summary: in your first year of uni you start a secret, no-strings-attached relationship with BC centre will smith. its easy at first but as feelings grow stronger, you're forced to decide whether love is worth risking everything.
warnings: one of my first attempts at 2nd person, suggestive, not proof read
word count (approx): 4.9k
author speaks! i feel like it's way easier to be detailed in 2nd person, tbh this is lowkey way better than my usual work 😬 i love wattpad but something about this app just gets my brain thinking.
also title is bags by clairo!
the cold in boston during the winter didn't just chill you it settled deep into your bones. the kind of frost that rolled off the rivers and hung in the air like real weight. on those nights the brick buildings of boston college looked like silhouettes against the purple-gray sky. inside your single dorm room the radiator hissed a heartbeat that kept the worst of the cold out.
usually, you sat on your small, lumpy bed waiting for your phone to light up. the text always arrived around eleven.
here.
no greeting, just a single word that sent a string of nervous energy straight to your stomach.
you’d pull on a thick hoodie, slide your feet into a pair of worn-out slippers, and slip down the half lit hallway of your dorm floor. the lobby was always empty and quiet at that hour. the sleepy-eyed security guard who barely looked up from his phone when you swiped your card to exit was the only there beside you.
stepping outside the cold air would instantly hit your face, making your breath turn into white clouds. and there, sitting near the curb with its headlights low, would be his car. you’d walk over, open the passenger door, and slide into the dry warmth of the front seat.
"hey." will would say.
"hey." you'd reply.
and just like that the rest of the world would fade away. it was replaced by the smell of leather, his cologne, and the faint scent of the rink — cold ice, sweat, and leather hockey gloves — that seemed permanently stuck to his skin.
will smith was a name that carried on campus. you couldn't walk into the dining hall, grab a coffee, or sit in a lecture hall without hearing it. as the fourth overall draft pick in the nhl, he was the highest-drafted player in boston college hockey history. his future wasn't just bright, it was blinding.
he lived in a glass house, and he knew it. he had a blueprint for his life, a perfectly drawn out plan where every single hour of his day was accounted for. morning skates, classes, video review, gym sessions, team meetings, study hall, sleep. there was no room for error. and there was certainly no room for distractions.
which was exactly why, when the two of you had first started crossing paths at campus parties and late-night study lounges, he had laid the ground rules down pretty firmly.
"i just can't do the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing right now." he’d told you, his voice quiet but incredibly steady, his blue eyes locking onto yours. "my head has to be entirely in the game. my career is everything to me, and i've worked too hard, for too many years, to let anything get in the way of it. i can't have distractions. i can't do labels."
you had nodded. you had smiled. you had looked at his handsome face, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft sweep of his hair, and you had lied directly to yourself.
i can do that, you had thought. a situationship is fine. a sneaky link is fine. having a piece of him is better than having nothing at all.
typically, the encounters were simple. after a big home win when the adrenaline was still pumping through his veins and his mind was too alive for sleep, he’d wait for you in the parking lot. you’d slip into his car, and he’d navigate the streets back to your dorm.
you always went to yours. it was a rule that you both understood without having to say it out loud. will shared a dorm with his teammate and close friend, ryan leonard.
ryan was great, but he was also loud, observant, and had zero boundaries when it came to his friends personal lives. the last thing will wanted — and the last thing he was going to risk — was ryan walking into their room and finding a girl in his bed. that would cause so much teasing, questions, and unwanted attention. will hated the gossip. he hated the idea of his personal life becoming locker-room talk.
so, your single dorm room became the place.
it was small and decorated with posters and string lights, but to will, it was a place where nobody wanted anything from him. he didn't have to be the fourth overall pick in here. he didn't have to worry about his next game, his plus-minus rating, or the sports reporters waiting outside the locker room. he could just be an eighteen-year-old.
on those nights, you’d let him lose himself in you, letting the pressure of his hockey career melt away in the dark of your room. he'd hold you tight, touch you, and he'd whisper things against your skin that felt too close to affection. before the first signs of dawn could slide through your curtains, he’d pull his clothes back on, kiss you softly, and slip out into the morning. he'd leave your bed cold and smelling like him.
for a long time, you convinced yourself that this was enough. you were happy to be the person he ran to when he needed to breathe. the only problem with rules is that they are incredibly hard to keep when you're dealing with matters of the heart. the problem with will was that, despite his self-imposed ban on labels, he was terrible at keeping his distance.
sometimes, the lines got so blurry they practically disappeared.
sometimes, he treated you exactly like a boyfriend would.
there was one cold tuesday evening in november that played on a loop in your head, a constant, beautiful but painful memory. he had texted you saying he was coming over, but when you had opened your door to let him in, you were a complete mess.
you had spent the entire afternoon crying over a brutal exam, your head was pounding, your eyes were swollen, and the weight of your own life felt like a crushing pressure on your chest. you were exhausted, emotionally drained, and you absolutely did not have the energy to put on the happy, uncomplicated act you usually wore for him.
you had stood in the doorway, your sweatpants baggy and your hair tied up in a messy bun, looking down at the floor.
"hey." you had whispered, your voice stripped and rough. "i'm sorry, will. i... i don't think tonight is a good night. i'm really not in the mood. i'm just so tired."
you had braced yourself for him to nod, make a polite excuse, and turn around to walk down the hall. after all, that was the contract, wasn't it? you were his escape. if you couldn't provide that, why would he stay? instead, will had just stared at you for a long time, his blue eyes softening in a way you had never seen before.
"okay." he had said softly.
he didn't leave. instead, he stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him. he didn't reach for you, didn't try to kiss you. he just kicked off his sneakers, leaving them neatly by the door.
"will, you don't have to—"
"shh." he murmured, walking past you and into your makeshift kitchen. "where do you keep your snacks?"
you had blinked in confusion. "the cabinet above the microwave. why?"
will opened the cabinet rummaging through the contents until his hand landed on a half-eaten bar of dark chocolate you’d bought weeks ago and forgotten about. a small smile played on his lips. he reached into your mini fridge pulling out an unopened box of fresh strawberries.
"go sit down." he instructed gently.
you had watched him grab two bowls from the top drawer of the 'dresser' that your microwave sat on. he stood there in his gray bc hockey t-shirt, his shoulders slightly hunched, carefully breaking the chocolate bar into small, even pieces and dropping them into the bowl. he was so focused, his brow furrowing slightly as he stirred the melting chocolate with a spoon ensuring it didn't burn.
when the chocolate was done, he brought the bowl over to your couch, along with a bowl of washed and dried strawberries. he sat down beside you, his legs stretching out in the space. he handed you a strawberry.
"here." he said, his voice quiet. "eat."
you had taken the fruit, dipped it into the warm chocolate, and took a bite. the sweetness of the strawberry combined with the warmth of the chocolate was incredibly comforting, but not half as comforting as the simple presence of the boy sitting next to you. you didn't do anything physical that night. you didn't even kiss. instead, you just sat on your couch for three hours, dipping strawberries into chocolate and talking.
you talked about your childhood, about your annoying professor who refused to curve grades, about how much you missed your family back home. will had listened. he didn't check his phone once. he didn't talk about hockey, or the draft, or the pressure. he just looked at you his eyes fixed on your face, laughing at your stupid jokes with a warmth that made your chest ache horribly.
at one point, when you had shivered slightly from a wind coming through the window, will had reached over, grabbed your favorite fleece blanket from the bed, and draped it over your shoulders, tucking it in around you with a gentleness that felt so deeply intimate it made you want to cry.
when he finally left that night, he had kissed your cheek, lingering for a second too long, his breath warm against your skin.
