Summary: Out in the chaos of the arena, Bucky loses focus and realizes that everything he’s trying to outrun always leads him back to you.
Author’s Note:
hello again 🤍 obviously still knee deep in my cowboy/bull rider era and honestly just embracing it at this point.
This is another small moment in the “All I’ll Ever Need” universe where everything is loud, messy, and moving too fast… but somehow still finds its way back to the same quiet place.
I hope you enjoy this one.
happy reading 🤍
now back to my little writing cave i go.
Bucky never saw the turn coming; a few months ago he would've read the bull before it even thought about changing direction. Now Instead of the raging bull, he was thinking about whether Grant had finished his morning bottle yet.
It was all the opening the bull needed.
His body goes flying before he can even register what happened, his back slamming into the hard-packed dirt, a low groan leaving his lips as chaos in the wring erupts around him. ‘Fuckin hell!’
‘Jesus Christ, Wilson get him out of there now!’
Bucky’s eyes fall shut, losing himself to the chaos and pain. A shadow passes over him a moment later; he squints one eye open to find an equally pissed off Steve Rogers looking down at him, “What the hell was that Buck, you trying to get yourself killed out there!’
Bucky’s attempt at waving him off is half-assed at best, his back really hurts, ‘I had it handled Steve.’ Is the only response he can bring himself to give, because if he was being honest he wasn’t feeling it.
His heart isn’t in it, hell neither is his head. It hasn’t been since he arrived at the beginning of the week, but he'd told himself it was time. Time to get back on the circuit. Back to the life he'd spent years building, the life that was supposed to provide for Grant. Funny how the one thing he'd wanted to get back to now felt like the one thing pulling him away from where he actually wanted to be.
His boy.
He can't help but wonder if Grant is down for his morning nap yet. If you're rocking him in that old chair by the nursery window. If his little face scrunches the way it always does before he smiles.
Steve offers him a hand as he pulls him to sit studying him for a long moment. "You can't hesitate." Silence. "You keep riding like that -“ He shakes his head. "you're gonna get yourself killed."
He lets out a drawn out sigh meeting his bearded friends eyes, “m’trying Steve.”
Steve lands a hand on his shoulder squeezing, “are you?” Bucky’s jaw clenches, “if you expect to be ready for the circuit in a few months you need to try harder, I won’t hesitate to get you pulled if I think you’re gonna risk an injury, you have someone else to think about other than yourself now.”
Bucky's lips part on a reply, but it dies on his tongue at the sound of his name. Your voice. His stomach drops, why are you here? He turns too quickly - he's definitely going to feel that later - but the worry evaporates just as fast because there you are. Grant tucked securely against your chest, tiny hands wrapped around the fabric of your shirt. His face lights up the moment he spots his dad, a gummy grin spreading across his cheeks as his legs kick excitedly.
He turns his head back to Steve, “you called her?” His friend shakes his head, “she was already on route when Natasha reached out to her, she’s never missed your training before said she wasn’t going to start now.”
Bucky takes Steve’s offered hand as he pulls him to his feet, hand clapping his back as they make their way over to you. “Who’s that?” You coo to the infant as they draw closer, “Is that daddy?”
Grant babbles in your arms, feet kicking steadier the closer he gets to the both of you, there’s a warmth in his chest now, and he can’t help the grin that catches his lips. “Is that my boy, what are you doing here buddy?” Every instinct tells him to take Grant into his arms. But he waits, watches the careful way you slip him from the carrier, one hand cradling the back of his head while the other steadies his tiny body.
Gentle.
Like you'd been doing it forever.
The moment Grant is in his arms, everything settles the world feels right again. He cradles his son against his chest, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of his head. “Thank you for bringing him by,” he says finally letting his eyes take you in.
A smile kisses your lips. "This is a big moment for you, B. I wasn't about to miss it." You reach out, offering Grant your finger his tiny hand curls around it almost instantly. "Besides..." you murmur, smiling at him. "Little man missed his dad."
“Barnes!” Sam’s voice cuts through the noise as he jerks his chin toward the chute. “Got you a new ride.”
Bucky barely hears him, because his eyes are still on you, on Grant still tucked against his chest.
Something in his chest tightens. “Hey,” he says, quieter now.
You look up at him, watching his throat works like the words don’t come easy.
“You planning on staying?”
Then that smile, soft, certain turns fully toward him.
A/n: Since traction picked up on this piece I thought what the heck, why not continue it. Now listen I havent been writing in a hot minute, so I'm very critical on myself, but I hope you enjoy ch. 1, ch.2 will be in Bucky's p.o.v HAPPY READINGS!
“This room has its own rules and you’ll never be involved unless you decide otherwise.”
Bucky had been honest, up front with you about the situation and two weeks in and you had no complaints about your current state of living. Looking back, it had been the easiest yes you had given, and you still couldn’t believe quite how lucky you had gotten. He was a good roommate, great even, better than the other’s that had come before. He was quiet, considerate, easy on the eyes in a way that was almost inconvenient to you, although that would be your luck, wouldn’t it? A hot roommate. Who would have guessed. The two of you shared the kitchen like two strangers playing house, keeping to your own spaces, nodding polite goodnights to one another when retreating to your own rooms for the night. It was peaceful, and you had all but forgotten about the room.
Bucky hadn’t sugarcoated it when the two of you sat down to discuss the lease. “I see clients, quite regularly” he’d said. “Everything’s legal, discreet, and as I said earlier you won’t be involved unless you decide otherwise.”
And until tonight, the room had just been a concept to you, a line that you knew not to cross. A door you passed most days without a second glance; a second thought.
Until tonight you hadn’t heard inside of those four walls.
It started with the soft chime of the doorbell ringing throughout the apartment. Pausing your book on audible you pulled an earbud out untangling yourself from your sheets as you made your way to your bedroom door. Pulling your door open just a crack, your met with the soft clack of heels coming down the hall. Through the sliver of opening, you see her; dressed to the nines in a form fitting dress, a coat draped over her shoulders. The blonde strode down the hall with confidence as if she’d been here before, which you’re sure she had, Bucky only took regulars.
He met her at the end of the hall, you didn’t quite see his face just the broad silhouette of his shoulders, the low murmur of his voice as he greets her opening the door at the end of the hall, the blonde crosses the threshold his form following the door shutting behind them, a soft resounding click of the lock falling into place. You should’ve closed the door then, gone back to your book, and you meant too. But something made you pause just short of clicking your door closed.
Curiosity did kill the cat.
At first, there was nothing, just the occasional shift of the blonde’s heels. A faint murmur of voices too low to make out. You shook your head then filling silly as you reached for your doorknob twisting it gently as you shut it softly, turning on your heel to return to your book boyfriend calling your name.
Then, you heard him.
Bucky’s voice was low and smooth drifting through the wood with a kind of authority that felt different from the casual soft way he spoke to you in the kitchen. This wasn’t the man who sipped black coffee and offered you the last pancake on Sunday mornings. No, this was someone else, someone new entirely.
“You know what to do,” he said. His tone was commanding, not mean, not loud, but gentle. Gentle, in a way that made you lean closer to your closed door without realizing, your hands braced against the wood. A sound that wasn’t quite a moan, wasn’t quite a gasp, but somewhere in between sounds from the blonde. Soft and full of something you couldn’t name, something you weren’t all too familiar with.
Your breath catches, you really shouldn’t be listening, this moment wasn’t for you, but something tethered you to the spot, your feet unmoving.
“Good girl.” His voice settles over you low, smooth the kind of voice that curls around your spine.
A sharp exhale sounds through the door, then another quiet plea you couldn’t quite make out.
Something inside you shifts then because until now, it had all been theoretical. An arrangement, a room off limits unless you decided otherwise and a roommate with secrets he didn’t try to hide.
But hearing it made it real, hearing him the control in his tone, the patience, the way she seemed to melt for him turned that locked room from a boundary into a magnet. Suddenly, you didn’t feel quite as removed from it as you thought you were.
The sound that followed was soft, barely there but it gripped you with sudden intensity. A low, breathy whimper. You felt your cheeks flush, heat prickling at the base of your neck. Shame creeped over you, but your hand didn’t move from the door, your eyes fluttering shut, as if removing one sense could power the others. You shouldn’t be this affected, but his voice. Calm, measured, possessive in a way that made your pulse trip.
“Look at me when you fall apart.”
“Let me hear you.”
Your thighs press together involuntarily. God, it wasn’t just what he said, it was the way he said it. Like he knew exactly what she needed, like he could pull it out of her with a single word.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmured.
The praise slipped under your skin like silk. You could almost feel it warm hands trailing down your arms, slipping around your middle. You squeezed your eyes shut; you were not the one in that room.
But it didn’t matter, not when your hand was moving lower. When had you taken it off the door? Shame bloomed somewhere in the back of your chest, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop.
Not when he said, “That’s it. Just like that.”
Not when she whimpered, “Bucky, please.”
And not when you came with your mouth pressed to your own wrist, silent and shaking.
You peeled yourself away from the door slowly, as if detaching from something sacred. The cold air of your room bit at your flushed skin, stark contrast to the warmth still pulsing under the surface. For a long moment, you just stood there, your breath coming in shallow waves, the silence outside that room now deafening.
You hadn’t meant to listen.
You hadn’t meant to touch.
And you sure as hell hadn’t meant to come undone while Bucky was with someone else. A client at that a woman who had every right to be behind that locked door.
You were nothing but his roommate.
Crossing the room, you sank down onto the edge of your bed, hands braced against your thighs as if you were trying to ground yourself, to push the guilt down deep where it couldn’t gnaw at your ribs, but it already was. It had sunk in like splinters small, sharp, and impossible to ignore.
He had been honest from the beginning. He never lied, never hid what that room was. You were the one who stepped too close to the flame.
You curled into bed without changing out of your hoodie, pulling the blankets up to your chin, hoping they could smother the mess of want and regret still tangled inside your chest. You shut your eyes tight, wishing for sleep, but all you could hear was his voice.
“Good girl.”
“Let me hear you.”
God, what was wrong with you?
Your stomach twisted, it wasn’t jealousy that you felt, at least not the kind you could justify anyway. It was something else, something more dangerous. The kind of craving that didn’t stop at just listening. The kind that made you want things that weren’t yours to have.
You turned onto your side, facing the wall, heart aching with a strange kind of shame. You hadn’t crossed any official lines, but it still felt like you had.
And the worst part? You weren’t sure if you wanted to take a step back, to forget about it.
A light tap against your bedroom door pulls you away from your internal battle moments later. “Hey. You home?”
Your breath caught in your throat, eyes growing wide as you looked at the closed door.
“…y/n?”
He didn’t know you were here. And truthfully, you usually weren’t at least not when his clients came over. It had only been a two weeks since you moved in, and while you hadn’t exactly talked about it, you knew the pattern. He worked evenings so you made yourself scarce. It was a quiet, unspoken boundary.
Until tonight.
You were supposed to be gone, you hadn’t meant to come home early. You hadn’t meant to hear anything.
And you sure as hell hadn’t meant to touch yourself to the sound of him with someone else.
Guilt settled like a stone in your stomach. You stared at the door for a second longer. You could pretend to be asleep let him think the apartment was empty, like always. But something about the way he said your name gentle, unsure if you were there itched at your chest.
So, you moved over to the door slowly, heart thudding a little too loud in your ears.
You cracked it open just enough to peek out.
Bucky stood there in the hallway, hoodie thrown over a black tank, gray sweats hanging low on his hips. His hair still damp, curling lightly at the ends from a shower. He looked relaxed, but when his eyes landed on yours, they widened.
“Oh,” he blinked. “You’re here, I didn't realize.”
You nodded sheepishly, “I came in a littler earlier than expected.”
He gave a short nod as if that explained it, though his eyes lingered on your face. “I didn’t hear you come in, you didn't say anything."
“Came straight to my room.” You didn’t say it then, but you knew he knew, knew what you’d heard.
He scratched the back of his neck, his voice lower now. “Didn’t realize I had an audience tonight.”
Your face went up in flames as you all but stared up at him in horror, “I wasn’t - I didn’t mean to – I- I wasn’t listening!”
A slow smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, “Didn’t say you were,” he murmured. “Just surprised you heard anything at all. The room’s soundproofed or it’s supposed to be.”
You shifted your weight, heart beating erratically in your chest. “Well, I did.”
“Hmm,” he hummed, taking in the way your arms folded over your chest. “Judging by that blush, I’d say you didn’t just hear it. You felt it.”
Your breath caught. “Th- that’s not -”
“You’re flustered, sweetheart.”
You looked away willing away the burning flames, “I - i just didn’t expect it to sound like that.”
“Like what?” His voice pure mischief now.
You didn’t answer.
Bucky let out a small chuckle, leaning against the frame of your door like he had all the time in the world. “You’ve got a good ear for someone who doesn’t eavesdrop.”
You bit your lip, eyes narrowing. “You're enjoying this aren't you?”
“A little.” His smirk softened. “Mostly, I’m checking on you.”
Your gaze flicked up to meet his.
“I thought you were out,” he added gently. “Would’ve kept it quieter if I knew you were home.”
“It’s okay,” you murmured. “It’s your place too, I knew what I signed up for when we went over the lease agreement."
“Still,” he said. “Didn’t mean to put you in a weird spot.”
You nodded. “It’s fine. Just surprising I guess.”
There was a beat of quiet between the both of you, “You sure you alright?” he questions.
You hesitate, then give a small nod smile pulling at your lips, “Yeah, of course Bucky m’fine promise.”
He nodded too, like he understood more than he let on.
“Well, I’ll let you get some rest then.” He stepped back, giving you space but not before tossing one last look over his shoulder, that grin still playing on his lips. “Try not to overthink it, alright?”And just before he disappeared down the hall into his own room, he added, almost too casual; “Sweet dreams, eavesdropper.”
Your mouth dropped open, “I wasn’t -”
His soft chuckle echoed down the hallway before you could even finish.
You stood there in the doorway for another minute, cheeks burning, arms wrapped tight around your waist. ‘God what did I get myself into?’
A/n: Part 2 of Till the End of The Line, I'm sorry...
The fire roared around him.
That’s what it felt like, a living, breathing thing trying to devour everything in its path. It tore through the pines with a furious hunger, sparks raining from the canopy above like molten hail. Timber groaned and split under the heat of the fire that continued to spread, no remorse for anything caught in its way.
Steve had stopped breathing three minutes ago, but Bucky wouldn’t leave him. The beam still had him pinned in place despite Bucky’s best efforts. His body was motionless now, his chest no longer rising, his eyes no longer blinking. The soot across his face had settled, still and quiet, like dust on a photograph that had sat on a shelf for too long. Bucky couldn’t bring himself to move despite the heat enveloping him. He was crouched over his friend hands trembling, soaked in sweat, ash and Steve’s blood.
“C’mon, Steve,” he choked out, voice torn raw behind his mask. “Don’t do this punk. Don’t you dare. You can’t just -” he shook his head, “come on man, just breathe, please – please just breathe. I’ve got to get you home to her, she’s waiting for you.”
The fire continued to creep closer, heat lapping at Bucky’s gear, the back of his neck seared from the radiant heat.
“Barnes!” Sam’s voice cracked through the radio. “You have to move the fire’s right on you man!”
“I’m not leaving him!” Bucky barked back, hitting his shoulder against the beam, trying once again to shift it he wasn’t leaving him here. “I can still get him out I just need more time!”
“Bucky,” Sam was closer now, boots thundering across scorched earth to him. “He’s gone man you have to go!”
“No!” Bucky shouted, louder than the roar of the fire. “You don’t understand, I promised him. I have to, just let me try.”
Bucky too focused on his friend before him and moving the steel beam didn’t feel Torres come up behind him until strong arms wrapped around his chest and started dragging him back. Away from the flames away from his brother. “No, no, Steve! Stop please!” Bucky thrashed against their grip, legs kicking at the dirt, but the fire was swallowing the air now, black smoke thick enough to choke even through a respirator. “Let me go! I can’t leave him like this! I can’t please!”
Sam was shouting orders. Torres was yelling. Someone else was radioing in for immediate evac.
But all Bucky could see was Steve; still, silent, surrounded by flame and the way his hand had gone slack in Bucky’s fingers.
“I promised him!” he howled as they pulled him back. “I PROMISED HER I WOULD BRING HIM BACK HOME!” They didn’t let go even as he kicked, as he sobbed, as the fire claimed what was left of the cabin and the man inside it. They hauled him past the burning timber, down the slope out of the inferno. And Bucky’s scream carried with them - hoarse, gut-deep, the kind of scream that no man should ever have to make.
He didn’t remember being loaded onto the evac truck or who tried to push the water bottle into his hand. Didn’t remember the Fireline captain clapping a hand on his shoulder, squeezing as if to offer an ounce of comfort, a comfort that never came. All he remembered was how cold Steve’s skin had felt when he stopped breathing. How warm his voice had been when he said, "Promise me." And how his own heart broke clean in half when he realized he had to keep that promise now.
His gear didn’t come off right away, when they got back to the station.
Bucky sat in the engine bay long after the evac truck had pulled in. Still in his fire jacket, caked in soot, his respirator now tossed to the side like shed skin. He hadn’t spoken since they got back; not when Sam asked if he needed anything, when Lemar offered him water, or when someone clapped him on the back and muttered, “You did what you could Buck.”
Had he done what he could?
He couldn’t save Steve. He hadn’t kept his promise to bring him back home to you.
So what did he manage to do?
Bucky sat there, hands curled into fists in his lap, dirt and blood still embedded under his nails. The weight of his helmet sat at his feet, but it felt like it was still on his head pressing down, pressing in, squeezing something inside him until he couldn’t think straight, couldn’t breathe.
The fire had stolen Steve, and Bucky had left him in it, he should have burned with him.
He almost had.
That goddamned beam; Steve’s blood on him. The way his voice rasped “Promise me.”
Bucky pressed his fist to his mouth breathing in through trembling lips. He didn’t cry though he wanted to, his chest tight with unshed tears. Bucky sat like that unmoving for what felt like hours, time blurring. The engine crew moving around him like they hadn’t just lost a brother to fire.
Bucky continued to sit unmoving until something flickered in his grieving mind.
You.
The last thing Steve had said, “She’s waiting for me."
A cold chill ran through Bucky’s spine, even in the sweat and grime, you didn’t know. You were still waiting. Bucky stood abruptly, the movement almost knocking him off balance, his legs felt disconnected from the rest of him. The others watched him with cautious eyes, but no one said anything as he pulled off his gear piece by piece. Not even when he paused, just for a second, helmet in his hands, and looked down like maybe it could give him the answers Steve couldn’t. It didn’t; he walked out the back door without another word. He needed to get to you.
