jean pocket. "let's go your majesty." he holds his arm out for you to take, the gesture over exaggerated and embarrassing.

you roll your eyes, dropping your arms so you're able to grip the crook of his elbow - regardless of his teasing. after all, you were very much drunk and were happy for the stability on the walk back.

when mark finally gets you both towards the direction of the student dorms and away from the bustling crowd is when he next speaks - his hoarse but still sweet voice pulling you from your own thoughts. "I think you'd like fine bald."

you slow in your steps, looking at him inquisitively. "what?"

"you know," mark shrugs, pulling you further along the sidewalk with a gentle tug from his elbow, "in case your roommate would've actually put nair in your shampoo."

it takes your intoxicated brain a moment to register his words but once you come to, your laughing loudly, right into marks strong shoulder -  your weight pushing onto mark as you lean into him.

"liar." you accuse him once your laughter subsides.

"never," mark says back. you don't say anything back, too busy trying to walk straight beside him. after a few moments, he continues, "so," mark smirks teasingly, nudging his elbow into you - the action momentarily squeezing your arms. "what's your favourite thing about me?" he questions.

you gasp with despair, your free hand coming up towards your exposed neck - clutching your imaginary pearls as you look up at the tall boy. "you're taking advantage of my drunkness," you slur accusingly, "people can't lie when they're drunk."

"thought you were just tipsy." he chimes, brow quirked at you knowingly.

"boooooo," you give him a thumbs down as you voice your opinion, which makes mark laugh, his bicep bumping into your shoulder at the movement.

you sigh loudly, deep in thought as you and mark continue further down the sidewalk, the sight of your building coming into view. "my favourite thing about you," you start soon after, "is that you're very determined, especially in your school work. it's a good quality to have."

even with your slurred speech and wobbly walk, mark can tell you're being genuine - your intoxicated state a clear indicator that you've lost any chance you had at a filter.

mark has never thought himself to be determined academically. on the ice - sure, but not with school - especially not when he was failing. clearly, you see something in him he doesn't see himself. that has him wanting to work even harder to not only improve for himself - but for you.

instead of just thanking you for the compliment, he chooses to faux frown, knowing teasing you when you're this drunk was an opportunity he wasn't going to pass up. " it's not that i'm devilishly handsome?"

mark expects you to roll your eyes like always - or even sigh all high and mighty how you tend to do when he gets on your nerves but you want to pretend your unaffected. but instead, you smile all dopey up at him, and the words that come out of your mouth are definitely ones sober you would never say. "well that definitely doesn't hurt."

"you're such a flirt tonight, y/n/n," you don't bat an eye at mark's new nickname for you, shrugging lightly at his remark. mark continues, a sarcastic sneer on his face "makes me a little sick to be honest."

"hey!" you screech, pulling away from the warmth of his muscular body, your hand unwrapping from where it was still resting in the crook of his elbow "i'll never do it again, wouldn't want little marky to feel sick from a compliment from y/n y/l/n!"

he laughs loudly at your teasing outburst and he reaches out towards your stumbling body, grabbing onto your arm and slowly pulling you back into him. "you know i'm kidding y/n."

you look up at him softly, feeling the way his breath fans across your hairline as he stands above you.

mark continues quietly, "if i'm being really honest, I want you to compliment me all the time."

you clear your throat once, breaking your eye contact. nonchalantly, your shrug. "we will see about that - depends how well behaved you are." you tease him, the two of you nearing the entrance of your building. at the end of your sentence, you burp just a little, a soft but slurred apology spewing from your lips immediately as you giggle at yourself.

it's a harsh reminder for mark that you are in fact hammered, and that you would probably have little to no recollection of the conversation in the morning.

you start walking up the three steps to your front door but pause at the first one, glancing back over at mark. "why did you take my seat from me?" you hum in question, swaying as you spin around to fully face him again," that second day of classes, why don't you just sit in the back like the first day?"

mark hisses through his teeth gently, eyeing your blissful flushed face. that day many weeks ago flashes through marks head as you stare at him - awaiting for an answer. even though mark knows you won't remember what he says anyways, he doesn't tell you why. "ask me that when you're sober." he says.

you make a fart noise with you tongue at his response, giving him another thumbs down - clearly unimpressed with his answer.

mark reaches towards you and flips your hand right way up so that it's turned into a thumbs up. you slap his hand away.

the sight of his smile and the sound of his laughter has your belly feeling funny - similar to the swoop on a drop of a rollarcoaster. you turn away from him, key in hand as you take the final two steps up.

you plunge the key into the door lock, jiggling it around until the door unlatches itself for you.

"need help upstairs?" mark asks from behind you.

you glance over your shoulder at him once again, passing the threshold of the doorway. "thought you were a gentleman, marky." you tease him knowingly, eyebrows raised in his direction.

mark tongues his cheek at your remark, nodding once at you. "goodnight y/n." he chimes.

"night night." you sing song, shutting the door gently.

tutoring lesson 18

mark jostles on his bed, sighing loudly as he shifts around. the movement has the pen gripped between your thumb and forefinger slipping -  accidentally drawing a long harsh line down your homework.

slightly aggravated, you take a deep calming breath, moving around the line and continuing your work silently - cross legged on top of mark's bedspread.

after your last study session, mark complained about constantly working in the dusty library or a hospital white study room and told you he needed a change of scenery - told you his brain was going to explode if not, which made you roll your eyes at his over exaggeration.

although, you had to agree with him that the repetitive scenery was becoming tiring, and a change of location would be nice and would help benefit mark's learning.

so ahead of your current tutoring/study session, mark had texted you asking to meet at his place - he sent his address and stated his place was empty for working.

that's how you ended up on his plaid navy bedspread a few hours past his text messages - all kinds of class work laid out in front of you and mark, both of you finishing up some assignments.

once again, mark sighs loudly, flopping around his bed like a fish to try and further get your attention - his previous exaggerated sigh not working in his favour.

you take his very obvious bait, looking over at him with a quirked brow.

mark was already watching you, waiting for you to give him the attention he was wanting. "can we take a break?" he asks in a whine, similar to a naughty kid who wants to get their way, "I might throw myself off a cliff if I have to read anymore articles." he warns, flopping around some more.

you sit up, stretching the ache in your back that formed from being hunched over your studies. you roll your eyes at his dramatics, but you don't think a break is a bad idea. your back is sore and your hand was cramping from all the writing, both are practically begging you to relax.

you break, "okay, let's take a break."

the puppy dog look mark was previously sporting in your direction turns into one of relief, that same smirk he was always wearing making its much anticipated return. "alright, let's get rid of these books, i've got something in mind." he waggles his eyebrows at you, giving you a wink.

that combined with that smirk you're growing to love of his, has some inappropriate thoughts running through your head - dirty ideas increasing as mark quickly gathered all books a loose papers to clear the bed.

thankfully mark doesn't catch your flustered expression because he is too busy placing all your stuff of the floor. "we are watching a movie." he tells you happily, sitting back up on the now clean bedspread.

clearing your mind of its contents, you crawl up towards the top of the bed, joining mark. you let yourself follow suit and lean back against the headboard, supporting your torso. "what movie?" you question curiously, eyeing mark as he clicks through streaming apps on his small tv.

finally he gets to his desired one, searching through the app's favourite list. mark smirks, glancing over at you. "fast & furious obviously."

the opening credits start to play through the bedroom, the film illuminating the dim bedroom.

you groan, looking away from mark in favour of letting you head fall back against the headboard with a thud.

"don't groan yet," mark laughs gently, his thick thigh nudging against yours. "it hasn't even started."

"thank god for that," you tease him, head lulling to the side so you are able look at mark once again. you watch as his lips tug up from your teasing, a small breathy laugh leaving him as he watches the tv.

softly, you smile as well, head turning back towards fast & the furious.

a beat passes.

"wait," mark suddenly alerts, "there's not some weird science thing about a certain side of the bed for movie watching, right?" his lips tug up towards the end of his question, an obvious indicator that he was trying to make fun of you and your weird statistics and knowledge about seats.

in all seriousness, you answer. "oh not for a bed - only the movie theatre."

"oh my god" mark deadpan, turning his attention back to the loud cars on the screen and away from you. "you're such a weirdo."

you giggle to yourself, grabbing one of marks throw blankets from the end of the bed, and pulling the fuzzy material up and over your body.

-

slowly, your eyes flutter open. the warmth of the sun on your face working as a natural alarm clock, waking you from your sleep. your surroundings are unfamiliar in such a sleepy state - noting the navy sheets and patterned bread spread.

then, you take notice of how your cheek feels hot, and how the scent right under your nose was seemingly very familiar. your eyes widen, and under your cheek, marks chest rumbles with laughter.

you were in marks room...in his bed...sleeping on his chest.

"well, hello, sleeping beauty." he says gently above your head. "was the movie really that boring you had to fall asleep on me?"

you roll off marks chest rather quickly, ending your impromptu cuddle session. it is clearly morning based on the sun streaming in his window, meaning you had accidentally slept over at mark's -  falling asleep sometime during fast & furious.

you wipe your eyes, cringing at the thought of the mascara you never had the chance to remove. you cringe harder thinking about the consequences of not washing your makeup off period. you hope sabrina isn't worried about you and you quickly shoot her a text of your location to end any sort of panic.

for the first time since opening your eyes, you finally meet mark's gaze. he's still lying down, hands behind his head as he looks at you from his spot half under the covers. the position has his biceps flexed perfectly, bulging under his tshirt - you feel yourself get warm from the sight, your body tingling pleasantly.

he quirks a brow at you questionably, still awaiting an answer to his earlier teasing.

clearing your throat, you hum. "well," you begin, your voice groggily and still thick with sleep, "wouldn't watch it again."

slowly, marks lips tug upwards into a lazy smirk. "you missed all the best parts," he tells you through his grin.

you scrunch your nose up in distaste. "I doubt that."

his mouth drops as he laughs. gently, he takes one of his pillows, using it to hit your side. before he can pull back, you grab onto the corner. mark doesn't fight you as you pull it from his grip, hitting him once in the chest with it as you laugh.

"are you guys coming to eat or what?" a voice calls from downstairs, their deep tone muffled through the bedroom door.

your brows pull together in confusion, eyeing mark.

he sits up, "ethan asked if we wanted food like 30 minutes ago, told him we'd be right down." mark whispers to you nonchalantly before shouting out a response to his roommate.

"you should've woken me," you insist, getting out of bed as mark does the same. "don't want them to think i'm rude."

mark shrugs, wordlessly tossing you a hoodie to wear. you pull it over your head immediately, the scent of mark invading your nostrils.

"couldn't wake the princess," he teases.

"shut up," you tell him.

you had only met ethan, marks roommate and teammate in passing the night prior as mark lead you upstairs for your tutoring lesson. the rest of his roommates though you had yet to meet. so breakfast (which consisted of scrambled eggs, bacon and questionably burnt toast courtesy of dylan) was spent chatting and getting to know them.

you found it rather amusing at the way all the boys kept asking you question after question - rather random ones at that. but you enjoyed it nonetheless - serving as a good distraction from the fact you woke up cuddling mark estapa because what the hell.

you shove move eggs in your mouth and ignore thinking too much about your morning surroundings, listening contently as luca fantilli asks what your favourite dinner condiment is (specifically dinner).

you don't notice all the teasing looks mark's friends were giving him when you were distracted. mark pretends he doesn't see the looks either.

the only looks he focuses on are yours - when you meet his eyes over the rim of your mug of orange juice. everytime mark has to fight off a smile.