"thanks for hanging out." he had whispered. "i needed that."
it was nights like those that ruined you. because how were you supposed to keep your heart out of it when he was doing things like that? how were you supposed to remind yourself that you were just 'fuck buddies' when he looked at you with so much more than lust?
as the weeks bled into months the situationship began to change. what had once felt exciting and secret began to feel heavy and suffocating. the emotional baggage of your unspoken feelings grew larger with every passing day, an invisible shoulder bag you had to carry around.
you started noticing the little things. you noticed how he never held your hand when you walked from his car to the dorm entrance, his eyes constantly scanning to make sure no one was watching. you noticed how he never posted anything that could even remotely suggest he was spending time with someone. you noticed the way your chest ached when you saw other couples walking hand-in-hand near the library, their faces bright and completely free of the secrecy that was your love life.
you wanted that. you wanted to be his girlfriend. you wanted to sit in the stands at the arena wearing his number and have him look up into the crowd and know you were there for him. you wanted to be able to text him during the day just to say you were thinking of him without worrying if you were crossing some invisible boundary he had set up to protect his career.
but most of all, you were terrified. the fear of confessing your feelings was a constant fever that burned in the back of your mind. you knew will. you knew how stubborn he was, how protective he was of his career and his dream. he had a plan, and he didn't like to stray from it, no matter what.
if you told him the truth, laid your heart out on the table and told him that the situationship was destroying you what would he do? the answer was always the same in your head a hard truth that made your stomach sink.
he would leave.
he would look at you with those serious blue eyes, apologize, and tell you that he couldn't give you what you wanted. he would pack up his things, walk out your door, and you would never sit in his car in the middle of the night again. you would lose the chocolate-covered strawberries, and the quiet laughter. you would lose him entirely.
so, you stayed silent.
you swallowed your feelings every time they threatened to rise up. you smiled when he came over, you gave him a good time after his wins, and you pretended that the quiet hollow in your chest didn't exist. you wore your 'i'm perfectly fine with this' mask.
but masks have a habit of slipping, especially when the weight of them become too heavy to bear. as the winter wind continued outside your window you knew you were running out of time before the pressure finally broke you.
the winter chill had settled deep into the streets of BC turning the parking of the on-campus dairy queen into a frozen lake that reflected the neon red and blue of the sign above. the sign buzzed a low hum that was the only sound cutting through the quiet massachusetts night. inside will’s car, the heater was going full blast blowing hot-dry air through the vents, keeping the frost from creeping up the windshield.
it was 9:45 p.m.
by some miracle of the hockey gods the game at conte forum had been scheduled for an early afternoon slot. the final horn had sounded at exactly 8:15 p.m. leaving the entire evening wide open. post-game media, showers, coach meetings, and locker room wind-downs dragged on until the late hours of the night. but tonight, will had practically flown through his obligations, his skates off and his street clothes on in record time.
when he had pulled up to your dorm, he hadn't texted his usual, dry here. instead, his name had popped up on your screen with a message that made your chest squeeze.
will: game ended early. get dressed. we're getting dq.
now, you were sitting in the passenger seat the paper cup of a blizzard sweating condensation against your palms. will sat beside you his body was relaxed against the driver's seat, his legs stretched out under the steering wheel. his hair was still slightly damp from his post-game shower curling softly at the nape of his neck and he smelled of the team's body wash and the clean scent of the rink.
he was on a high. they had won, four to one, and he had gotten two assists. he was gesturing with his red plastic spoon his blue eyes bright as he broke down the second goal of the night.
"so, ryan gets the puck along the boards, right?" will said, his voice lively. he scooped up a bite of vanilla soft-serve mixed with cookie dough. "and i see the defenseman committing way too early. he’s leaning on his left skate thinking ryan’s going to cycle it back down. so i just skate into a better spot. i’m hitting my stick like, dude, just pass it. ryan spots me tape-to-tape pass, and boom i just tap it over to gabe. goalie didn't even have time to slide."
you forced a smile. "it was a good play will. i saw the highlight on my feed."
"it was perfect." he grinned. "absolutely perfect. coach was buzzing in the locker room. he said if we keep playing like this, the frozen four isn't just a possibility it's ours to lose."
"you guys deserve it." you murmured. "you’ve been working hard."
"yeah. it's all paying off. every early morning, every extra skate." will leaned his head back against the headrest, looking over at you with a soft, content expression. "it feels good. and it feels good to just sit here with you. no pressure. just ice cream."
he reached over, his thumb gently catching a stray bit of chocolate on your bottom lip, wiping it away before licking his thumb with a grin. the casual intimacy of the gesture sent an agonizing pang straight through your ribs.
the silence fell back over the car but it wasn't the comfortable kind. not for you.
the words you had been suppressing for months were clawing their way up your throat. you stared down at your melting cup your fingers tightening around the paper until it folded. you couldn't keep doing this. you couldn't keep pretending that this car was the only place you existed to him. you couldn't keep playing the part of the chill girl who didn't mind being hidden away.
"will." you said quietly.
he turned his head, his brow furrowing slightly at the change in your tone. "yeah? what's up? you barely touched your blizzard."
"i need to tell you something." your voice was trembling, and you hated it.
you cleared your throat trying to find some semblance of strength, but your heart was hammering so violently against your ribs you were sure he could hear it.
will set his cup down in the cup holder, his entire posture shifting. "okay. you're using your serious voice. did something happen?"
"no. nothing happened. it's just..." you took a deep breath looking him straight in the eyes, determined not to look away. "i can't do this anymore."
will blinked his expression blank for a second. "do what?"
"this." you said gesturing between the two of us. "the late-night texts. the sneaking around. the 'no labels' rule. i can't keep pretending that this is enough for me."
the silence that followed was loud. the neon light from the dairy queen sign cast a red glow across the side of will's face highlighting the sudden, sharp tension in his jaw.
"we talked about this." he said his voice dropping into a quiet, careful tone. "right at the beginning. i thought we were on the same page."
"we were. or, i thought we were." you corrected, your voice cracking.
you pressed your hand against your chest, trying to quiet the hurt. "but it's been months, will. and the more time we spend together, the harder it is to just turn my feelings off when you walk out my door at three in the morning. we don't just act like a 'sneaky link.' we sit on my couch and melt chocolate and talk for hours about our families. you look at me like you care about me, and then the next day, we walk past each other on the quad and we have to pretend we're strangers."
"i have to keep things simple." will said, his voice tight. he gripped the steering wheel with one hand.. "you know what my life is like right now. the pressure is insane. if the media gets wind of anything, or if i get distracted—"
"is a relationship really a distraction, will?" you interrupted, a single tear finally escaping and slipping down your cheek. "or are you just scared?"
"it's not about being scared." he snapped though his voice lacked its usual certainty.
he looked away staring out the windshield at the empty parking lot. "it's about my career. i am the fourth overall pick. everything i do is under a microscope. i have to be focused on hockey. entirely. i can't be worrying about relationship drama, or putting effort into a label when my entire life is about to change in a few months. i really, really like you. you have to know that. but i can't give you what you want right now. i can't do the boyfriend thing."
there it was. the cold hard boundary you had been terrified of hitting.
the pain was sharp but you forced your face into a look of calm acceptance. you had spent weeks preparing for this exact moment, bracing yourself for the worst. you wouldn't beg. you wouldn't make him feel guilty for choosing his dream.
"okay." you whispered.
will looked back at you, surprise flickering in his eyes at how easily you had let it go. "okay?"
"yeah. i get it." you said forcing a small, empty smile onto your face. you set your half-eaten blizzard in the console. "you've always been honest with me. i'm not going to argue with you about your own life. let's just... go back."
"are you mad at me?" he asked, his voice suddenly sounding younger, almost vulnerable.
"no, will. i'm not mad." you lied smoothly. "i'm just tired. let's just go."
the drive back to the dorms was excruciating. neither of you said a word. the radio played some soft pop song in the background. it was a big difference to the tension inside the car. when he pulled up to the curb of your building, he didn't turn the engine off.
"i'll text you." he said quietly, his eyes searching yours in the dim light of the dashboard.
