Are You Open to the Idea of Nude Modeling? :: Sweet Pea Imagine
Drawing by yours truly.
Summary: Transferring to Riverdale high wasn’t easy for Sweet Pea and when he meets an eccentric art student it gets all that much more difficult to settle into the school. It was easy to deal with the Bulldogs who were constantly trying to pick fights with him and his friends so why was it so hard to deal with a single girl who kept pestering him to explore the world of nude modeling?
Word count: 12K
Warnings: Coarse language, humiliation, bullying, sexual references
Author’s note: I haven’t written anything in over a year so of course I find the weeks nearing the end of my thesis to start writing for something no one asked for LOL. And since I’m terrible with finishing pieces in chapters I MADE THIS MONSTROSITY.
I skid to a stop at the entrance of Riverdale high right as the first warning alarm sounded. With a yawn I step onto the tail of my skateboard so it met with my hand midway. Holding the metal bearing on the wheels I push through the front doors to find myself engulfed amongst the mob of students. I could hear the rowdy hollers coming down the halls, unmistakably belonging to the Bulldogs. Unlike everyone else it was way too early for me to have my curiosity peaked by their commotion, so without a glance in their direction I weave my way through the hoard to get to my locker absentmindedly trading my board for the thick math textbook. As I began to walk to my morning class Kevin fell in step with me.
“Good morning [Y/N]!” he smiles.
I quirk a brow at him as I notice that there was a slight bounce in his step, “Did you get laid or something? What got you so cheery this Monday morning?” I laugh.
Kevin scoffs, “Oh god I wish!” he dreamily sighs as he tugs on the collar of his sweater, “But I have high hopes now with the Serpents transferring here.”
I tilt my head in confusion and he laughs rolling his eyes, “You got to get your head out of the clouds once in a while! Didn’t you hear the commotion? The Bulldogs were going bat shit crazy in some weird protest about the Serpents transferring.”
I gasped opening the classroom’s door for the both of us, “Oh right! Yes!”
Kevin wipes a mock tear as he plops down at the desk beside me, “Goodbye my dear friend, I guess I won’t be seeing you around now since your best friend is back.”
Laughing I shake my head, “That isn’t true, besides, Jughead’s probably too busy showing his friends around or protecting them from…well, everyone here. So you’re not getting rid of me that easily,” I muse with a smile.
Math class was a blur.
I couldn’t focus on the blackboard and scratchy white numbers plaguing the surface so I decide to take a nap. Opening my textbook I burry my head into the crevice and successfully dozed off. However, I awake with a jolt as someone tapped my shoulder.
I yell, “TWENTY FOUR!”
The class erupted in laughter and the teacher shook his head with a sigh, “Sleeping again are we, Miss. [Y/L/N]? I would give you detention like last time but you just ended up sleeping there too.”
Blood flushes to my cheeks as I mumble out an apology a waiting for him to return to his lesson. When he finally does, I whip around to see the culprit who exposed me. There sat a new face. The olive skin boy clad in leather stifles a laugh with his knuckles but the smile crept into his eyes.
He composes himself terribly and slides his hand away from his mouth, displaying his perfect pearly whites in a grin, “I’m sorry, I just wanted to ask if you had a pencil I could borrow.”
I try hard to hold a stern face but an airy laugh escapes past my lips, “How in the world can you forget to bring a pencil on your first day of school?” I tease passing him my pencil.
The cute boy grins taking the pencil from my fingers, “I’m Fangs.”
I smile turning back around. Noticing without fail Kevin’s gapping mouth at the boy who sat behind me for the remainder of the class.
-
Finally the only class that I looked forward to: art class. I made my way into the classroom and was welcomed by the faint scent of acrylic paint. Grabbing a canvas from the rack I place it on the easel and began setting up my workspace. It was quiet as I move the jars of paint from my cubby to a small table that sat beside my easel. Until two sets of heavy boots echo in the empty room.
A familiar voice calls out, “Hey twenty four!”
Without lifting my head to meet his gaze I shake my head with a small laugh, “Don’t tell me you forgot an eraser now, Buffy.”
The male outwardly giggles making his way over to where I stood. I finally look up only to see Fangs accompanied by a much taller, darker, and handsome companion. My curious eyes meet his and he glowers down at me with a snarl before facing his friend, “You’re already cozying up with the Northsider trash?” he says exposing his perfectly sculpted profile for me. To the slope of his nose, plump lips, chiselled jaw, and the ink that hugged his thick neck, it was evident that god definitely spent extra time on him.
Fangs open his mouth to say something but before he could, I beat him to it, “Fuck, you’re beautiful!” I exclaim.