3:28 p.m.

mark

I think my friends really liked you. definitely more than they like me

y/n

thank god :)

y/n

I was worried the whole being late for sophomore house breakfast would turn them off

mark

nah they don't give a fuck about that

mark

luca even said you were hot

y/n

really 😳

y/n

maybe you should give him my number then

mark

fuck that

mark

no way

mark

I said you're off limits

y/n

why?

y/n

are you jealous little marky?? 🥺

mark

yeah because then you'd tutor them and they'll be smarter than me

y/n

don't worry. i'll only ever tutor you 🫶🏻

mark

atta girl

tutoring lesson 21

"this isn't cute." you deadpanned, eyeing mark from across the small table.

mark smirks gently, titling his head. "no?" he asks you, brows raised curiously. you shake your head, mimicking his no, but definitively rather than questioningly.

"is it convincing, at least?" he hums, his sultry smile turning into a cheeky one - playing at his lips as he leans forward.

you squint at him.

mark sighs dramatically, leaning impossibly closer towards you across the table - so close that if you leaned forward you could kiss him. "please, y/n, you have to come to my game." he pleads.

once he sees you're not budging, mark clasp's his hands together in a loud prayer motion, "pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeee-"

quickly, you place a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. "stop whining," you interrupt his plea. "my ear drums are going to start bleeding."

underneath your palm you can feel mark snicker to himself, his eyes twinkling with nothing but mischief as he looks at you.

you blush, removing your hand from his face. you can still feel the way his stubble tickled you skin and the heat of his face on you. it has you blushing deeper, wiping away the tingles.

immediately, mark starts to ask the same question he's been asking you for months. ever since your and mark's relationship has grown from strictly academic agreement to a friendship,  he has been asking, begging and telling you that you need to come watch a hockey game.

every single time, you tell him no. the idea of men skating around and bashing into one another didn't sound that inviting. the way mark is looking at you now though, you can feel yourself wanting to break.

he continues, "how about if I get a B or higher on the midterm, you have come to one game."

"mark..." you sigh gently, eyeing him softly.

"just one." mark stresses again, "i'll even get you the ticket. I just want my friend there to watch me play - especially because she's never seen a hockey game." as he speaks, marks forearms falls flat on the table, reaching out so he can grab ahold of your wrists that were resting on top the desk - his thumbs stroking your skin soothingly.

a beat passes.

"okay," you sigh, "but only if you get a B."

mark smiles in victory, giving your wrist one gentle squeeze before releasing you. "you'll love it." he states.

you shrug nonchalantly, "you'll never know how i'll feel about it if you don't get back to studying." your eyes dart between him and his open textbook knowingly.

in all seriousness, mark nods, getting back to his notes as you both study from your early morning test for following day, the dim lights of the study room providing a calming atmosphere as you both concentrated on the task.

mark finds himself focusing on you a little while later- lost in watching you study the material. the way you twisted your hair around your finger, gently sucking on the end of your pen as you intently read the article laid in front of you.

he shuffles in his seat at the sight, clearing his throat and looking down towards his notes quickly. it isn't a moment later when marks eyes gravitate back towards you, his mouth opening slightly as he watches you pull your hair into a yellow claw clip, small wisps falling out to give you that hot librarian look that fulfilled all of marks childhood fantasies.

feeling marks stare, you look up to meet his eyes, raising your brows at his suspicious expression. the pen falls from your lips as you question him. "are you okay?"

"yeah - no," he huffs, "you sucking that pen, fuck - you're kind of turning me on." he admits shamelessly, wiggling in his seat again in a way that has you gawking wordlessly.

"what?" you think you've turned permanently beat red at his confession, eyes blown wide and brows raised towards him.

"you gotta stop before I have to leave," mark laughs gently, rubbing the back of his neck, "it's been awhile since I got laid so that's not helping."

"mark!" you screech, dropping your pen in favour of covering your ears with your palms, blocking out anymore things mark felt the need to admit. "I don't want to know that!"

your loudness has mark laughing, the sight of you getting so easily flustered is just too good. he nudges your foot with his own under the table, a subtle signal that he wasn't going to say anything else to embarrass you and that you could uncover your ears.

slowly you release the press from your palms, the humming of the air conditioning unit coming back to you.

mark doesn't move his foot away, letting it rest between your two under the table. it has you unable to focus for the rest of your booked study room time.

10:59 p.m.

mark

so do you need to borrow one of my jerseys to wear to the game ? 😉

y/n

don't get ahead of yourself cowboy. test hasn't happened and there's a week before we know the grade

mark

it'll be a B

mark

not sure if you know this but I have this really smart tutor

y/n

oh yeah ? tell me more

mark

well...

mark

she tried to seduce me today by sucking off her pen

y/n

i'm blocking you

—

it wasn't often that you'd go out the bars, but you and your two closest friends preferred it over roudy frat parties and nightclubs. after taking your first midterms of the year, you all planned on celebrating with a couple drinks at the local bar.

a place you'd been before, but for some reason the night felt....off. you told sabrina and your other mutual friend, taylor, that you'd get the next round of drinks after using the bathroom but you had an uneasy feeling as soon as you stepped up to the bar alone.

you hadn't yet got the bartenders attention, so you were just waiting off towards the end of the bar, that same weird feeling in your belly.

"hey," a voice said to your left, that unsettling feeling growing as a person joined you - there voice husky and breath too warm against your face. "pretty lame bar right?"

you turn your head to see a guy around your age - in fact, you're pretty sure you've seen him around campus. which would make sense considering the bar was only a 5 minute uber ride from student buildings.

you smile politely, shrugging your shoulders nonchalantly. "eh, all bars seem to be the same anyways." you turn your attention back to the bar, trying to grab the young female bartenders attention so you could get back to your table and leave the presence of this guy. your belly swirls with discomfort once more.

the guy doesn't get the hint, and moves closer to you. "I think i've seen you around campus, it's y/n, right?"

you furrow your brows but nod anyways, "yeah, that's me."

"i'm Landon," he says. "hey, think we should get out of here? talk somewhere quiet?" you feel his hand graze your side and immediately you push away, trying to create a sense of distance between you.

"i'm okay."

"c'mon," he laughs, "it be fun." his lingering touch turns into a harsh grip on your waist, fingers squeezing your ribs through your flowy top.

your brows raise, and you try and push him off of you once more. unfortunately, it's an unsuccessful attempt and your face drops with numbness and panic starts to become unbeatable. "let go of me," you manage to hiss, elbowing his ribs as you try and get him off you.

just when you think you may have to scream out for help, somebody calls out somewhere in the bar. you briefly see a familiar tall figure with soft blonde hair, and you feel like you can breath again.

"hey!" like an angel, mark appears beside you, removing landon's hands off and putting his much larger body between you and the creep before you - making the space you were desperately needing.

mark looks angry - which you didn't think golden retriever mark was capable of. his eyes narrow towards landon, "stop touching my girl like she's a piece of meat, fucking prick."

landon laughs disgustingly as he eyes mark back - a sound that has your skin crawling. although mark has never looked very intimidating, this new found anger makes him seem anything but.

landon doesn't seem to agree as he bites back. "she can do better, bud" unfortunately, he isn't backing down from the confrontation. you become even more nervous than before, quickly searching the crowd to see if you can spot of of marks teammates for a helping hand.

"I can make you look worse," mark threatens, stepping closer. his broad chest practically pushes landon back, and he stumbles once.

landon snickers, pushing him away. you watch him eye mark once more, and then hesitate. thankfully, he finally chooses to back down, stepping away from mark. "whatever man." the creep sends you one more disgusting look as he backs away.

you feel yourself relax immediately, a breath you weren't aware you were holding finally coming out. once landon is no longer in eyesight, mark turns his body fully towards you, eyes rather frantic as he looks over you. "are you okay? he didn't hurt you or anything?"

you shake your head, running a trembling hand through your hand. "I'm okay," you take a deep breath, meeting marks concerned gaze. "I didn't know you were here."

"I'm glad I was," mark says in a tone of something similar to disbelief - disbelief of what he just has to stop assumedly. "what a fucking dick."

you look down at your shoes with embarrassment. you can't believe you were in such a terrible situation in which you felt defenceless. you were embarrassed with yourself for not fighting back stronger. "i'm sorry," you mutter gently, meeting marks eyes again.

his blue gaze is still swimming with worry combined with a million other emotions. marks brows pull together, creating a little divot above the bridge of his nose. he shakes his head slightly, hands reaching up delicately before holding your cheeks in his warm palms, cradling you in his hands. "don't apologize." he tells you gently, a thumb stroking once over your cheekbone.

you swallow thickly, nodding at him. "thank you. you didn't have to go that."

"it's least I could do after everything you've done for me." mark says sincerely and you feel like melting into a soupy puddle right at his feet. then, like he's done it before, his hands travels to the back of your head, using the leverage to pull you into his broad chest, his other hand wrapping around your shoulders.

it was...new and rather nice and you heat up in the best possible way. you let yourself relax into his body, closing your eyes and inhaling his scent as you try and calm your erratic heart rate. immediately, your earlier embarrassment and upset stomach fade away until all you can feel is marks steady heartbeat and his head on top of yours.

"you sure you're okay?" mark pulls back slightly, keeping his hands on you as he dances over your face again. it's all very endearing and overwhelming in the best way.

you nod again, face heating up under his intense gaze, "yeah but i'll probably head out now, not really up for drinks anymore."

"I was actually on my way out before I saw you," mark tells you, "was gunna go to denny's for some pancakes if you wanted to come with."

your stomach rumbles at the thought of fluffy pancakes and sweet syrup with mark. "you sure?"

"I want you to come," mark says gently. "gotta make sure you're okay and not lying to me."

"okay," you say lightly, a smile beginning to blossom at marks sweet words and evident concern for your wellbeing. it was....really nice.

hours later, after a belly full of food and a night of once shock and discomfort turning into one full of laughter with mark, his roommates, and your friends do you register what mark had said to landon.

stop touching my girl.

tutoring lesson 27

your eyes danced over you computer screen as you read over your lesson plan for mark. you were currently waiting for him in the booked study room, the glass door still open for some white noise as you waited for his arrival.

suddenly, the steady sound of students talking amongst themselves and shoes squeaking on the aluminum tiles become more chaotic - an all too familiar voice invading your ears as it splews apologies.

you look up just to see mark weaving through students, making his way quickly towards the study room, apologizing to people as he bumped into them. your brows furrow at his sense of urgency as he approaches.

"mark?" you question once he passes the threshold of the open door, "are you okay?" you quickly give him a once over, checking him for any injures or threats - he looks fine (too fine, your brain reminds you).

mark doesn't answer you question - he can't with how big the smile on his face has grown. he takes two steps towards the desk you're sitting at, giving you a victorious look before slapping a booklet down.

you look down just as mark removes his large hand from the top of the paper, and a shiny B+ grade stares back at you - as well as a ticket to the next michigan wolverines home game.

"not just a B," mark says joyfully, breaking the silence, "but a B+."

you meet his eyes once more, and you can feel your lips beginning to tug upwards. finally, all of marks hard work has payed off and this grade would bring his average up to a B - which was what he was required to have in order to stay in the athletic department at the university of michigan.

"i'm so proud of you," you say truthfully, rounding the table quickly until you are standing in front of him.

mark hugs you - his hands sliding under your open jacket to hold onto you closely. you stiffen slightly at the feeling of his warm palms against your body, but he doesn't seem to notice.

you hug him back just as tightly.

you two pull away from one another shortly after, smiles on both of your faces as you bask in the successful feeling hanging in the air.

like gravitational pull, your eyes wander back over to the test booklet and hockey ticket abandoned on the table.

you purse your lips, reaching out to pick up the thick ticket paper - toying with the edge teasingly. you look up at mark once more, and still he's eyeing you, one brow quirked as he watches you curiously.