"goodnight, will." you replied, not answering his promise.
you grabbed your phone, opened the door, and stepped out into the freezing night. you didn't look back.
for the next several days, your phone was completely silent.
no texts from will. no random updates about practice, no post-game check-ins. you spent monday, tuesday, and wednesday trying to throw yourself into your schoolwork, staring at your textbooks until the words blurred together. every time your phone buzzed with a notification, your heart would leap into your throat, only to crash back down when you saw it was just an email or a text from a classmate.
you told yourself it was for the best. you had drawn the line, and he had chosen his side. the band-aid had been ripped off. now you just had to wait for the wound to heal.
but then came thursday.
it was around 8:00 p.m. you were sitting at your desk, wrapped in a blanket, typing out a response to a discussion board post. the rain was beating a steady, relentless tattoo against your window pane.
buzz.
you glanced at your phone, expecting nothing.
will: are you busy? can i come over?
your breath hitched. you stared at the screen, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. you should say no. you should tell him that unless he had changed his mind, there was no point in reopening the wound. but the feeling of his absence over the last week was a powerful and terrible force.
you: i'm not busy.
not even ten minutes passed before there was a knock on your door.
it wasn't the usual, quiet, almost silent double-tap he used when he was trying to slide under the radar of the resident supervisors. it was a firm and solid knock that echoed in the quiet hallway.
you stood up, your legs feeling like they could fail you at any moment, and walked over to the door. you took a deep breath steadying yourself, and pulled it open. the words you had prepared — the firm, polite boundary to protect yourself — died instantly in your throat.
will was standing in the hallway, looking like an absolute wreck. his hair was wet from the rain, sticking to his forehead in messy, dark clumps. his chest was heaving, his cheeks flushed red, and his hands were shaking slightly. in his right hand, he was clutching a small, slightly squished bouquet of grocery-store flowers — bright yellow daisies and red carnations wrapped in cheap, crinkly plastic.
before you could even ask him what he was doing, he pushed past you into the warm, narrow space of your single dorm, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.
"i can't stop thinking about you." he started, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a breathless, chaotic rush.
he didn't even drop his winter jacket. he just stood in the centre of your room, holding the squished flowers out toward you like a peace offering. "i haven't slept. at all. for three days. i tried to focus during video review yesterday, and coach literally called me out in front of the entire team because i was just staring at the screen with my head completely somewhere else. i almost got dusted at practice today because i was thinking about what you said at dairy queen."
you blinked, utterly stunned, your back pressed against the wood of your door. "will... what are you talking about?"
"i'm talking about us." he said, taking a step closer, his eyes incredibly blue and incredibly desperate. "i thought about it. i thought about it during every single drill, during every skate, during the entire drive over here. and i was being an idiot. a complete, absolute idiot."
"will—"
"no, please, just let me finish before i lose my flow." he pleaded, running a shaky hand through his wet hair completely ignoring the way the water dripped down his face. "you asked if a relationship was a distraction, or if i was just scared. and the truth is i was scared. i've spent my entire life being told that if i want to make it to the nhl, i have to sacrifice everything. i have to put hockey first, always. no exceptions. so i built this rule, and i told myself that labels were the enemy."
he took another step, his shadow falling over you, the scent of rain and his familiar cologne filling the small room.
"but the truth is." will continued, his voice softening. "not having you is a way bigger distraction than having you could ever be. i don't think placing a label on what we have is going to change things the way i thought it would. we already do the relationship stuff. we already sit on your couch and talk until two in the morning. you already know the worst parts of me, and you're still here."
a soft, breathless laugh escaped your lips your hands coming up to cover your mouth. will saw the shift in your expression, and a tiny hopeful spark lit up in his eyes.
he rushed forward, his words picking up speed again. "and i'm tired of the secrets. i'm tired of having to pretend i font know you when you walk past. i want to be able to hold your hand when we go get coffee. i want to take you out to a real dinner, not just hide in my car at dairy queen. and most of all i want to have the right to get jealous in public when another guy gets a little too close to you at a party. i want to be able to walk up, put my arm around you, and tell them you're mine."
you let out a bubbling laugh at that, the tears finally spilling over your eyelashes and running down your cheeks. "you want to get jealous?"
"yes!" will exclaimed, a sheepish grin finally breaking through his anxious expression. "absolutely. ryan was talking to some girl the other day who was talking about her friend who thought i was cute, and i literally had to sit there and pretend i didn't care because i didn't have the right to tell him i was already taken. it was torture."
he stopped rambling, his chest still heaving as he stared down at you. he slowly lowered his hands, setting the slightly battered bouquet of flowers onto your desk, before turning back to face you completely. he took your hands in his. his fingers were warm but still damp from the rain. they wrapped around yours with a strength that felt permanent.
"so please." will whispered, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. "will you be my girlfriend? for real this time?"
the relief that washed over you was so immense it felt like you were floating. the heavy, suffocating weight you had been carrying for months simply vanished into the warm air of your room.
"yes." you laughed, leaning into him your forehead resting against his shoulder. "yes, will. of course i will."
the words had barely left your mouth before his hands left yours, sliding up to cup your face. his palms were warm against your cheeks, his fingers sweeping back into your hair as he pulled you up into a kiss.
it was completely different from any kiss you had shared before. it wasn't a rushed, quiet moment in the dark of his car or a hurried goodbye before dawn. this kiss was slow, incredibly deep, and overflowing with a sweet, aching relief. he pressed his lips to yours so lovingly, his body relaxing completely as he pulled you flush against his chest, wrapping his strong arms around your waist.
you could feel the radiant smile stretching across his lips even as he kissed you, his shoulders shaking with a happy laugh. he pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he stared down at you.
"girlfriend." he murmured, the word sounding sweet and foreign on his tongue. "i like the sound of that."
"me too, will." you smiled, wrapping your arms securely around his neck, finally at home. "me too."
In which you can’t let go of a situationship gone bad with a your colleges star hockey player
Notes: Baby’s first fic!! I’m actually unsure if this is any good, I haven’t written in the longest time! Very poorly proofread too, sorry xxxxxxx
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
You laid spread out in your bed, your tank top twisted around your body as you contorted yourself to find any sense of comfort. You let out a whine of protest and hoisted yourself up onto your forearms, the plush sheets formed around you, which finally gave you just an inch of comfort. It lasted all of two seconds until you stared at the familiar indent of wills body on the right side of your bed.
You reached your hand out, smoothing over the sheets that were still warm despite his absence. You grabbed your phone from beside you typing a few measly words.
“Maybe we would be better off as friends?”
Those few measly words took a lot more courage to type out than you thought. Just ten minutes ago, you were making out on the very bed you were laid across, and now, you’d never be able to feel his lips on yours again. You chewed on your nail, analysing the text. Quickly, you hit the send button and threw your phone across your bed.
You and will had been doing this casual thing for four months now, and it was almost laughable how serious you were about the whole arrangement. You’d started off as mutual friends, but you knew you were gone from the moment he’d said ‘I’m not looking for anything right now.’ It was fun for the first two months, there were movie nights, and late night drives. The two of you talked about everything and nothing, and for a short lived moment of hope, you’d thought that maybe this could go somewhere. Until the three month mark broke and will began to shut down, he left your ‘movie night?’ texts unanswered, and he arranged Ubers just minutes after he’d finished up with you.
You clung to will on the off chance that maybe one night, he’d look down at you and realise that casual might not be enough for him. You’d given away your dignity for a moment of love to a boy who wouldn’t even look your way twice. You needed him like a smoker needed cigarettes, you knew he couldn’t fix anything, but you craved him anyway.
You were pulled out of your thoughts when you heard a soft tapping at your door. You rubbed your hands over your eyes and slowly slid off your bed and padded over to the front door of your dorm.
You were surprised to see will standing on the other-side. Your brows raised at his winded state, he was breathing heavy and his hair looked like it had been blown into a messy shag resting on the top of his head. Had he ran here on the way back to his dorm? He wouldn’t have been far off to begin with.
“Y/n.”
“Why are you back?”
“You just sent me that text? You didn’t think I’d want to talk about it?” His tone was low and raspy, ready to snap at you if you slipped up.
“I didn’t realise it’d be that big of a deal.” You crossed your arms over your chest, staying wedged in your doorway. You didn’t want to let him in, because if you did, you knew that he wouldn’t come back out.
“Well it is a big deal. Why?”
You shook your head, not knowing what to say to that. How can you tell him that you can’t continue to be his booty call because you crave his attention like an addict? “I— I don’t know. I just— I don’t…”
“Y/n. Cut the bullshit, just— fuck.”