You’d been watching the news on mute for the last forty-three minutes, pacing the living room.
The banner across the bottom of the screen looped the same handful of words as it had been since Steve had called you earlier about it:
BREAKING: Wildfire breach near Silver Ridge. Multiple hotshot crews deployed. No injuries confirmed at this time.
You didn’t let yourself listen to the audio. You didn’t want to hear a reporter fumble through smoke-filled stats. You didn’t want to hear phrases like “uncertain containment” or “cut off from radio contact.” You kept the sound off and stared at the screen like sheer luck could change what it meant.
Your phone still hadn’t buzzed, the last text in your group chat had been ten minutes ago, and it hadn’t said anything new.
Natasha:
Still no word. I’m starting to freak out a little here, they should have reached out by now..
You already were.
You kept looking at the clock like it owed you an explanation. Steve should have called by now, he should have texted, he should have said something, anything to let you know they were okay.
A sharp little flutter beneath your ribs has you smoothing a hand over your belly.
“I know peanut” you whisper. “Daddy’s just busy.”
You were met with another kick against your hand as you moved over to the sectional, you sat briefly before you were on your feet again, your nerves on edge as you waited for a sign the boys were okay. Maybe a tea would ease the nerves, you thought as you moved towards the kitchen.
A soft knock sounds at the door; you halt in your steps another knock sounds this time a little firmer. You turn, your feet slowly carry you over to the door, your fingers hooking around the knob as you turn it, pulling it open slowly. Relief hits you when you find Bucky standing there his face streaked with ash; shoulders sagged beneath an invisible weight. However, when his eyes meet yours that’s when it hits you, Steve’s not there.
“Where’s Steve Bucky?”
Bucky’s expression twists into one of sorrow, his lips parting around a sound that never comes.
You took a step back shaking your head. “No,” you whisper hand coming to your mouth. “No, no, no don’t say it B – please just tell me he’s still at the station. Please tell me he’s just writing a report and that he’s coming home. Please.”
“I’m sorry sweetheart.”
Your legs wobble, back hitting the door as you slip to the ground a sob already tearing loose from your throat as the world around you tilts. You wrap your arms around your stomach protectively, like that could shield your baby from the grief threatening to all consume you. Bucky drops with you strong arms enveloping your shaking frame, pulling you into his chest as he holds you to him. You bury your face against the soot-streaked fabric of his jacket and scream. Scream like your heart had been ripped out and left in the flames; it had; Steve wasn’t coming home.
“I tried,” Bucky whispered, voice hoarse and broken. “I tried, I swear to you I tried.”
“He promised me,” you sobbed. “He said he’d come back. He always came back, you said you’d bring him back!”
“I know. I know. I’m so sorry.”
The sound of your grief filled the house, but Bucky held you through it his own tears falling silently, mingling with yours onto the floor where love had once lived.
Summary: When a wildfire turns deadly, Bucky Barnes finds himself faced with the unthinkable, losing his best friend and brother-in-arms, Steve Rogers. A moment of devastation. A lifetime of responsibility. And a truth long buried finally spoken in flame.
A/n: Oh hi 👋 just dropping in to see if I still got it...
The smoke was thick black clawing at Bucky’s lungs even through the respirator. He could barely see through the wreckage of what had once been a beautiful cabin structure; trees were downed, timber blazing, sparks biting at his gear threatening to swallow him whole.
Steve was pinned beneath a beam, his legs crushed, blood blooming through his fire pants like fresh ink on a page. Bucky dropped beside him, adrenaline drowning out the heat. “I’m getting you out punk!” Bucky barked, voice muffled behind the mask as he took in his surroundings, not knowing where to begin first, everything he knew, everything he had trained for in the moment blowing away in the hot heat surrounding them.
Steve shook his head weakly a strangled coughed slipping past his lips, his blood stained hands shook as he tried to fight him off. “You’re not, Buck.” He groaned. “You know it, I know it.”
Bucky gritted his teeth, shaking his head feverously as he started lifting the beam anyway. He hadn’t left behind a brother before he wasn’t starting now. “Don’t talk like that Rogers, we’ve been through harder remember, you and me till the end of the line. Cmon now.”
“You haven’t,” Steve said with a grimace and it was true. “Not with the way the fires closing in. It’s the end of the line for me pal, I’m sorry.”
The roar in Bucky’s ears wasn’t just from the flames anymore.
“You listen to me, Rogers. I don’t leave my team. You’re not dying in here. You’re not!” He growled as he struggled with the beam once more. Steve grabbed his wrist, weak grip strong as he grabbed his friends attention.
“Bucky,” he rasped. “You have to go.”
Buck shook his head, tears of his own threatening to well in his eyes as he looked down at his childhood friend, his brother, “Not without you Steve, I can’t, I wont. Don’t make me.”
“You have to. She’s - she’s waiting for me, you have to get back to her to the baby. Tell them I’m sorry that I love them.”
Bucky’s hands trembled against the beam. “No, no I won’t because you’re going to tell them, were getting you out of here.” Steve shook his head Bucky’s heart ached in his chest, a roar threatening to break his lips, “Don’t Steve. Don’t your dare I -
“Listen.” Steve’s voice dropped, “I knew.”
Bucky froze mind racing like his beating heart, “What - what did you know?”
The tug of Steve’s lips is weak, “I’ve always known. How you look at her - Its how I look at her.”
Bucky’s heart dropped like a stone, lips parting to apologize, but Steve shook his head, “I never hated you for it, because she was yours before she was mine, I knew that. But you put my happiness before yours, hers as well” Steve’s breath hitched. “She chose me and I wanted that life even if a part of her heart was always somewhere else.”
“Steve..” Bucky whispered.
“I never told her I knew, didn’t want her carrying that, didn’t want her pushing you away." His eyes glistened beneath soot and sweat. “But I am telling you now. Because you’re the only one I trust to take care of her the way she deserves, you’ve been doing it for awhile now."
“I’m not you,” Bucky murmurs “I’m not the better man.” I’m not who she wants.
“No,” Steve said, smiling faintly, “but you’re the right one now. She’s going to need someone, they both will. And I know you, Buck. You’ll love them both so hard it’ll scare you.”
The beam above them creaked, the fire shifting roaring louder.
It was time.
“You have to go,” Steve whispered. “Tell her I loved her that I was happy, and that it’s okay, everything is going to be okay.”
“I won’t leave you,” Bucky said, voice shaking. “Please Steve don’t do this, we'll get you out of here."
“You have to,” Steve said again, softer. “Promise me.”
Bucky hesitated only a second longer, then finally nodded, pain carving a trench in his soul.
Summary: Bucky doesn’t mean to call. It’s late. He’s bleeding. The motel room smells like metal and dirt, and the weight of the mission is still heavy on his chest. He just wants to forget—for a few minutes. That’s all. But then she answers. Her voice is sweet like honey, smooth like sin, and it slips past every wall he’s built. She doesn’t just flirt—she soothes. Makes him feel wanted. Soft. Like he’s more than what the world turned him into. He calls for the distraction. He stays for her. And by the end of the night, he’s already craving more.
Bucky flicks at the edge of the label of the beer he’s nursing, torn tactical shirt feeling like a second skin from the now dried blood that had dripped steadily down his temple hours earlier. Sam's beside him flipping through channels on the crappy TV at the half decent motel they managed to find a vacancy at.
His friend sighs from next to him, fingers still searching. “You know man, if you keep staring into that bottle like it owes you something, it still won’t call you back.”
Bucky rolls his head, eyes following, “Wasn’t expecting it to Wilson. Unlike some people, I don’t need to sweet-talk glass to feel better.”
His friend grins, pausing his search to look over at the brooding brunette. “Right, cause you’re the king of emotional stability.”
Bucky doesn't rise to the bait. Just leans further into the hard, stale chair, he slumped into when they arrived jaw tight. Sam’s grin falls, an understanding passing over him as he nods at his friend.
“Tough one today.”
Bucky grunts as he takes a sip of his now luke-warm beer, grimace kissing his lips as he swallows it down. “They’re all tough.”
Sam nods, a pause as he takes a sip of his own beer, his grimace worse than Bucky’s as he lets out a discontent hiss. “Hey, you ever try one of those,” Sam tilts his head side to side as if debating sharing his next words, “late-night call lines?”
Bucky frowns brows furrowed, beer froze mid-way to his lips. “Like tech support?”
Sam laughs a full bellied laugh shaking his head, “No, man like a ‘spicy’ hot line. You know, ‘Talk to a stranger, share your deepest desires,’ all that nonsense.” He shrugs when all Bucky does is continue to stare at him, “got bored one night and tried it for a laugh.”
Bucky stares at his friend for a moment longer before shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Sam rolls his eyes, “Oh c’mon don’t judge. Wasn’t about the sex talk. Some of them just talk to you. Like real conversations. One woman,” he sighs as if recalling the night, “had this voice, man Bucky you should have heard it; like honey and sin. She could’ve told me my transmission was broken, and I’d have said thank you.”
The brunette raises a brow, a scoff bubbling past his lips, “You’re telling me you paid five bucks a minute to be read bedtime stories by a stranger?”
“You’d be surprised what people need at 2 a.m. Buck. Sometimes it’s not the words it’s the voice. The way someone talks to you, like they’re not afraid of the mess.”
Bucky doesn’t answer, watching as Sam leans over to pull something from his tactical bag, his friend hands him a gold-plated card, a single number on it.
“What’s this?”
Sam shrugs his shoulders, “It doesn’t hurt if you ever want to give it try. There are worse things than letting someone talk you off the ledge. Even if you don’t know their name.”
The conversation drops; Bucky still flipping the gold-plated card around in his fingers.
He wouldn’t call, he thought as he slipped into the pocket of his muddied cargos.
The air is thick with dust and sweat, Bucky sits on the edge of the sagging mattress, a dim yellow lamp casting sharp shadows on the peeling paint barely coating the walls. Blood crusts at his temple, knuckles split and bruised, shirt half-peeled off his shoulder from where he took scissors to tend to a stab wound. His fingers are curled around the card, his other holding the burner; the burner he stares at like it’s a loaded gun.
He doesn’t think; doesn’t chastise himself as he dials the number Sam passed him days ago. He brings the burner to his ear, the device hot against his skin.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
A voice as sweet as velvet soaked in red wine comes through a second later;
“I was wondering when you’d call.”
Bucky goes still, his breaths halting. Not because of what you said, but how you said it. Like you had truly been waiting for his call, already picturing who it was that would be calling.
He clears his throat, “This a,” he sounds rough, “line where you talk people through their nightmares?”
Even your laugh, is soft, warm, teasing. “I mean, I usually offer a different kind of dream. But I’ve got time for whatever kind of night you’re having.”
His eyes close on a soft exhale that he lets slip past his lips. He lets the sound of your voice wrap around him, soft as it is sinful. And God, it works. He lets out another slow exhale, he hadn’t even realized he was still bracing for a fight.
Your voice is softer now as you speak to him, he finds he likes it. “Rough night?”
He nods stiffly though you can’t see it. “Yeah.”
You hum, he likes that too, his mind wondering what other sounds you might make. “Want to tell me about it? Or should I just distract you?”
Bucky swallows hard. “I - I don’t know what I want.”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to. We can figure it out together.” You say it like it’s easy. Like he’s allowed to not know. His grip on the phone loosens just slightly. “Tell me your name, handsome.”
Bucky hesitates for a moment. “James.”
There’s light in your voice when you answer, he imagines you might be smiling. “James, that’s a nice name. James you sound like someone who carries too much.”
Bucky smiles though barely, “You could say that.”
“Hmm.” you hum playfully, “you need someone to help you put it down for a little while?”
He huffs a breath, almost a laugh. Almost. But it’s the first time his mouth curves in hours.
“There it is, see I knew there had to be a smile under all that silence. You’ve got a nice laugh, James. Bet it doesn’t come out often, does it?” you question.
“No, it doesn’t.”
The silence between the two of you stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable like he imagined it might become. It’s almost intimate, like you’ve carved out a little space in the world just for him.
Your sweet like honey voice speaks again, “I like the sound of your voice, too. All low and gravelly. Like you’ve seen some things.”
“Seen too much, sweetheart.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not afraid of the dark, James. You can bring yours here. I promise I can handle it.”
He closes his eyes again, chest tight
“Now, I could tell you what I’m wearing, or not wearing, if you want. But something tells me what you really need is someone to just be here. Am I right?”
His voice is thick with emotion when he replies, “Yeah.”
“Then I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got me, James. I’m all yours for tonight. Are you alone right now, James?” you question softly.
“Yeah, I am.” He answers truthfully.
“Good. Then I can talk to you the way I want to, the way you deserve to be spoken to.” you purr, tone teasing, flirty.”
Bucky shifts slightly on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking beneath his weight. His shoulder throbs, his ribs ache every time he breathes too deep. But your voice, God, your voice cuts through all of it like silk across broken glass.
“Do something for me James, close your eyes for me. Can you do that?”
“Yeah, I can.” he husks, eyes slipping shut just for you. The dingy motel disappears, in a world of black; the blood, the bruises, the weight on his back fades.
Your voice is speaking to him again, “I want you to imagine my hands. One of them sliding into your hair, gentle at first, slow. Just to touch you, not to take. You’ve had enough of people taking, haven’t you?”
Bucky swallows hard; his metal hand clenching on the itchy bedsheet. “Yeah.” he croaks.
You continue, “And the other hand? It’s on your chest James. Right over your heart. Feel that?”
He nods even though you can’t see it. And he does feel it, your words sinking into his skin like heat. Like balm. He’s trembling, barely breathing now, and it’s not from pain. It’s the gentleness of it that’s undoing him.
“Not pushing.” you breath life into the receiver again, “not pressing, just reminding you that it’s still beating. That you’re still here. And you deserve to feel good. To feel wanted.”
“I don’t know if I do.” he whispers.
“I do. And until you believe it, I’ll say it for you.”
A silence stretches, thick and heavy with emotion. And then your voice changes, still warm but laced with something more. “I bet your skin is still hot from the adrenaline, huh? I bet your muscles are tight. Hard. Like they’re begging to be touched.”
Bucky lets out a ragged breath he didn’t know he was holding, “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll start wanting you.” He wonders if that surprises you, because it surprises him.
“Maybe I want to be wanted.” you return.
He closes his eyes tighter, the edges of the world blurring with the sound of your voice curling into him. It’s not just arousal he feels, it’s need. A craving for closeness, for permission to let go. But he doesn’t touch himself, he doesn’t have to. Every word from you strokes across his skin like a hand he’s starving for.
“I’d kiss every scar, James. Slowly. Like they matter. Like you matter.”
That undoes him.
He makes a low sound in his throat; half growl, half breathless ache. His bloodied hand lifts toward his chest instinctively, pressing flat where your voice said to imagine your touch. His ribs shift beneath his palm, heartbeat pounding.
“What’s your name?” he questions on an almost silent whisper.
There’s a pause on the line, you smile softly against the phone, knowing full well you can’t give that.
“Tonight, I’m just yours. That’s all that matters. Are you still with me, James?”
“I’m here.”
“Good.” you murmur. “I want you to lay back for me just let yourself feel. Can you do that?”
He shifts, gingerly easing back against the thin pillow, the mattress dipping beneath him. His bruised body protests, but he listens to you like its instinct, like your voice is the only thing keeping him tethered to something human.
“Now I want you to let your hand drift lower. No rush. Just follow the heat. Let your fingers skim your stomach. Feel how your skin responds to me. To my voice.”
He obeys, his fingers skimming his stomach like you asked. His metal fingers stay fisted in the sheet while his bloodied flesh hand trails beneath the waistband of his sweats. He swallows hard. He hasn’t done this in - God, too long. Touching himself has always felt like punishment. But with you guiding him, it feels like a gift. Like healing.
“I want you to stroke yourself,” you breathe, “nice and slow. Pretend it’s my hand, soft and greedy, wrapped around you. Just for you, baby. No one else. You deserve this.”
A ragged groan leaves his chest choked off, like it slipped past his defenses before he could catch it. His hips twitch up into his own hand, the movement automatic now, desperate.
“Jesus” he gasps.
“No, baby. Just me.” You let that land, purring the words into his ear like you’re right there beside him, whispering against his sweat-slicked skin. “You’ve been strong all day. Brutal. Bleeding. But now? Now, I want you soft for me. I want to hear how good I make you feel.”
His breath stutters. He’s trembling. One hand fisting the sheet, the other working himself slowly, precisely, like he’s finally remembering what it feels like to want. His metal arm creaks under tension, every muscle drawn tight, but it’s not violence in him anymore, it’s need.
“Don’t stop talking.” he begs.
“I’m right here baby.” you coo, “Not going anywhere, I want to hear you fall apart. I want to be the one who undoes you.”
And he does. Quietly, desperately. His climax crashes over him like a wave he didn’t see coming jaw clenched, chest heaving, body curling in on itself with a muffled groan pressed into the crook of his arm. A beat passes. Then another. Silence, save for his breathing and the faint buzz of the motel light.
“That’s it, baby. You did so good.”
“Why do you talk to me like that?” he questions breath ragged.
“Because you sounded like you forgot what it feels like to be wanted.”
The line goes quiet after you wish him a good night and remind him softly, almost shyly, that he can call again anytime. That you’ll be here.
Bucky stares at the ceiling. The phone still warm in his hand. Sweat drying on his chest. His body sated, but his soul shaken. He should feel stupid, ashamed even, but he doesn’t. All he can hear is your voice.
"You did so good."
And God help him; he wants to hear it again. Not the sex. Not the release. Just you. That voice. That impossible warmth, like you reached into his chest and reminded his heart it still had a rhythm.
He sets the phone down gently. Sits in the dark, quiet motel room, surrounded by bloodstains and cracked wallpaper. But for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel completely alone.
And even though he won’t admit it yet he already knows:
Pairing: Hockey Player!Bucky x Sports Photographer!Reader
Warning: More Angsty Dialogue. Still on that perhaps a turning point?
Author's Note: Chapter 4 is here and i apologize for the delay but life caught up and tripped me up on the ice friends! I hope you enjoy this one, part five is in the editing phase and should be released on saturday, thank you all for your patience.
Montreal greeted the staff and team with a brisk chill and dull skies, the kind that whispered winter but didn’t quite commit. You arrived early, as you always did during game days. You preferred the quiet before the chaos, it gave you time to check your lighting, frame your shots, and walk the empty rink with fresh eyes.
Camera in hand, Bruin's jacket zipped up, you moved through the bowels of the Bell Centre like you belonged there. You checked your list, adjusted your aperture, and lined up a few rink shots. You caught a reflection you liked off the plexiglass and moved closer to capture it.