"so," you hum, "what does one wear to a hockey game?"

—

5:11 p.m.

y/n

wait where do I park??

y/n

oh wait you're probably not on your phone right now

mark

i'm here. you're good

mark

anywhere is section A

y/n

and you said any entrance right?

mark

that's right 🙂‍↕️

y/n

i'm a little nervous. is that stupid ?

mark

no not stupid. i think you're just excited to see the real men play a real sport 💪

y/n

omg 🙄

mark

i've got you a seat with kayleigh - rut's girlfriend. you'll like her

y/n

and how would you know that ??

mark

c'mon y/n/n. you should know how well I know you by now

mark

stand at the glass for warmups. I want to see you

you do really like kayleigh - which, of course you would because as much as you hate to admit it, mark does know you by now. all the months of knowing each other plus the hours upon hours you and him had spent together - it was bound to happen.

something else you should've known was bound to happen was the feelings you've encountered spending so much time with mark. you can't ignore the way your heart rate changes when you see him, or the way you flush when he stares at you all soft. you've become infatuated with the way mark smells and how he pushes your buttons and how kind he is.

the you at the beginning of the school semester would've never expected this from mark estapa. you assumed he was stuck up, and didn't care about his academics or peers. but the real mark was determined and caring and only wanted to make your tutoring experience fun. no wonder you felt like you were falling for him.

kayleigh's small elbow nudges your side, affectively pulling you from your daydreaming.

"looks like you've got an admirer coming your way," kayleigh teases quietly beside you, her perfect sweet smile nothing but comforting.

although your brows furrow, you can't help but smile back instinctually, turning your attention back towards the ice through the glass infront of you - just in time to see mark skate over to the boards where you and kayleigh stand.

he smiles big, coming to a fast stop - ice sliding up and off his skates blades so the glass becomes snowed. mark pushes away any lingering flurries, making your view of him once again clear.

"are you having fun?" he asks you, one of his gloved hands smacking against the glass between you to keep your attention in the loud arena.

his voice muffled the the pane, but you can hear just how happy he is. you nod wordlessly, your own smile making mark's grow bigger.

"good," he says.

you finally notice mark is holding a puck in that hand he used to hit the glass only moments before. you quirk a brow at him, but marks too focused on tossing the puck on the air, signalling to you that he wanted to throw it over.

once he knows you're paying attention and aware of his intentions, mark tosses the puck over the glass, the rubber biscuit falling right into your awaiting hands.

with the most teasing enthusiasm you can manage, you hold the icy puck to your chest, fanning yourself with your other hand. "always such a gentleman."

mark smirks at your remark and then he winks at you - skating away from the glass to continue his warm ups.

you flutter all over.

-

watching the wolverines play turned out to be really enjoyable. the sport itself was better than you expected - it was fast paced and aggressive. it seemed like something was always happening, which kept you interested and focused. you were even more focused on mark though. anytime he was on the ice, you felt yourself slip into a trance. he moved so skillfully and played so aggressively and motivated. you could finally understand to the full extent of why staying on the team was so important to him.

after the game, kayleigh said her and some of the other girls would stay around and wait for the guys to come out of the locker room to greet one another after a win. you weren't going to protest, and blindly followed her through the wolverines area and down towards the players tunnels.

when mark had seen you there, he lit up - greeting you in a warm hug and keeping you in within arms length as you all chatted after their win. when mark insisted he would drive you home and bring you back the next morning for your car - well, you obviously gave in and agreed.

that's how you ended up in mark's car, enthusiastically asking him a million questions about hockey - even the questions that you think seem stupid and are positive he's answered a million times before. mark lets you though, answering you questions with just as much excitement as you have.

mark flicks his blinker on, signaling his pull off on the night lit streets. he expertly parallel parks right infront of your building, turning towards you with a smile still on his face once he turns the car off. "so safe to say you'd come again?"

you let your head fall against the headrest gently, a tired grin taking over your rosy lips. "I would."

mark mimics your position, turning his body towards you in the driver's seat. "seeeee," he drags out with a gin, "I knew you would like it. I said I was smarter than you thought."

you frown slightly, "I knew you were smart."

his smile changes, a more earnest one taking over. marks teasing eyes turn soft as he eyes you in the dark car. "really?"

you nod once, "yeah - well, expect for when you tried to beat my to my seat everyday. I didn't think that was very smart of you."

he chuckles breathily at your teasing, tucking his lip between his teeth to try and contain his grin. "maybe," his voice is quieter, almost a whisper as he leans closer towards you, resting on the middle console. like gravity, you join him, leaning in. mark continues, "I had a reason."

"oh yeah?" you inquire breathlessly, brows quirked in his direction. "and whats that?"

he shrugs and continues to whisper. "maybe I wanted to sit near this pretty girl who sat there."

the air in the car morphs into a thick syrup, turning your skin hot and sticky. your lips tug up in a small but timid smile. "just maybe?"

marks tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip in a way that has your toes curling and stomach filling with butterflies - bashing against your insides and tickling at your desires.

"most definitely," he shrugs nonchalantly, but the smirk that follows his words are anything but. mark leans in impossibly closer before you can form any thoughts or words. "can I confess something?"

"mhm," you hum, eyes fluttering on instinct.

his voice is deeper than normal, and he sounds so sultry that you may just pass out. "I really want to kiss you right now."

"i'm okay with that," you whisper after a beat of happily thick silence.

the last thing you see is marks beautiful smirk as he reaches up and grabs ahold of your face - nudging his nose against yours once, gently, before resting it against yours. finally, after weeks of wanting him to, mark leans in, pressing his lips to yours.

mark kisses in a way we weren't expecting. his lips were soft but he was rougher in his movements - confident in the way he held you and slotted his lips with yours. you're coming to realize that everything about mark is unexpected in the best way.

by the time you've pulled away, you're both breathless. the press of mark's forehead on yours helps keep you grounded, and you laugh lightly.

"can I confess something else," he breathes, that teasing smile still staring back at you.

"if it's as good as the last thing you confessed i'm all ears." you smile, brushing the tip of your nose across his.

he laughs once as you pull back again, shaking his head slightly as he admires you. "you're still turning me on." mark grins boyishly.

you squeal with laughter, smacking his chest gently. "mark!" you drag out, "you're so gross."

"yeah." he whispers, half and agreement half a question. he leans back in, connecting your lips again. you blush, hands resting against his neck as you reciprocate the kiss.

—

all night, you couldn't stop thinking about mark. which was inevitable considering he had slept over at your place, both of crammed in your tiny twin bed -laughing and talking (and making out) until the early hours of the morning.

he drove you back to the arena the next morning and on the ride there anytime you thought of how mark's gangly feet hung off the end of your bed, you'd enter a fit of laughter - and everytime mark knew you were making fun of him, so he would tickle your side quickly to annoy you.

it was all so domestic and tooth rooting levels of sweet your stomach hurt in the best way.

mark kissed you gooodbye before he had to go home and shower before his afternoon classes, and all was good and perfect and you really like him.

then the evening came, and you hadn't heard from him since he dropped you off. you didn't think too much of it though, assuming he was probably exhausted. a hockey game as well as a shitty and short sleep was bound to have him passed out for the night.

but then the next day was also radio silent. no pointless texts or facetime calls. no memes in your direct messages or unfunny tiktok's waiting on the app.

the third day, the day of your shared morning class, you spot him. mark doesn't look sick or tired and you can see his phone in his pocket meaning he still has one and it's working - every and any excuse you've made for mark about his sudden silence is no longer plausible. he was just simply ignoring you.

you march over, grabbing his forearm before he can walk into class. he looks confused at first, but once mark sees that it's you touching him, his eyes widen ever so slightly, face pale as he takes in your angry and confused expression.

"have a second?" you ask with faux sweetness. you don't wait for a reply, gripping his arm tighter and dragging him away from the entrance of the class. you march down the hall until its quieter, releasing his arm and turning to face him once the coast seems to be clear.

you raise a brow in his direction, "you're ignoring me."

"am I?" he asks awkwardly, running a hand through his hair nonchalantly.

you roll your eyes. "don't play stupid mark - we both know you're not stupid." you grit out, arms crossing over one another as you stare him down. "I don't understand what happened. I thought we were friends? I thought..." you trail off, swallowing thickly as emotion starts to scratch away at your throat.

a beat passes.

"thought what?" marks asks you harshly. his tone of voice has you confused, and you shuffle backwards, putting some distance between you. tears start to claw at your eyes, stinging you.

he laughs slightly, "I mean, listen, thanks for tutoring me and all but we're good now. we can go back to just classmates or whatever."

"are you being for real?" you whisper. your once angry crossed arms have turned into ones of defence, wrapping around you like a soft hug.

"yeah," he clears his throat, eyeing the floor "we're done now, I don't need you hanging around anymore and telling me what to do."

he couldn't even look at you. you purse your lips, nodding in a disgusted understanding. "fine," you say, "we're done then."

you ignore the way your voice cracks, turning heel and waking away from mark. you pass right by the open door of the lecture hall, not having the emotional capacity to be in the same space as the guy who just broke your heart.

—

you spent the following day wallowing in your own tears and self pity. you can't help but think that you've read his signals incorrectly. you think mark was only being civil to make your arrangement easier. he didn't want to be friends with you or date you - maybe he just wanted to hook up with you and then dump you. that thought is the worst of them all.

when you told sabrina the short conversation you last had with him, she was of course angry because, in her words, 'who does he think he is? fucking with you like that!'

she quickly assured you that you didn't do anything wrong and if his intentions weren't to pursue anything but friendship with you - he failed miserably.

a week after your brief fight with mark outside your shared lecture hall, you sit in your sweats on the living couch. still very much grumpy and angry with the wolverines player.

you were waiting for sabrina to get back from work before turning on the previous nights episode of the bachelor - munching on oreos and scrolling your phone aimlessly when you hear a knock at the door.

without thinking much of it, you make your way over. sabrina, as much as you love her, is a very forgetful person and it was often you had to let her back into your shared place after she'd forget her set of keys.

expect it's not sabrina, and your teasing remark dies on your tongue.

"i'm sorry." mark breaths as soon as the door opens between you. "I fucked up."

your momentary shock subsides and you laugh in disbelief, "yeah. you did." you shut the door in his face, walking away. if mark couldn't even find it in himself to look you in the eye while he broke your heart and told you that you were nothing more than a tutor - why should you let him look at you now.

"please, y/n/n," he pleas through door. softly, his forehead hits the wood, a dull thud echoing through your home. "i'm here to apologize."

you wouldn't let yourself cry - you've done enough crying the past week for years and years to come. you've done plenty enough crying over some stupid hockey player.

without a response from you, mark takes a deep breath, momentarily closing his eyes as he tries to gather his scattered thoughts.

"I said stupid things to you," he starts against your closed door, "stupid things I didn't mean. you are more than just my tutor okay? I do still need you because you're important to me. I only pushed you away because - fuck - i've never felt these feelings before and you made me nervous. honestly, you still make me nervous."

mark can't find it in himself to care that your neighbours - possible classmates of his even, could be and are most likely listening in as he talks to you through the door you shut in his face.

he sighs again, silently cursing to himself.