The tall male whips his face in my direction and his eyes widen to the size of saucers as I step forward to grab his face in my hands. Mesmerized, I tilt his head around carefully with the pads of my fingers so I could get a better look at his features. Satisfied, I squished his cheeks with the palm of my hands, “Are you open to the idea of nude modeling?”
“W-Wha?!” he splutters taking a step back and tempting to cover his dusted pink cheeks with his hand that was adorning multiple rings.
“Oh! Look at that!” I muse grabbing his hand, “Your body proportions, face, and even fingers are perfection. Seriously, it would be a waste if you don’t.”
He flinches, retracting his hand to his face as if I burned him. Fangs finally broke out from shock and laughs hard enough to draw tears. He clutches his stomach with one hand while the other flailed around slapping his flustered friend’s back.
“Yeah Sweet Pea! Don’t let god’s work be in vain,” Fangs wheeze clutching the tall male’s shoulder for support.
Before I could comment on his adorable name, students start flooding into the room. Judging by how he played with the helm of his leather jacket and how he chewed on his bottom lip, I could tell he was trying to compose himself to keep up with his scary bad boy rep. Which I understood, so I gave him a break and sat down in my seat. Fangs and Sweet Pea follow suit taking a seat beside me.
The teacher gives us an assignment brief and we were off to work on our own devices. The class goes by relatively smoothly, most likely due to the fact that the art kids usually didn’t care much about gossip regarding the new additions to our class seeing that we were usually the weirdoes of Riverdale high anyways, of course along side the typical nerds.
I look away from my canvas to steal a glance at Sweet Pea who was intently mixing colours on a palette. Oh gosh, he was so cute. Sweet Pea suddenly looks up and meets my gaze, his cheeks burning red as he forcibly looks away to aggressively apply his newly mixed paint onto his canvas. Drifting away from Sweet Pea’s, probably not intentional, abstract piece, I look over to Fang’s canvas. I burst out laughing but thankfully no one paid much mind as they were absorbed in their own conversations and music. On Fang’s canvas was a poorly drawn stick figure in the “draw me like one of your French girls” pose with an arrow pointing to the figure with “Sweet Pea” roughly scribbled in a fat paintbrush. However, my laugh did catch the attention of the said male so when he looked up from his own canvas he also saw Fang’s masterpiece. His nose scrunches up as he playfully punches Fang in the shoulder as he did nothing to defend himself but laugh hysterically.
“That could be us but you playin,” I sing making sure to catch Sweet Pea’s gaze before turning away.
He scoffs rolling his eyes, “Yeah, in your dreams perv.”
I smile, “Oh yeah, you will definitely be in my dreams beanstalk,” I say teasingly.
Sweet Pea opens his mouth, but before he could make another snarky remark the bell rings signalling for lunch. Everyone hustles to clean up as I continue to work on my painting. Bidding farewell to my new acquaintances results in a cheery “see ya!” from Fangs and a mere glance from Sweet Pea. However, despite his cold shoulder and his understandable despise for the Northside I was determined to get him to model for me.
Sweet Pea’s POV
Fangs and I made it to the rendezvous spot, Jughead’s locker.
Jughead raises a brow at me as I sigh and lean against a locker, “Someone gave you a hard time Sweet Pea?”
Fangs answers for me but not without letting out a snort, “Yup.”
I groan, “I just met the weirdest girl in my art class.”
Toni wiggles her eyebrows and nudges my stomach teasingly, “Is she cute?”
“Kinda,” I shrug, “I mean she’s okay for a Northsider.”
With that Jughead tries to stifle a laugh, “You probably met [Y/N]. Did she ask if you would be interested in nude modeling for her?”
The blood rises to my face once again for the third time today, “Yes! Does she do that to everyone?”
Jughead smirks at my flustered state, “No, only to the really handsome guys. Okay, this is important. Did she call you handsome or beautiful?”
I chuckle proudly, “She actually called me perfection.”
Toni bursts out laughing throwing herself at Fangs, “Do you hear this?!”
Fangs nodded enthusiastically, “I was there man!!! It was so fucking hilarious! You should’ve seen Pea’s face it was priceless.”
I glare at the two buffoons I deem my best friends.
Jughead sucks in a sharp breath as he nervously readjusts his beanie, “Perfection, huh? You are in some deep shit just a heads up. She only ever called one person that before you,” he says trying to keep a stoic face but the twitch at the corner of his lips shows his enthusiasm regarding the whole situation, “She’s going to be after your naked ass.”
I scratch my cheek, “She scares me,” I confess before breaking into a shit eating grin, “And honestly I kinda like it.”