He leant in, his movements sharp as he pulled you in close to his face. “You don’t want this anymore?” His voice was low, eyes flickering wildly between your lips and eyes.
Your voice turned quiet, the type of tone that he’d really have to strain to hear. “Will. What is this—“
You were cut off by his lips on yours. It wasn’t the kind of kisses he usually treated you to. It was sweet, slow and he moved his other hand up to cup both of your cheeks. He pulled back after a couple of seconds, staring at you with a small smile on his face. Your heart immediately sped up, and you glanced away from him to try and hide your very obvious blushing cheeks.
You woke up the next morning with wills arm lazily draped over your waist. Somehow, he’d coaxed his way back to you. Just last night, you were ending it for good, and will broke through your weak demeanour by rationing a little bit of his attention to you.
Your chest ached with guilt as you turned your head to face wills sleeping form. You knew this wasn’t good for you, you hated how easily he could get you crawling right back to him. You felt ridiculous, carrying around these feelings that had nowhere to go. Sending the text was hard enough in the first place, how are you supposed to leave him now that he’s already over?
You watched as the blonde boy stirred, he blinked a few times before staring back at your sitting form. He didn’t have the same love-struck expression from last night. You knew he was checked out again, because he immediately got up from bed, searching for his discarded shirt on the floor whilst mumbling a lousy ‘morning’ with his back turned to you. He quickly rattled off excuses about an early practice and scrambled out of your door without sparing a glance your way. The last words he uttered to you was something along the lines of:
“Maybe the friend’s thing is a good idea.”
You stared at the closed door ahead of you, your eyes wide and wanting. You felt pathetic.
It had been a week since you’d last spoken to will. Since then, you’d drowned yourself in assignments and studying. You barely left your dorm in the daylight except for your lectures and extracurriculars, and you jumped at the chance of any of your friends who invited you for a night out.
On this particular morning, the crisp Boston air blew the leaves around and caused goosebumps to form under your sweater. You were clad in many layers as you warmed your hands up on your fresh takeaway coffee. You walked across campus, just trying to make it to your lecture block. You were about five minutes away as you noticed the familiar locks of blonde hair coming straight in your direction.
You lifted your head, placing a small smile on your face. You swayed your hips with every step and you adjusted your posture as will neared. You walked past him, flashing him a smile and getting ready to stop, but as you paused your walking, he pushed straight past you. He didn’t look at you, he didn’t even bear to take a breath as he walked past. You stood staring at his retreating form, your shoulders now lacking the perfect posture you’d aligned them to. You gulped down the lump in your throat and shook your head, refusing to stare at the back of his head for any longer.
The rest of the walk to class consisted of you with a very obvious frown on your face and dragging your heels along the leaf-covered pavement. You tried to muster up any explanation on why he’d done what he did. Was he giving you the silent treatment? Was he really mad at the suggestion of the two of you being purely platonic? You decided to not overthink it, and you were certain to win him back.
The whole week of you being away from him was agonising. He’d become such a regular part of your routine and the withdrawal of his random texts and lingering cologne drove you insane. You needed him. You’d decided that you would prefer to have three short hours of fleeting happiness instead of three long months pretending like he doesn’t exist.
The bass rattled around you as the house vibrated with the lively world of the ongoing party. You were stood in the corner, a half full red solo cup clad in your hand as you readjusted your dress for the forty third time in the two hours you had been here. You watched from the sidelines as people moved around on the dance floor. Shitty strobe lights shon onto the partygoers as they grinded and sweat together. You sighed, trying to find your friends in the sea of people. You spotted a head of blonde hair, but quickly realised it was will. You sighed, watching him as he guided a brunette through the shimmying bodies.
Your gut twisted with a pang of jealousy. The girl looked nothing like you. Your features could not be any more different. God, when he called you pretty did he even mean it?
You quickly gave yourself a mental slap. You were the one who wanted to end things. You need to stop—
You watched as he pulled her closer, protecting her from any unknown dangers from the drunks surrounding them. You watched the way that he looked at her, or rather, the way he had never looked at you. You’d left the situationship that made you feel crazy, and you were moping while he was very quickly moving on without a thought about you to spare.
Your time at the party quickly came to an end after seeing him. You’d shoved your cup into some random guys hand and stormed out of the dumb party as fast as you could.
It had only been a day since you’d watched Will getting comfy with another girl, and now, you found yourself on his doormat, knocking very loudly on his apartment door.
The door quickly swung open, and wills eyes widened at the sight of you standing infront of him.
“Oh—“
“The fucks your problem?”
He stared at you blankly, clearly unknowing to why you were stood infront of him and cussing him out.
“I send that text, you makeout with me and then stay over and then say ‘oh yeah we should be friends,’” you put a high pitched voice on to try and mock him, which gets you an amused look in return. “Then you just completely ghost me—“ his smirk is now unashamedly smeared on his face, “this isn’t fucking funny.”
He barked out a laugh he seemed to be holding in for your whole monologue. “Y/n, go home.”
“No. I’m not gonna go home. Will, I can’t do this. I don’t like not being around you. I can’t stand watching your life from the sidelines without being apart of it.” You shake your head, running your hands through your hair. “I don’t even need to be your fucking sneaky link, I just like being friends.”
He stared at you, his smile now disappearing from his face. You’d laid it out for him, you told him that you needed him, and it had left the boy speechless. Will opened his mouth to speak but quickly shut it. Then, after a few seconds of silence he finally answered you. “We can’t just be friends, y/n. That’s the problem. You get too attached.”
You sigh, staring back at him. Your eyes pricked with teardrops as you bit your lip to stop yourself from crying. You said you were done, just a week ago, you were ready to end this all. Now you’re just confused, how are you supposed to leave him now when you still need the closure? “Fine.” You said, your voice bordering on a sharp tone as you stormed away. You heard the door slam shut behind you, and finally you let the tears fall.
You jolted from your idle position at the sound of a text notification that filled your once silent room. You stared at the ceiling for a little longer before leaning on your side, curious to see who was texting you at this hour of the night.
‘r u awake ??’
You stared at his contact name, debating whether this was a good idea or not. It’d been a month. A long, excruciating month of pretending that Will never mattered to you, as if you didn’t think about him every night. You knew it was a bad idea to go back, you’d dig yourself into a deeper hole and from then on, you’d be tied to a friends with benefits situation for the rest of your life.
There was no leaving will smith, which was quickly proven by your reply back.
‘Yup come over’
You stare at the door, waiting for his arrival. You like your bed, but it likes him too. You watch as the hinges squeak open, and see the familar boy standing in the middle of your room.
How are you supposed to leave him now that he’s already over?
you’ve tried to ignore him, but you can’t evade the mess of tan gangly limbs forever. he’s good at getting under your skin… among other things.
pairing: surfer!reader x surfer!beckett
warnings: nsfw, 18+, oral f!receiving (not super in depth, only one scene!), cursing, use of y/n once, beckett is annoying
wc: 7.0k
a/n: kind of enemies to lovers, kind of not. FORGIVE me the ending is rushed + they end up on the ice LOL. i barely edited this! i wanted to make it longer but i hit a rut sorrryyy
title is hula girl by the neighborhood :)
It seemed like every day for the past decade, you heard his name.
Sennecke, Sennecke, Sennecke…
You’re quite neutral about him, all things considered. Sometimes, the mention of him makes your skin crawl, sometimes it makes you flush a little angry, sometimes it makes your stomach feel empty, a scraping inside your abdomen that leaves your throat itchy and mouth dry. It’s always when you don’t want to hear about him.
Oh, you’ve won your comp? Did you see Sennecke’s win yesterday? Isn’t Sennecke going to that invitational too? Could you introduce me to him?
But sometimes, when you know the mention of his name is coming, your heart quickens abnormally, and sometimes you get a flutter of nerves you can’t explain.
So, that means those feelings cross out like a mathematical equation. Obviously.
You weren’t close. You speak to him in three-word jabs that he smiles all teeth at. It infuriates you when he doesn’t say anything back out on the sand, and he just looks at you like you’re funny—that’s all you are.