Click.
The muffled thump of gear bags and voices echoed down the corridor next to where you stood working, the team bus had arrived. The players making their way in.
Your grip on the camera tightened for a second - only a second - and then you were moving again, rounding the corner toward the locker room hall as players filed in.
"Hey Y/n," Sam Wilson called as he passed, still in his sweats and beanie. “Lighting good here or do I need to stand in a flattering pose for your lens again?”
You snorted shaking your head with a smile pulling at your lips. “Please don’t. Last time I had to edit your smirk out of half the media reel, I get you're a fan favorite but c’mon Sammy Etsy sellers have enough of your face to last them over 2 years they don’t need anymore.”
“What can I say baby, the face sells.” he grins as he continues past you knocking his fist against yours.
The players start filtering through after Wilson, most of them used to your presence now; some pose, some ignore you and your camera choosing to be all business as they make their way to the locker room. They were game ready. You chatted briefly with two rookies that walked in towards the end promising to capture more of their time on the ice then giving a nod to the equipment manager as he passed you a smile on his face as he held you to a promise to kill it out there.
Bucky filtered through last.
He stepped into her frame without hesitation, helmet tucked under his arm bag hung on his shoulder, his head down in focus.
You barely blinked, seemingly unaffected as you lined yourself up adjusting the focus as you snapped two quick shots like you would with any other player that made their way into the arena.
“Morning Barnes,” you said, “good luck out there.”
His eyes flicker to you, the faintest pause as he takes you in, the smallest tilt of his lips kisses the corner of his mouth. “Thank’s y/n, you too.” The silence didn’t stretch between the two of you as you let your camera drop softly back to your chest, a nod of your head as you turned on your feet to head to the ice.
The arena lights blazed down in cold white rows as you crouched low by the boards, lens trained on the ice. Warm-ups were always her favorite part especially on games that took the team away from home. It was fast, chaotic, full of energy and unfiltered emotion as if they were warming up the ice to be made just for them. This was where she caught the good stuff: candid grins, effortless strides, players nudging each other into motion like a storm gathering force.
Your camera moved on it’s own, your hands simply holding it in place as it tracked the players, click, shift, adjust.
Sam Wilson flew past you first, carving the ice with a wide grin. He slowed just enough to flick a puck your way. It tapped the boards harmlessly beside your boot, you shook you head.
“You gettin’ my good side, Hot Shot?” he called out with a wink, flipping his stick up as he turned.
A grin pulls at your lips as you lower your camera. “Pretty sure that’s subjective Wilson.”
Sam laughed, skating backwards now. “That why you always cut me from the highlight reel?”
“Oh come on, I do not cut you, I only post the stuff that sells,” you shoot back.
Sam clutches his chest like you’ve wounded him. “I’m going to remember that hot shot, when you need the good i won’t be there.”
Laughter bubbles past your lips, the moment rolling past you, light and familiar. It was the kind of banter that kept you grounded.
Across the ice, Bucky was stretching near the center line, helmet off, eyes up.
You didn’t look at him for long, just long enough to note the tension in his shoulders, the way he moved a half-second behind the rhythm of the team.
You wondered if he had heard it.
Your camera rose again like a shield, fingers quick and practiced as you continued to document their warm-ups.
“Good pace today,” you said aloud, stepping toward the boards where Wilson and another forward were sprinting drills. “Watch that backlight off the glass, it’s flaring your helmet like a disco ball.”
“Noted,” Wilson said, grinning as he skated by again.
Behind you, a heavy presence hovered. Not close enough to touch, just enough for you to feel it. To feel him.
Bucky.
You didn’t turn, didn’t give him a moment, or a spared glance as you continued to work. You made you way around the rink edge, trading nods with the players as they skated through the remainder of their drills. Your camera caught the flick of blades, the spray of ice, a half-laugh between defensemen after a missed pass. You loved these moments; where skill and personality bled together on the ice.
You crouched for a lower angle, capturing the sharp lines of Sam’s stride as he cut across the neutral zone again. The perfect shot; for as much as you teased him his imaged were always clean, strong, and centered. You reviewed it for a moment, then gave a satisfied nod. This would make the reel.
“That the money shot?” Clint Barton, one of the coaching assistants, asked as he passed.
“Could be,” you said, eyes still on the viewfinder. “We’ll see what I get during faceoff.”
“Classic Y/L/N,” he grinned. “You always make us look better than we are you know that? Team would be lost without you.”
Pride fills your chest, heat slamming into your cheeks, “I do what I can coach.”
As you straightened, a flash of gold and black caught your eye. Bucky, skating a line near the far blue line, shoulders squared but his face unreadable. His movements were clean, disciplined—but something in the way he held himself gave him away.
He was aware of her.
Not in the obvious way; not staring, not watching.
But in the way his pass missed by an inch too far. The way his glove adjusted more than necessary.
You lifted your camera again, framing the team in a wide shot that included him, but didn’t center him.
Just as you were about to move on, Sam passed close again and nudged her foot with the edge of his stick. “Listen, If you ever need a new assistant, I got a good eye for angles.”
You laughed. “Your angles are half the problem Wilson.”
He barked a laugh, then nodded toward the far line. “Looks like you got someone trying to figure out your angles.”
Y/n didn’t follow his gaze, you didn’t have to. “I’ve already figured mine out.” you said returning to your work.
Behind you, Bucky looked away first.
The puck dropped with a resounding clack, echoing through the Bell Centre like a starting gun.
You were already in motion, eyes sharp behind the lens, fingers steady on the shutter. You moved along the edge of the rink, always a step ahead of the action. The energy in the building crackled with opening night tension; Bruins versus Canadiens, a rivalry steeped in blood, sweat, and grudges.
Perfect for photos.
You kept your focus broad during the first period, shooting wide frames of the full ice, catching the arcs of skates slicing through the surface, gloves flying mid-check, mouthguards flashing in shouts. The players were dialed in; fast, aggressive, alive.
You were, too.
Every time Bucky touched the puck, the crowd reacted. A swell of anticipation, of curiosity, he was new to the team, but the name Barnes carried weight. Especially here, where the fans knew their hockey and their headlines.
You tracked him like you would anyone else. Clean passes. Good positioning. A near miss on a one-timer in the first five minutes. Your camera caught it all but you never lingered on him longer than necessary. Once upon a time you might have followed him more, lingered a bit longer – but that was before, this was now. You refused to give him more frame time than he earned.
“Great pace tonight,” Wanda’s voice crackled through Emma’s earpiece during a pause in play. “You getting the hits on three?”
“Already sent to the cloud,” you replied, adjusting your position near the Bruins bench. “Just keep me updated on angles.”
You knelt down again, shifting her lens toward a pile-up near the Canadiens’ net. Two players slammed into the boards; one of them was Bucky. You winced, heart pitter pattering away but your lens stayed focused. The shutter clicked rapidly as you caught the impact, the shift in his expression, the flash of instinct as he pulled himself upright and skated back into the play.
He was in it now; you knew that look from the many times you had been in a position like this before.
Near the second half of the period, Sam Wilson skated toward the bench, helmet off, sweat streaking his brow. As he grabbed his water bottle, he looked your way flashing you a tired grin.
“Tell me you caught my assist on that last rush.”
“I did,” you grin. “But I was more impressed by your trip into the boards.”
“M’telling you y/l/n when you need footage you won’t find me,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Your camera’s got no mercy.”
Your grin grows. “Neither does the ice.”
The two of you exchange a familiar smile before Sam skates back out onto the ice.
Bucky glanced toward the bench in that moment, his eyes catching the tail end of your smile. He didn’t say anything, but the look tightened something in his jaw as he looked away and back into where his gaze should have been.
As the second period ticked down and Bucky picked up speed through the neutral zone, streaking past two defensemen with alarming ease, you felt it, that shift.
That undeniable magnetism that had once pulled you in so easily.
The way he skated like the ice answered to him. The way he passed; a flick of the wrist, precise and fluid. The way he read the game two steps ahead. It had always been like this.
It had always made you look harder, track him quicker with the lens of your camera.
You didn’t let your fingers falter.
Not even when the second period opened with a bang quite literally, as Bucky body-checked a Canadiens winger against the glass hard enough to rattle your lens. This time you didn’t flinch, instead adjusting your setting and continuing to capture the second period. You didn’t let your heart run wild with the moment, didn’t let yourself think about how you used to know what it felt like to see that intensity up close without plexiglass between them.
Still, your eyes flicked to the ice, narrowing in on #14.
Bucky skated away from the boards, expression unreadable beneath his helmet. Focused. He had always been like that game face on, eyes straight ahead, the weight of everything else tucked away behind those sharp, storm-blue eyes.
Once, he used to grin after a play like that.
Once, he used to glance toward the stands to find you.
You used to wave from the rails, camera lowered, mouth curled in that smile only he got.
Back in the early years, before scouts, before contracts, before the Boston spotlight they used to talk about moments like this. He used to tell you how he could feel the difference when you were there.
“It’s not luck,” he told you once. “It’s you. When you’re watching, I move better.”
You’d laughed and rolled your eyes back then, called him dramatic.
But he meant it.
And now here they were, sharing the same rink again.
Just not the same universe.
You caught yourself lingering in the memory and quickly snapped back to your settings, adjusting for low light as the puck was cleared down the ice. You moved to a new position just as a flurry of activity broke out in front of the Canadiens’ goal. Bucky was in the thick of it, jostling with a defenseman, stick down, fighting for position.
He didn’t score, but he looked good.
You tracked his next shift more carefully, not for him, you told yourself - but for the photo. The photo that would sell, the one the fans would want.
He was a story. You were just here to tell it.
Still, when he skated past your section of the boards and his eyes flicked toward the camera, just for a split second – like he knew you were there - your grip tightened.
You didn’t look away, but you didn't look too long either.
By the third period, the game had slowed. The score was tied. Both teams were tired, the hits heavier, the skating messier. You stood to stretch your back near the Zamboni entrance, one hand on your hip as you scrolled through a batch of burst shots.
Behind you, the Bruins bench buzzed with tension. Yells, stick taps, adrenaline high.
You lowered the camera to your side for a moment and watched the ice with you own eyes.
And there he was again.
Gliding across center ice, hair damp beneath his helmet, jaw set with that quiet fire he used to wear in parking lot arguments and post-practice confessions.
You used to love him like that; too much, too fast, too deep.
And he let you.
Until he left.
You exhaled slowly, shifting your weight as a fresh line change sent Bucky back to the bench. He didn’t look at you this time, didn’t need to, you could feel him. The memory of him tugged at the corners of your mind like a half-healed bruise.
You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t slip. Wouldn’t fall into nostalgia or let your professionalism crack under the pressure of proximity.
Still, it was hard not to remember what it felt like to skate with him late at night, just the two of you and a frozen pond.
Hard not to remember the first time he kissed you halfway through a snowball fight, laughing with frozen breath and wind-burned cheeks.
Hard not to remember the way he held you after he told you he was leaving.
I’ll find you again.
The memory was quicksand, and you shook it off fast
You didn’t need promises anymore, you needed consistency.
And so far, he hadn’t earned that, not yet.
You raised the camera again just in time to catch a near goal. The shutter clicked and clicked and clicked, and you locked Bucky in a frozen frame that would’ve made the cover of any magazine five years ago.
Now? It’d just be another file in the archive.
You were okay with that.
Mostly.
The final buzzer echoed through the arena, followed by the hollow thud of sticks on the boards and the low roar of the crowd. The Bruins had edged out the Canadiens in a gritty 3–2 win, and the energy walking off the ice was electric.
You moved with the team, camera already slung across your body, capturing quick moments as players headed down the tunnel. High fives. Sweat-soaked relief. The subtle exchange of glances between teammates who’d battled tooth and nail for sixty minutes.
You stayed back, keeping your distance, tucked into the shadows behind the media line. Your job wasn’t to be seen. It was to catch what others missed.
And still, he found you.
Bucky exited the ice last, helmet off, curls damp and curling at his temples, jaw clenched tight. His gaze scanned the corridor, sweeping past the line of reporters, past the assistant coaches until they landed on you.
Your fingers twitched on your camera.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t smile. Just met your eyes with something you couldn’t name; quiet, steady, heavy.
You didn’t flinch.
Didn’t look away.
Just lifted the camera and took the shot.
The shutter clicked once.
A clean, sharp frame.
And then you dropped your gaze and turned on your heel, heading down the hall without a word.
You were sorting through images backstage when Wanda appeared, arms crossed, a knowing look carved into her face.
“I saw the stare-off,” she said.
You didn’t look up. “There was no stare-off Wands.”
Wanda snorted. “Right. It was just two people communicating wordlessly in front of a live audience.”
“Exactly,” you replied, dry as ever. “Very professional I’d say.”
You flicked to the next image, and your breath caught. It was the one - that one - Bucky looking at you like nothing else existed.
Your chest ached for a beat too long.
Wanda stepped closer. “You good?”
“Fine Wands,” you said quietly, but the lie was old and transparent between them.
Wanda didn’t push, her comforting hand falling to your shoulder as she squeezed gently “I’ll catch you back at the hotel, you owe me dinner.”
The hotel hallway was quieter now, the buzz of the game’s aftermath starting to settle into the usual travel routine. The distant hum of the elevator, muffled chatter from players still in the lounge, it all felt like background noise to you as you made your way back to your room.
Just as you reached for the door, a voice stopped you.
“Y/n.”
You turned, your breath catching slightly in your throat.
Bucky stood a few feet away, his broad frame leaning casually against the wall. His hair was still damp, and the faint scent of ice rink coldness lingered on him. He wasn’t looking for an argument, wasn’t bracing for anything. He simply looked at you, really looked at you for the first time since they’d reconnected. Though to be fair, he’d been looking since he first caught wind of you, but this time he saw what you had become, what you’d built without him at your side.
Your heartbeat skipped a little, but you fought it back. You couldn't afford to let your emotions rule. Not yet.
Bucky cleared his throat and stood a little straighter, his voice low but genuine. “I wanted to say something - something I should have said a long time ago.”
You raised an eyebrow, uncertain, as you stayed silent yet waiting.
“Your shots,” he continued, his eyes briefly dipping to the camera still slung across your body. “They’re incredible. Your work, y/n. I’ve seen it in the photos, but watching you tonight how you move, how you catch the moment, it’s different. It’s you now. I don’t think I ever told you how proud I am of you.”
Your heart skipped in your chest. You opened your mouth to say something, but your words were lost.
“You’ve built this life on your own. Even after everything. Even after I was gone, you found a way to make it work. I can’t imagine what it took to get here. But you did it. And you didn’t need me for that.”
He stepped closer, and for the first time, you didn’t step away. You simply stood there, taking in the sincerity in his voice. He wasn’t here to apologize. He wasn’t here to fix anything. This was something else. This was him acknowledging you.
You swallowed hard, your gaze softening just a fraction. “Thanks, Bucky.”
A long beat of silence followed. Neither of you knew what to say next, but there was an understanding that didn’t need to be spoken. You could hear the weight in his voice, the weight of regret, of missed opportunities but it was layered with something more.
He wasn’t asking for forgiveness, not yet. But he was trying.
“I see you, y/n,” Bucky said, his eyes still locked on yours. “I see how far you’ve come, and it makes me proud to see the woman you’ve become. Even if it took me too long to realize it.”
You let out a breath, your chest heavy, but you didn’t look away from him. Your voice was quieter than usual, but firm. “You’ve changed, too, Bucky. I see it too. But just because I see it doesn’t mean I’m ready to let go of what happened between us. You’ve got a lot of work to do if you want me to believe you’re not the same person.”
Bucky nodded, accepting your words with the same quiet understanding he had when they first met tonight. “I get it. I’ve got a long road ahead. I’m not asking for anything from you right now except maybe this.” He stepped even closer, his voice soft but determined. “Let me try. Let me prove that I’m not that guy anymore. That I can be who you need me to be. Even if we have to take it slow, even if we’re just strangers for a while.”
You blinked, taken aback by his honesty. You had expected the same thing: the need to rush forward, to fix everything in one moment. But this, this was different.
“I’m not going to make promises I can’t keep,” he added, his voice thick with sincerity. “But I will show you. One step at a time.”
You paused. “I’m not ready to forgive you. Not yet. But I can see that you’re trying, Bucky. And for that - thank you.”
He didn’t smile. He didn’t even nod. But there was something in his eyes, relief, maybe, or hope that softened the edges of the tension that had hung between the two of you for so long.
“Goodnight, y/n,” he said quietly, before turning to leave.
You watched him walk away, your heart feeling heavier than it had in hours. You weren’t sure where this would lead. But for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were losing yourself.
Maybe…
You let the thought hang in the air, knowing it was too early to decide anything but giving yourself permission to wonder.
Pairing: Hockey Player!Bucky x Sports Photographer!Reader
Warning: More Angsty Dialogue. Perhaps a turning point?
Author's Note: Chapter 3 is here and i apologize for the delay but life caught up and tripped me up on the ice friends! I hope you enjoy this one, part four is in the editing phase and should be released shortly here! Enjoy my little buns!
You were halfway through editing Thursday’s shots when the email pinged.
Subject: Road Game - Montreal (Bus Departs 9:00 AM Friday)
From: Bruins Media & Ops
To: All Game Day Media Personnel
Hi team,
Just a reminder we’re hitting the road tomorrow morning for our weekend game in Montreal.
Bus departs from TD Garden at 9:00 AM sharp. Please be on time and ready to roll.
— Operations Team
You settle back into the comforting cushions of your couch, the cold press of reality settling somewhere between your lungs. You’d known the game was coming. Of course you did. You’d memorized the Bruins’ media schedule the day you took the job with the team. But something about the email, about seeing it, turned your spine to glass. You hadn’t been prepared for this.
You were going to be on a bus with Bucky. With the team you reminded yourself.
A long, quiet ride. No press room noise to buffer the silence. No lens to hide behind. No safe, sterile space between the two of you. Just shared air, shared memories, and all the things the two of you hadn’t said.
Your laptop screen dimmed slightly as your fingers froze on the trackpad. The photo still open on the screen was the one you hadn’t been able to delete yet; Bucky, from the photoshoot, caught between a soft laugh and something quieter. That look that lingered. The one you’d seen once before, years ago, the night he’d promised not to forget you.
You clicked away from the image like it had burned you.
Your phone buzzed a moment later. Wanda.
Wanda: You good for the bus tomorrow? Want to sit together?
You hesitated for a beat before typing back.
Y/N: Yeah. Please.
You didn’t trust yourself to be alone with your thoughts. Not on that bus. Not with the echo of his voice still under your skin.