Toni wipes the tears from her eyes, “Oh my god Pea! What the fuck!” she exclaims still hysterically laughing.
Jughead shakes his head still amused as ever, probably the most amused I’ve seen him ever, “Trust me. You have every right to be scared, my dad is still shaken up.”
“FP?” Fangs questions loudly before I could.
He nods, “Yup,” he says popping the ‘p’, “I never seen him make an excuse about Serpent business and dipping so quick. She pestered him for WEEKS saying how he was perfection and how god spent extra time on him,” Jughead explains half out of breath from laughing so hard.
All of us burst out laughing harder if that was even physically possible seeing that Toni and Fangs already had tears streaming down their faces. We only stop when our stomachs start to cramp and growl from hunger. Jughead cocks his head to the cafeteria, “Come on, I’m starving. And don’t worry [Y/N] spends her lunch break in the art room you will be safe Mr. Perfection.”
I roll my eyes at his newfound nickname that I know without a doubt would be used for the rest of the week. Walking into the cafeteria and taking a big waft of the food I found myself pretty excited. The food smells so much better than the slop we were served at Southside high, and I would never admit it but I was excited to see if I had any remaining classes with the weird art girl after lunch.
Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives
Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries
The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.
Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.
Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.
Then you’re moving.
You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.
“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”
A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”
He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”
“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”
Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.
The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.
There’s so much blood.
“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”
Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”
“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”
“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”
“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”
“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.
You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.
“Sir, I need you to sit down-”
“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”
“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”
He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.
You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”
But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.
You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.
Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.
“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”
“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”
“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”
“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”
You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.
“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”
Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.
The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.
You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.
You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.
Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.
“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.
Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.
You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.
“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”
His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.
“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.
Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-
No. You push the thoughts away.
“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”
“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”
“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”
You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.
“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”
You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.
Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.
Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.
“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”
“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.
Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.
You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.
“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”
Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.
The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.
“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”
But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.
“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”
You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.
“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”
The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”
“Med student. Second year.”
“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.
You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.
“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”
“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.
“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”
“But-”
“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”
You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.
Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.
Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.
“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”
“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”
But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.
The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.
“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”
You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?
The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Except it’s not.
As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.
You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.
Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.
Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.
You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.
Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.
The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.
You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.
You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.
“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”
Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.
All you can do is wait.
And hope.
And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.
***
The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”
“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.
“Fuck off, I was screened-”
“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”
Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.
He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.
“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.
Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.
At seven in the morning.
On a Saturday.
“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”
There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.
“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”
“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”
Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.
“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”
“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”
“I need you to sit down, son.”
The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.
“What happened?”
Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”
Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”
“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”
The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”
“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”
Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.
Beau.
Critical condition.
The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.
“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.
“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.
Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.
“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”
“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”
“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”
The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.
Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-
No. No, he’s not going there.
“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”
“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.
“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”
“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.
Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”
The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.
They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more.
Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.
Beau is his brother.
And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-
No. Stop. Don’t think it.
“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.
They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.
“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”
They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?
They round a corner, and Dean sees them.
The waiting room is full of Maxwells.
Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.
They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.
His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.
“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.
She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”
That’s what breaks him.
Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.
“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”
Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”
Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.
“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”
He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.
“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”
Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.
“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”
“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”
“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.
Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”
Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.
“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”
“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”
The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.
“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.
“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”
He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.
“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”
Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.
Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.
“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”
Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.
“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”
“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.
“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”
“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.
“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”
“Dean-” Garrett starts.
“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”
The doors to the surgical wing swing open.
The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.
Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.
“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”
The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.
“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”
“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.
“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”
“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”
The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”
“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”
The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”
“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”
“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”
The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”
“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”
After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.
Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.
Gratitude.
“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”
“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”
“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”
Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.
“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”
“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”
“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”
Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.
“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”
Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”
“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”
Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.
“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”
“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”
Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.
His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.
Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.
Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.
“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”
He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.
His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.
Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.
Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.
But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.
Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.
“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.
Garrett looks over. “Who?”
“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”
“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”
Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.
And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.
***
The world comes back in pieces.
First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.
Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”
That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.
“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.
“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”
Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.
***
The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.
The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.
“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.
“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.
“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”
“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”
Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.
“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”
He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.
“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”
Footsteps. Fast.
Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.
“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”
“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.
“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”
That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.
“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”
“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.
“Good. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.” Duh.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”
His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.
The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”
After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.
“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.
Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”
Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”
His parents exchange a look.
“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”
“A branch?”
“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”
Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”
“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”
A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.
“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.
“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”
“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.
“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”
A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.
“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”
“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”
“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”
Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.
“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”
Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.
“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”
“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.
It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.
“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.
“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”
The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.
Instead, a young woman steps in.
She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”
“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”
She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”
She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”
You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”
“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”
Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.