It was already hard enough getting sponsorships, going pro, and two people from the same area doing it at the same time? Yeah, sometimes you screamed into your pillow. He was stealing your spotlight. Him and that cocky smile and permanent nose sunburn.
—
In the blur of puberty, when surfing got real, that was when you saw him first, brown hair too long and falling in his eyes at some camp with twenty other kids. Then, the good waves were still too big for your body. You wore wetsuits and gloves because the Canadian waters were too cold. He was shorter than you and a little loud, but really you didn’t pay the boys any attention. You loved surfing, and a few boys out in your periphery weren’t going to shake your resolve.
When all your friends could talk about at sleepovers were the boys at school, all you could think about was when you were going to get down to the beach. Your favorite board lived against your bedroom wall, and at some point, fitting it between your arm and body was the most natural thing ever.
It was just when you kept seeing him. All the time.
He was on a surf club across town, and you kept seeing him down by the water once you turned 14. He wasn’t ever in your local spot, but sometimes you crossed paths, and it was enough that the mutual stare felt odd. You knew each other through town talk and point totals on websites. You felt it awkward to go up to him, to try and act as if you were supposed to be friends because you were both really good.
He was a hell of a lot less dorky since that camp and a world more charming. Everyone said so.
You’d see it from a distance, the girls piling around him, how easily he flowed into conversation that had them giggling so loud you heard it over the crashing waves. It made your jaw clench more than anything. It was cringey and gross, and at one point, you swear he saw you roll your eyes at him, but you couldn’t be sure. You were 40 feet away. You thought it was a figment of your imagination, something you made up because you had such a shitty heat. He had smiled, and you couldn’t explain that, so it was much easier to think the whole incident never happened.
Sometimes, you’d let the thought gnaw deep: how he never saw you with anyone other than your friends. It shouldn’t be embarrassing, but he made you feel behind in ways you shouldn’t. He was more charming. He was easy-going. Romantic endeavors were, more or less, a piece of cake for him. It always looked like he had it all figured out.
When the boys started coming through in social media messages and mutual followers once surfing became serious, when you started getting sponsorships, and you had a decent chunk of followers (mostly local but you didn’t complain), you hated it. At 15, half of them were legal adults; the other half were, for lack of a better word, weak surfers that wanted in on you, to claim you because your points kept getting up there and in just a few short years, you’d be in the challengers series.
Beckett, in a way, made everyone else feel boring. It wasn’t a direct thought—you never connected the dots, but the way he spoke, the way he zoned out and got hard on himself after he fucked up, just like you did. How he sat on his board when the sea was placid, the sun illuminating his shoulder blades, the small beauty marks along his spine, it was inevitable. There would be nobody else.
By eighteen, you hadn’t dated anyone.
So maybe you were a little… romantically stunted. It’s easy to brush off. You’re a professional athlete, and, quite frankly, you have no time to fuck around with situationships like all your friends do. The whole thing sounds terrible, and it seemed like every week they’d come curled up on your couch, crying about a guy that couldn’t care less about them.
You figured Beckett was not so different from those men. Sometimes, you imagined how those poor girls took it when he broke it off with them, or worse, how he ghosted them. You don’t know why you liked to imagine these things. Maybe it brings you a small comfort, trying to convince yourself he’s not a good person. Your ‘crush’ on him was surface-level, and you were trying your very best to convince yourself of that. It didn’t work because you just thought about him more.
—
This comp doesn’t really mean much. It’s just a local mob of clubs, and you’re off to Brazil at the end of the week for a real qualifier that’ll cement your name if you play your cards right.
Beckett is always there before you, even when you try to get there earlier. The day was a go, but you swear he gets there before the judges say the waters are good. He’s like, really obsessed, even though he doesn’t show it much in the way he acts.
He’s sitting on a rather large rock, his back to you. His board rests beside him. You notice the branding is different—he got a new sponsor or something. It’s gloomy out, the light gray enveloping the sky and making the ocean look a deeper blue than usual.
He’s still wearing his hoodie. You never really see his hair much dry. He trims it often now; he likes to keep up appearances for his newfound fanbase. The nape of his neck is clean, and the short hairs straight.
Your teammate preemptively giggles as she lays her eyes on him.
“You should’ve come last Friday. He was there and got superrr drunk,” she whispers, even though Beckett wouldn’t be able to hear anyway.
She’s talking about some house party you shrugged your shoulders at. That day, you were sore in all the wrong places.
“Really? Who’d he take home this time?” It’s just gossip, like, you didn’t care at all. You’re secretly hoping she says he didn’t, that he was too wasted and his friends had to carry him out of there.
“I don’t know. I had never seen her before. She sounded American.”
“Oh,” you let out. You’re still staring at the back of Beckett’s head. He’s fidgeting with his board on his lap, looking out at the break. “He latches onto anything with a pulse,” you add, because your oh sounded too dejected for your liking.
She hums in agreement, and you both shove your flip-flops off, letting the cool sand cushion your feet.
Unfortunately, you have to pass him on your way to your team’s setup farther along the beach. You try to look straight forward, but obviously your friend gives him a warm greeting, and you’re forced to turn your head and give him a pained smile.
“Hi, y/n,” he grins, his hand giving a half-assed wave as his elbows brace his board. “Good luck.” He says this specifically to you, his gaze lingering too long on the oversized shirt covering your two-piece. He runs his hand through his hair. It’s a bit windy, so he’s fixing the strands sticking out.
You know he’s teasing you. He’s smiling too wide. His smile was too big for his face. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”
“I don’t get a ‘good luck’ back?” He asks, and your friend is just standing between you two, a little confused by the odd tension. You grit your teeth.
“I’m not going to fraternize with the enemy.”
“Oh, okay,” he says, all sarcastic. He looks at you dead on, a glimmer in his eyes, “I get it.”
You don’t know why you can’t just be nice to him.
It was his annoying face. It was how he thought everything was a game. It always felt like he was making fun of you.
Towards the end of the day, when you place fifth—irritatingly so—Beckett catches your eye across the sand, a small, knowing smile hanging there. He was about to start his heat against the other guys, and your stomach lurched knowing he was watching you.
He was always watching you, but the simple confirmation alone made your skin crawl.
—
Beckett was between a lot of sports growing up. Surfing was one of the last things he thought about, truthfully. Everyone expected him to play hockey.
He doesn’t remember exactly how old he was when his dad made this gross joke about picking surfing because the young boy liked scantily clad women. He was probably 10. He heard it behind the corner during some family gathering. He knew it was a joke, but he didn’t like it anyway. It embarrassed him because it was half true.
He wasn’t ogling adult women just yet. No, he saw you at that camp, all determined, with this really nice shortboard and a million friends. You looked like you knew everything, and he wanted to be like you. Then, you were taller than him, and he felt so small.
You were the best surfer there. It started this spiral he couldn’t get himself out of. He wanted to be good in case you saw him again. He’d come back, hopefully taller and stronger, and you’d notice him, for real.
It really did not help when his grandma figured out about you. You’d show up in all his competition photos because you’d always place well, so there are dozens of them where your face shows up. It’s almost like he could imagine you both grew up together, friends or something.
There’s one where you’re standing next to each other with flimsy trophies in both your hands in front of the water. He guesses you both won the men’s and women’s sides. It looks like he was thirteen there. His grandmother loves you for some reason. She compiles all these photos and always asks about you when she sees Beckett.
Beckett kind of has to lie and pretend you’re friends. Oh, she’s doing good. She just won xxx competition. And it’s not because you told him but because he was constantly looking at your stats, constantly flicking through your social media. He doesn’t want to think about how much time he spends staring at your profile. It’s entirely too much.
He can tell. She has that look on her face like she approves of you. She’s never even met you.
—
“There’s no way.” You squeak, walking towards the sand one early Thursday morning.
“Surprise?” One of the workers says. She’s grinning, watching your reaction to the undeniable shape of Beckett with his back turned, talking to someone holding a camera. You’ve seen his back so much you’d recognize it anywhere. He’s already in swim trunks and nothing else.
“We’re…this is a group photoshoot?” Your eyes glaze over his bare expanse for too long, glossing over the knobs of his spine.