"awhile ago...when I walked you home after we ran into one another at that street party," he pauses, wetting his lips. the action feels useless, all moisture in his mouth feels gone. "you asked me why I took your seat that second day. y/n, I took that seat only on the pure hope you'd sit in it again. when I saw you that first day of classes, I thought you were the most beautiful girl i'd ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. so the next day, I took it because I wanted any excuse to talk to you.

when you started going on about the importance of that seat that day, I knew you'd try and get it back....so I took the opportunity and tried to take it before you because I wanted you to interact with me...even just a little. and I would do it again if it meant I'd get to know you the way you've allowed me to."

mark is still alone in your buildings hallway. he listens intently against the door, but he doesn't hear any shuffling. it's silent - you're not coming back to him. his eyes close with disappointment - not with you but himself.

he pulls out his phone and opens your text thread.

your phone buzzes against the counter top and you look over quickly. the skin around your thumb is probably thanking you as you drop it from between your teeth - a nervous habit you'd always had.

you use a shoulder to wipe the tears that had leaked from your eyes, opening your phone to see a text.

a pre-made playlist from mark estapa is staring at you.

"I fucked up, i'm so so so sorry."

you sniffle quitley, scrolling through the few songs he'd curated for you.

mark speaks again, "I made you this. its okay if you don't want to talk, okay? fuck, I just needed to apologize -"

his voice becomes clear as you pull open the door that separates you from him and his apology is put to a halt. he looks shocked and nervous at the same time - the top of his cheekbones flushed and the rest of his face pale. you've never seen mark look so distraught and immediately, you know he is feeling guilty.

"you know you fucked up, right? like you're not just saying it so that ill forgive you and you can get into my pants?"

marks brows are pulled tight and he frowns roughly, "no, definitely not. I really fucked up and i'm really fucking sorry. you don't even need to forgive me but I just need you to know that I didn't mean any of that bullshit last week."

you still look hesitant, eyeing him as he stands before you. mark sighs gently, taking the smallest step towards you. "I need you, y/n. I need you like I need hockey and need the sun. you've become one of my best friends and I can't imagine not sitting beside you in class anymore. you're the reason i'm still playing hockey." he pauses. "I need you because I'm falling for you, y/n. and I can't go another day of hiding it."

"can I confess something?" you whisper waterly. you don't wait for a reply and continue, "I really like you and have for awhile now. I'm falling for you even harder - and," you take a deep breath, your body falling limp as you stare up at him. "...I really want to kiss you."

that smirk you love oh so much is back, and so is the colour in marks face. you smile with him just as he kisses you. the feeling so warm and familiar and right.

you've always loved statics and facts. one you've always found fascinating is how only 28% of college relationships end up marrying. now, logically speaking, that's isn't very high but as you stand in your doorway, mark estapa's hands in your hair and his lips on yours - you think that you may be apart of that statistic.

thank god for your seat war.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

[vinylrosess]

I receive all of my father’s love but I receive all of his anger in the same breath.

[forgive-the-sea]

what am i if not a girl with wasted potential

[anxietyproblem]

[vinylrosess]

Pandora opening the box

[retiredmartini]

you and me got a whole lotta history | charles leclerc social media au

pairing: charles leclerc x historian!reader

y/n is a historian and it’s not her fault her bf’s job takes him all around the world…

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, danielricciardo and 102,561 others

location: melbourne 📍

yourusername: so it’s the australian grand prix and i’ve spent the start of the week exploring this old city. one of my stops was the historic old melbourne gaol. this now museum was once a prison that housed some of the most feared criminals in australian history. constructed in 1839, the old melbourne gaol saw 133 hanged for their crimes between 1845 and 1924. it was briefly used during world war two but ceased operation as a prison in 1924 and was renovated to be part of the RMIT university and the museum it is today. a definite must if you’re visiting melbourne !!

view all comments

user1: my fave part of the race week is y/n’s museum recommendations tbf

user2: i can vision charles being dragged around this place hating his life

charles_leclerc: the things we do for love

yourusername: you said you enjoyed it :(

charles_leclerc: I DID

user2: oops

yourusername: i’ll leave you at the hotel next time

charles_leclerc: it was scary but i enjoyed it because i was with you

yourusername: okay that’s better

danielricciardo: so my farm isn’t good enough for you

yourusername: noooooo danny i thought we were going after the race?

danielricciardo: oof my bad

user3: petition for there to be a teds notebook but it’s y/n giving us a historical guide to the city the race is in

f1: we’re listening @skysportsf1

charles_leclerc

liked by yourusername, scuderica ferrari and 788,341 others

tagged: yourusername

charles_leclerc: tough race in melbourne but a beautiful city regardless

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user4: HE served, we don’t talk about the race

yourusername: i don’t mean to say i told you so but i did say our day trip would be the best part

user5: girl you’re gonna get banned from the ferrari garage

yourusername: they deserve far worse than what i’m saying let’s be real

user5: true

user6: i love how charles didn’t reply ferrari has his ass ON LOCK

carlossainz55: we'll come back stronger

danielricciardo: we can all commiserate at my farm bro

charles_leclerc: your farm better be as good as you're saying now

danielricciardo: nervously awaiting the y/n review

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1 and 104,561 others

location: miami 📍

yourusername: though miami may be known for it's partying (it's all about the U), charles and i took our monday to take a stroll around st bernard de clairvaux church, one of miami's hidden gems. the church was originally built in spain all the way back in 1141 to the style of cistercian romanesque architecture for alfonso vii. the monastry's cloister was illegally purchased by american william randolph hearst in 1926 and in order for the church to be transported it was dismantled to 11,000 pieces and sent to the us where it was rebuilt and still stands to this day.

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user7: i'm never gonna be able to afford to go to miami so why did i read this whole thing like i'll visit some day?

yourusername: history is important and interesting, always good to read even if you never visit !!

user8: she's like the older sister i never had

user9: did charles enjoy this one more?

yourusername: "at least i'll get a tan here"

charles_leclerc: i feel like anyone who reads about me in your comments will think i'm an asshole, i have fun every time i just don't understand most of it

yourusername: i know you have fun baby (and i love you for driving us to all of these places)

user10: have you considered our super historic frat house this saturday night?

user11: imagine thinking you have a chance when her literal boyf is CHARLES LECLERC

user10: every goal has a goalkeeper doesn't mean you can't score

charles_leclerc: i will run you over

user12: omg ferrari's pr is quaking

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, lancestroll and 112,677 others

yourusername: it is my biggest honour to announce my position as a history lecturer here at oxford!! i always dreamed of studying here and to get to pass on my knowledge to those looking to follow in my footsteps is a huge pleasure and responsibility.

p.s. no worries, it is not full time so race week explorations will continue.

view all comments

user13: so it was true :(((((( wait i just read the whole post my bad

user14: so i guess i now need to turn my Cs into As if i wanna attend a y/n lecture

charles_leclerc: unbelievably proud of you my love - don't miss me too much

yourusername: you sure i can't persuade you to move to england with me :(

charles_leclerc: i'll be there as much as i can be but monaco is still our home

yourusername: always

landonorris: proud of you smarty pants

yourusername: thank you landito

landonorris: so you'll now root for the brits?

charles_leclerc: over my dead body

yourusername: what charlie said

charles_leclerc

liked by pierregasly, yourusername and 1,209,778 others

tagged: yourusername

charles_leclerc: super happy for another win for the season but we keep pushing for the real prize at the end of the season - thank you for your continued support tifosi and my love y/n who stayed up all the way in oxford ❤️

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user20: i don't wanna jinx it but like the season is going well

user21: too well....

yourusername: winning looks good on you

charles_leclerc: you look better on me

pierregasly: oh god you've been apart for a triple header and now you're being horny on main

yourusername: says mr. doggy emoji

pierregasly: touche

user22: so charles can mathematically win in either austin or brazil FUCK THEM KIDS I NEED Y/N AT THESE RACES

user23: if she's not there for charles wdc i am personally going to have a sleepover on the train tracks

yourusername added to their story

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, lewishamilton and 503,786 others

tagged: charles_leclerc

yourusername: the autodromo jose carlos pace is the crown jewel of the interlagos neighbourhood. the circuit opened 83 years ago and has hosted the f1 since 1972. the circuit was originally meant to be a housing area but due to the 1929 stock market crash the owners decided to construct a racing track instead. interlagos is often a season decider with fernando alonso winning both his 2005 and 2006 titles here, kimi raikkonen winning the 2007 championship here, lewis hamilton won the 2008 championship here, jenson button clinched the 2009 title here and CHARLES LECLERC WON HIS FIRST TITLE HERE IN INTERLAGOS FOR THE 2023 SEASON

on a real note i am so proud of you charles, i have seen the sacrifices you have made and the unbelievable amount of effort you pour into every facet of your racing NO ONE deserves this more than you. i am so grateful to have shared this moment with you, here's to many more xxx

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user26: i am unwell this is so fucking cute

user27: bro this is so fucking crazy

charles_leclerc: couldn't have done it without you, so glad you could be there for me xx

yourusername: always charlie xx

yourstudent: miss y/n you can cancel all of our lectures if charles wins the championship again FORZA FERRARI

charles_leclerc: the people have spoken

user28: insane butterfly effect of the wall street crash to charles leclerc 2023 wdc

user29: they make me believe in love

note: this was super random but popped into my head while at work and i knew i had to write it !! hope you enjoyed xx

[sxttoruu-deactivated20231225]

"you can't go out likeー"

"like what?"

"like... that."

gojo's grin widens as he turns back on his heels, stepping towards you slowly.

he eyes himself in the mirror pointedly, just so you start checking him out too, "i don't think there's anything wrong with my look."

it's the shirt, satoru knows. you're too obvious; with the way you swallow hard, eyes pinned to his torso, to his arms now exposed. you know he can read you like an open book, which makes you even more frustrated and gojo ー more pleased.

"are you jealous, baby?" he bows down so he is on eye level with, but you only groan in response, hands quickly covering your red face as you let yourself fall back on the bed.

satoru laughs, following you; he situates himself between your legs, forcing your hands away from your face and pinning them down on either sides of your head. you kick and cry, trying to free yourself from his hold, but of course you can't. he knows you don't really want to either.

"satoru!"

"oh don't you like this shirt on me, sweetheart?" he holds both of your wrists with one hand, as the other cups the side of your face, thumb on your lower lip, pressing on the plush skin. "i wear it all the time, y'know."

"i like it, i justー"

"mm? just what?"

and then you really quickly mumble something like 'i don't want others to see you like that', and satoru giggles, pressing a kiss on your nose and rosy cheeks.

you tug him in for more, on the lips, and gojo swoons at how eager you are for his affection even though you were feeling a little possessive and jealous. so adorable, he thinks, so cute how you try to excuse your words with 'cold weather' and how you don't want him to get sick.

"rest assured, silly," he leans in to whisper, "i'm yours."

[starconchs]

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐆𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐀 𝐁𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐄!

pairing: gojo satoru x reader summary: college au! in which you argue with the school's golden boy (in your defense, you didn't know!) and then find yourself unable to avoid him no matter where you go. genre: college au! strangers to lovers, humor notes: mentions of alcohol, college shenanigans, wingman geto!, shoko refuses to be gojo's wingwoman wc: ~6.5k

a shiver runs down your spine as you exit the stuffy house, the cool air a stark contrast to the warm atmosphere inside. 

you smile as you heard a loud cheer, excusing yourself as you squeeze past the two boys who were celebrating their beer pong win. you stumble slightly when one of the boys leans a little too far back, swaying drunkenly as he gives you a remorseful look and let out a small ‘sorry!’. bumping into something as you waved him off, you do your best to keep your drink from spilling, slightly leaning against whatever you had bumped into in an attempt to regain your balance.