“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”
“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”
Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.
“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”
You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”
“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”
“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”
You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.
Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.
Because holy shit.
You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-
Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.
“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”
You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”
“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”
“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”
“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”
“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”
“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”
You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”
“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”
“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”
“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”
You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.
“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”
“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.
“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”
“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”
You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.
“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.
“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”
“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.
You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.
“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”
“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.
You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”
“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.
You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”
“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”
Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”
Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.
You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”
“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.
You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”
Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”
“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”
“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”
“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.
“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”
“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.
You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.
The room is silent for exactly three seconds.
“Dude,” Dean says.
“Not now,” Beau replies.
“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”
“Dean-”
“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”
“I was perfectly respectful-”
“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”
“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”
“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”
“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.
“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”
Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”
“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”
“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”
“Dean, I swear-”
“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.
“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”
“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.
After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.
“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”
“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”
“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”
“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”
“You believe in fate?”
“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”
Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.
“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.
“Probably,” Dean agrees.
“And I think I’m in love.”
Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”
“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.
“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”
“I know what I feel.”
Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”
“I really mean it.”
“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”
“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”
“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”
“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”
“Something like that.”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”
“I’ll convert her.”
“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”
“She’s competitive. I like that.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”
“Her name is Y/N.”
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.
His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.
But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.
Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.
And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.
“Dean?” He says.
“Yeah?”
“Help me figure out what to text her.”
Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”
They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.
After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.
Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.
Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.
***
The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.
“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”
Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.
Now, he’s doing pull-ups.
“One,” he grunts.
“Good. Keep that form.”
“Two.”
“Breathe through it.”
“Three.”
“Two more. You’ve got it.”
“Four.” His arms are shaking.
“Last one. Make it count.”
Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.
“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”
“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.
“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”
It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.
After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.
And one from you.
Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?
Beau smiles, typing back quickly.
Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.
Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.
Beau: I did five pull-ups.
Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!
Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.
Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.
Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.
Y/N: You’re impossible.
Beau: You love it.
There’s a pause.
Y/N: Maybe a little.
Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.
You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.
The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.
He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.
Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”
But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.
His phone buzzes again.
Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.
Beau: What’s wrong?
Dean: Just get here. It’s important.
Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.
He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?
Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.
“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”
Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”
“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”
“I wasn’t dead.”
“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”
“Everyone?”
“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”
“Dean-”
“And Y/N.”
Beau freezes. “What?”
Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”
“You invited—without asking me-”
“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”
“By ambushing me?”
“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”
***
The party is, objectively, insane.
By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.
Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.
“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“That’s just my face.”
“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”
Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”
“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.
“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.
“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”
“I don’t—we’re friends.”
“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”
“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.
“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”
“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”
“I’m not-”
“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”
Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.
“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.
“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”
Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.
And there you are.
You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.
“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.
“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.
You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.
“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.
“I am talking to her.”
“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”
Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.
“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”
“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”
“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”
Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Just open it.”
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.
Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”
“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”
“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”
You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.
Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”
The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.
“Oh no,” Beau mutters.
“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.
“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”
The crowd is silent, watching.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”
You look mortified. “Dean-”
“Stand up!”
Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.
“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”
Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.
“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”
He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”
“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.
You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.
“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”
Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.
“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.
“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”
“That’s not-”
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.
You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”
“Rome didn’t have vodka.”
“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”
You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”
Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.
“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.
One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.
Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.
“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.
You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”
“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”
“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.
“You love me too!”
“Debatable!”
You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.
“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”
He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.
“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”
“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”
“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”
“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”
“I was just doing what anyone would do.”
“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”
You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”
You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”
“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”
“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”
“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.
“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”
“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”
“Really?” Your voice is soft.
“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”
“I always believed in you,” you whisper.
“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”
You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”
“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”
“You were on a lot of pain meds.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”
“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.
“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”
Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.
The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.
Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.
You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.
Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”
Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.
“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.
“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.
“They’re cat-calling.”
“Still don’t care.”
You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.
“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”
“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”
“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”
Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.
“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”
From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.
“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.
“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.
You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.
“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”
You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.
Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”
“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.
“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”
“You’re the worst.”
“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”
“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.
Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”
Beau looks at you. You look back.
“It’s a thing,” you say.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.
“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”
“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.
The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.
Better than right.
Perfect.
Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.
“To second chances,” he says.
“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.
“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.
“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.
“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.
“To fate,” Beau agrees.
And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.
Life is short. Second chances are rare.
And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.
***
The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.
Well, mostly empty.
“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”
Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”
“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”
“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”
“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”
“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”
“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.
Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”
“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.
Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.
Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.
It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.
Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.
You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”
“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”
“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”
“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”
“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.
You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”
“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.
Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”
“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”
“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”
The effect is immediate and bizarre.
Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.
“Did you just say-” you start.
“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.
“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”
But it’s too late.
You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.
“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.
“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”
“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.
You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.
“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.
“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.
Dean stares. Just stares.
“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.
“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.
“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”
You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.
There’s a moment of silence.
Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.
“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”
“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”
“And when you said whipped into shape-”
“We just had to,” you finish together.
Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”
“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.
“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”
“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”
“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.
“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”
Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.
And Dean …
Dean has a moment.
He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.
It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.
It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.
And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.
The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.
Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.
It was fate.
It had to be.
Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?
The odds were astronomical.
And yet here you both are.
“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?
“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”
The question hangs in the air.
You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.
“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”
“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”
“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”
“I absolutely would,” you confirm.
“-but someday. Definitely someday.”
Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”
“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.
“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”
“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”
“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”
“That’s not-”
Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.
“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”
“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.
You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”
“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”
“I can live with that,” you say softly.
You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.
Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”
“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”
“Don’t,” Dean warns.
“We’ve got to-”
“No-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.
“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.
“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.
“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.
“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”
“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.
“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”
“That sounds like innuendo.”
“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”
Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”
“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.
“You’re having them three feet away from me!”
“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.
The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.
Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.
And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.
He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.
He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.
And he’s going to tell them that he knew.
He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.
And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.
Summary: you’re the first woman to play in the NHL, and the weight of history sits heavy on your shoulders. Every save is scrutinized. Every mistake dissected. You didn’t fight your way through lawsuits and locker room doubt just to be a curiosity, you came here to win. Then your captain starts looking at you like you’re more than just his goalie. And suddenly, the hardest save you’ll ever have to make has nothing to do with the puck.
(This was written before the trade and I don’t have the energy to go through and change pretty much everything, so it takes place in Vancouver)
The timeline of your life is measured not in years, but in the scrape of blades on ice. It’s measured in the sting of a frozen puck against your blocker, the muffled thud against your pads. It’s a staccato rhythm of saves and shots, of locker room speeches and the lonely quiet of the crease.
It started on a frozen pond behind your house, bundled in so many layers you could barely move, your dad lacing up your first pair of tiny skates. He’d shoot worn-out tennis balls at you, and you’d kick them away with a defiant joy that echoed across the snow-covered landscape. That joy became a fire.
The fire carried you through youth hockey, where the whispers followed you from rink to rink. “A girl goalie?” Mothers would murmur from behind the glass. “Is that allowed?” Fathers would grumble. The whispers turned to shouts from opposing benches, taunts from players who thought they could scare you. They didn’t know they were just fuel. Every chirp, every cheap shot after the whistle, every coach who looked at you with doubt — it all went into the furnace.
High school was a blur of state championships and headlines that always seemed to include the word “female” before “phenom.” You hated it. You weren’t a female phenom. You were a goalie. Full stop.
Then came college. The NCAA. The wall.
“The rules are clear,” the athletic director at Boston University had said, his face a mask of practiced sympathy. “The men’s team is for men.”
“The rules are discriminatory,” you’d shot back, your voice steely, betraying none of the fear churning in your gut. “I made the team. I beat out two other goalies in tryouts. Put me on the roster.”
He didn’t.
So you fought. Your family fought. You found lawyers who believed in the simple, radical idea that the best player should play. It became a national story. A lawsuit that crawled through the courts, each headline a fresh wave of pressure. Commentators debated your right to play on primetime television. Legends of the game weighed in, some for, some against. Through it all, you just kept training. Waking up at four in the morning, spending hours on the ice before class, facing down a puck-shooting machine until your legs screamed and your glove hand ached.
The day the judge ruled in your favor, you didn’t celebrate. You felt a quiet, bone-deep relief, as if a weight you’d been carrying your entire life had finally been lifted. The next day, you walked into the locker room, your nameplate freshly installed above a stall, and you pulled on the jersey.
And then you won. You won the Beanpot. You won the Hockey East championship. You carried the Terriers to the Frozen Four two years in a row, your save percentage and goals-against average shattering school records. You became a legend not because you were a woman, but because you were impenetrable. You were a wall.
Now, the fight is over. A new one is about to begin.
***
The air in J.P. Barry’s office is different. It’s thin and smells of money, glass cleaner, and the faint, lingering scent of a very expensive cigar smoked hours ago. His office is a glass box suspended forty stories above the glittering chaos of Manhattan, and from this vantage point, the world looks orderly, manageable. Deceiving.
You sit in a leather chair that costs more than your first car, a bottle of Voss water sweating onto the polished mahogany table beside you. Your hands are resting in your lap, still. A goalie’s hands. Calm. Ready.