The next morning
The bus rumbled to life as the last few players climbed aboard, coffee cups in hand, duffel bags slung over their shoulders. You found a seat near the middle of the aisle beside Wanda, holding your camera bag on your lap like it might keep you safe, keep yourself from doing something silly.
The hum of voices rose and fell around you, players bantering, coaches murmuring over tablets, the rustle of protein bar wrappers and gear.
But none of it penetrated through you. Your thoughts already elsewhere, still stuck in that studio, with golden light spilling over Bucky’s jaw, with the sharp edge of what could’ve been catching in your chest.
Wanda didn’t speak right away, offering you a granola bar with a nudge of her elbow against yours. You took it, unwrapping it slowly, your head falling against the cool of the window with your first bite into the morning breakfast.
“He looked at me like I was still that girl,” you finally said, your voice a whisper above the engine's hum.
Wanda turned to you, quiet but present. “You’re not though.”
“I know,” you said with a nod. “But it felt like… like time folded. Just for a second. Like I was right back there on the rink with him, under the stars. Like none of the years in between mattered.”
Wanda didn’t interrupt. She just listened, eyes soft and steady as she watched you.
“I told myself I was over it,” you whispered. “That I’d moved on. That I could stand in front of him and feel nothing but professionalism. But then he stood there and looked at me like I still mattered. And I -” You blinked, jaw tightening. “I hated how much I wanted to believe it. To believe him. How much I still want too.”
Wanda reached over, squeezing your hand gently with yours. “You don’t have to hate that part of you, y/n. The part that still cares. That part that loved him. You can’t just un-love someone because they disappeared. The memories you two shared are always going to remain.”
You let the silence sit for a moment. Outside the window, the city peeled away into blurred trees and faded highways.
“He was everything,” you admitted quietly. “My best friend, my future, my safe place. And he let me go without even trying to hold on.”
“And now he’s here,” Wanda said gently, “and it’s like reopening a wound you thought had healed.”
You nodded, numbly taking another bite of granola.
“He didn’t just break your heart,” Wanda continued. “He disappeared from your life like you didn’t exist. But you do. And you’ve built something beautiful from the pieces he left behind.”
You swallowed hard, tears threatening to fall from the corners of your eyes. “So why does it still feel like I’m the one who got left behind? If it truly rose above it all, if I moved on why do I still feel like this?”
“Because you never got the closure you deserved,” Wanda said. “But you’re here now. And he gets to see the version of you that survived without him.”
You gave a quiet laugh, watery and soft. “The version of me who’s totally holding it together on this bus ride?”
Wanda smirked. “Hey, you’re doing better than me. If my ex showed up with cheekbones like that and a redemption arc, I’d throw myself out the window.”
That cracked a real smile out of you. Brief, but real.
They sat like that for a few minutes, the hum of the bus filling the quiet spaces between them. You leaned your head back, eyes closed, letting the movement of the road settle your nerves.
When your opened them again, your gaze drifted forward, instinct or something heavier pulling you there.
Bucky sat two rows ahead, his head leaned back against the hard head rest, earbuds in. As if he could sense your watching eyes, he tilts his head slightly just enough so that his eyes find yours through the narrow space between the seats.
His lips barely curl.
Your throat goes tight.
You turn away, heart pounding against your ribs like it still remembered what it felt like to be seen by him. Really seen.
Wanda watched you quietly. “You okay y/n?”
You didn’t answer right away. Just stared out the window and whispered, more to yourself than anything, “I don’t know.”
By the time the team bus pulled into the circular drive of the hotel in downtown Montreal, the late afternoon light had turned the city to gold. You stepped off the bus behind Wanda, your camera bag slung over one shoulder, as you tried not to let the weight of your thoughts show on your face.
Inside, the lobby buzzed with check-ins, team staff passing out room keys, and a concierge smiling too brightly at the herd of oversized athletes crowding their quiet foyer. You accepted your keycard and followed Wanda into the elevator, nodding politely at a couple of assistant coaches you shared the bus ride with. You rode up with Wanda to your floor only parting ways when you each reached your respective doors, the two of you promising to find one another later once you had settled in.
With a press of your room key to the door, you were slipping in, the hotel room door clicking shut behind you with a soft, solid thud. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
Muted sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows over the sleek, modern furnishings. There was a king-sized bed with perfectly tucked corners, a streamlined desk, and a soft chair by the window that looked more decorative than comfortable. The air carried that familiar, sterile scent of industrial-grade linen wash and lemon polish—clean, impersonal, temporary.
You dropped your camera bag on the desk, pulling the strap over your head, rolling your shoulders. The pressure of the long day settled there like it always did. But today, it wasn’t just the weight of the equipment or the constant focus behind the lens.
It was the weight of him.
You moved to the bed and sat on the edge, elbows on your knees, face cradled briefly in your hands. The memory of the bus ride pulsed behind your closed eyes, Bucky’s voice low and tentative, Wanda’s knowing glance, the quiet ache in your chest that hadn’t dulled all day.
This wasn’t just any away game.
It was the yet another confrontation with the past you’d tried so hard to leave behind.
Your phone buzzed from where you’d tossed it on the nightstand.
You reached for it lazily, the familiar glow washing across your tired features as you unlocked it.
Subject: Team Dinner — Mandatory Attendance (Tonight @ 7 PM)
From: Bruins Media & Ops
To: All Staff & Personnel
Hi all,
Please join us in the Montrose Room (second floor, off the main elevator) for a team dinner this evening at 7:00 PM sharp. This is a formal welcome dinner ahead of tomorrow’s game. Business casual, Bruin's gear optional.
— Operations Team
You stared at the message for a long moment.
Mandatory.
Of course it was.
A humorless breath slipped out through your nose. You flopped back onto the bed, arms spread wide like you were trying to melt into the mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Seven o’clock. That gave you just under two hours to shower, dig out something vaguely presentable, and brace for the very real possibility that you’d be eating dinner across the room from the man who once promised you forever.
You let your eyes close, just for a minute.
Long enough to feel the pull of old hopes and fresh wounds curl quietly beneath your ribs.
You didn’t know how long you laid there on the bed just staring up at the ceiling, trying not to feel anything too deeply.
But your mind wouldn’t slow down, enough for you to catch up. It kept pulling you backward through frozen memories of a different rink, a younger version of yourself holding a camera with frozen fingers and a heart full of unspoken things. A boy who skated up to you with wind in his smile and snowflakes on his lashes. Who called her Hot Shot like it was the softest secret in the world.
You rubbed the heel of your palm against your chest like that might quiet the sting.
You were young, you told yourself. You should’ve known better than to believe in forever.
But you had believed. Fully. Recklessly. Enough to let yourself hope that love could stretch across miles, across fame, across time.
A sharp knock jolted her out of your spiral.
You sat up fast, blinking. “One sec,” you called, quickly dragging yourself off the bed.
You opened the door, and of course, it was Wanda.
Loose joggers, hair in a topknot, hotel slippers like she owned the place. A granola bar in one hand, water bottle in the other. The look on her face said she knew exactly what she was walking into.
“Thought I’d find you marinating in your feelings,” Wanda said, walking in without waiting for permission.
You shut the door behind her with a soft laugh that almost caught in your throat. “How’d you know?”
“Because I know you. And because the second I saw that dinner email I figured you’d either be sleeping, crying, or composing an emotionally complicated photo essay in your head.” She dropped the water bottle onto the nightstand and flopped down beside you on the bed. “Please tell me it’s not the crying one.”
You cracked a smile, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Not yet.”
Wanda peeled open the granola bar and offered you half, a smile reaching her eyes when you took her offered half.
For a while, neither of you spoke. You just sat, shoulders brushing, the quiet full of history and comfort.
“I saw him watching you on the bus.” she spoke softly.
You didn’t look at her. “I know.”
“He looked wrecked y/n.”
Your throat tightened. “So did I.”
Wanda’s hand found yours, squeezing. “You’re allowed to be hurt, you know. You don’t have to hide it.”
“I know,” you whispered. “It’s just, it’s harder when he’s here. When he’s real again.”
Wanda nodded. “You think you’re prepared for that moment. That you’ll be cool or detached or emotionally evolved. And then boom, there he is, and it’s all back.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. “I’m not mad that it still hurts. I’m mad that part of me still -” You cut herself off.
“Still loves him?”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.
Wanda leaned her head against your shoulder. “You don’t owe him anything tonight. Not a look. Not a smile. Not forgiveness. But you do owe yourself kindness. So if you want to go to that dinner and fake-laugh at the trainer’s dumb jokes just to survive it, I’ll be right there doing it with you. And if you need to ditch halfway through and eat vending machine chips in this room instead, I’ll do that too.”
Your throat ached with unshed tears.
“You always show up for me,” you murmured.
Wanda bumped your shoulder. “Yeah, well. You’d do the same. But also I’d like to see you in that black top you packed. The one that makes you look like you run an art gallery and secretly ride a motorcycle.”
You laughed, finally—a soft, breathy thing that pulled something loose in your chest.
“Okay,” you said, wiping beneath your eyes. “Okay. Let’s get ready.”
After Wanda left you to get ready in her own room, you stood in front of the full-length mirror near the closet, still wrapped in a towel, hair damp from the shower you had forced yourself into. Your suitcase lay open at your feet like a challenge, clothes folded in half-organized piles, none of them quite right.
You stared at yourself for a long moment. Water clung to your collarbone, slid in slow droplets toward your chest.
Part of you wanted to dress down, blend into the background like you always did when things felt too loud inside. But Wanda’s voice echoed gently in yout ears:
You don’t owe him anything… but you do owe yourself kindness.
And maybe kindness tonight meant feeling a little powerful.
You pulled out the black top, the one Wanda had mentioned. It was simple, but sharp. Sleeveless, with a soft drape at the neckline that hinted at confidence you didn’t always wear. You paired it with dark jeans and low boots, brushed a warm shimmer over your cheeks and added a swipe of deep rose to your lips.
Nothing loud. Just enough to feel steady.
You clipped on a pair of small gold hoops, running your fingers through your hair to give it shape, and stood back to look at the final version of yourself in the mirror.
You didn’t look like the girl on the ice with Bucky Barnes. Or the girl who had waited for calls that never came.
You looked like y/f/n y/l/n. Bruin's photographer. A woman with your own damn light.
Still, your hand hovered over your necklace—a delicate gold chain with a tiny camera charm you hadn’t taken off since college. Bucky had given it to you the night before he left for the draft.
You let your fingers graze it for a beat too long, then turned away.
The elevator ride to the second floor was quiet. The hallway buzzed faintly with voices as you neared the Montrose Room, golden light spilling out from the open double doors.
You paused just outside, taking a slow breath.
Inside, the space was warm and softly elegant. A long dining table stretched down the center, already surrounded by staff and players. A buffet lined the far wall, and someone was pouring wine into glasses at a side station. It smelled like garlic, fresh bread, and some kind of roasted meat.
You spotted Wanda across the room waving you over with a subtle nod.
You moved toward her, weaving past a group of assistant coaches and an equipment manager. Conversation buzzed around you; laughter, chairs scraping lightly, the kind of team banter you’d grown used to tuning out when you were behind the lens.
Wanda had saved you a seat at the far end, tucked just enough away from the center to offer breathing room. You slipped into it gratefully.
“You look good,” Wanda said as she leaned in. “Like, boss bitch good.”
You gave her a dry smile. “Let’s hope I don’t sweat through it.”
But before Wanda could respond, the room shifted.
A slight hush fell, one of those subtle, collective shifts of energy you only noticed if you were paying attention.
You turned toward the doorway.
And there he was.
Freshly showered, damp curls falling across his forehead, dressed in dark slacks and a slate button-down that pulled slightly across his chest. His team jacket hung over one arm, slung casually like he didn’t know the effect he had walking into a room.
He scanned the space, eyes grazing across people, until they landed on you.
For one second, just one, time dropped out.
Your breath caught. Your stomach folding in on itself, sharp and sudden.
His expression didn’t change. Not much. But something flickered there, an ache. A memory, sharp and swift.
He didn’t look away.
Neither did you.
Then, slowly, he gave a slight nod of his head. Almost imperceptible. A gesture meant just for you.
You lifted your chin a fraction. Not defiant. Not open. Just steady.
The moment broke when the head coach clapped a hand on Bucky’s back and drew him further into the room with a grin and a loud welcome.
Wanda reached for her wine. “Well,” she murmured. “That wasn’t nothing.”
You reached for yours too. “No,” you said quietly. “It really wasn’t.”
Dinner unfolded around you like a movie you weren’t fully watching.
You kept your eyes on the people closest to you; Wanda, a few assistant coaches, some of the PR staff you saw daily, but you felt Bucky across the room like a pull in your chest, a thread stitched into your ribs that tugged tighter every time he laughed or spoke.
He was seated just a few spots down from you, angled across the table. Not close enough to speak without raising your voice, but close enough to feel the heat of his presence in every cell.
You caught him watching you twice, once when you tipped your head back to laugh at something Wanda said, and again when you leaned in to share a quiet word with the video analyst beside you. Both times, when your eyes found his, he didn’t look away.
Neither did you.
But you didn’t smile. And he didn’t either.
The tension settled like static around the two of you.
As dessert plates were cleared and a few of the younger players got up to grab seconds, you excused yourself quietly and stood, moving toward the water station near the back.
You were reaching for a glass when you heard the quiet, familiar scrape of a chair behind you.
And then, his voice, low and close.
“‘Scuse me.”
You turned, but too late. He brushed past you, his shoulder just barely grazing yours.
The contact was fleeting, but it lit your nerves like a struck match.
You caught his scent, something clean, woodsy, familiar in a way that made your stomach twist and your chest tighten.
Bucky didn’t stop walking.
But as he passed, his fingers ghosted across the rim of the water pitcher like he needed something to do with his hands. Like he knew you were watching him.
And you were.
God, you were.
Back at the table, Wanda gave you a look that said everything.
You just shook your head and sipped your water like your heart wasn’t crawling up your throat.
The hotel dining room had thinned out to soft murmurs and clinking glasses as the night grew later. Most of the team and staff had already made their way to the elevators, laughter echoing faintly from the lobby as goodbyes were exchanged.
You stayed behind, lingering near one of the empty tables, your fingers loosely wrapped around your half-full glass of water. The glow from the sconces along the wall cast a soft amber hue across the room. You felt him before you saw him, his presence, a shift in the air behind you. You didn’t move, didn’t speak.
Bucky stepped up beside you, close but not touching. Not yet.
They stood there in silence for a long moment. No words. Just the weight of four years, of all the could-have-beens and never-should-haves hanging between the two of you like a fog.
When you finally glanced over at him, you found his gaze already on you.
And then, softly earnestly Bucky spoke.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day,” he said. “Back at the shoot.”
You didn’t respond, but you didn’t look away either.
“About how missing someone doesn’t mean you get them back.”
Your throat tightened. Those words had haunted you for a long time that night haunted you more after you’d said them aloud to him.
Bucky exhaled, his voice low and steady. “You were right. I know nothing I do can erase what I did. And I know I don’t get to just ask to go back.”
Your expression softened, just barely. You didn’t trust yourself to speak yet.
“I’m not asking to pick up where we left off,” he said gently. “I know that’s not fair to you. But I’m here now, and I just - I want to try. To build something that makes sense between us again. Even if it’s not what it used to be. Even if it’s just a way to be around you without all the silence.”
You looked down at your glass for a moment, then placed it gently on the table.
“I don’t know if I can do that,” you said quietly.
Bucky’s brow furrowed. “Because it still hurts?”
You nodded once. “Because I don’t think I could survive losing you again.”
Those words landed heavy. Bucky’s jaw flexed, his eyes shining under the soft light.
“I would never let that happen again,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “I know I made the mistake once letting the noise, the pressure, everything drown out what mattered most. But I’ve changed. I’ve had to. And I will never put us in that place again. Not you, not me.”
You blinked hard, and for a moment, you looked like you might break again. But you didn’t. You stood tall, still guarded, but not closed.
“I want to believe you,” you whispered. “And i think part of me already does, because a part of me always will."
He nodded, slowly.
“That’s enough for me,” he said. “I don’t need everything. I just need a beginning.”
Silence fell between them again, but this time, it didn’t feel sharp or strained. It was quieter. Gentler. A soft space where something might start to grow again.
You glanced down at the floor, then back up at him. “This doesn’t fix everything you know that right?"
“I know,” Bucky said. “But maybe it’s a step.”
Your lips curved, barely a flicker of a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes but held promise.
“Maybe.”
He didn’t push for more. Didn’t reach for your hand or ask for one more chance.
He just stood there with you in the quiet, letting you know without words that you weren’t alone in this anymore.
And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to carry it all by yourself.
The hallway was quiet as you walked back to your room, the low hum of the hotel’s dim lighting buzzing faintly above you. The long day pressed into your limbs, but your mind felt strangely light.
Bucky’s voice still echoing softly in your ears. “I just need a beginning.”
You stopped in front of your room, slid the key card into the lock, and stepped inside. The door clicking shut behind you. The air in the room was cool and still. Familiar. Safe.
You leaned back against the door, your eyes fluttering closed.
It wasn’t forgiveness yet. It wasn’t even closure. But it was something. A breath. A beginning. And after years of carrying the ache of what you’d lost, tonight felt like the first time you hadn’t felt buried under it.
You crossed the room slowly, placing your boots by the chair, your fingers brushing over the neatly made bedspread. Outside the window, the city blinked on, lights stretching into the distance like tiny stars.
Maybe, you thought.
Maybe this didn’t have to be as complicated as you’d feared. Maybe the heartbreak you’d both endured had carved out space for something new to grow—something gentler, steadier.
You were exactly where you’d dreamed of being. Photographing for the team you’d loved since childhood. Carving your place into this fast, shining world. And Bucky—he was here too, standing tall in the dream he’d chased all his life.
You had both made it.
So why couldn’t you be happy?
Why couldn’t you, in your own way, be happy together?
You slid under the covers, the warmth of the sheets wrapping around you as you exhaled slowly, deeply.
Maybe this was your step. Not toward what you used to be, but toward who you were now.
And for the first time in years, that thought didn’t scare you.
It gave you peace.
And as your eyes drifted closed, you let herself believe just a little that maybe they could move forward. Together.
Pairing: Hockey Player!Bucky x Sports Photographer!Reader
Warning: A whole tall glass of angst my friends.
Author's Note: I try not to get in my head during the editing phase since it's been so long, but alas nothing different.. Anyway here's part II. Part III based off the schedule i've decided to go with will be out Tuesday! Enjoy my little puck bunnies!
The following day you arrived at the arena before sunrise. You soaked in the moment; the city still wore its quiet. Streets hushed, the skies heavy and gray, you liked it this way, before the buzz started, before the lights turned on and the world expected you to smile or answer questions that right now you weren’t sure you had the answers too.