She nods, holding a stack of papers close to her chest. “It was super last minute but we thought it might be good. You’re both on the same trajectory right now.” You’re hoping she says there are other surfers coming or something, that it’s not a ‘couple’s thing’. “And you’re both hot, so it’s a win.”
You flush, sweat starting to pool at your temples. You want to whine, but you’re freshly eighteen and that’s unbecoming of an adult. You breathe out. It won’t be too bad. All the camera people will be directing you and there will barely be any talking—probably.
Maybe you should have thought this might happen, having the same swimwear sponsor and all.
As you step out of the privacy tent, suddenly the mess of brown hair is in your personal space. The one piece you’re wearing is the same red color of his shorts.
“Who would’ve thought?” He says, looking down at you. You’re already irritated.
“Thought what?” You cross your arms.
“We’d look good together.” He grins.
“Jesus Christ. Did you win last weekend or something?”
He did and now his total points have teetered over yours. Not that it matters because you’re technically split up by sex, but it still hurts your ego.
“Yep.” He emphasizes the p, a popping sound falling from his mouth. You’ve never seen his smile dimples this close before. You scoff.
“How many of your girlfriends were there?” You step by him to start heading over to the photography team.
“Uh, like five. It was hard to keep them separated.” You huff out a short laugh at his answer. Then, there’s a short pause.
“You think of me like that?” He follows you like a puppy.
“Well, I think the whole surfing community thinks of you like that.” You look over your shoulder and his brows are furrowed, looking at the sand between his feet.
“Ah, you can’t really believe everything, though.”
“Dude, I don’t care. You can do whatever you want.”
“But I’m not—“
One of the camera people starts talking, and you both fall quiet as you listen.
It’s, uh, not as easy as you planned.
Beckett finds touching you very easy. He pulls you in once the solo shots are done, after your hair’s all wet and you’re flushed from the shots in the ocean.
He doesn’t need direction. His arm lazily dangles over your shoulders as you hold a board against your body. The water laps at your feet. You’re sinking ever further into the wet sand. You’re rooted there, trying not to make it obvious that every nerve ending in your body is on fire.
He made a bad joke about your club teammate that you shouldn’t have laughed at, but you did. All the camera people are bewildered that they don’t have to tell you what to do. They take rapid pictures, capturing whatever weird chemistry sizzles between your bodies.
“Okay, we’re good guys!” One of them says. It’s only midday, but it’s getting too hot. You sigh. You definitely didn’t put enough sunscreen on and your shoulders feel warm to the touch.
“See, it wasn’t that bad,” Beckett says, pulling away from you.
“I guess not.” You roll your eyes. This is the most conversation you’ve ever had with him.
Except you’re not done. Some social media intern swarms both of you, asking to do a small interview for instagram. She pulls out a small hand-held mic. “Just five minutes. I have like one question.”
“Okay, sure!” You respond, though your body is heavy and all the stress of today has finally decided to set in.
It never gets easy having a phone camera pointed directly at your face. Beckett is standing right beside you, and she has to take a step back to get him in frame too.
She asks how it is, competing professionally alongside someone you’ve known forever. Of course. You hesitate. He’s standing right there, curious as to what you have to say.
“It’s, uh, nice seeing a familiar face in other parts of the world, you know? We both want to make our families and community proud, so—yeah, it’s cool.” You try to smile, but it’s awkward.
Beckett takes the mic from your hands. He smiles wide, looking down to catch your parting lips. “She has a little trouble going against me. Always has.”
“No, I do not—”
“What I mean to say—” he barks out a laugh at your immediate defense, “—we surf better when we’re together. It helps so much to have that support, especially because we’re both in the same, pretty terrifying position right now.”
You can’t tell if that’s a real stat or something. You try to think about it logically. Whenever your local club goes against his, do you really fall under the ‘pressure’? It feels dumb to analyze it. Those local competitions don’t mean as much, and maybe that’s why you’ve never noticed it before—chalking it down to the water, a bad day. Do you really do that? You doubt it. He’s probably making that up for the narrative.
“You guys are close, huh?”
“We kind of have to be,” Beckett responds, before you can adamantly shake your head at the concept.
“Yeah,” you add weakly.
“I mean, everyone knows it. You’re both the future of Canadian surfing. How about the Olympics in a few years?”
“Oh, that’s—that’s so far away.”
“We’ll see,” Beckett grins.
You take a freezing cold shower when you get back home.
—
The photos are posted a week later.
It has like some stupid caption saying made in Canada. Your phone vibrates maybe 100 times once it’s out there, public, for anyone to see. Half of it is your confused friends asking why they didn’t get a warning. The other half is random people gushing about how good you look together. You shut your eyes and throw your phone across the bed. If you didn’t look at it, it didn’t exist.
Your throat felt thick knowing that Beckett was right—you did look like a couple, and now other people thought that too.
—
Hawaii is not fun after breaking up with your boyfriend.
Your short-lived stint of pretending you could be normal was over. You liked him…he was okay and very nice to your family when he met them, but that was it. You barely saw him because of your schedule. You wanted to be the one who broke it off, but he got there first.
You sulked about that. You kind of wanted to be the first in everything.
“Sorry to hear about…whatever his name was. I can’t remember.”
You click your tongue at the mass of gangly limbs before you. You’re both in the hotel lobby, waiting, because apparently your rooms weren’t ready.
He’s wearing a shirt with loose gray sweats. You rarely see him in normal clothes. His carry-on backpack is slung over his shoulder.
You’d have been on the same plane if not for the fact that Beckett got here a few days earlier and stayed with friends. You don’t really want to imagine what that entailed.
“You don’t actually care.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” He shrugs. It’s stupid to ask how he knew, because word gets out quickly in the tight-knit communities you’re both a part of. You know it firsthand—all the bad stories you’ve had to hear about him against your will. “Just hope it doesn’t affect your game.”
“It won’t.”
“That’s great, babe.”
You stiffen up. Someone’s called Beckett over, some surfer he knew, so he’s gone before you can say anything.
Babe is…a friendly term. Friends call each other babe. It’s different from baby, a lot less weight. It still makes your pulse spike.
You figure out Beckett’s across from your room when you go out to get ice to chew on for your nerves.
“You going out tonight?” He asks, card in his hand, bag still on, as he waits for your response before he enters his room.
“Uhm, probably not. I’m tired.”
“Is it because of him?”
“No! What? I mean, why do you care? You don’t know me, Sennecke.” Plus, it feels like he’s inviting you to wherever he’s going, and that freaks you the fuck out. The comp’s already been pushed back a day, and it starts the day after next, so there’s a lot of reason to explore the beach town…you just don’t know how to lie well enough.
“Okay, last names again. I thought we were progressing.”
You sigh. “Why’d you lie about that thing in the interview?” It’s a very vague thing to say, and it happened a while ago, but Beckett knows what you’re talking about immediately.
“I wasn’t. Your point average is better when I’m not going against you.”
“That’s stupid. We’re together all through the regular season. It just means I perform better on tour than at local competitions that barely mean anything, dumbass.”
He smiles, biting his tongue. “I wonder how many other things we’d do better together—“
“I’m done. Oh my god. Goodbye.” You heat up so fast, turning on the spot to fumble with your key card. You hear him laugh before you close the door with your back.
—
There’s a knock on your door two hours later.
“Hey, doll face? You there?” You hear his deep voice through the heavy door. You scramble out of bed.
You swing the door open. “Are you one thousand years old?”
“What? You do have a doll face.”
He’s dressed to go out in this thin white linen shirt and black slacks.
Your lips form a tight line.
“I’m sorry about that comment earlier, okay? I’m just messing with you. You’re easy to make angry.”
“Okay,” you say, looking down between your socked feet.
Beckett’s having a really hard time not letting his heart burst out of his chest seeing you in a tank top and sleep shorts.
“You should come. There’s a whole bunch of surfers going out too. It’ll…help you get over him.” He clears his throat.
“I don’t know.”
“Just…” he pulls his phone out of his back pocket, and tells you the restaurant everyone’s apparently going to. “Come if you want.”