J.P. Barry, your agent, paces slowly in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. He’s not a large man, but he commands space, his presence filling the room. He’s dressed in a tailored suit that probably costs more than your college tuition, his movements precise and deliberate. He’s been your agent for exactly six months, but in that time, he’s become the calm center of the hurricane that is your life.
“The media narrative is … predictable,” he says, his voice a low, even baritone. He stops pacing and turns to face you. His eyes are sharp, analytical. He’s not looking at you; he’s assessing an asset, calculating variables. “They’re calling it ‘The Great Experiment.’ ‘The Next Frontier.’ They’re treating you like a curiosity.”
You give a small, humorless smile. “I’ve been a curiosity since I was twelve.”
“This is a different level of curiosity,” he counters, walking back towards the massive desk. He taps a thick folder lying in the center. “This is a multi-million dollar curiosity. Every GM in the league wants to be the one who breaks the barrier. They want the good press, the ticket sales, the marketing bump.”
“And a goalie who can stop the puck?” You add, your voice quiet but firm.
A genuine smile touches the corner of his mouth. “And a goalie who can stop the puck. That, thankfully, is the one variable that isn’t in question. Your college career speaks for itself. The lawsuit proved your right to be there, and your performance proved you belonged.”
He sits down opposite you, lacing his fingers together on the desk. “Which brings us to this.” He gestures to the folder. “The offers. As an undrafted free agent, you’re in a unique position. You get to choose. We’ve fielded calls from nearly every team in the league. We’ve narrowed it down to the most serious, viable options.”
Your heart starts a slow, heavy drumbeat against your ribs. This is it. The moment every kid who ever played road hockey dreams of. The NHL.
“Lay it on me, J.P.”
He opens the folder. “Alright. Option one: The Utah Mammoth. They’re offering a two-year, entry-level max deal. The appeal here is opportunity. Their goaltending situation is … fluid. You’d go into camp with a very real, very immediate shot at the starting job. It’s a low-pressure media market. You could go there, find your footing, and make your mark without the intense scrutiny of a major hockey city.”
“The ‘safe’ option,” you surmise.
“The strategically sound option,” he corrects gently. “There’s no shame in starting your career on solid ground.”
You nod, processing it. Utah. It feels alien. “Okay. What’s next?”
“Option two: The New York Rangers.” He lets the name hang in the air. The history, the prestige, it’s all implied. “They’re offering more. Three years, ELC max, with significant performance bonuses. They want to make a splash. They see the marketing potential of having you in the biggest city in the world. The lights would be blinding. Every save, every goal let in, would be magnified a thousand times. You’d be a superstar overnight, for better or for worse. But … you’d be behind Igor Shesterkin. You’d be a backup, unequivocally. Learning from one of the best, yes, but your ice time would be limited.”
You think about Madison Square Garden. The roar of that crowd. The pressure. It’s tempting, the sheer glamour of it. But he’s right. You haven’t fought this hard your whole life to sit on a bench, no matter how nice the view is.
“I didn’t go to court for a front-row seat,” you say quietly.
J.P. nods, as if he expected that answer. “I figured as much. Which brings us to the third, and in my opinion, most interesting option.”
He slides a piece of paper across the desk. On it is a logo you know well. A stylized blue and green orca forming the letter ‘C’.
“Vancouver,” you breathe.
“Vancouver,” he confirms. “The Canucks. The offer is similar to Utah’s. Two years, ELC max. But the situation is … different. They have a clear number one.”
“Thatcher Demko.”
“Exactly. One of the best in the league when he’s healthy. They’re not looking for a savior. They’re not looking for a marketing gimmick. Patrik Allvin was very clear about that on the phone.” J.P. leans forward, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more earnest. “They’re looking for a partner for Demko. Someone who can push him. Someone who can reliably take thirty, maybe thirty-five games a season and give them a chance to win every single night. They want to build the best goaltending tandem in the NHL.”
He lets that sink in. A tandem. A partnership. It’s not about being the star. It’s about being part of a whole.
“They’re in a Canadian market,” J.P. continues. “The media pressure will be intense, no question. It’s a religion up there. But it’s different from New York. It’s a hockey-literate pressure. They’ll criticize your glove hand, not your gender, if you’re playing well. They want to win. That’s all that matters.”
You stare at the logo. The Canucks. You think of the West Coast. The mountains, the ocean. You think of Thatcher Demko. You’ve watched his tape for years. His calmness, his economy of motion. The idea of sharing a crease with him, of learning from him, of competing with him … it feels right. It feels real.
“What’s the catch?” You ask.