"watch where you're going," a bored voice drawls, causing you to turn around. you look up to meet the person's eyes, instead being met with shiny, white hair framing a handsome face. you feel your face heat up as you study the stranger carefully, taking in his casual posture before observing the dark sunglasses that are perched on his nose. wait, sunglasses? at night? you realize you've been staring for too long when he suddenly leans down, looking you over before speaking. "what? you like what you see?"

his words snap you out of your thoughts, and you instinctively take a step back as you notice how close he is. his actions cause his sunglasses to slip down, giving you a glimpse of bright, blue irises that seem to glow in the dim lighting. you shake your head softly, clutching your cup to your chest nervously as you try to avoid eye contact with him.

"what? no!" you vehemently deny, frowning as you notice the amused smile on his face. "i was just going to say i'm sor—"

"i don't care," he cuts you off, his tone smug as he watches you stumble over your words. you balk for a few seconds, gathering your thoughts before scowling at him. he might've been pretty, that was quickly overshadowed by his irritating personality.

"you really should be more aware of your surroundings," he continues, glancing down at the cup held tightly between your hands. "or maybe you should stop drinking. i dunno, just an idea."

"what? this isn't even alcohol!" you protest, nose scrunching up as you look at him with distaste. you take a step forward, pointing a finger at him accusingly. "you were facing me! maybe you should've warned me before i bumped into you."

"sure it isn't," he replies smoothly, a wide grin on his face as he reaches out to grab your finger and wiggle it around. "and maybe, you're just a klutz."

you yank your hand out of his grasp, stumbling back slightly as you half-cross your arms, making sure your cup remains stable. you ignore the way your heart jumps at the contact. "i am not a klutz! and listen here sunglasses, this cup is full of water."

"you sure you're not drunk?" he asks, a condescending smirk on his face as he takes a step towards you. "you're stumbling an awful lot for someone who's sober. or is it because i make you nervous?"

"you know what?" you seethe, fed up with the white-haired stranger in front of you. "here, taste it."

before you can think your actions through, you toss your water in his face. "refreshing, isn't it?"

you're gone in an instant, and the stranger finds himself chuckling as he dries off his sunglasses. he grimaces when he realizes his shirt is also wet, tugging the fabric away from his skin as he heads inside to find his friends.

he doesn't know who you are, but he was now determined to find out.

a groan leaves your lips as you try to open your eyes, the sunlight streaming in through the window preventing you from doing so. the constant vibrations from your phone haven't stopped for the past ten minutes, and all you want to do is go back to sleep.

you raise an arm to block the sunlight as you fumble around for your phone, an eyebrow raising when you see that shoko was the one who had been calling you the entire time.

"hello?" you ask, confusion and exhaustion mixing to make your tone sluggish. you let your eyes close, turning onto your side as you snuggle into your comforter. "what's with you today? leave me alone."

"hey!" you hear shoko say, followed by another small greeting from utahime. "are you still in bed?"

"yeah," you reply, pulling the blanket over your head. "are you two together right now? thanks for inviting me. some friends you are."

"we tried calling!" utahime replies. you can hear shoko huff, presumably due to utahime pushing her away from the phone. "you didn't answer your phone. it's not our fault!"

"i know, i know," you mutter, a smile stretching across your face as you hear utahime apologize anyways. "but seriously, what's with you two? shoko usually gives up if i don't answer after the second ring."

"you mean you don't know?"

"know what?" you ask, a yawn escaping you as you feel your eyes lower. you're half-tempted to end the call, but you can't deny that you're curious as to what could've been so important that shoko would willingly call you so many times.

"you're famous," shoko says. you can hear the faint clicking of a lighter in the background, a brief distraction as you try to process shoko's words. "you're all over social media. at least, on the pages that post about our student body."

there's a moment of silence after her words, and you find yourself sitting up immediately. sleep has fully evaded you by now, and you throw the comforter off of yourself before sitting criss-cross-applesauce. "i'm what?"

"famous," shoko repeats, her voice a little muffled due to what you assume is a cigarette. you pull your phone away from your ear as it buzzes once again, making sure to put the call on speaker before checking your notifications. "check your messages, i just sent you a link."

the link leads you to a random instagram profile, full of videos and memes submitted by students at your university. you click the first video on the page, your jaw dropping when you realize it was you in the video. you and that stranger you had argued with the previous night.

"oh my god," you say, watching as the video plays out on your screen. you watch as the stranger leans in close to you, as you yell at him, as he grabs your finger, and as you toss your drink in his face. by the time the video restarts, you had placed your phone beside you, head in your hands as you chuckle in disbelief.

"this is awful!" you finally say, flopping back onto your mattress and squinting as the sun hits your eyes. "not just awful, this is humiliating!"

"yeah, for gojo," utahime snorts. "he needs to be humbled. if anything, you did everyone on this campus a favor."

"gojo?" you mutter, closing your eyes fully before letting out another groan and shooting back up. "is that his name? he was kinda cute. what a shame."

"you don't know who he is?" you hear shoko ask, a genuinely curious tone enveloping her words. you hum absentmindedly as you scroll through the comments, seeing that many of them agree with utahime's sentiment while many others seem to question your actions. "and ew!"

"no, do you?" you ask, choosing to ignore her sound of disgust.

"yes," both shoko and utahime say. you hear a glass clink against a table before shoko continues. "gojo is actually an old frie-"

"oh my god!" you shriek, interrupting shoko as you fling your phone against your pillow. you quickly grab it, apologies leaving your mouth as you try to calm down.

"what? what happened?" utahime yells, concern in her voice as she hears you laugh nervously.

"you're not going to believe this," you say, finally catching your breath. you feel boneless as you settle in between your pillows, not even trying to fight the sunlight anymore. "he just requested to follow me on instagram."

the rest of the weekend passes without incident, the follow request from gojo remaining untouched on your phone. by the time monday rolls around, you had hoped that everyone had forgotten about the incident, but based on the random high fives you get and whispers that follow you, you knew they hadn't.

"this is awful," you hiss, lowering your head even more as a group of girls walk behind you and giggle. the textbook in front of you isn't making any sense to you, causing you to slam it shut and push it away before resting your head on the table. "i can't go anywhere without hearing something about me and gojo."

shoko hums quietly, too caught up in her medicinal chemistry textbook to pay you any attention. you sigh pathetically, resting your arms underneath your head before giving her a pleading look. when she doesn't react, you sigh louder, earning a chuckle from her before she leans back and puts her pen down.

"what did you expect? he's one of the most popular people on this campus," shoko reminds you, running a hand through her hair before tying it up in a messy ponytail. "i'm more surprised about the fact that you didn't know who he was to begin with."

"i don't keep up with school gossip," you mutter, weakly reaching out for shoko's water bottle. she gives you a knowing smile before leaning forward, grabbing the bottle and pulling it towards her. you whine as she opens it, watching as she raises it to her lip to take a sip. the two of you are caught off guard when the bottle is yanked out of her hands, water sloshing out and landing on the table. you hurry to grab a napkin from your backpack, wincing as shoko slams her hands on the table.

"what the hell, satoru!" she exclaims, irritation clear in her tone as she yells at the newcomer.

"who the fuck is satoru?" you ask, humming in delight when you find a paper towel. you proceed to kick your backpack back under the table, placing the paper towel over the spill and letting it absorb the liquid. you can hear shoko snort at the question, and you raise your eyes to see her placing her now sealed water bottle back on the table.

"awww you don't remember me?" satoru asks, placing his palms on the table before leaning towards you. "i'm heartbroken."

his voice sends a shiver down your spine, and you tense up when you realize that you recognize it. you look up at satoru to meet bright blue eyes, familiar, dark sunglasses perched on the tip of his nose. there's a teasing smile on his face and you can feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as you stare at him. "oh... you're gojo."

"satoru," he corrects, his smile growing even wider when he sees your flustered state. "i like it when you say my name."

you ignore the way he's looking at you, your stomach turning as you simply nod and turn away to face shoko. "isn't, uh, isn't satoru a childhood friend of yours?"

"i sure am!" gojo replies, sliding into the seat next to shoko and throwing an arm around her shoulders. he pulls her in close, swaying side to side with her as she gives you a bored look.

"he sure is," shoko says tiredly, turning to give gojo an annoyed stare. she flicks his forehead, shoving his arm off of her as he yelps. she rolls her eyes as she ignores him, picking up her pen and scanning her textbook once more.

"why didn't you tell me?" you hiss, leaning in close to give her a glare. she smiles when she notices your expression, tapping the tip of your nose with her pen and chuckling when you shake your head and lean back in your chair.

"we tried," shoko says, rolling her eyes. "you threw your phone across the room when you got that follow request on instagram, remember?"

your eyes widen in surprise at her words, mortification clear on your face as you glance at gojo. "i did not throw my phone!"

"you threw your phone? all the way across your room?" gojo asks, snickering at your reaction. he leans forwards, placing his elbows on the table and resting his cheek on his palm. "so i do make you feel all flustered, huh? i'm flattered, although, i'm a little hurt that you haven't accepted my request yet."

there's a pout on gojo's face as you stare him down, grumbling incoherently before you take your phone out from your back pocket. you can hear him giggling as you open up instagram, and you waste no time before pulling up your follow requests and turning your phone towards him. he raises an eyebrow when you smile, watching as your finger hovers over the "accept" button before you switch and press "decline".

"there, now you don't have to keep thinking about it," you say, watching as gojo's face falls at your actions. you stand up before he can say anything else, pocketing your phone and grabbing your wallet before glancing at shoko. "i'm gonna go get a bottle of water. do you want anything?"

shoko shakes her head, and you simply hum before turning to leave, freezing when you heard gojo speak once again. "i should head out too, it's probably in my best interest to leave before you come back with water. you know, in case you spill it on me again."

gojo's shit-eating grin only widens when shoko can't hold back her laughter, causing you to send them both a withering glare. you stomp off with an angry huff, and gojo can hear you muttering under your breath as he watches you walk all the way down the hall. he doesn't look away until you turn a corner, only then turning to face shoko, who has a skeptical look on her face. he gives her a knowing look, eyes pleading as he leans his head against her shoulder. "they're cute. really cute. can i get their number?"

"i'm not helping you," she says, snorting softly before digging through her backpack for her airpods. she manages to put one earbud in before gojo speaks again.

"i'll win them over," he states confidently, standing up and pushing his chair in. he gives shoko a kiss on the head before walking away, ignoring her as she laughs at his words.

"yeah, good luck with that."

geto watches amusedly as you trudge into your shared chemistry class, not even bothering to greet him before slumping in your chair and resting your head on the desk.

"rough day?" he asks, raising an eyebrow in concern when you groan in response. he sits quietly as he observes you for a few seconds, and you sigh as you sit up, realizing that he's waiting for your answer.

"more like rough weekend," you finally say, eyeing him skeptically. "c'mon, don't tell me you haven't seen the video."

geto laughs at your words, his bangs swaying as he turns in his seat to fully face you. heat rises up in your cheeks as he gazes at you with a smile, and you fidget nervously as you try to keep your composure. it's no secret that geto suguru is attractive, and having his attention focused solely on you is almost too much to handle.

"i did, i just figured i'd save you the embarrassment and not bring it up."

"how considerate of you," you mutter, smiling softly before taking out your laptop.

"hey, do you have a pen i could borrow?" geto asks, searching through his backpack before sighing and putting it on the back of his chair. "i have a sneaking suspicion that my roommate stole mine."

"yeah, of course," you respond, rummaging through your pencil pouch before pulling out a sleek, black pen. "is this one fine?"

"that's perfect, thank you," geto says. before he can grab the pen, it's yanked out of your hand, and you look up to see gojo standing beside you.