You slipped inside through the side entrance, badge clipped to the collar of your work polo, your camera bag slung high over one shoulder. Your footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, familiar and grounding. Your sanctuary. Game days were always louder. Busier. But the morning after? Just a few trainers and early risers. Equipment staff. And a few rookies running drills in the distance.
And You.
You made a beeline for the media room, needing the hum of your monitors and the soft click of your editing software like a balm to soothe the invisible ache beneath your skin. Shutting the door behind you, you flicked on the desk lamp, pulling out your chair as you took a seat opening the folder from last night’s game.
You tried to maintain your focus as you sorted through the gallery, but your eyes kept drifting to that one photo.
The one you shouldn’t have saved.
Bucky, turning mid-play. Looking right at you. Looking for you.
Your jaw clenched as you minimized the window, pulling up a different set; group shots, sponsor promos, post-game press conference angles. You worked through them all methodically, flagging and exporting, labeling for the Bruins’ socials and web team to go through when they had a chance.
“Hey you, good morning.” You startle in your chair hand clasped to your chest as you turn your head to find the voice.
Dolores, one of the media team assistants, leans up against the doorway, smile pulling at her bubble gum pink lips as she holds two steaming cups of coffee in her hands. “Didn’t think anyone beat me in today, but i shouldn't be surprised, you were on fire last night."
You exhale a breath forcing a smile onto your lips. “Thank you. I - I couldn’t sleep.”
“Ah. Game high?” she questions stepping into your office.
“Something like that.” You nod, “figured I could get a head start today sorting through last night’s gallery.”
Dolores nods subtly as she hands you a coffee perching herself on the edge of your desk. “So,” she hums around a sip, “any thoughts on the new guy?”
You keep your face neutral at the mention of him, “He played well, I think he’s going to be great for the team.” you answer holding back all you really want to say
“Well? Did we watch the same game last night?" she laughs. "He was an absolute machine out there y/n! Three assists, two goals, and that overtime steal? The team is obsessed already. Not gonna lie, I didn’t think someone with that kind of name recognition would be nice, but he said thank you to everyone last night. Even the janitor.”
You stirred your coffee slowly taking in her words, everything you already knew, “That’s good.” you offer.
You nod, offering up a smile, “I’m fine, just a lot on my mind with deadlines." Lie.
“Cool, cool” Dolores trails off, perking up when she feels her phone vibrate. You watch the brunette pull her phone from her pocket, eyes lighting up, “Oh, group text from Theo. They want to set up the media shoot for Barnes. Headshots, player profile, some PR content. Probably later this week.”
Your stomach dropped. Of course.
“That shouldn’t be a problem, right?” You choke on your coffee.
Dolores blinks brown raised in concern. “Okay, seriously you good?”
You clear your throat, nodding your head, “Yeah, fine, fine.” Another lie. “Just went down the wrong pipe.” you smile.
She gives you another wary look her finger hovering over her phone, “Actually you want me to cover the shoot when it’s scheduled? You’ve had the past few days stacked, I'm sure you could use a break.”
You hesitated. A normal person would say yes. A sane one. But the photographer in you, the one who never backed away from a challenge, never let her personal life interfere with her work—sat up straighter.
“No,” you said. “I’ve got it, Thursday, right?”
“Thursday.” she confirms smiles kissing her lips as she gets to her feet. “Should be fun. Plus, he's easy on the eyes.”
The smile doesn’t reach your eyes this time. “Yeah.” Dolores leaves without another word much less another glance back your way as she exits, your office door shutting softly behind her. Your eyes slip shut, forehead falling to rest on your hand.
What am I doing.
Four years ago, you had let yourself believe you’d have a life with Bucky Barnes. A future. He promised he wouldn’t forget you, and maybe he didn’t. But remembering wasn’t the same as staying.
Now he was back. On your turf. Wearing the same jersey, part of the same team. A dream you once had.
But you’d wanted space. Needed time to collect yourself. after the splash of cold reality.
Instead; you were being handed time alone with him, a camera lens, and nowhere to hide.
God how were you going to get through this?
After the bomb was dropped on you your morning seemingly dragged.
You buried yourself in editing, tagging, uploading and when your screen began to blur, you switched to shooting some behind-the-scenes content for the social team; quick snaps of the locker room being restocked, jerseys being hung, trainers prepping gear. Easy, harmless, no emotional landmines.
Until the sound of skates on concrete echoed through the hallway just outside the tunnel you were walking through
You didn't have to look to know who it was. The low cadence of Bucky’s voice carried with it that distinct scrape of memory, warm nights and colder mornings, whispers in the dark, promises traded under streetlights and winter skies. You backed up, ducking into the supply room, waiting for the sound to fade. Your chest felt tight, like it had forgotten how to expand all the way.
Coward, you thought, gripping the camera around your neck. This isn’t you.
But your feet wouldn’t move letting the seconds tick by until silence reclaimed the hall.
When you finally stepped back out, the air felt heavier, like it remembered him too.
—
Across the ice, Bucky had just wrapped drills with the second line and was toweling off when Sam skated up beside him.
“You good tinman?” Sam asked swiping his own towel across his skin. “You’ve missed the net twice.”
Bucky blew out a breath, shaking his head as if that would clear his mind. “It’s my first week Wilson, just settling in, getting used to the team.”
Sam raises a brow at his friend. “That look like settling to you? I've seen you do better with worse.”
Bucky doesn’t answer. Truth was, his head wasn’t in the drills this morning. Not with you somewhere nearby, probably avoiding every corridor he stepped foot into.
He hadn’t expected you to be here. Had hoped upon, maybe. But seeing you last night?
That had knocked the air right from his lungs.
You hadn’t changed much, still had that quiet fire in you, still moved like you didn’t want to be seen and couldn’t help but draw every eye anyway.
But your walls, they were taller now. Sharper. Like maybe he was the reason you had built them. He was.
Sam nudged him with his stick. “C’mon man. Don’t make me look better than you. It’ll mess with my image and you know how i feel about my image - i'll be downright insufferable."
Bucky managed a smirk, “yeah Wilson we all know how you are about your image.”
“Damn straight you do, now get your ass in line and show them why they made that trade, let them know who you are."
—
Later that afternoon as you checked the team calendar. The photoshoot had been scheduled for Thursday morning. You stared at the block of time like it might disappear if you willed it hard enough. Thirty minutes alone. In the white-wall studio. With him.
It wasn’t enough time to prepare.
It was too much time to survive. It was -
A knock at the door jolted you your head peeking over your shoulder.
Wanda peeked her head in, holding a paper bag in one hand and a concerned look in the other. “I brought food. And if needed, unsolicited best friend wisdom.”
You let out a tired laugh, lips turning up in a genuine smile as you took in your best friend. “You always know.”
“Damn right I do.” Wanda grinned stepping in the door falling shut behind her, you watched as she plopped into the chair opposite your desk. “You didn’t answer my texts last night. Or this morning. Got worried, I assumed you either died or ran off to join a convent after New's broke."
“I thought about it,” you said, voice flat. “The convent thing.”
Wanda arched a brow and handed over a wrapped sandwich. “So, how bad was it?”
You didn’t answer right away staring at the sandwich in your hands like it might crack open and reveal a solution to you.
Wanda leaned forward, her voice gentle. “Hey, talk to me y/n.”
You let out a shaky breath meeting your friends' eyes. “It’s like, he walked in and every part of me remembered. My body, my brain, my camera, my heart, they all remembered. And I’ve spent four years trying to forget. Four year’s Wands. "
Wanda’s expression softened. “Oh y/n..”
“I thought I was past it I really thought I was. I thought I made peace with what happened. But seeing him? Looking at me like I’d never left his memory?” You blinked hard, shaking you head. “It was like time didn’t care about all the healing I’d done.”
Wanda was quiet, letting you get it out.
You set your food down, untouched, suddenly not feeling very hungry as the next words came. “He came up to me after the game. Said one thing. One thing that once upon a time i longed to hear."
“What did he say?”
You swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t forget you.”
Wanda’s eyes widened. “He said that?”
You nodded tears pressing at the backs of her eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. “It’s not fair Wanda, why did he have to say that, I was okay, I healed – I healed.”
Wanda reaches across your desk gently covering your hand with hers. “That’s not nothing, that means something.”
Your watery gaze found hers. “It used to mean something. But he still left. And I stayed behind, picking up pieces of myself I didn’t know I’d dropped. I had to rebuild my life without him in it. I rebuilt it."
“I know,” Wanda said softly fingers squeezing. “But you don’t have to pretend you’re unaffected now.”
“I’m not unaffected. I’m - unmoored.”
The two of you sat in silence for a beat, the kind that wrapped around you with weight and warmth all at once. Pulling in a breath you wiped beneath your eyes with the tips of your fingers. “His media shoot is Thursday.”
Wanda blinked. “As in you and him, alone in a room with your camera Thursday?”
You nodded slowly.
Wanda winced. “Do you want me to pull strings? Get someone else assigned?”
“No.” You shook her head. “It’s my job. And it’s just thirty minutes. I can handle thirty minutes.”
Wanda gave you a long, steady look. “It’s okay to break a little, you know. You don’t always have to hold the frame.”
You offered a ghost of a smile. “Someone has to.”
Thursday. 10:02 AM.
You adjusted the lighting rig with trembling fingers. The white backdrop behind you swayed slightly in the draft from the ventilation above. Everything was too bright, too clean. Too still. The silence felt artificial. Even your camera rested quietly on the stool beside you, waiting for you to break first.
You kept checking the time.
The media shoot was scheduled for 10 a.m. sharp.
At 10:04, the door creaked open.
You didn’t have to look up to know it was him, but you did anyway.
Bucky stepped in, a little breathless, in full gear minus the helmet. His hair was damp from morning practice, pushed back in a way that should’ve looked unkempt but didn’t. His cheeks were flushed, and there was a half-smile on his lips, the kind that came instinctively when he didn’t know what else to do.
It was like a body check to the ribs.
He stopped just inside the doorway. “Hey.”
You nodded attempting to tilt your lips up in a smile. “Hi.” Silence stretched between the two of you, taut and fragile.
He moved a little closer. “You still shoot on a Nikon?”
You blinked, he remembered. “Yeah, I do.”
He gave a soft chuckle. “Thought so.”
You swallowed. “Still wear the same brand of cologne.”
That made him grin, unexpected, a flash of something that belonged to another life. “You remembered?” You shrugged softly, focusing your eyes on the camera instead of him. “It’s hard to forget something that used to be everywhere.”
His smile faltered, faded. “Right.”
You picked up your camera as youadjusted the settings. Your fingers didn’t shake this time. Not because you weren’t affected, but because the camera gave you purpose. And purpose, at least, gave you armor.
“Let’s get started,” you said setting yourself up.
He nodded wordlessly stepping onto the white tape mark on the floor.
You raised the camera and suddenly everything slowed. The viewfinder filled with his face, older now, sharper, but familiar in a way that made your throat tighten. You forced yourself to remain focused; you adjusted, snapped. Click.
He didn’t smile at first. Just watched you with quiet eyes, letting you work. Letting you look at him without looking directly.
“Smile,” you said softly.
He gave you a crooked one.
Click.
“Eyes up.”
He tilted his chin slightly, gaze catching yours through the lens. The way he looked at you, steady, careful, made something in your pulse quicken.
Click.
A pause. You lowered the camera.
“Can I ask you something?” Bucky said.
You stiffened shaking your head softly, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea Bucky we should really just focus on what we’re here for.”
“Too late,” he said gently. “Because I really want to.”
You hesitated. Then: “Go ahead.”
His voice was low as he asked the one question that had been ringing in his mind. “Why didn’t you write back?”
Your breath caught in your throat, eyes widening slightly at his words.
He stepped forward then just a fraction. “I sent letters y/n. A few actually. I left you messages. I didn’t just vanish.”
You looked away, jaw clenched. “I know you didn’t vanish Bucky, trust me I know. You just became unreachable.”
“I tried, y/n. I know I was busy; I know things moved fast, but I didn’t forget -”
“Don’t,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “Don’t say that like it fixes anything.”
He went still.
You took a breath, tried again, quieter this time. “I didn’t write back because I didn’t know how to say I wasn’t okay. Not without sounding like I wanted to hold you back.”
“You wouldn’t have,” he said with a shake of his head. “You never could have.”
“But I didn’t know that then.” your voice cracked. “We were younger than Buck, and watching you become everything you dreamed of I wouldn’t be the one to hold you back from that - I needed to figure out who I was without you.”
The room pulsed with silence.
He stepped forward again, slower this time. “I never wanted to be someone you had to live without, I wanted your dreams.” I wanted you.
You blinked hard, eyes burning. You would not cry.
“I missed you,” he said, quiet and sure. “Even when I was surrounded by everything, I thought I wanted.”
You looked up at him, camera still clutched in your hands. “I missed you too Bucky. But missing someone doesn’t always mean you get them back.”
The two of you stared at each other, grief and longing suspended between the two of you like dust in a shaft of light. Then you lifted the camera again, as if to say: This is who I am now; without you.
He nodded, understanding. And despite your treacherous mind and heart telling you to take back your words, to talk to him, you pulled your focus back in on the task and finished the shoot.
Bucky didn’t leave the studio right away; even though you had turned away quickly after the last shot, pretending to check your gear, giving him an easy out his feet stayed planted on the white tape line watching you. You hadn’t forgiven him that much was clear, but you hadn’t shut him down either. You’d let him in, reminding him what it used to feel like to be seen by you; fully, quietly, completely. He wanted to know where to go from here, but his mind had no idea what the next step looked like.
It wrecked him.
“Barnes,” someone called from the hallway. Trainer’s voice. Break time.
He hesitated for a moment wanting to say more but not wanting to push when you had just barely let him in. With one last longing look at your back he turned, leaving the same way he came.
You waited until the door clicked shut behind him before sitting down hard on the edge of the backdrop stand. Your camera dangled from your hands, heavy and warm, like it had soaked up all the heat in the room. You felt hollowed out. You had held it together, and now you wanted nothing more than to fall apart. But there wasn’t time for that now, there was never time.
Running a hand over your face, you catch the edge of moisture at your lash line. You wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not here. The shoot had gone fine. Technically perfect. But emotionally?
A disaster.
He still looked at you like you were the only person who mattered most in any room he walked into. You’d hated it how all you wanted to do was soak it up. You didn’t know which instinct scared you more.
A soft knock on the door startles you.
You stand quickly, wiping your palms on the back of your jeans as you watch the door creak open a head popping through.
It wasn’t Bucky, It was Logan, the team’s media assistant. “Hey, you good? Coach wants selects from the player shoots by the weekend.”
You nodded, “I’ll have them ready before then, no worries.”
“You, okay?”
You smiled. Too polished, too quick. “Yeah. Just been a long week, just about ready to get out of here."”
He didn’t push. “Cool. Let me know if you need help sorting.”
“Thanks.”
When he left, you finally let yourself sit back down. And this time, you let your eyes close.
Just for a moment.
Just until the feeling passed.
—
Later that day, Bucky found himself wandering into the empty arena. It was quiet, ice freshly zambonied, light streaming through the upper windows in long, soft angles. He sat on the bench, helmet cradled in his hands, thinking about what you had said early that morning.
“I needed to figure out who I was without you.”
He’d never considered that you might’ve been drowning while he was flying. He’d thought you were the strongest person he knew. And you were, without a doubt in his mind, but strength didn’t mean pain didn’t touch you. He’d convinced himself the two of you were just growing apart. That the silence had meant acceptance. But now?
Now he saw it for what it was: self-preservation.
You hadn’t known how to be with him while he became someone else. And maybe, deep down, he hadn’t made enough space for you to stay.
He leaned back, letting his head tip against the glass behind the bench. It was cold. Grounding.
He didn’t know how to fix it.
But he wanted to.
For the first time in a long time, he wanted something more than goals, more than glory.
He wanted to be someone you could look at without flinching.
—
That night, as you sat curled up on your couch, laptop open, Bucky’s photos pulled up on the screen you paused. Each shot was good. Clean. Professional. But sterile, in a way you hadn’t noticed while shooting.
Until the last few.
Those were different.
Something had shifted between frame twelve and fifteen, his eyes had stopped performing and started speaking to you.
The final image?
It hit you like a sucker punch. He was looking straight into the lens. Not smiling. Not guarded. Just open. And somehow, impossibly, waiting.
You stared at it for a long time, you should have deleted it, but you didn’t.
You closed your laptop instead, falling to your side as you curled up further on the couch, your arms wrapping around a cushion like it might hold you together.
You see, the worst part wasn’t that he was back.
The worst part was that he still felt like home.
And you didn’t know if you could survive losing him a second time.
Pairing: Hockey Player!Bucky x Sports Photographer!Reader
Warning: a pinch of fluff, pinch of angst, a hefty dose of Bucky Barnes.
Author's Note: It's been such a long time since I've written and I fear i may be in over my head here. But alas I will not back down I am getting this story out! i hope you all enjoy this first part, back to my dark cave i goooo!
The doors to TD Garden had opened nearly two hours ago, but you had been here long before that mentally preparing yourself for the adrenaline the night would bring.
Hoisting your gear bag over your shoulder you move through the arena, tapping your badge against the security scanner, weaving your way through the tunnels that once upon a time had felt too big, too loud, too unreal for a dreamer like yourself. But you had fought to build your name in this industry, long nights of hard work finally earning you a place with the Boston Bruins as their official sports photographer.
A second home.
Dropping your bag behind the rink side media table you unzipped it with practiced ease, laying out your lenses, checking your batteries, running through the quiet rhythm of getting ready.
Your own pre-game ritual.
“Hey y/n, I know this is your thing by now but you know you get here early right, you could at least wait until the players are out on the ice warming it up before you show up.” Mark one of the newer videographers was tangled in a cable of wires behind the media table a crooked grin on his lips as he paused his work to watch you set up. “Are you really that afraid you’ll miss the puck drop if you don’t check every setting seven times? It’s you, you never miss”
You shake your head, smile pulling at your lips as you adjust the strap of your camera around your neck. “While you’re right that I never miss, I also can’t help that I’m thorough Mark, I am a professional. Unlike some people.” you tease.
He mock-gasps, eyes rolling, Mark was as professional as they came when it came to the wiring of the media board, but if he was going to dish it, he could certainly take it. “Rude,” he huffs, “you just happened to catch me at a bad moment.”
You didn’t answer, instead lifting your camera and aiming it right at him. Click. He groaned head thrown back. “Now I caught you,” you grin flashing him the display.