“Okay, maybe,” you say.
“Good.” Beckett seems really pleased.
—
He’s the first to catch notice of you walking in. His arm is slung around the backside of a booth, eyes glazing over you once, twice, like he can’t believe you took up the offer, then he says, “Hey! You made it.”
He’s fuzzy, maybe two or three drinks in. Empty, wide-rimmed margarita glasses are filling the table. He’s sitting with a group of guys, but there’s just enough room on the edge for you to squeeze in. You feel awkward.
“Yeah, I guess.”
He pats the leather next to him. You want to high-tail it out of there.
“Sit right here, baby. I’ll order you a drink.”
Is the world tilted off its axis? He’s called you three nicknames in the span of five hours.
The guys at the table don’t make a fuss about it. They don’t even acknowledge it, like it’s normal.
Somehow, you’ve managed to blurt out the silly details of your break-up to him, all numb now with a couple of drinks in your system. It happened over the phone in an airport, you say, and you had to make him repeat it because you didn’t hear it the first time. Beckett laughs at that.
“He couldn’t even wait until you were back home?”
“Nah, it’s okay though. Like, probably better that I didn’t have to see him again.”
“Right.” Beckett lightly taps your bare knee, and it’s almost accidental until his entire palm wraps around your upper thigh. It feels like he’s claiming you, making sure you’re not going to leave him.
At this point, it’s just the two of you making conversation now.
“I have no idea how he could break up with you.”
“I’m pretty stubborn and…not a great girlfriend.”
“Really?”
“I don’t think—“ your breath hitches as he squeezes your thigh, “—don’t think I should be dating during the season.”
“Oh,” he says, eyes dark, “yeah. I don’t think you should be either.”
You clear your throat. “What time is it?” You scramble around for your phone. Beckett still has his hand on you, watching you. “We should go back.”
As you’re leaving, Beckett’s palm rests on the back of your neck. Heat is pooling so fast in your lower stomach. He’s practically gripping you with one hand, helping you get out of this crowded restaurant.
The walk back is very, very awkward. The cool rush of air is sobering. Maybe Beckett doesn’t think so, because he’s still talking about your ex.
“You know, dating people who aren’t surfers just doesn’t work.”
“And you know from experience, right?” You smirk, trying to get him to stutter or something, but he never does.
“Yeah. I do.” God, he says it so matter-of-fact.
“What? Are you proposing something right now?” You egg on.
“Hmm,” he contemplates something in his head. “Don’t know. I think you’re a little emotionally strung out right now.”
“What? No I’m not. I’m perfectly fine.”
“So if I kissed you, you wouldn’t regret it?”
Your breathing stops. You’re on the sidewalk; red and green lights from the traffic stop illuminate his face.
You shut your eyes tight, shaking your head. “I’d regret it just because it was you.” You start walking again, and he has to take a few long strides to get back next to you.
“Oh, come on. You know that’s not true.”
“It is.” You keep your head held high.
“What’s your issue with me?” He asks as you step into the hotel lobby. The receptionist gives you both a small smile.
“Everything.”
“You’re such a bad liar.”
You scowl at him, pressing the elevator button.
“Why would you let me hold you like that?”
“Uh—uhm, I don’t remember.” It was maybe twenty minutes ago when his hand was dangerously close to the edge of your shorts.
“You can say it, say that you want me. I won’t judge.”
“I don’t…” In the elevator, the light is brighter, and you can see the hard, tanned skin underneath several buttons he’s undone through the course of the night. His neck is long, and there’s so much room to kiss him there.
“Fuck you,” you blurt out, and take him by the hand once the elevator dings open.
“Whoa,” he’s startled, but follows you anyway. You fumble again with the card. It beeps red before he takes it in his hand to press down slowly on the pad. You murmur an apology when it works.
You drag him inside. “I just want to see. Want to know if it’s true.”
He looks at you, amused. He knows damn well what you’re talking about, the rumors that he was fucking insane in bed. You’ve heard that since you were seventeen, and now that you’re on edge since your break-up, and he’s this warm, willing body, you have a hard time thinking of anything else.
“What’s true?” He grins, walking forward, closing you in. You stumble back, falling onto the bed. Your forearms keep you up. You try to kick your shoes off. Beckett looks really different, like a whole other person has taken over his body.
You know you’re sober enough that you’ll remember this tomorrow morning. He will too.
“I’m not saying it.”
“Course you aren’t. Too embarrassed. You just have to promise me one thing.”
“What?” You’re exasperated.
“That you won’t fall in love with me after.”
Too late.
“Yeah, right, idiot.” You start unbuttoning your jean shorts, and Beckett takes over, a chuckle escaping his lips. He flings you toward the head of the bed like it’s nothing. You look at him, wide-eyed. He shucks his shirt off, then dips down onto the mattress.
You used to read what the comments said about you two. How perfect you slotted in together. This is what the comments had said, and you’d blush looking at the pictures. You swear you looked at them every night. Obviously, one does not do that in a healthy, committed relationship.
There’s a flicker of doubt, as he drags your shorts down, that this will ruin everything. You don’t have it in you to care right now.
He smiles at your underwear. It was white with little red hearts on it. “Shut up.” You groan, bucking your hips up into the air.
“Didn’t say anything, baby.”
“I’m not—“ he presses his thumb into the fat of your inner thigh, forcing your legs wider to accommodate him. “—stop calling me that. I’m not your baby.”
“Sometimes you act like one, don’t you?”
“What the fuck.” You flop your head back onto the pillow. It’s hard to keep eye contact with him. The pale blue was so intimidating. “No.” You grunt.
“Sure,” he agrees half heartedly against your skin, kissing down your inner legs.
It’s dizzying how no one else has seemingly cared more to please you than Sennecke. You think you might pass out.
With your panties bunched to the side, Beckett presses his tongue against you like his life depends on it. His nose grazes over your clit, and your hand fists in his hair. He liked that because his eyes fluttered closed, soft groans vibrating through your pussy.
And once you’re done keening, broken sobs falling out of your mouth, you force yourself to attack him because he’s not very assertive about this one thing—about making you do anything else. It looks like he’s about to leave, like he’ll just go and jerk off in his own hotel room.
“I have to…” You pant, “…finish what I started.”
“You’re crazy,” he breathes out as you palm him through his slacks. You kiss him hard. You’ve never tasted yourself before. He’s licking your bottom lip, and you shudder, opening your mouth better for him. You’re sitting between his legs, digging the heel of your hand into his filled-out cock.
You whine particularly loud into his mouth, and he’s gone. He cums right in his boxers. He swears, little fuck’s coming out against your cheek.
His eyes are blown out. He can’t believe that happened.
“Okay, wow.” You fall backwards, too tired. A small simmering heat is building up in your chest knowing you made the notorious fuck boy cum in his pants.
“Yeah, uhm,” he’s looking down at you, his eyes barely open now, like he’s just remembered he’s tired. “I’ll go.”
“You always cum that fast?”
“Don’t act like you weren’t crying my name five minutes ago.” He wipes his face with the back of his hand. He winces as he stands up, the patch of wetness making it uncomfortable.
You throw a pillow at him. “Fuck, god. Sorry,” he says, the blow hitting him right in the side of the head.
“You’re avoiding the question,” you complain.
“Goodnight.” He says, narrowing his eyes at you. He picks the pillow up and throws it next to your body. Your hair was a mess, chest heaving up and down.
You groan loudly, twisting in your sheets, mumbling something close to a bye. You shift onto your side, and he sees your shirt riding up your back and your panties that hug your buttcheeks. You hear him snicker before he’s grabbing his things and leaving.
You don’t sleep for another hour, flipping over tomorrows possibilities in your mind.
—
You wake up with a pounding headache but an even bigger feeling of dread.
It’s noon and everyone else has probably gotten along with their day. You wonder if Beckett is still in bed or if he’s not affected by hangovers like you are. You grimace. He’s probably had a very productive day.
You drag yourself to your bathroom, trying not to think about last night—you fell so easily, like putty in his hands, and now you know the feeling of his mouth against yours. You know what he sounds like when he’s moaning with want.