"gojo," you greet dryly, trying to ignore the smirk on his face. "do you make it a habit to always snatch things out of people's hands?"

"i can't help it," he says with a laugh, pulling his sunglasses down slightly as he twirls the pen. "that irritated look you give me is so cute, i just can't resist!"

your face twists up in embarrassment, a huff leaves your lips before you reach up to snatch the pen back and hand it to geto. you refuse to look at gojo in fear of letting him see your expression as you settle into your seat, but a sudden thought has you turning to face him when you realize you had never seen in that class before.

"wait, why are you here?"

"i'm in this class, silly," gojo replies, reaching down to tap your nose the way shoko had earlier. you swat his hand away, your mouth twisting into a scowl as geto snorts.

"no you're not," you say, eyebrows furrowing as you give him a confused glance.

"yes i am."

"no, you're not."

"yes. i. am."

"then how come i've never seen you here before?" you ask, crossing your arms as you give him a smug look.

"well that's because—"

"good morning, class," yaga masamichi says, cutting off gojo's response as he walks in. the professor sets all his stuff down before turning on the projector, grabbing his laptop to set up the day's lesson. "today we will be going over new mechanisms so make sure you—"

yaga goes silent as his gaze lands on you, and you shuffle nervously as you wait for him to say something.

"gojo," yaga states, mouth pressed in a firm line as he stares at the white-haired boy. you sigh in relief when you realize his stare wasn't directed at you. "what a nice surprise. i never thought i'd see you here."

"ah, c'mon yaga," gojo replies, a charming smile on his face as he tucks his hands into his pockets. "i care about my studies. besides, it's not like i've skipped every single lesson."

"yes, you have," yaga says dryly, facial expression unchanging as silence engulfs the classroom. a minute passes before he let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand down his face before waving him off. "just take a seat, gojo. quickly, please."

gojo salutes yaga, giving him a cheeky grin before sauntering over to the seat directly behind geto. you do your best to ignore him throughout the lesson, dutifully taking notes and only glancing at him once when you bend down to grab your water bottle. you're caught off guard when you realize that gojo has been staring at you the entire time, pen in hand but notebook closed as he focuses on you instead of yaga. he shoots you a wink as soon as you meet his eyes, and you pretend not to notice before turning back around. geto doesn't miss the way you fight back a small smile.

you can feel gojo's eyes burning into you for the rest of the lesson.

the class ends with yaga announcing a new project, and you wait with bated breath as he reads off the list of partners he had prepared in advance. you can't stop the sigh of relief that comes out of you when you hear your name followed by geto's.

"so, your place or mine?" geto asks, gathering all his materials before placing them into his backpack. you open your mouth to reply before closing it quickly, your eyebrows furrowing as you think about the messy state your apartment is currently in. sensing your hesitance, geto chuckles, grabbing his backpack and standing up before speaking. "mine it is. i'll send you the address later and we can figure something out okay?"

"sounds good!" you respond, smiling sheepishly as you duck your head. you wave goodbye to geto, turning to hurry out of the classroom when you notice gojo approaching. "just text me and let me know!"

"so... they'll be coming over?" gojo asks, sidling up to geto as you walk off. his eyes never leave your form until you disappear from sight. he turns to geto with a smile, resting his head on geto's shoulder while pushing up his sunglasses to look at him. "say, can i get their number?"

"not a chance. just talk to them and ask," geto says, laughing at gojo's audacity before pushing him off and leaving the room.

gojo's left standing in the middle of all the desks, a small smile appearing on his face as he realizes that you'd be over at geto's apartment sometime soon. the very same apartment that he shares with gojo.

"gojo."

his train of thought is interrupted by yaga, who is standing near the door with his bag slung over his shoulder. all of his supplies have been packed up and he sports an annoyed expression as he looks at gojo.

"yes?"

"get out of my classroom."

"yessir!"

it's been a couple of days since the project has been assigned, and other than gojo's sudden appearance in class, not much has happened. you still do your best to ignore his presence, focusing on yaga or even geto to try and remain oblivious to his persistent staring.

but you can't avoid him forever, that much is clear as the door to geto's apartment opens and you find yourself face to face with gojo satoru. your face remains blank as he greets you with a call of your name, merely watching him as he leans against the doorway and gives you a giddy grin.

"what a surprise to see you here!" gojo crows, head tilting down to give you a peek at his eyes. you find yourself looking away, refusing to interact with him as he pulls you inside.

"what are you doing here?" you finally ask, slipping your shoes off and taking a few steps back when you realize just how close to gojo you are. the hallway isn't that wide to begin with, and even pressed up against the opposite wall, you can feel him brushing up against you as he turns to close the door.

you look through your phone as you wait for geto, only looking up when you feel gojo step closer to you. you shrink into the wall behind you, tensing up when gojo's hand lands on the wall next to your head as he leans in, his other hand plucking your phone from your grasp. you look up at him as he fiddles with your phone, reaching for it and scowling when he holds it up out of reach. you never realized just how much taller than you he was.

you give up on trying to retrieve your phone, crossing your arms and leaning back as you choose to study him instead. you're reminded of the night at the party as you let your eyes trace his face, taking in the way his hair falls over his face and cast shadows that only seem to emphasize the color of his eyes. you're so distracted as you study his nose and lips that you completely miss the words he says.

"i live here. duh!"

there's a moment of silence as you keep your eyes on him, and you rapidly blink away your dazed expression when you see a teasing smirk on gojo's face.

"w-what?"

"i live here!" he repeats, holding out your phone. you take it from his grasp, inhaling sharply when he invades your personal space and points at your screen. "oh! also, i added myself into your contacts and made sure to send myself a message so that i have your number as well."

"you live here?" you ask dumbly, briefly looking down at your phone to see the message thread. you notice that gojo has saved his contact information under "satoru <3" and you make a mental note to change it later.

"yes. unfortunately, he does."

the two of you turn your heads to look at geto, who stands near the living room with his arms crossed. there's an amused smile on his face as he takes in the scene before him, and he smirks at gojo when he notices just how close to you he is.

a weak laugh leaves your lips as you shake your head, looking back and forth between gojo and geto. "of course he does. so you're telling me that the two of you are—"

"we're roommates."

"we're soulmates!"

"we are not," geto states, refuting gojo's claim.

"you're right," gojo concedes, letting his arm fall from the wall to rest around your shoulders. he pulls you into his side as you let out a surprised squeak, grinning down at you as he guides you further into the apartment. "actually, i think we're soulmates."

"we're really not," you mutter weakly, although geto notices that you seem to avoid gojo's gaze. you send him a pleading look, and geto simply shrugs before turning and heading into the kitchen.

"would you like something to drink?" he asks, opening the refrigerator and bending down to grab a couple of water bottles. his question goes unanswered as gojo leads you away from him, taking your backpack in one hand as he continues to speak. geto doesn't miss the panicked look you send his way and he closes the fridge with a chuckle as he follows after the two of you.

"i dunno," gojo says, placing your backpack down before waving his hand casually. "we meet at a party, you turn out to be friends with my childhood friends, we're in the same class, and on top of all that, you end up at my apartment after being randomly paired with my roommate. it's like fate is trying to tell us something!"

geto can't help but snort at gojo's hopeless attempt at flirting, earning a dirty look from his roommate. he doesn't think he's ever seen gojo try this hard to get someone's attention, and the only thing that makes the entire situation funnier is that despite your attraction to gojo, you seem determined to avoid interacting with him at all costs. geto wonders if it's because of the party incident.

"pardon the interruption, but we really have to work on that assignment" geto sayss, taking a seat on the couch and patting the spot next to him. he smiles warmly at you as you sit next to him, your thigh brushing against his as he sends gojo a smug look. gojo merely scowls in return, his eyes zeroing in on the casual touches between the two of you. "i'm not necessarily kicking you out, satoru, but i do ask for some peace and quiet while we work."

gojo gives geto a sarcastic thumbs up, smiling as he grabs the first book he sets his sights upon and takes a seat on the armchair across from you. he opens the book to a random page, pretending to read as he watches you and geto set up your work space. he ignores everything but you for the most part, averting his eyes and flipping a page of two whenever you glance up to meet his eyes.

"here you go."

you're thirty minutes into the project when gojo finally looks at geto, his eyes narrowing as he watches his best friend hand you an already open water bottle. geto meets gojo's gaze with a smirk as he leans back, his arm laying on the couch right behind you. if you settled into your seat any further, you'd have his arm around you.

"oh! thank you," you say, eyes wide in mild surprise when you realize the bottle is already open. you give geto a soft smile, taking a sip before he takes it back to close it. "you're so sweet, geto. i always have trouble opening those water bottles."

"it's really no problem," he replies, sending gojo a sly look as he opens your textbook. "anything for you."

gojo can't help the way he clenches his fist, the rustling of pages drawing your attention to him. you notice him glaring at geto, and you look at the death grip he has on his book before turning to give geto a confused look.

"what's wrong with him?" you whisper, leaning in close so gojo won't hear. geto holds back a laugh as he also leans in, amused at the fact that you're simply making his mission of making gojo jealous that much easier.

"i don't know. many things," geto confesses, his lips dangerously close to the shell of your ear. you breathe out a laugh in response, blinking rapidly when a strand of hair falls into your eye. "let me get that for you."

you look at geto as he tucks the piece of hair behind your ear, his fingertips brushing the side of your face as he does so. he's closer to you than you thought and you take a moment to admire his features before smiling. "thanks, geto!"

"you're wel—"

geto's response is cut short as gojo slams his book onto the table. he proceeds to shoot geto a dirty look as he jumps out of his seat, storming out of the living room as he mutters something under his breath.

"now what's wrong with him?" you ask, eyebrows raised in disbelief as you hear him borderline slam his door shut. you turn back to geto when he starts laughing, the noise soft and quiet as he presses a hand to his mouth. he shifts away from you, shaking his head as he gives you a knowing look.

"you really don't know, do you?" he questions, crossing his arms as he studies you.

"know what?"

"that he likes you," geto reveals, unable to stop his laughter when he sees the shocked look on your face. your lips part in surprise as your eyebrows get even higher, and you can't help the way your gaze shift towards the armchair gojo had been sitting in before you school your expression back into one of disinterest.

"no he doesn't" you reply, shaking your head at geto. "he just likes being obnoxious!"

"i saw the two of you at the party, you know," geto confesses. "i was going outside to get gojo so we could head out but then i saw him speaking with you and well, take it from me, he was definitely trying to flirt with you."

you look at geto's face for a few seconds, laughing nervously when you realize he's telling the truth. "well he's shit at it, if we're being honest."

"i know," geto says solemnly. there's a brief pause before the two of you break out into giggles. "listen, i know he's obnoxious and annoying and irritating and he doesn't seem to have many redeeming qualities."

geto pauses as you laugh at his words.

"but," he continues, smiling fondly as he looks towards gojo's room. "he's a good guy. trust me, i've known him almost our entire lives. go talk to him."

there's hesitance in your steps as you walk down the hall. you turn to look at geto before you knock, being met with a thumbs up and a smile. you take a deep breath before knocking on the door, pulling your hand back when it swings open. gojo's eyes have barely met yours before he reaches out and grabs your wrist, tugging you into his room before closing the door.

"what's up?" he asks casually, leaning against the wall as you take a look around. his room is clean, neatly laid out with an obscenely large bed and a polished, wooden desk facing his window. you take in all his posters and knick-knacks, smiling softly when you see a small figurine of a fluffy, white cat napping.

"is it true?" you ask, turning back around to face him. he avoids your gaze, and you realize that for once, he's not wearing his sunglasses.