“Oh God y/n delete that, save that film for the players,” he murmurs ducking out of frame to tend to his tangled wires before you can get another shot of him.
Chuckling to yourself you turn to the ice surveying what will be the background of many of your shots tonight. The arena is glimmering in the warmth of a dozen overhead lights, a Zamboni humming in the distance, stands beginning to fill with anxious fans. While you loved the game, this was the part you loved the most, the calm before the chaos, the quiet just before the thunder of the crowd.
The calm however was short lived as players began to file onto the ice, like the fans filled the stands.
Warmup.
Warmups passed as they always do; in a blur of skates and sticks, high-speed passes, and the clang of a puck against the post. And you captured it all without a second thought tracking the motion through your viewfinder, framing the pre-game like a dance you knew by heart, and you knew it well. But it was when the lights dimmed for the player introductions that something in the atmosphere began to shift as it always did.
The announcer’s voice was loud, matching the energy of the arena as his voice boomed over the speakers, the crowd swelling with anticipation as the players' names echoed off the crowded walls.
“Number 88, Steve Rogers!”
“Number 63, Sam Wilson!”
“And now, making his official debut with the Boston Bruins -”
Your camera slipped from your fingers, breath catching in your throat as you took in the image that flashed on the screen above the ice. It couldn't be.
“Number 14 - Bucky Barnes!”
Time didn’t just slow - it shattered.
Your ears rang, your heart skipping a beat in your chest. The roar of the crowd turning hollow, as if your head had been dunked in a tank of ice water, his name spinning in your head, once, twice, like a puck skimming ice - then sinking deep and fast.
Bucky.
You hadn’t heard his name aloud in over four years. Not in person. Not like this.
Your stomach dropped as you gripped the camera like it might anchor you, like the weight of it could hold you still while your world suddenly tipped.
Four years had apparently not been long enough to convince yourself it hadn’t meant a thing.
And then he was there; in person stepping onto the ice like he owned it, his stride smooth and familiar. Your brain refused to catch up. It can't be.
And just then, like something cosmic twisted the moment tighter, his eyes found yours.
Bucky Barnes, four years gone, looked across the rink and found you like he’d known exactly where you’d be.
The world vanished in a moment.
Only the ice that separated the two of you remained.
You should’ve looked away then. Should’ve focused on your job, the game, literally anything else. But you didn’t. Couldn’t. Bucky’s gaze was locked on yours, steady and unflinching, and for the first time in years you forgot how to breathe. The arena came to life around you; players skating, music pounding, lights flashing, but in that single breath of time, none of it mattered. It was just him, you, and the ghost of a promise that still echoed louder than the roar of the crowd.
Don’t forget me when it happens.
I couldn’t if I tried.
You took this time to study him, he looked different now than he did all those years ago. He was sharper around the edges, jaw more defined, shoulders bulked from years in the league. But his eyes, his eyes were the same; ice blue and intense, soft around the corners like he still carried pieces of a boy who used to skate backwards just to make you laugh.
Click.
Turning as quickly as you had snapped the photo, you let the camera drop to your chest pretending to mess with your gear, pretending you weren’t on the verge of losing yourself. Your pulse pounded through your fingertips as you toggled with your camera, you could feel it in your throat, your ribs, it was disarming. You exhaled pressing your palm flat against your chest like that would calm it. It didn’t.
“Y/n,” Mark called over the boards concern in his voice. “You good?”
You forced a tight smile nodding your head. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine.”
“You sure? You look -”
“I said I’m fine Mark.”
He held up his hands in surrender as he ducked away, though you could sense his lingering curiosity, he had never seen you waver, not like this. Not wanting to give him more to worry about you turned your back to him, to the ice and took a few grounding breaths.
Bucky Barnes.
Here.
You hadn't seen his name in the pre-game media emails. Hadn’t caught a single whisper about a last-minute roster change. How could you have missed this? Digging your phone out of your coat pocket you unlocked the device to do a quick scan through the league’s news alerts and sure enough, there it was:
TRADE CONFIRMED: Star winger Bucky Barnes heads to Boston in surprise move just days before season opener.
How had you missed this?
The article was dated two days ago. Two days, and no one had uttered a single word. Had the team kept it quiet on purpose? Or had you just been so deep in prep mode that you missed it? You swallowed hard, fingers hovering over the article, but you didn’t tap it open. You didn’t need to read it. You already knew the stats. You knew how good he was. You knew the numbers, the accolades, the goals. The reason behind why he was here, why he had been traded.
What you didn’t know - what you hadn’t dared to think about - was why he’d never reached out. You’d given him space when he made it, telling yourself he needed time to adjust to the big leagues that you didn’t want to be the one to distract him. That when the time was right for him, and he found himself that he would find you.
But he never did.
And now he’s here.
You curl and uncurl your fingers shaking the digits out as you will yourself not to fall apart. This wasn’t high school. This wasn’t the night you stood outside the rink and watched him drive away with everything he’d ever wanted.
This was your dream, the one you had chased without him in it.
And you weren’t going to let a single look crack you open.
Even if it already had.
The buzzer pierced the air tearing you from your reverie, the first period beginning in a flash of movement. Stepping into your role like a second skin you moved with it, slipping down the edge of the boards, crouching into position, camera poised and ready.
It was easier once the puck dropped. The motion, the rhythm, the muscle memory, you let it carry you as you focused on the angles, light, shutter speeds. You caught clean shots of face-offs, passes, hard checks against the glass. And through it all, Bucky moved like a storm just waiting to break. Controlled. Calculated. Focused in a way that pulled your gaze again and again, even when you didn’t mean to follow him.
Halfway through the period, he stole the puck mid-zone, spun off a defender, and passed it clean to his line mate. The crowd roared. The shot missed, but it didn’t matter. The energy shifted. He was electric.
And then, he caught your eye again.
Just a flick of his eyes, right before the play reset. Almost like he wanted to be sure you were still there. Watching.
Your fingers curled around your camera, you didn’t know what that look meant.
But you felt it down to your bones.
And by the end of the first period, your entire body was buzzing with something other than adrenaline.
In the nearly short time, you’d manage to capture nearly three hundred frames already, clean, crisp shots of first-game adrenaline, a few hard hits, and a couple of near-misses that would look perfect on the team’s social media page. You worked through the intermission, head down as you sorted through previews, selecting the best for upload. Your fingers moving, dragging files to folders, checking lighting, adjusting contrast—but none of it felt real. None of it felt normal to you. And you knew why.
No matter how busy you tried to keep yourself you could feel his eyes on you.
And he looked at you like he knew. As if no time had passed at all.
But time had passed. Four years of it. Four years of silence. Four years of building a life without him. And still, despite the time that passed, you remembered everything about him.
The curve of his mouth when he smiled. The sound of his laugh when you tried to take his picture mid-fall. The way he laced his fingers through yours when the two of you skated alone that night, his cheeks flushed from cold and something sweeter.
“Just… don’t forget me when you do.”
“I promise, no matter how loud it gets out there you’re the only part I’ll never forget.”
Your throat tightend as you shoved the memory down like it burned.
“Yo Y/n, you catch that last play?” Benji from the team’s social video crew dropped onto the folding chair beside you, holding a hot dog in one hand and a clipboard in the other.
“Of course I did Benj,” you said, without looking up from your work “Great puck control. Good chemistry it was a good play.”
“He’s something, huh?” Benji mumbled around a bite his head tilted towards the ice. “Barnes, I mean. Hell of a pickup.” he said around a mouthful.
You didn’t answer.
“He’s gonna be a fan favorite. Like, immediately. We’ve already got two new merch drops planned with his name.”
“That so?” you questioned voice flat, neutral.
“Yeah. Honestly surprised you didn’t know he got traded.” Benji nudged your arm. “You’re usually on top of this stuff.”
“Yeah, well I’ve been busy,” is all you can muster.
Benji snorts drawing your gaze to him, “well, prepare to be busy with him. Word is the front office wants a full feature – I’m talking photos, interviews, maybe a docuseries down the line. That guy’s a gold mine.”
You looked down at your camera. The screen still displaying the last photo you’d taken—Bucky mid-turn, looking over his shoulder, eyes aimed squarely at you. You clicked the shutter closed and tucked it into your lap.
“Hey,” Benji said, noticing your shift. “You, okay?”
“M’fine Benj.”
“You sure, you don't like fine.” he tried
“I said I’m fine.” you repeated as you got to your feet slinging your gear over your shoulder.
“Alright. Sorry.” He held up both hands, backing off. “Didn’t mean to upset you.”
You sighed not answering as you moved to walk down the tunnel toward the photo bay, ignoring the nerves spiking beneath your ribs. Your boots echoed along the concrete, each step louder than the last.
You needed air. Or silence. Or both.
Instead, you slipped into the Bruins’ media room and sank into your work. It was your safest space; rows of monitors, quiet keystrokes, and the hum of image processors. You worked in silence as you transferred the files to your editing station and let yourself go still for the first time all night.
And then - you hesitated.
There it was again.
That photo.
Bucky’s face on the screen, sharp and real and heartbreakingly familiar. His expression unreadable, but his eyes.
His eyes saw you.
You reached out touching the edge of the screen like it might offer clarity, like it might tell you something you didn’t already know.
“Why now?” you whisper.
You didn’t expect an answer. The screen stayed silent. The room stayed still.
And in the quiet, something old and aching surfaced, something you’d buried for your own good.
You had loved him.
That wasn’t the hard part.
The hard part was knowing you might still.
The Bruins won their season opener in overtime.
The locker room was chaos; shouts and laughter, music blaring, the thud of backs being slapped, skates being kicked off and gloves tossed aside. You stayed in the shadows like you always did, ducking through the edges of celebration to capture the aftermath. The triumph. The sweat. The fire burning in their eyes.
Your lens stayed steady.
Your pulse did not.
You caught a shot of the team crowded around Bucky, slamming hands into his shoulders, shouting praise and calling him a beast. He smiled; wide and unguarded. For a second, it looked like he belonged here.
And maybe he did.
But he used to belong to you.
You take the photo and back away before he could see you. He hadn’t looked in your direction since the third period. Maybe you could still fade out of this night without being -
“Hey hotshot.”
His voice stopped you cold.
You turned slowly, heart thudding.
Bucky stood their in the hallway just outside of the media room, dressed in Bruin's warmups and damp from the post-game shower. A towel slung around his neck. His hair was a little longer than you remembered, curling slightly at the ends. His face held the same structure, only harder. More carved. But his eyes?
Same.
Too much.
Blue and full of something unspoken.
For a second, neither of you say anything. The world narrowed to the space between the two of you - four years wide, but shrinking fast.
“Hi Bucky,” you say, voice coming out quieter then you meant.
“Y/n,” he breathes, like it's the first time he’d been allowed to say your name again.
Your breath hitches.
You hated how easily he made you feel sixteen again. Awkward and hopeful and afraid of your own heart. But you weren’t that girl anymore. You had lines now. Boundaries. You had built yourself back from the pieces he left behind.
You didn’t smile, didn’t move.
“I didn’t know you were with the team,” he said after a pause, voice gentle, like anything louder might make you run. “I mean, I should’ve figured. Your work’s all over the site. You’ve gotten really good.”
You blinked. “You didn’t recognize my name?”
“I did,” he said. “But I didn’t believe it. Thought it might’ve been someone else.”
His words hang between you. It hurt. It wasn’t fair, but it did.
“Well,” you said, stepping back. “Now you know.”
“Y/n - ”
“Congratulations on the win Bucky.” You turned to go, but his voice stops you.
“Wait. Please.” You freeze.
“I didn’t forget you,” he whispers, and the words knock the breath right out of your chest.
Slowly, you will yourself to face him again.
His face is earnest. Raw. “That night - before I left, I meant what I said. About not forgetting. I tried to call you. A few times actually. But you never picked up. And then the season started, and things got crazy and I thought, I thought maybe you moved on.”
You felt the sting behind your eyes, but you blinked it back. “Forgot? I waited, Bucky. I waited for months and all I got was radio silence.”
“I know,” he said softly. “ I'm sorry, I should’ve tried harder.”
A beat of silence.
He looked like he wanted to close the space between the two of you but didn’t. “Can we talk? Not here. Just - sometime. Catch up.”
Your hands found your camera, gripping it like it might save you. “I - I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to say yes right now.” he rushes.
You shake your head, sad smile pulling at your lips, “I don’t know if I ever can.”
Your words silence him.
The hallway feels smaller.
He looks at you like he understands, like he knew what he’s broken.
And maybe he did.
Not waiting for his reply you turn on your feet to go, and this time, he doesn't stop you.
By the time you've made it home, your feet are sore, your back aches, and your head is too loud with everything you hadn’t said. You dropped your gear by the door and kicked off your boots as you padded through to your kitchen. Tea. You needed tea. Something warm to wrap your hands around while you pieced yourself back together.
Again.
The kettle hissed to life as it heated the water, doing little to block Bucky’s voice still echoing in your ears.
“I didn’t forget you.”
Too late.
You poured the water, letting the tea steep as you took it to the worn armchair in your living room. The walls were lined with framed shots from your last few seasons—mid-air slapshots, slow-motion goal celebrations, players locked in motion like dancers with blades.
But none of those photos rattled you.
Only one had.
You set the mug down as you grab your laptop, plugging in your memory card. The folders from tonight were still there, untouched since the arena. You opened the preview set and flipped through until you found it.
The shot.
Bucky turning mid-play, the crowd blurred behind him, eyes locked on the camera.
On you.
You stared at the image, heart clenched too tight to ignore. It was a perfect photo, technically flawless. But it wasn’t that that stopped your breath.
It was the expression on his face.
Not fierce, like during the rush. Not celebratory. Not focused.
Just open.
Like he was still trying to say something you hadn’t let him finish.
Your fingers hovered over the trackpad; you could delete it. Bury it in your archives. Pretend it didn’t feel like a bruise you hadn’t expected. Instead, you copy it into a private folder. One you hadn’t touched in a long time.
You name the file firstlook.jpg.
Then you shut the laptop pushing the device away from you.
Outside, the city is quiet. The streetlights bleeding soft gold into your apartment, catching on the glass frame above your mantle. One of the only personal photos you kept on display.
A boy and a girl on a frozen lake, four years ago. He's skating backward, holding her hand. She's laughing, scarf trailing behind her like a ribbon of light. The picture wasn’t perfect. The angle was off, the focus a little soft.
But the look on her face?
It said everything.
You took a long sip of tea, eyes on the past, and let the silence settle around you like snow.
Pairing: Hockey Player!Bucky x Sports Photographer!Reader
Warning: a pinch of fluff, pinch of angst, a heft dose of Bucky Barnes.
Author's Note: I know I haven't been on here in a hot minute, but it's because i've been trying to put this hot mess together! I told y'all I wanted Hockey Player Bucky with a side of second chance romance. Well I hope y'all enjoy!
4 year’s ago
The rink lights were low, but the ice shimmered like glass beneath your feet. You skated in lazy circles, just the two of you, no gear, no noise—only the rhythmic scrape of blades cutting through frozen stillness and the breathless laughter that followed whenever one of you drifted too close and pretended not to.
You had always loved photographing the game, but skating with Bucky? That was a different kind of magic all on it’s own. He moved like the ice bent for him—fluid, sure, powerful. And when he reached for your hand, tugging you gently into another circle, you forgot to be self-conscious about how clumsy you were beside him though he swore up and down you weren't.
“You’re getting better hot shot,” he said, his fingers laced loosely through yours, that crooked grin lighting up his face.
You scoff, though your cheeks warm as you continue to let him guide your strides, "You know you say that every time you manage to get me out on the ice B."
“And I mean it every time.”
You roll your eyes half-heartedly, smile tugging at your lips "You just like seeing me fall for you.” you tease. Bucky leans into your side, your momentum slowing as the two of you drift near center ice. “Maybe,” he said, voice low, teasing. “Or maybe I just like knowing I’m the one catching you every time.”
His words settle somewhere deep inside of you, unexpected and warm.
You glanced up at him, his face so close now, his breath fogging in the cold between the two of you. He was just Bucky here. Not the future NHL draft pick. Not the kid every scout in the northeast was whispering about. Just the boy who snuck you into empty rinks, letting you take up rolls of film capturing the way he moved on ice—like it was built for him and no one else. “You're going to make it you know,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess them. “Big time. The NHL. All of it. Everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”
Bucky stills, the smile fading into something softer as he takes you in, “You think so hot shot?”
“I know so B. And when you do, just… don’t forget this. Don’t forget me even when you’re out there signing jerseys and dodging puck bunnies.” You hadn’t mean to sound so small, so unsure in that moment. But this—this felt fragile. Like the little world you and he had on this quiet rink couldn’t exist in the shadow of what was coming.
The hand that wasn’t holding yours cups your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye. “I promise,” he whispers, “no matter how loud it gets out there you’re the only part I’ll never forget.”
“I mean it Barnes, no matter where life takes us, you have to promise me.” your voice is quieter now. Not a joke. Not a dare. Just a statement wrapped in everything you hadn’t said out loud yet.
Please remember me. Please don’t disappear.
As if sensing the words you couldn’t say out loud the brunette pulls you into him, his arms crushing you in a warm hold, “Hey c’mon now, I promise sweetheart, wouldn’t be here without you, M’not about to forget about the best part of me.”
You clung to him until the cold sunk into your bones, until the Zamboni lights flickered on, until real life came knocking again.
You held that night like a secret between pages. And when he left for the league, you let him go—believing, maybe foolishly, that promises could stretch across time.
Summary: When you left New York four years ago, you swore you’d never look back—especially not at Bucky Barnes, the rising star of the NHL and the man who broke your heart along with a promise. Now a successful sports photographer, your latest job assignment lands you back in the city you walked away from and face-to-face with the man you never stopped loving.
Pairing: Hockey Player!Bucky x Sports Photographer!Reader
Warnings: Second Chance Romance, angst, fluff, more added as chapters are added.
Warnings: Bullrider!Bucky that's it, thats the warning.
Author's Note: Y'all would not imagine how long this piece has been sitting in my documents just waiting to be wrapped up and well I think I may have done it. Writing has been hard, finding a muse has been hard, but with what little comes to me I take it and run. Enjoy my sweeter than Tennessee whiskey bull-rider.
Unsure of where to go after the rodeo? Thirsty barrel was the hottest family-owned spot for great food, great music, dancing, and the greatest eight seconds of your life, or your money back.
The venue was at its peak in patrons this evening, the crowd stretching as far as your eye could see behind the packed bar where you ran drinks. This was the venues norm when the PBR was involved. The crowd a mix of rodeo goers, professional bull riders, cowboys, and the ever-eager buckle bunnies just waiting to snatch a hat off the heads of an awaiting rider.