“The catch is you have to earn it,” J.P. says plainly. “Nothing is guaranteed. They want to sign you, but you have to go into training camp and prove you’re the best option for that number two spot. You have to beat out the other guys. They’re not just going to hand it to you because of your story.”
A slow smile spreads across your face. “That’s not a catch, J.P. That’s the whole point.”
He leans back in his chair, a look of satisfaction on his face. “I thought you might say that. Utah is safe. New York is glamorous. Vancouver … Vancouver is a challenge. It’s a hockey decision, not a business one.”
You look out the window, at the endless grid of streets below. For so long, the fight was just to get a seat at the table. Now you have three seats offered to you, and you have to choose the right one. The one that leads not just to a job, but to a career. To a legacy.
“I don’t want to be the woman who broke the barrier,” you say, your voice clear and steady. “I want to be the goalie who won the Cup. Everything else is just noise.”
“And Vancouver gives you the best chance to do that?”
You think it over. A team on the rise. A passionate, hockey-mad city. A chance to be part of a tandem, to grow and develop without the crushing weight of being the immediate franchise savior. A chance to earn your spot, just like you always have.
“Yeah,” you say, a feeling of certainty settling deep in your chest. “I think it does.”
J.P. picks up his phone. He doesn’t look triumphant, just professional. The decision is made. Now comes the execution.
“So you’re telling me to call Patrik and tell him you want to be a Canuck?”
You take a deep breath, the filtered office air feeling suddenly fresh, full of promise. The pond behind your house. The taunts from the other kids. The sympathetic smirk of the athletic director. The slam of the judge’s gavel. It’s all led to this single, quiet moment, forty stories above the world.
“Yeah, J.P.,” you say, and the smile that breaks across your face is real, and bright, and full of fire. “Tell him I’m coming home.”
***
The air that hits you as you step out of the jet bridge at Vancouver International Airport is different. It’s clean, carrying the faint, briny scent of the Pacific and the crisp promise of pine from mountains you can’t yet see. It feels less like air and more like an inhalation of pure potential. The butterflies in your stomach, which had been performing a frantic, anxiety-fueled ballet for the entire six-hour flight from Boston, seem to calm, their wings beating a slower, more purposeful rhythm.
You navigate the terminal, a rolling duffel in one hand, your custom goalie sticks in a massive travel bag slung over your shoulder. People give you a wide berth. You’re used to it. A woman of your height, with the broad shoulders built by a thousand push-ups and the unmistakable gear of a hockey player, tends to part crowds. You scan the faces in the arrivals hall, a sea of reunions and greetings, looking for a sign. J.P. had said a team rep would meet you. You picture a fresh-faced kid from the media relations department, or maybe a grizzled, old-timer from the equipment staff, someone with a face like a well-worn catcher’s mitt.
Then you see him.
He’s leaning against a concrete pillar, away from the main throng, trying and failing to look inconspicuous. He’s tall — taller than you expected — and built like someone carved him from the side of a mountain. He’s wearing a simple black hoodie, the hood pulled up, and a pair of jeans. In his hands, he’s holding a small, slightly crumpled piece of printer paper. On it, in surprisingly neat block letters, is your last name.
Your brain takes a moment to process the image. The face under the hood is one you’ve seen a thousand times on television, in highlight reels, on hockey cards. The calm, intense eyes. The strong jaw. The placid expression that goalies perfect, the one that says nothing can rattle them.
It’s Thatcher Demko.
The starting goaltender for the Vancouver Canucks, a Vezina finalist, one of the best in the world, is standing in the arrivals terminal at YVR holding a makeshift sign for you like he’s an Uber driver.
Your feet feel suddenly rooted to the polished floor. You take a breath, tighten your grip on your duffel, and walk towards him. As you get closer, he looks up, his eyes meeting yours. A flicker of recognition, and then a small, genuine smile spreads across his face.
“Hey,” he says, his voice a low, easy rumble. It’s exactly as you’d heard it in post-game interviews. Calm. Steady. “You made it.”
“I … yeah,” you manage, your own voice feeling ridiculously small. “You’re Thatcher Demko.” It comes out as an accusation, a statement of blatant, unbelievable fact.
He glances down at the piece of paper in his hands and then back up at you, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I was trying to be subtle. Guess it didn’t work.” He crumples the paper and shoves it into his hoodie pocket. “Figured it was better than having some stranger pick you up. Welcome to Vancouver.”
He reaches for your stick bag, and you instinctively pull it back a little. “Oh, I can get it.”
“I’m sure you can,” he says, his smile widening. He gently takes the bag from your shoulder anyway. “But let me. It’s a big bag.” The transfer is seamless, professional. He handles the cumbersome bag with an ease that tells you he’s done this a million times.