"what is?"

you snort at his question, taking a step towards him and trying to catch his eye. there's a teasing smile on your face when he finally looks at you, and hold your hands behind your back as you get even closer. "that you like me?"

the silence seems to drag on for way too long, and you're contemplating walking out of gojo's room when he finally speaks.

"yes! okay, yeah, i think you're cute!" gojo proclaims, walking past you to take a seat on his bed. "i'll admit, at first i was annoyed because i thought you were someone who had come out to flirt with me and i just wanted to be alone but then you started talking and you were so easy to tease and you looked all cute when you got worked up and i couldn't help myself so i just kept making it worse!"

gojo pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing. "and you actually argued back and you didn't just let me talk to you like that and it was so refreshing because usually no one even tries to go against me and i just thought you were really pretty and i didn't want you to leave."

"what the actual fuck is wrong with you?" you ask, stifling a laugh as he shoots you an offended glare. "that's such a childish way to get someone's attention. has that ever actually worked for you?"

"well now that you mention it, no it hasn't," gojo admits, looking up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "but then again, not a lot of people tend to reject me."

his sheepish tone lets you know he's not trying to be cocky, he's just stating a fact. you run a hand down your face in exasperation.

"well i couldn't even tell that you were flirting! you're so stupid," you state, rolling your eyes as he puts a hand up to his heart with a dramatic swoon. "you're lucky you're so cute."

gojo is up within seconds, approaching you quickly and placing his hands on your hips. he pulls you closer to him, and your hands go to his chest as you try and keep some sort of distance between the two of you. you look up to see him grinning at you, a faint blush staining his cheeks.

"so you think i'm cute?"

"shut up!" you groan, letting your forehead fall against his chest in an attempt to avoid his eyes. "you know you are."

gojo laughs at your mumbled words, one hand leaving your waist in order to hook a finger under your chin. he tilts your face up, chuckling when he sees the embarrassed look on your face.

"i do," he concedes, laughing when you scowl. "but it just feels so good to hear that coming from you."

you freeze when you see gojo glancing at your lips, and you feel your heart pounding as he draws closer and closer.

"gojo?" you say quietly, more of a call of attention than a question.

"satoru," he corrects, the single words now drawing your attention to his lips.

"satoru," you repeat dazedly, eyes fluttering shut as gojo's nose nudges yours. you draw in a shuddering breath, and gojo leans his forehead against yours as he waits for you to continue, his eyes slipping shut as well. he can feel your fingers grasping at his shirt, and he wonders if you can feel how hard his heart is beating. "i'm sorry. you know, for dumping my water all over you at that party."

gojo laughs, his nose bumping against yours once more as he does so. "that's okay. i know how you can make it up to me. if it's okay with you, of course."

you've barely breathed out a 'yes' before gojo's lips are pressed against yours. its a soft kiss, only lasting a few seconds before he pulls away. there's a moment where gojo looks at you, his eyes soft before his gaze drops to your lips once again. in an instant his hands have left your waist, choosing to cup your cheeks instead and bring you impossibly close to him as he goes in for another kiss. your fingers tighten around his shirt even more as your lips meet, trying to pull him closer as he deepens the kiss.

he guides you backwards until his knees hit his bedframe, causing him to take a seat. he pulls you down with him until you're sitting in his lap, and one hand leaves your face to pull you into his chest. his fingers burn as they stroke your cheek, and his gentle touch combined with the way his lips are moving against yours is almost enough to make you feel dizzy.

"sorry to interrupt!"

the two of you break away to see geto standing in the doorway, a surprised look on his face as he stares at the two of you.

"suguru!" gojo hisses, venom in his tone as he glares at his roommate. "get! out!"

"sorry, but we have a project to do that's worth 25% of our grade," geto says, not sounding very apologetic at all. in fact, the smug grin on his face tells you that he seems quite proud of himself in that moment.

"whatever," gojo mumbles, hiding his face in your shoulder to avoid looking at geto. "give us five minutes."

"how tragic that five minutes is all you need," geto says, not missing a beat. his response earns a laugh from you and gojo gives you a look of betrayal before flinging one of his many pillows at geto.

"get out!"

"okay, okay," geto says, holding his hands up in surrender as he backs away. "i know when i'm not wanted."

"clearly you don't," gojo mutters bitterly, causing geto to laugh loudly before he closes the door behind him. gojo's change in attitude is almost instant, and he turns to you with a smirk before pressing a kiss to your neck. "now where were we?"

outside, geto smirks to himself as he takes out his phone, opening his messages to his previous conversation with shoko. he wastes no time in sending her the picture he had managed to capture before making his presence known, the image clearly showing you sitting on gojo's lap. it's less than a minute before his phones buzzes with notifications, and he finds himself chuckling at shoko's words.

new messages (3) from: shoko

omg! i didn't think he had the balls to actually do it i guess i'm happy for them or whatever. fucking finally.

reblogs are appreciated <3 ty for reading!

[awearywritersworld]

the three times gojo thinks he might be in love and the time he knows for sure

gojo satoru x reader summary: title says it all w/c: 1k tags/warnings: ft baby megumi. fluff, then some more fluff. gumi refers to reader as mom. one curse word. brief reference to canon typical violence. a/n: i am ridiculously soft for this man. he needs a hug masterlist

check out my latest work for gojo here

the first time it happens, it's the dead of winter and you're both still teenagers. it's the year before the star plasma vessel mission, when everything in gojo's life feels like it's falling into place. he has friends, real friends, for the first time in his life.

you drag him, kicking and screaming (it's all for show, he'd go anywhere with you), out to a snow covered field. you innocently beg him to turn off limitless, and of course he acquiesces, only to be pelted in the face with a snowball.

he throws himself into the snow upon impact, arms flailing dramatically. "i'm dead! you've killed me!"

you join him on the ground, arms out stretched and nudging the fabric of his coat. "hm, then i guess i'll have to drink all the hot chocolate by myself-"

"i have returned to the living realm!!" he shouts, shooting up into a sitting position. "had to fight god for it, told 'im i couldn't bear to leave my (y/n)-chan!"

"oh, you are so full of shit," you accuse with an amused smile.

you gaze at one another as the snow falls around you silently, both somehow feeling warm despite the frigidness of the air. his glasses have slipped down his nose, giving you a glimpse at his eyes. you're thinking about how the flakes blend in with his lashes before melting away entirely. he's thinking that he might be in love with you.

~~~

some time passes before the second instance, which takes place in the spring. gojo makes his way around campus, looking for wherever you and megumi ran off to. the small boy has been attached to your hip ever since gojo brought him home two years ago.

when he finds you, you're both splayed out in the grass and pointing up at the clouds.

"that one looks like a dog!" megumi exclaims excitedly.

"and that one looks like it might be his ball, don't you think?" you question. he agrees wholeheartedly with an enthusiastic nod.

after awhile, megumi sits up, rubbing at his eyes. "can we go inside now, mom?"

there's a split second he doesn't realize what he's said, but when it dawns on him, he looks down right scared. "'m sorry!"

your features soften and your heart soars before you're gathering him up in your arms.

"oh, my sweet boy," you coo.

rocking him back and forth, you hold him for a few passing moments. he hides his face in your chest, his hands gripping onto your shirt as if it's his life line.

you pull away just enough to see his face. you'd do anything to stop the tears swimming in his eyes, just like any mother would. "you can call me whatever you like 'gumi."

"p-promise?"

"yup!" you assure, bopping his nose with your pointer finger. it earns a small giggle.

gojo watches as you rise from the ground, megumi's head now resting on your shoulder and his arms around your neck. you're humming as you walk back toward the buildings.

gojo's legs are like lead and his heart feels as if it's shifted up into his throat. for the first time, he thinks about getting married, about having a family. your face is at the forefront of every image that forces itself into his mind.

~~~

the third time happens in the dead of night. megumi is asleep and the two of you decide to watch a movie, but you're yawning before he even presses play.

you sit so close to him that you can feel the warmth radiate from his body and although you fight to keep your eyes open, you can't help but be lulled to sleep.

he tenses for a moment when your head lands squarely on his shoulder. it seems as if you're both frozen, but then you let out a soft snore as your body shifts and your hand moves to his stomach. he finally relaxes.

your hair had fallen across your face and he pushes it back behind your ear so that he can see you. he tries to ignore the urge to brush his fingers across your cheekbone, or over your bottom lip. he fails.

gojo remains still for hours, and it feels strange to the usually hyperactive man, but he's terrified of disturbing you. terrified that you'll pull away from him and he'll never get to feel like this again.

he lets that stupid movie play through twice, but he spends most of the time stealing glances at you. he does eventually turn the tv off and the only sounds that remain are the trill of summer crickets outside his window and your soft, slow breaths.