You know the saying, wear the hat, ride the cowboy.
Well, that statement ran truer then true here.
At first you had thought the phrase to be a running joke among the cowboys who sauntered up to your bar to run you a line while asking for a refill on their drinks. Though with the fair share of men you saw dragged out by the ever-eager buckle bunny through the bar doors right before last call you had come to learn it wasn’t just a phrase.
“Can I get you anything else sugar?” You question as you sit the glass shots on the bar, flipping the liquor of her choice in your hand as you pour over each glass.
The blonde perks up curling a strand of her platinum hair around her finger as she leans up against the bar as to tell you a secret, “actually I do have one more thing, do you know what he drinks?” she questions turning her gaze over her shoulder.
Your eyes follow her movement, gaze falling on the broad-shouldered rider and his team laughing over their pints of beer you ran them earlier in the evening. You’re not surprised he’s what she’s after, he’s made quite the name for himself not only in the PBR but the thirsty barrel as well. You want to tell her to count her losses and find another cowboy, because that one just wasn’t available. You had sent many women his way and many had left his table tail tucked with no hat on their head, and one less drink in their hand. You know she was susceptible to the same fate as the many woman before her but that doesn’t stop you from pouring what you’ve come to learn is his favorite drink.
Maybe she’d finally snatch the hat.
Sliding her shots over along with the added glass you tap the bar, “here you are sugar - holler if you need anything else!”
Her smile is wide, eager as she grabs her drinks from you, “thank you!” she calls over her shoulder. You linger in the area, watching as she struts her way through the crowded floor, determination in her stride as she zeros in on the bull rider and his team.
She saddles up to the table cheerful and eager as most buckle bunnies are, the drink you’ve poured being held out to the man on everyone’s sights tonight. Your attention is short lived though as you’re pulled in by a tipsy patron asking for another round. You’re happy to oblige the pink cheeked man as you grab a chilled glass pouring the preferred choice on tap. You send him off with a sweet smile knowing he’ll saunter back with an empty glass before the hour is up.
You chance a glance back over to his booth then expectant to see the girl saddling her way into the spot next to him, but instead your eyes catch on his awaiting Cerulean blues. There’s a smirk on his pink lips, the chilled glass you just ran in his hand, hat still on his head and not a single sign of the girl you sent his way. He brings the glass up tipping it your way before bringing it to his lips, eyes never leaving yours as he takes that first sip. You want to look away but find it hard, his gaze entrancing as he watches you.
You’ve never been more thankful for the group that saunters up to your side of the bar than, their giggly group effectively breaking your gaze from his. It’s once again a short-lived moment as one of the girls who's gone pink at the cheeks asks if you can run three shots to the table just behind them, you don’t have to glance over to know what table they refer to. “Sure thing sweetheart we run drinks often to the riders, you’d like me to leave them with a message?” You question as you push their drinks out onto the bar, the one who’s gone bashful on you shakes her head, “no thank you just the drinks, and if I can get you one as well for the trouble?”
You’re cooing at her as you thank her , “it’s really no trouble for us here at all honey, we’re always running out drinks to the riders but thank you! I’ll get these over to the them shortly.”
Her group doesn’t linger as they grab their drinks going on their merry way back to the crowded open floor. You pour the three shots out, making sure to grab that extra glass just for you, you would definitely be needing this tonight.
“Leaving the bar!” you get out as you swing out from behind the area, sliding your way past patrons careful not to spill the liquor in your hands. The crowd parts for you as you come up on their booth, Sam, Steve and Bucky sit spread out deep in conversation, “hiya boys,” you greet drawing their eyes, “got a special delivery for you all courtesy of the pretty ladies at the bar” you grin hand delivering the shots to each one.
Sam and Steve thank you sweetly, “that’s awful sweet of you, thank you sweetheart and sorry for all the trouble were giving you tonight.” You wave the bearded blonde off, “s’no trouble at all Stevie, expected nothing less when it came to PBRs hottest.” You grin.
“One of these for you?” Bucky questions having taken notice of the extra shot glass in your hand. Your gaze finds his beneath the brim of his hat, “sure is, courtesy of all the trouble you’ve been giving me,” you tease him, nearly melting under the panty dropping smile he throws at you “boss lets us all have at least one when we’re riding.” You add lifting up the shot glass tilting it towards them.
Sam whistles low, “you taking on the bull tonight? You grin with a nod, “well I'll be damned, definitely going to be the thirsty barrels greatest show tonight.”
Your cheeks warm, “it’ll be the greatest eight seconds of your life or money back guaranteed Wilson.”
“Well here’s to y/n and to the greatest eight seconds!” Steve cheers bringing up his shot glass. The three of you follow suit, the liquor going down smoothly as you tip the shot glass back. Four shot glasses meet the table, a grin kissing your lips as you look over the booth of riders “well gentleman thank you for the company and the drink if you need anything else you know where to find me.” Knocking the table with your fists you turn on your heel intent on heading back to the bar but a hand wrapping around yours stops you from going farther.
Your gaze follows the hand wrapped around your wrist “need something trouble?” you question.
A smile pulls at his pink lips, his hand dropping from yours, his body slipping from the booth easily. He stands closing the distance between the two of you. You watch as the hand that held yours goes for the hat that everyone’s been chasing after. Your breath catches in your throat as he pulls it off, flipping it around before letting it fall over your head, his scent encasing you. Your speechless and you know he knows if that smirk is any indication. “For your ride tonight sweetheart.”
You don’t know what comes over you, maybe it was the liquid courage from the shot you had just chased but the words are out before you can clamp your mouth shut. “You referring to the bull or yourself Barnes?”
Seems you weren’t the only one who gained courage from the shot, “both,” he answers, “though I surely plan on giving you more than eight seconds sweetheart.” Sam whistles, Steve claps the table, and Bucky waits for your response with a devilish grin.
Your tongue runs along your inner cheek, “it’s a good thing I was looking for a ride – meet me after last call.”
Pairing: hockey player!bucky x NHL Photographer! Reader
Warning: Bucky barnes being a heartthrob
Authors Note: another snippet of Bucky and hotshot 🤭
The arena is a buzz of excitement; gold and black line one side, red and blue line the other, the two colors meeting and molding in the middle of each side. You’re at ice-level behind the protective barrier of Plexi-glass as you wait like the many fans for the game to start. Your equipment sits on your chair – a lone stool that has unfortunately seen better days. As you go to get your camera set up you feel your phone vibrate in the confines of your jean pocket.
Plucking your phone from your jeans you see an unread message from Natasha waiting to be opened. A picture of your jacketed back stares back at you, the message below reading,
‘You’d look so much better with your jacket off, a certain right defenseman would agree with me.’
‘It’s cold!’ you shoot back.
‘I left the apartment with you this morning, you have a long sleeve under, black one, remember?”
You curse your roommate under your breath, another message popping up below that one.
‘Take it Off or I’ll personally go take it off!’
‘Shouldn’t you be taking pre-game photos?’
A moment later a photo of Bucky walking in through the backstage of the arena is taking up your screen, he’s wearing a tailored suit, his hair lazily slicked back as he winks at the camera, his all too pink lips curled in a wicked smile. Your heart skips a beat in your chest, your teeth capturing the smile that threatens to break through.
‘Now take it off.’
‘So bossy’ you mutter under your breath as you take off your jacket, your jersey that she gifted you for your birthday now on full display.
‘Happy now?’
Her text takes a while to come in and only then do you realize why when her text comes in with Bucky’s contact attached. A picture of you adorning his jersey pops up a message appearing shortly after.
‘See now that looks so much better! Woops wrong chat..’
You whip your head around trying but failing miserably to find the blonde in question. Your phone vibrates in your hand.
‘Looking Good Hot Shot! Drinks on me after the win..”
‘At least take her to dinner first Barnes.. 😉’
Your cheeks are warm despite the cool air of the arena nipping at your skin as you read the messages transpiring between the two.
‘He didn’t mean it like that Tasha! Besides he’d need to secure a win against the Rangers first.’ is your odd lame of an attempt to dust away any feelings between the two of you your friend is trying to make appear out of thin air.
‘The win was in the bag the second you stepped foot into the arena Hot shot, you wearing my name was just an added bonus, oh I totally meant it like that but can the drinks be on you instead?’ 😉'
‘With all those puck bunnies sporting your last name throwing themselves at you I doubt you’ll remember, but given the chance you remember drinks can be on me.’
“Stop sabotaging yourself.” You jump slightly, hand on your racing chest as you look over your shoulder finding Natasha, her gear tossed over her shoulder, lanyard laid against her chest. She gives you a pointed stare, “you and Barnes have been doing this same old dance for some time now and it’s getting tiring y/n.” She shakes her head at you, “Not like that, this whole will they won’t they, we’re rooting for the two of you y/n. He’s not Brock,” she murmurs her hand reaching out for yours. “He’s reaching, barring his hand to you – you just need to meet him halfway and trust that he’ll catch you, we all know he will, we’re all just waiting for you – he’s waiting for you.”
You suck in a breath at her words, she knew where your uncertainty came from when allowing yourself to feel anything for the bruin's player, “but what if he doesn’t, you saw how -” you shake your head not willing yourself to go back there.
Both your phones vibrate in your hands but you only see yours,
‘Not letting you back out now hotshot because the only bunny I’ll be chasing is you tonight, hopefully the drinks taste as sweet as you.’
Natasha’s grin is evident as she closes in on you one arm going around you as she hooks he chin on your shoulder. “You see!” she points at the screen you still look at. “You’re not wrong about all the puck bunnies sporting his name wanting an inkling of his time, but he only has eyes for you, let him know you see him right back y/n.”
She’s grinning squeezing your arm as she reads your reply,
‘Hope you run just as good as you skate Barnes.’
Natasha throws her head back on a laugh as you pocket your phone reaching for your camera as you get into position the announcements popping up on the screen. “This game just got so much better!”
Red and blue lights flood the arena, the sea of Rangers fans standing tall, getting loud as their teams players flash across the screen. The players glide onto the ice from their opening, circling the arena as they hype their crowd. You’re quick to take notice of a few of the players lingering on your side egging the opposing teams' fans on. It’s short-lived as the screen changes, shades of black and gold flashing, the Bruins players coming onto the screen. The crowd behind you roars in excitement Natasha joining in as you lift your lens, they come in fast and hot as they circle the arena in the same manner. You’re quick to get shots in rapid succession, focusing in on a few personal shots at the player’s that are closest to you.
You spot Sam, the camera finding him easily as he does what he does best. He always gets a kick out of warming up the crowd, getting them riled up for the game. It puts him in the headspace he needs to ensure his team a win. Your camera spots Steve next, he’s gliding closer to where you and Natasha are, a grin pulls at your lips, heartwarming for your friend who gets herself closer to the glass. You capture the moment he comes to a stop in front of the Plexi-glass his gloved hand pressing against where her’s already rests waiting. You lean back a bit to get both of them in the shot you know Natasha would be requesting that photo by the end of the night.
“Kick some ass out there Rogers, give me something to celebrate tonight.”
The dirty blonde taps the glass throwing a wink her way, “Good luck out there Stevie!” you call out, as he turns to skate to where Sam is. A tap on the glass has you turning your head in the other direction, the crowd seemingly getting louder as Bucky approaches you from the opposite side of the glass. You bring your camera up to capture him, a breathtaking smile cutting his lips as he stares at you through the lens of your camera. You notice he doesn’t get as close as Steve does, but he only has eyes for you as he glides across, “this one's for you hotshot!”
“Good luck out there B!” You hide your smile behind the lens of your camera capturing the grin that splits his lips before he’s turning to the call of his name.
The referee's whistle kicks off the game, and its as good of a game as Natasha said it would be.
You don’t set your camera down for a single second of the game as you focus on the players on the ice and capturing ‘the shot’. You’ve managed to dodge a few pucks and players that have flown your way into the glass. It’s fast paced, brutal even as both teams fight to secure that win.
It’s down to the wire now, the crowd is tense as they watch their teams leave it all on the ice. Your cameras resting against your chest, Natasha gripping your hand in hers as your eyes follow the players. “C’mon c’mon, bring it home!” she pleads. You catch the moment Steve begins his move for the winning shot, your camera coming up to follow the game behind the lens of your camera. Bucky and Sam stay in Steve’s line of sight as he passes the puck to Sam, Sam then glides forward Bucky just a few feet off to his side to get the puck from the left defenseman. Capturing the moment Sam makes the pass, you hold your breath as Bucky swings, the buzzer sounds a split second after, the roar of the crowd loud behind you as Natasha jumps into your side her own yells of victory loud in your ear.
“He did it! Y/n he fucking did it!!” She screams shaking you.
You can’t find your voice as your camera shutters away, but the way your heart races, the smile parting your lips gives way to the emotion filling your chest.
“C’mon let’s go!” Natasha urges pulling you along to get the two of you out onto the ice.
You thought the excitement was palpable behind the glass, but it’s electric out on the ice with the celebrating team. You’re capturing as many images of the teams victory as you can before Natasha spots the guys urging you on. You let her go capturing the moment Steve gets her in his arms, the kiss the two share between them. You find Wilson next he’s all smiles at you and your camera as he glides towards you. You lower the lens momentarily to let him pull you in for a bone crushing hug, “you guys did it, I’m so proud of you Sammy!”
His lips press to your head, “it was all for you hotshot, I’ve got to say when your boys determined, he’s determined,” he grins as he pulls away to look down at you.
“It wasn’t just for me, it was for the fans, for the team.” You lamely argue.
His grin only grows, “yeah? Tell him that then.” And then he’s gliding off to the side towards where Natasha and Steve wait. Bucky stands feet away from you grin on his lips, his hair a sweaty mess, your camera comes up. Each shutter brings him closer to you till you have no other choice but to lower the device and take all of him in. He’s barely got his arms open enough before you’re eating up at the last foot between the two of you your arms going around him.
“You did it B, you won!”
His arms wrap tighter around you, his nose buried in your hair, “I told you hotshot, this one was for you and I meant it.”
You lean back taking in the right defenseman, there’s that smile, the one you always find directed at you. “You did, didn’t you,” you breathe unable to look away. “Guess the drinks really are on me tonight.”
He chuckles grin splitting his lips further, “don’t think that’ll be the only thing on you tonight,” he murmurs pulling you closer, his head lowering to yours, he stops just before his lips brush yours. “you gonna let me catch you hotshot?”
Pairing: NHL!Photographer!Reader x Hockey Player!Bucky
Warnings: None except for Bucky Barnes being a heart throb i fear. 😮💨
Authors Note: a little inside dip into the lockscreen fiasco 🤭 Enjoy! Back to the trenches i gooooo!
“Get your damn finger out of the way Barnes, I can’t see – oh wait go back, go back I want to see that one!”
You toggle with your camera flipping back to the previous photo, Sam let’s out a low whistle his hand coming down on your shoulder as he squeezes, “send me that one, I'm making it my lock screen.”
Laughter bubbles up around the booth, “What? Come on what – it’s a great photo, like y'all have never put a photo of yourselves as a lock screen?”
“We’re not all madly in love with ourselves like you are Wilson.” Bucky says from next to you. “Some of us prefer putting things we actually like to look at.” He adds lifting his phone to show a picture of a white fluffy cat spread out on its back across his chest, eyes peacefully closed. You coo over the screen before Sam’s dragging your attention back to him.
“We get it Al’s a cute cat, but I mean come on look at this!” Sam argues as he shows his now updated photo screen. You can’t help the snort that makes its way past your lips, Sam giving you a pointed look, “Really you too? Well come on then let’s see yours hot shot, what do you like to look at?”
Your shaking your head, pointing a finger at him, “hey now don’t drag me into this, this is between you and Barnes.”
Bucky chuckles, “What you got a shirtless guy you don’t want us to see hotshot?” he questions leaning into your side hand going for your phone that sits on the bar top.
You’re quicker as you snatch it up, “You do, don’t you!” Sam joins in also going for your phone now curled in your hand. You swat his hand away, “oh come on show us, show us! Is it me, it’s me isn’t it?” Sam teases as he continues his attempt. “Like who else would it be.”
It wasn’t but God how you were wishing it was. You were thinking your current might be worse if discovered, you were certain you wouldn’t hear the end of it.
“Why do I have to show mine, Natasha and Steve haven’t!” you argue trying to deflect the situation from you. Your tactics seems to work but only momentarily as Steve willingly shows his, a photo similar to Bucky’s stares back at your group you and Natasha cooing over the dog nestled on his lap. Natasha then follows, though begrudgingly she flashes her screen, the teasing coming almost immediately as she shares the photo you got of Steve last week, “oh fuck off,” she laughs brushing it off, “it's what I like to look at!”
You watch as Steve throws his arm around her shoulder pulling her close, “now that’s a great photo.”
“Yeah, yeah whatever,” Sam waves off, his attention now back on you, “it’s your turn hotshot come on let’s see it.”
You’re shaking your head smacking away at Sam’s hands, you knew if he got his hands on your phone you’d be placed in a situation similar to Natasha but seemingly worse. Because while Steve and Natasha were in the beginning of something flourishing between the two of them, you and Bucky were not, you’d barely started to call him a close friend.
“Oh come on now hotshot we showed you ours, now show us yours it’s only fair.” Bucky purrs.
“Fair? Fair?!”
With your attention on Bucky Sam is able to successfully get your phone from your weakened grasp. You can only stare in horror willing the ground to open up and swallow you whole as Sam lights up your lock screen, a photo of Bucky stares back at your group. A grin lights up his features after bringing his team to the first win of the season, you had captured it last year well before you had been signed on with the Bruins. A game Natasha had bought you tickets too after yet another failed rejection letter this one from the Rangers.
“Oh, Ew,” Sam pretends to gag, “I thought we were supposed to put something we liked to look at, do I need to get you some glasses hotshot.”
Sam’s reaction should have you laughing along with the group but all you can manage is a weak chuckle as you reach for your phone, though Bucky’s large hand grabs at it first. The smirk is unmistakable as he takes in your screen “I think her eye sights just fine Wilson, because this, this is a damn good photo, you should send this to me.” He teases, deflecting your hand by gripping it with his hand, his fingers curling around yours, warmth flooding you instantly.
“Man whatever, mines better!”
The table is off in laughter again your embarrassment short-lived as the group launches into a new conversation about grabbing more drinks the lock screens now seemingly forgotten. “You want the same y/n?” Natasha questions as she slides off her stool Steve following her actions, you nod trying to get your phone back, “What about you Barnes?” Sam questions following the duo. “Nah man, I’m good thank you.”