After mulling over 10 options, one including possibly becoming a Buddhist, you decide not to talk to him about it. You weren’t very close anyway, and you could get away with speaking to him in two word sentences just like the last five years.
You’re sure he’s had experience with this kind of thing: having sex with a friend. He probably won’t even mention it either.
—
Beckett knows why you ‘hate’ him. He’s studied enough of your film, watched enough of your mannerisms after a heat, that he could roughly deduce why you gave him the cold shoulder. You hated not constantly being the best.
It’s why he likes you.
On the first day of the competition, he finally finds you there before him. There’s barely anything set up yet, the orange horizon waning into a light blue. You’re all jittery, he can tell. You’re applying too much wax on your board.
“Calm down.” You look up from where you sit in the sand. His damp hair from the shower frames his forehead. He’s looking at you all quizzical, like he’s going to blurt out: “what’s wrong with you?”
“Phft. Thanks. That helps.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah, okay, sure.”
“You’re not this…on edge, usually. Was it…” he lets the silence speak for itself.
“No! No, of course not. I’m not even, like not even—I’m just thinking.”
He hesitates. There’s a fondness in his eyes that you’re not quite used to. It makes your body feel really small.
Your ex-boyfriend really did look a lot like him. Gosh, do you think he noticed that? When you posted your boyfriend on your story, did he notice the same floppy brown hair, the same lanky, built body? You bite down hard on your lower lip, squinting at Beckett now because the sun has risen higher above the horizon.
“I’ll see you later?”
You’re forced into an impromptu interview with him at the end of the day, where he lies about how close you are, but then you flush thinking about how it really is true now—the closeness. You avoid him for the rest of the competition. Every time you look at him, your heart blooms too big in your chest. It’s the lush Hawaiian trees, the clear sky, the orange and pink hibiscus flowers that are tricking you, intensifying your feelings.
—
At the airport, Beckett’s sitting right next to you in the terminal, legs spread, phone in hand because it always seems like he’s texting someone. Not that you care.
You decided it would be weird not to sit next to him, but it’s also weird sitting next to him. So no one’s winning here, really. Except if you count Beckett, who won the whole damn thing yesterday. You placed third—which was still really good, but you’re an athlete; you’re jealous.
“Excuse me?” You feel a tiny poke on your knee, drawing you out of the spiral you’re leading yourself down.
There’s a girl, no older than eight, standing in front of you. She’s rocking back and forth, clearly nervous. She asks you if you’re really you, eyes blown wide. You notice her mom is a little ways away, smiling at the whole interaction.
“You wanna take a picture together?” You ask. She beams.
“Is that…your boyfriend?” She tries to whisper, but children whisper loud. Beckett’s got his hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh. He’s also a little mortified at the fact that he wasn’t recognized, and it hangs a little quieter on his face, but you know it’s there.
“Uh—no, he’s a surfer too.” She nods her head, mouth formed in an o shape. When she leaves, skipping back to her mom, Beckett turns to you.
“Wow.”
“Does anyone even watch men’s sports anymore?” You chide, grinning so hard.
“I’ll let you have that. Needed to be humbled after my win.”
You groan, slinking back into your chair. You take the small victories where you can.
—
Recently, Beckett’s been spending so much of the winters in tropical climates that Canada is such a shock to come back home to.
Christmas kind of sucks cause he has no excuse to see you. It’s been two weeks since that night in your hotel room, and every night since then, he’s thought about how he probably ruined everything. You don’t see him as someone serious, someone mature enough to be in a relationship. It doesn’t help that he’s never been in one longer than a couple of months, but that’s your fault, he swears.
Last night, he dreamt of going to the Olympics with you. He’s torturing himself at this point.
And his grandma won’t stop asking about you.
“Why isn’t she at one of these yet?” It’s Christmas Eve. His entire family is here.
“Grandma, I don’t think she likes me back.” It feels like a confession, because it is. An indirect one, but it still holds all its weight in it.
“Oh, dear.” She pats him on the cheek. “You have to tell her you like her first.” His cheeks are aflame, feeling like he’s 12 years old again. He has never mentioned his long-standing crush to anyone else. She always knew. It was plain obvious.
—
On Christmas Day, his little cousins wanted to go to the town rink to ice skate. It’s really fucking cold, and if he had it his way, he wouldn’t go at all.
He thinks he’s dreaming again when he sees the back of you, your hair pulled up in a ponytail, a thick black puffer jacket on, leaning against the side of the rink.
The white glow of the ice hits your face. You’re watching everyone else, hands folded underneath your chin, elbows resting on the boards. All his little cousins go off to rent skates close by.
“You’re the last person in Canada who doesn’t know how to skate. I’m impressed.”
“Christ! You scared me.” You turn, breath hitched in your throat. There’s only one person whose voice you know sounds like that. “And I do, actually, okay. I just don’t want to twist my ankle.”
“Yeah, sure.” All Beckett has ever seen you in are wetsuits and bikinis. He’s never seen you dressed in mittens and long pants. He’s never seen your nose sniffle from the cold.
“Some of us have careers to think about.” You scoff, looking at the ice instead of him. The whole place is sickeningly festive. A huge Christmas tree with multi-colored lights rests across the pond.
Beckett curls his hand around your arm and pulls you away, toward the renting booth.
“Beckett, seriously. I can’t.”
“You have to. What are you going to do, stand there the whole time?”
“Yes.” You let him drag you over there.
Skates are a little hard to put on, especially when it’s been years since you’ve done it. Beckett laces his quickly, and he notices how you’re still tying your first. He doesn’t say anything. He just kneels and does it for you. His eyelashes rest on his rosy cheeks. His eyebrows are knitted in concentration. You flush, bringing your head up because looking at him like this is completely inappropriate. Letting yourself believe this is anything but a power trip for him, seeing you bad at something he’s good at, will send you into psychosis.
Then you grow hot in your jacket at the realization that this feels more wrong than letting him settle between your legs. Imagining him as your boyfriend is embarrassing and you really need to get a grip.
Of course, he’s vindicated when he sees you shaky on your feet.
“Shut the fuck up,” you whisper, cause there’s kids everywhere, whizzing past you. His hand rests on your back. He’s sure half his family realizes he’s gone, but they probably saw your face and decided not to interrupt. He doesn’t have the time to mull over how humiliating that is. “Can’t be good at everything like you.”
He thinks that’s supposed to come off as a joke, but he can hear the honesty beneath it. He looks down at you. You’re avoiding his gaze.
“That’s not true.”
You stop yourself on the boards, holding onto it, your back pressed against it. “It’s okay. You don’t have to pity me. I don’t like other people being better. I need a therapist or something—”
“I’m terrible at cooking and responding to text messages, and I’m a nervous wreck before every heat—you’re good at that. Always so calm. You’re a better surfer than me, seriously.”
“Beckett—”
“And, I’m really bad at telling you how I feel.”
You cock your head. “What?”
“That I really like you,” the words just tumble out of his mouth, “liked you for a long time. Before the night at the hotel. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I was using you. I wasn’t. I want to be with you.”
“Oh,” you say, because it’s all you can think of. All your thoughts ceased to exist. Your face stings from the cold air.
“And I know it’s probably bad to date another competitor, but all those other guys out there suck. I’m the only one who knows what you’re going through—”
“Slow down, please.”
“Yeah, sorry,” he says sheepishly. You’re not angry at him, which he thinks is good. You’re analyzing his face.
“I agree. The whole—I mean, we’re compatible.” You look down at the ice underneath your skates. “But I’m a bad girlfriend.”
His heart forgets to beat.
“I can be the judge of that.”
You weakly push him in the chest, and he clings hard to the boards, his knuckles going white so he doesn’t drift away.
When he kisses you, this time your lips are cold and chapped. It feels like he’s kissing you for the first time, and he’s so grateful for that.
“You’re gonna last a little longer in bed?“
He covers your mouth in horror. His bright blue eyes go wide. “You can’t say that!”
“First in everything,” you giggle, and he buries his face in your neck.
yousharknotpass
gummygunk
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
prguitarman
pixelskylines
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
vaporwave
romaincrisis