he has no idea what time it is when he falls asleep, but when he finally does, he dreams about that day in the snow.

~~~

leaves fall at your feet as the two of you make your way down the sidewalk. every now and then, your fingers brush against his and it makes his heart skip a beat. he wonders (hopes?) if anyone has mistaken you for a couple.

you come across a familiar mansion, one that the two of you exorcised together as teenagers. it feels like a lifetime ago. you stop at the gate, a bronze glint on the ground catching your eye.

crouching down, you brush away shades of orange and red to reveal a memorial for all the people who had died on the once cursed property.

"for the lives that were taken here, and for the lost soul who took them... may they rest now in the afterlife."

gojo scrunches his nose, about to make some comment about how pitiful it was to commemorate a cursed spirit, but the words die in his throat when you look up at him with watery eyes.

"this is so beautiful," you remark, turning back to the engraved words.

he shoves his hands in his pockets, peering down to read over the words once more. maybe he'd missed something?

"this community was so fearful, remember? people lost friends and family here." he nods even though you aren't looking at him, watching how your fingertips move across the words as if you're considering them further. "the spirit scared them and it stole from them, but they still regard it with sympathy and kindness.. it takes strength to do that, you know?"

he feels his chest tighten as he registers your words. for a fleeting instance, he feels like an asshole for ever finding it pitiful, but that was the thing. you have such an easy way about you, a sort of gentleness he had yet to find in anyone else. the time he spends in your company seems like the only respite he ever gets from the horrors of the world.

he hasn't answered you yet, so you look back to him expectantly. "don't you think it's beautiful, 'toru?"

god, he could fall to his knees right then and there. he could roll over and die on the chilly concrete and he'd consider it a privilege to have died by your side.

i love you. i love you. i love you. those are the only three words his brain can muster.

"yeah," he finally chokes out. "it really is."

[junosmindpalace]

you don’t like to kiss satoru when he wears his blindfold.

you understand why he wears it, and you don’t have any problem with it besides how distanced you feel from him when he tries to be intimate with it on. so while you never ask him to take it off, you simply refuse to engage him when he wears it. 

you were more lenient when he wore his glasses, at least being able to see all of his face when they slide down the bridge of his nose. satoru’s health came before your own selfish wants, and you felt guilty even feeling like this in the first place, but you still couldn’t help your uneasiness when trying to be affectionate with him while half his face was completely blocked off from you. 

and satoru doesn’t like this. he’s not immensely clingy, or at least not often enough to call him clingy, but he does like to have you near him, tuck you into his side and steal a slow kiss or two from you on occasion. especially when he’s feeling stressed or annoyed does he seek out your soothing touch, which tended to be pretty often from how demanding the higher ups are of him. 

you’ll still lend a listening ear, lean in real close and scan his face as if trying to see those bright blue eyes of his through the dark mask he often wears, perhaps even wrap your arms around him and card your fingers through his hair held up by the fabric around his head. and most of the time simply being near you, touching you in one way or another is enough to soothe his aching muscles and tense mind. but when he leans in to press his lips against yours and you dodge, he immediately realizes that it’s not enough.

“you’re mean.” he pouts, and though you can’t see his eyebrows crease in distress, you can certainly imagine it, and you laugh.

“when we’re at home.” you reassure him, rubbing your hands up and down his arms. 

he speculated for some time that you rejected him because of the setting, that it was unprofessional or perhaps embarrassing. but you had no problem angling his head toward you and stealing a kiss from his lips on the rare occasion he decided to wear his glasses to work, and so he eventually managed to piece together that the blindfold was the problem.

satoru’s frown only deepens, because he wants a kiss from you now. why should he have to wait to kiss his own partner? 

“just a small one. a quick one.” he tries to bargain, holding your elbows, but you only shake your head with an amused smile. 

“later.” you promise, and before he can press further, your students start to approach and your attentions are required elsewhere.

you uphold your promise, cupping his face and kissing him deeply and with so much love behind closed doors as if you were anticipating it as much as he was—when his blindfold is off. but he’s still troubled by the fact that you refuse to kiss him with it on. it’s a part of him. do you think he’s ugly with it on? that’s got to be it.

he continues to whine and chase after your lips while the two of you are at work, but you only chuckle and angle his face away, and eventually it really strikes a nerve, wanting to know why you were so adamant on avoiding his kiss when he was wearing his blindfold. you haven’t tried even once! 

he brings up this concern when you two are home, when your bodies are messily intertwined on your living room couch, satoru’s chin propped up on your chest and your hand yet again cupping his face as you cuddled and giggled about whatever sort of conversation you were making that night. in the security of your shared home and in your comforting embrace does satoru allow himself to wind down, letting his cursed energy just seep out and using it as an incentive to relax a slight bit. 

you say something and he laughs, and upon seeing his smile and endearing eyes crinkle happily, you lean in slightly to kiss him. 

he immediately reciprocates, the hold he has around your waist tightening. but then he remembers being in a similar scenario hours prior, and you refused to meet his lips then. so he pulls away gently and his smile slightly drops.

“why don’t you kiss me when i wear my blindfold?”

you’re caught off guard by the question, and his knit brows and the slight sadness in his tone makes your breath hitch. this was the thing about satoru without his blindfold. you could clearly see every piece of him. every vulnerable expression, every crease on his face, every emotion on display for you to bask in. you could rub your thumb over his cheek and not have it bump over the fabric that feels like it’s pushing you out, suppressing your affection.

satoru without his blindfold was open, intimate, whole. but when he wrapped the fabric around his eyes, it felt like he was also hiding a part of himself you adored. not the overwhelming strength he held in those enchanting blue eyes of his, but the love and affection they glimmered with when he was with you, a glimmer you’re sure was reflected in your own eyes as well. a part of him that displayed his adoration clear as day. 

“it’s silly, satoru.” you tell him reluctantly, playing with his hair. his sad smile makes you feel guilty, but the part of you that feels shut away with that blindfold overtakes an insecurity deep inside. “i don’t want to concern you with it.”

“you gotta tell me what’s up, sweets. think i’m ugly?” he tries to tease, and you roll your eyes.

“just feel distant from you, ‘s all.” 

voicing it aloud makes you feel small and just as silly as you told him it is. perhaps you were overthinking things too much. 

you’re afraid to explain any further, because you don’t know if you can without sounding even more insecure than you feel, but satoru immediately understands, and all the tension he’s built over the situation melts away in an instant, and he chuckles.

“like my eyes on you, huh?” he wiggled his brows, and you scoff, moving your hands down to his neck. he leans in a little closer, speaks a little softer. “they’re always on you.” 

your heart flutters as he kisses over the side of your jaw, giggling at the slight tickling sensation. he mimics your smile when he hears you laugh. 

he thinks he understands. if he wasn’t able to see those gorgeous eyes of your as they crease when you laugh, or gaze up at him in awe when he pulls away from a kiss only you could make so sweet, he thinks he’d also feel shut out, robbed of that small but intimate and beautiful part of you that leaves him breathless. he had a responsibility as the strongest to keep himself in line, but he also had a responsibility to you. he committed to that responsibility ages ago when you first met. 

he stares up at you from the crook of your neck, and it’s as if there’s hearts in his eyes, a sight that never fails to fluster you when you realize that it’s all directed at you. why would you want to kiss him while his blindfold was on when you were deprived of this sight while doing so? instead met with nothingness?

“just try to kiss me with my blindfold.” he mumbles, and it sounds insensitive after what you told him, but it’s exactly why he wants to prove that not a single ounce of love for you is hidden away when he wears it.

you frown, but still reach to grab it from when he threw it on the coffee table hours ago. you wrap it around his eyes for him, feeling slightly saddened by the sight already, but his lovesick smile never falters.

and as soon as your hands lower from behind his head, he’s gently pushing his lips against yours, and it feels every bit of kind and loving and special as it did when you kissed him without it. his lips move slowly, yet passionately, with yours, and you can’t believe you ever expected anything different.

and when he finally pulls away, you could swear you see those bright blue eyes of his staring at you with that dizzying gaze that makes you feel light and loved. you still feel a lot more exposed than he is though, and you can’t help but blush and bring your hands over your face to try and even the playing field.

he laughs at this reaction and tries to pry your hands away from your face. “so? anything different?” he grins, and you laugh. 

“i still prefer it off.”

“that’s fine,” he hums, lowering the band so it hangs loosely around his neck with one hand, bringing your hands down away from your face with the other. “i prefer it off too.” 

and from then on you become a little more comfortable kissing satoru with his blindfold on, and he’s over the moon at you now indulging him when he’d pull you into a random empty classroom and lean in close.

but he doesn’t see the harm in compromise, however, so he’ll indulge you too. and when he’s feeling particularly eager, he’ll wrap an arm around your waist, quickly tug his blindfold down to his neck, and capture your lips in a breathless kiss. 

whether he does this in an empty classroom or to say hello or goodbye before heading off on a mission with his students, you get to see those mesmerizing blue eyes shine with all the affection and love he holds for you. 

besides, it’s even more satisfying when he does it in front of others, tugging the blindfold off simply for your sake, showing off to everyone else the state you reduce him too. 

so perhaps you’ve grown to like kissing satoru when he wears his blindfold.  

[saetoru]

do you ever think about drying gojos hair after you both took a shower together 💔

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ NEW PEOPLE — GOJO SATORU.

contents. established relationship, like two tiddie squeezes LMAO, it’s ridiculously corny and i need to be shot. lots of kisses. lots of (corny) banter. did i mention lots of kisses ????? also satoru is taller than reader. he’s 6’7 in my heart

“c’mere,” you mumble, holding the towel as you motion for him to bend down. satoru grins—it’s that wide, smug one with the slightest hints amusement that normally make you want to wipe it off his face.

but right now, you decide you’ll be nice. sometimes he deserves something nice. really nice, in fact.

“oh?” he hums, “need me to come down there? i wonder why.” he brows are wiggling, and his head is angled enough that his cheek is just in range for your lips to touch the soft skin. you huff, rolling your eyes as you plop the towel over his head and promptly cover his face.

not a lot of people catch gojo satoru off guard—but you watch him stiffen under the towel in surprise. you can’t see his face, but you’re sure it’s confused. the thought makes you giggle.

“not for a kiss, you idiot,” you snort, “i’m gonna dry your hair. don’t need you getting my pillow wet.”

“our pillow,” he corrects, “there’s no mine in a relationship, sweetheart. it’s just ours.”

“you’re lucky i let you have a pillow at all,” you mutter, pulling the towel back so his face is visible again.

and then, at the sight, your eyes soften—satoru looks beautiful like this. shirtless, just in a pair of joggers, pale skin slightly pink from the hot shower and damp stands of hair sticking to his forehead. you gently rub over his head with the cloth, drying it as he leans into your touch.

you can feel his lips hovering just above your own, eyes studying you carefully. you try to ignore it, the intensity of his eyes on you, the heat of his body just inches away from yours—instead, you try focusing on drying his wet hair as much as a towel permits.

“well who needs pillows anyway,” he hums, “when you have these.”

you hiss when his hand squeezes over your tits, making you slap it away as you scowl—of course, even when you try to be gentle with satoru, he doesn’t let it come easily. but that’s why you love him, you suppose—something about him, even despite the irritation that comes with all of him, calls for something gentle.

“satoru, you’re shameless,” you glare, “can’t you be normal for once in your life?”

“me, normal?” he gasps, “there’s nothing normal about me, sweetheart. i’m extraordinary—the strongest! the handsomest! and…” he drawls before he winks, “the luckiest too.”

he adds the last part with an easy grin plastered on his face, leaning in so that his lips rest over yours. he doesn’t kiss you though, no—he leaves that entirely up to you.

you decide to indulge him, just this once.

“oh yeah?” you murmur, lips still pressed against his as you speak. he hums, closing his eyes when your hands cup his face, your thumb rubbing over his right cheek gently.

“yup,” he breathes.

and then you kiss him, softly at first, pecking his lips at the corners before pressing a lingering kiss over them properly. his hands find your hips, grabbing them tightly as he pulls you in, lets your body press against his chest as he deepens the kiss and nips at your bottom lip.

you smile—satoru is beautiful like this. in the palms of your hands, wrapped around your fingers, yours.

“i wish i could say the same,” you sigh dramatically as you pull away, “but unfortunately you’re the only lucky one in this relationship.”

“i’m wounded,” he clutches over his heart, the towel falling from his head to drape over his shoulders. you can’t help but admire him—satoru is beautiful like this. he always is, you think. “and here i thought you were hopelessly in love with me—you even dried my hair. did that mean nothing to you?”

“yup. it’s not me, it’s you,” you giggle, “i think we should see other people.”

“oh yeah?” he chuckles—and then, his lips are on your face, kiss after kiss after kiss pressing to every inch of skin he can find. on your forehead, across your cheeks, down your nose and along your jaw, right until he’s back to where he started.

his favorite spot, the one he’ll never forget, committed to his memory. your lips—the same ones he loves when they’re curled into a smile, when they’re parted as the scold him, when they’re pursed into a scowl.

the same ones he could kiss now, and tomorrow, and the day after that, and forever if you let him. he’ll never get tired.

“yeah,” you giggle, squealing in laughter as he bites at your cheek playfully.

“that’s cute, sweetheart,” he says lowly, kissing down your neck until his nose brushes against your collarbone, “but they don’t call me the strongest for nothing, y’know. your new man can fight me for your hand—and he’ll lose.”

“you’re an idiot,” you laugh, fingers threading through his hair delicately, nails raking over his scalp—and it’s sweet, the sound of your voice, he loves the taste of it when it trickles from your lips onto his. so he presses his to yours once more, just to taste it again.

“i’m afraid love turns us all into fools,” he sighs, “that’s why you’re the biggest fool. don’t worry, i’d love me that bad too.”

“i’d be careful if i were you, toru,” you raise a brow, “or you’ll lose pillow privileges.”

“and that, sweetheart, is why i got these,” he says cheekily, hand creeping up to squeeze around your tits again—you’re tired of him. but you can’t get enough. you roll your eyes at everything he does. but every time, without fail, a smile creeps along the corners of your mouth too.

“i’m sick of you,” you mutter.

“what’s that? you’re sick? don’t worry, i know just what will make you feel better,” he says confidently—and then he kisses you again. and again—and you hope he doesn’t stop anytime soon.

the way this is so embarrassingly cheesy if someone called the police on me i’d go without a fight. like ykw sorry officer ur right my fault !!