With the rest of your friends disappearing through the crowd, your attention is now solely on the brunette still holding your phone and your hand. “Barnes my phone, give. Me. My. Phone.”
He blocks any feeble attempt you make, “No I don’t think I will,” he grins lighting up your screen, “You like looking at me hotshot?” Bucky teases.
“I like looking at my work yeah.” You huff trying to pry the phone from his hand once more. He chuckles diving out of your reach once more. “Barnes,” you whine sliding off your stool to bring you impossibly closer to the man as you get into his space “my phone, give it back now.”
“Not until you admit you like looking at me hotshot.”
You roll your eyes, stomping your foot, “fine yes you’re nice to look at,” you grumbles as you finally get ahold of your phone, “but that’s not the only reason it’s my lock screen.”
The brunettes intrigued, the hand that’s holding yours not loosening it’s hold as he keeps you there. “Oh? What’s the other reason.”
“That picture gave me hope, it inspired me to keep going when I felt my lowest, showed me that despite what the odds might be, I two could come out on top a winner.”
His grin turns warm, fingers squeezing yours, “m’glad the Rangers dropped the puck then.”
“And why’s that Barnes?” you chuckle backing out of his space to reclaim your seat.
Pairing: NHL!Photographer!Reader x Hockey Player!Bucky
Warnings: Bucky being a heartthrob.
A/N: I've been reading one to many hockey romances and well here we are scratching an itch. I know I would like to eventually come out with a bigger story for these two but for now this is just the start a taste if you will. I'd like to leave this open to suggestion of what y'all would like to see or know about these two if anything.. Hope you enjoy the first taste.
You barely had a chance to unlock your screen to reply to her message before her caller ID
was taking up your screen, a recent photo of her and Steve that she had made as her contact picture pulling a smile onto your lips.
“Tasha.” you answer.
“Y/n, listen I know you were just planning on watching the game from the comfort of your living room but I mean talk about an upgrade! From a television screen to being at the actual game on the floor behind the safety of the glass getting some wicked shots, and no one captures action shots like you do - I promise I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.” she tacks on her voice pleading.
You chuckle, you know had the circumstances been different she’d be one of the first ones at the arena, she hadn’t missed one of Steve’s games yet, not since you had been signed on. “Natasha relax, you know you don’t have to pull out the stops on me, I'll go - do you want me to send you the photos?”
The redhead turned blonde breathes a heavy sigh of relief, “oh god thank you! and if you don’t mind, but take your time, I’m sure a certain bruin's player is going to be demanding your attention after the game especially if they bag a win.” she teases seemingly mentioning the man in your DM’s.
Your cheeks warm, the unread notification from the player she speaks of appearing in your mind, “please Tasha,” you deflect, “it’s the game of the season he’ll have plenty of attention with all the puck bunnies sporting his name on their jersey throwing themselves at him for an inkling of his attention.” you murmur picking at an invisible speck of lint on your sweater as you stand from the couch, intent on getting your things packed to head out.
“And yet he only seems to want yours,” she sings, “you should totally wear the jersey I got you for your birthday.”
You roll your eyes smile pulling at your lips, “is your flight really delayed, do I have to text Steve?”
Your friend laughs, “unfortunately it is and hey thank you again for this, I owe you, love you, oh and send me a picture of Steve, one of you and Bucky too!”
You shake your head as your friend rushes out her farewell your screen now gone black as you look down at it “looks like pjs are out of the question for tonight” you murmur continuing on through your apartment to grab your things Bucky’s text still sitting in your messages unanswered.
He’d have his answer soon enough.
🏒🖤
The cool of the arena’s backstage floor seeps through your jeans, your tripod sitting off to the side, your camera nestled in your hands as you wait for the first few players of the bruins to make their arrival.
Your camera goes up; the first of the team to come through the backdoors is the Bruins coach Fury, he spots you smile on his face his hand coming up in a greeting as you get your first arrival shot of the day. Slowly players begin to trickle in, most of them spot you posing for you as they stride by, others walk by with a simple wave their heads already in the game.
Speaking of head in the game center Steve Rogers makes his way in, his suit pressed, duffle thrown over his shoulder as he owns the floor. “Looking good Rogers, say you wouldn’t have Natasha tucked away in that duffle by chance?” you tease grinning behind your camera. You laugh at the grin that breaks his lips, a shake of his head as he directs his gaze at you, “can assure you Natasha wouldn’t be packed in my bag, she’d be hanging on my arm.” You coo at the bearded blonde, “you think you can say that again I didn’t have my phone out.”
The two of you laugh as you capture a few more shots, “Come on Rogers leave some love for the rest of us, you already have your face glued on billboards!”
Left defenseman Sam Wilson is striding in next million dollar smile painted on his lips like the suit he wears on his skin. “But no one has their face printed on as many shirts like you do Wilson, now give me something new to look out for will ya, want to make sure these etsy sellers get only the best!” Wilson eats your words up, feeding the fans through your film. He comes closer kneeling to your level to pull you in for a hug, “it’s good to see you hot shot, thought you weren’t coming out tonight with how Barnes was moping.”
Your heart beats like a wild drum in your chest, “Tasha’s flight got delayed, cashed in her IOU, so here I am and surely your version of Barnes moping is different from mine.”
“Oh man you should of seen him, had to smack the phone out of his hands with how often he was checking it, you’re gonna join us tonight after the win right?”
“You Bruins are so sure about that win,” you laugh.
“That’s because it’s in the bag, hot shot.” It takes everything in you not to snap your eyes to the broad shoulder right defenseman sauntering into the building. “Here comes your boy.” Sam chuckles patting your shoulder as you find said man with your camera lens. You wanted to eat him up like he was eating at your film.
Like Sam Bucky strolls till he’s standing above you, grin pulling at his pink lips as he offers you his hand. You set your camera down gently against your chest before taking his offer, warmth seeping though you at your hand wrapped in his. “Thought you weren’t gonna show.” He murmurs watching you.
“Well as enticing as staying in my pjs on my couch with a glass of wine watching the game tonight sounded IOUs are a serious thing to cash in.” you say struggling to keep his gaze, you were certain you’d turn into a puddle of goo soon.
“More enticing then upgrading your lock screen?”
You let out a groan reaching out to smack his chest, but his hand captures yours instead keeping it there a teasing smile playing at his lips. “You’re never going to let that go are you?” you question recalling the night at the bar that he discovered himself as your lock screen. To be fair it was one of your favorite shots you had captured at the beginning of the seasons. It didn’t hurt that he was your favorite Bruin player to follow on and off the ice.
“Never, though I’m hoping by the end of the night ill see a photo of me after the win.” He chuckles thumb running over your hand.
“You’d have to secure a win first Barnes.”
Your breath catches in your chest as he closes the distance between the two of you, “I’ve already won though.”
Your reply is caught on your tongue, Fury voice breaking through the haze, “Barnes you’ll have time to catch up with y/n later get your ass in the lockers now!”
Bucky let’s your hand falling, chuckle brewing in his chest as he steps back, “hope you’re not watching Wilson or Rogers to closely tonight hotshot because this wins for you, and I’m going to be the one bringing it home.”
You watch him walk away, his gaze lingering on you till he disappears through the locker room.
Warnings: A teeny sprinkle of angst. Sweet moments with Bucky Barnes.
Author's Note: My possibly poor attempt at returning to writing? Back to the abyss i go!
Another failed date.
You trudged the stairs up to your apartment, heels in one hand, your shared key in the other. The feeling of disappointment looming over you like a dark cloud with each step up the flight of stairs you took closer to your landing.
The self-deprecating part of your mind wrapped its clawed hand around your throat ‘maybe it is you’ it whispered harshly into your ear. And with each failed date, try as you may to shake the feeling you were beginning to believe maybe it was.
Tonight? The straw that broke the camel's back.
Forcing yourself up the last step your bare feet hit the wooden landing of your floor carrying you the rest of the distance to your apartment door. You stop a foot away from the pristine white door letting out a silent breath of air, your eyes slipping shut as you let the disappointment of the evening wash over you.
Maybe it was time to take a break you thought as you willed the feeling away, you knew your family and friends meant well but you weren’t sure you could bear another let down. You were growing tired of putting in your all only to be met with less of the effort you put in.
“The night’s still young,” you told yourself as you slid your house key into the door unlocking it “the couch and a glass of wine is calling your name you -” your words fail you, your steps halting at the open threshold, hand frozen on the door as you take in the sight before you.
Bucky stands by the couch, popcorn bowl in hand, his eyes sincere, smile warm and comforting, “there’s a glass of wine on the table for you,” he speaks softly, “wasn’t sure what movie you would want for the night, but it is your night to choose, go get comfortable,” he adds with a tilt of his head to the hallway where your rooms are, “I’ll be waiting.”
“How did you?” is all you can manage as you push the door shut.
He shakes his head, smile tugging at his lips ever so slightly, “I was hoping I would be wrong and that I would have to eat all this popcorn by myself; I know how much you were looking forward to this date – just wanted to have something ready for you in case it hadn’t gone to plan.”
Your heels fall to the floor with a thud as you close the distance between you and your best friend your arms going around his neck. The comforting weight of his arm against your back has you letting out a shaky breath, “thank you.” He presses his lips to the side of your head, “no need to thank me you would have done the same for me sweetheart, now go get in your pj’s and you can tell me all about it.”
“Jesus,” Bucky breathed, “He might as well have just gone on a date with his secretary, what the hell was he thinking talking about another women the whole night!”
“That’s exactly how I felt!” you groaned grabbing a handful of popcorn, “and apparently nothing because no matter how I tried to redirect our conversation it was always ‘oh she loves that,’ or ‘oh that’s her favorite too.’ or ‘Oh what do you think about this, she thinks this.’” You shake your head, picking at the popcorn in your hand, “I just don’t get it, like is it me? Is something wrong with me? This is the fifth failed date this month.”
“Hey, c’mon now don’t say that,” he comforts, hand finding your leg, “if anything’s wrong it’s the guys you’re going on dates with not being able to see what’s right in front of them sweetheart. Maybe it’s time you try a different approach, these meatheads just don’t seem to be cutting it, you need someone who’s going to see you.”
You see me, you think, your heart pattering away in your chest as you take in the broad man sat on the couch with you, the sweet words he shares, the night he put together in case it all went wrong. Why couldn’t it have been him? Why couldn’t he be yours?
He squeezes your leg, concern in his gaze, “hey, what’s wrong?”
You shake your head the gloomy feeling threatening to return, now was not the time to think of your best friend. “Nothing B, m’just tired is all, I’m fine though, I promise.”
You know he doesn’t believe you when he plucks the bowl from between you leaning forward to place the bowl on the coffee table. He’s opening his arms to you a moment later fingers wiggling you to come closer, “c’mere,” he beckons.
“Buck,” you laugh, “I said I’m fine.”
His hands are on you, “you’ve never been able to lie to me, come here,” he chuckles pulling until your moving, molding into his warm embrace. His head rests over yours, hands running along your back comfortingly.
“I really am fine, I just think it's time to put the idea of finding someone right now on the back burner,” you murmur melting further into his side, “ I’m honestly tired of disappointment after disappointment, the only time I’m not disappointed is once I get home, which again thank you,” you say leaning back slightly to meet his gaze, “you didn’t have to but it means so much that you did this – that you thought of me.”
“You’ve done the same for me y/n, every failed date you were right here sitting, waiting with chips and a beer ready to hear all about my night. Even the ones I thought went well only to never hear from them again you were right here.”
“I swear those women were blind as bats to pass you up.”
His chuckle rumbles in his chest, “feelings mutual sweetheart.”
Your head finds his shoulder, his head falling over yours once more, “Hey should we adopt a cat?”
“Adopt a cat?” he questions.
“Yeah, so we can get started early,” you muse, your joke landing as you feel his laugh rumble against your side.
“Yeah, yeah let’s adopt a cat.” he states matter of factly.
You nearly knock him in the chin with how fast you move back to look at him, “wait really? We can really adopt a cat?” you gleam eyes bright.
He laughs at your excitement, “Yes y/n, it’s a date, we can go adopt a cat.”
Your breath catches in your throat, “a date,” you say tasting the words on your tongue. You’re not sure what to make of the expression on his features, your heart not allowing you to get your hopes up in fear of getting hurt.
“Yes, a date, and hey If I mess it up, which something tells me that’s a long shot, at least I’ll know exactly how to remedy it.”
Your heart pounds in your chest like a wild drum, you would swear you were dreaming if it weren’t for his very vivid warmth plastered against your side. “I don’t think you’ll need to,” is what you manage to say, because there was no way he could mess up when he’s been picking up everyone else’s failure.
His smile is warm, you’ve never ached to kiss him more, “give me a few dates then you can decide yeah?”
“A few dates?” you question, smile mirroring his own.
“Yeah, let me be your different approach.”
You grow shy under the intense sincerity of his gaze, your head finding his shoulder, as you breathed him in. “I’d really like that B,” you whisper after a moment.
“I promise this won’t change the number of cats we adopt.”
That has a fully belly laugh erupting past your lips, Bucky following suit as he pulls you closer.
And it was in that moment that you realized you might already love him.
Authors Note: I apologize immensely for the delay but my mental health has absolutely tanked in the last three weeks. I have fought enough to feel a semblance of normal and was able to put this chapter together. I hope you all enjoy, and look forward to the groveling and ass kissing our guys gonna do. Love, and many thanks, happy reading. 🤍
Bucky thinks he finally understands vividly the phrase ‘so close, yet so far’.
The two of you have been married a little over a week and it’s as if nothing has changed, he still barely see’s you despite the two of you living in the same house. You’re asleep when he arrives, and you’re gone when he wakes, and despite his best efforts, you’ve managed to avoid him at every turn.
He knows there is no excuse you could give him, no longer any reason for you to still be actively avoiding him the way you have. And while he’d give just about anything to have you at least talk to him about what troubles you, to enjoy his presence the way you had the night of your wedding, he doesn’t want to push when your discomfort is so obvious.
So he gives you time.
The first two days he gave you all the space you could have possibly wanted making himself scarce, but as the third came and went as did the days that followed, he found his patience running quite thin, an underlying hurt brewing deep within his chest.
Your close friends had all but advised against his plan to confront you.
‘She just needs time pal, she’s working through a lot of emotions, don't get a hot head because she’s coping in the only way she’s known, let her come to you when she’s ready.’
‘Listen, I’d avoid you too if I had to marry an ugly mug like yours.’
‘She’s conflicted B, she’s had her happiness ripped from her before, she’s been placed in uncomfortable situations without having anyone check up on her well-being, she’s putting herself first for the first time in a very long time. Don’t mess this up, because she won’t be the only one you lose this time around.’
He had taken their words to heart, but that wasn’t going to stop him. He just wanted to talk to you, to feel a sense of normalcy in your shared marriage, he wanted you to be happy, genuinely happy. Bucky wanted you to want to be in this marriage not because it was asked of the two of you but because it was something you genuinely wanted. He knew it was a lot to ask of you, but he would do so anyway.
Or at least he was going to try.
You're finalizing emails to meet with the other heads sometime this week when a knock stills your fingers on the keys and draws your gaze from the screen. You call out for them to enter, you weren’t sure who you were expecting but you hadn’t been expecting him. You only barely manage to conceal your shock.
“Bucky, what are you doing here?” You question unable to help the way your eyes flicker to the time on your desktop, you were certain you had mastered the times you arrived home. Your eyes flicker back to his, “I was just about to make my way to the house I would have met you there.” You lie.
He offers you a smile that barely meets his eyes as he closes the door behind him, your heart races in your chest as he closes the distance between the two of you. You watch as he rounds your desk, he stops to lean against it, his eyes taking you in.
“Is everything okay?” you worry somethings happen, with his sudden appearance.
“I don’t know y/n, is everything okay?” he questions in return.
“Well yes,” you answer, “I was just -” He stops you mid statement, he doesn’t want another lie from you.
“Don’t,” he shakes his head, “don’t do that sweetheart, don’t hide behind another lie, we both know you’ve been actively avoiding me since our first night home after our wedding, and you’ve been doing so since we signed that contract Monday, and somehow that feels worse than when you would cancel on me when I was with your sister, at least then I wasn’t catching on to the lies you made to get out of it.” Your eyes shut on a shaky exhale, “Talk to me,” he pleads, worried you’ll continue to shut him out, “tell me what I can do to make this right. This isn’t what I want for our marriage I don’t want -”
Your eyes snap open, “and you think this is what I want, you think this is how I wanted our marriage to go?” you question looking up at him in disbelief. “There may have been a time where I envisioned vividly what our marriage would be like but – I,” you shake your head unable to speak on that night right now. “I don’t know how to do this,” you continue, “I’m not even sure how to feel because before all of this,” you gesture between you, “I was certain with all finality that you’d be nothing more than someone I called a friend, my brother in law, my sisters husband and I was finally coming to terms with that, I was finally starting to feel okay with it. But just like that night I’ve had the rug ripped out from right under me yet again and I’m scared Bucky! I’m scared that it’ll happen again, that I will get too close, get too comfortable – fall in love – and with a snap of a finger it’ll all be taken away. I can’t go through that again.”
I don’t think I’d survive a second time.
“Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it,” he knows he’s pleading again, but he wants to do right by you, he wants to right his wrongs. “You’re my wife now y/n your happiness is above anyone else’s, I made vows to you that evening, vows I intend to keep. Please tell me how to fix this.”
The tone of his voice almost breaks you, has your resolve crumbling.
“That’s just the thing B, I don’t know.” You answer truthfully. “How do I come out from behind her shadow if everywhere I look it reminds me of her, of everything she had, everything she took from me that should have been mine. I can’t even look at you without being reminded -” you shake your head looking away from his cerulean blues as you press your fingers into your eyes willing away the sting of tears.
You feel your chair being pulled to where he knows kneels before you, gentle hands prying your from your face. You can’t bring yourself to open your eyes, “y/n, sweetheart look at me,” he murmurs, “please.”
Your eyes slip open, to find his waiting gaze, “you are my wife. And ill be damned if you feel anything but. Please give me the chance to give you the marriage you deserve the one you are worthy of, I know you don’t want too, and maybe I shouldn’t ask, but let me try, let me try to be the man that is worthy of you.”
He can see the hesitation in your gaze as you look down at your intertwined hands, “what if she comes back? Decides she wants you back.”
He runs his thumb along your wedding band drawing both your gazes there. “I made a promise to you, I recited my vows to you,” your gazes find one another, “I am faithful to you. My wife.”
“But what if -” he chuckles shaking his head, “There are not what ifs, I’m. Yours.” He’s squeezing your hands in his, “give me a chance, give us a chance, let’s try.”
Your hearts beating like a wild drum in your chest, “Okay. Let’s try.”