You walk together towards the parkade, the silence between you punctuated by the squeak of your shoes and the rumble of your duffel’s wheels. Your mind is racing. Why is he here? Is this some kind of test? A rookie initiation?
“So,” he says, breaking the silence as you step into the elevator. “I have to say, this is pretty cool.”
“Cool?” You echo, confused. “What’s cool?”
“This. You. The whole thing.” He shifts the weight of your sticks on his shoulder. “I, uh, might have spent a few hours on YouTube last week watching your college highlights.”
You blink. “You did?”
“Oh yeah.” He nods, completely serious. “That glove save you made in the Beanpot final, second overtime, on that BC forward … Ryan Leonard, was it?”
“James Hagens,” you correct automatically.
“Hagens, right. The way you read the pass and pushed across, you were already there before he even shot it. Your anticipation is … insane.” He says it with the genuine, unadulterated enthusiasm of a true fan.
You don’t know what to say. Thatcher Demko is geeking out about your save. The world has officially tilted on its axis. “Thanks. He … he has a heavy shot.”
The elevator doors open, and he leads you to a large, black Ford F-150 that looks like it could drive up the side of a building. It’s immaculately clean. He loads your gear into the back with practiced efficiency before opening the passenger door for you.
“So you’re a truck guy,” you say, climbing into the cab.
“You kind of have to be, with the size of our gear bags,” he says, shutting the door and walking around to the driver’s side. “Tried a sedan once. Lasted about a week. Felt like I was solving a Rubik’s Cube every time I went to the rink.”
He starts the engine, and the truck hums to life. As he navigates out of the parkade and onto the highway, the city begins to reveal itself. Glass towers glint in the late afternoon sun, framed by the dark, majestic peaks of the North Shore mountains. It’s beautiful. Breathtakingly so.
“So, listen,” he says, his eyes on the road. “I know things are probably going to be … a little weird at first. With the media, and, you know, everything.”
“I’m used to weird,” you say with a small smile.
“Yeah, I bet you are. But I just wanted to be the first one to say it doesn’t matter. None of that stuff matters in the room, and it definitely doesn’t matter in the crease. You’re here because you can stop the puck. Period. Anyone who has a problem with that is an idiot.”
The directness of it, the simple, unequivocal statement of support, loosens a knot in your chest you didn’t even realize was there. “Thank you,” you say, and the words are heavier than just two syllables. “Seriously.”
“Don’t thank me. Just be ready to work.” He glances over at you. “And don’t be afraid to be a weirdo.”
You laugh. “A weirdo?”
“Yeah. You’re a goalie. You have to be a weirdo. It’s in the job description.”
“Okay,” you play along. “What’s your weirdest goalie thing? Your biggest superstition?”
He thinks for a moment, a slight smile on his face. “Alright. Don’t tell anyone this. Especially not Ian Clark, he’d kill me. But before every period, when I skate out to the crease, I have to tap the left post, then the right post, then the crossbar with the butt-end of my stick. In that order. Always. If I mess it up, I have to skate a little circle and start over.”
“Okay, that’s pretty standard,” you say, nodding. “The post-tapping ritual. I get that.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the weird part,” he continues. “The weird part is … I say hello to them.”
You turn to look at him. “You what?”
“I say ‘Hey, Lefty. Hey, Righty. Hey, Top,’ under my breath. Every single time. Gotta make sure we’re all on the same page, you know? They’re my best friends out there.” He says it with such deadpan sincerity that you can’t help but burst out laughing.
“Okay, you win,” you say, wiping a tear from your eye. “That is officially weird.”
“Your turn,” he says, grinning. “Spill it. What’s your thing?”
You hesitate for a second, then decide he’s earned it. “My glove,” you say. “The night before a game, I take it to my hotel room. And I put it on the pillow of the other bed. Like it’s a person.”
He nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Okay. Okay. I see it. You want it to be well-rested. Limber. Ready to perform. That makes a weird kind of sense.”
“And,” you add, emboldened, “I never, ever, let my pads touch on the floor of the locker room when I’m getting dressed. They have to be standing up against the stall, perfectly parallel. If someone bumps one and it falls over and touches the other one, I have to … well, it’s not good.”
“It throws the whole alignment of the universe out of whack,” he finishes for you, his expression deadly serious.
“Exactly!” You exclaim. “You get it.”
“I get it,” he confirms. “We’re the same kind of crazy.”
The rest of the drive passes in an easy flow of conversation. You talk about gear, the never-ending quest for the perfect skate sharpening, the agony of breaking in a new blocker. You talk about the mental side of the game, the deafening silence after letting in a soft goal, the weird Zen-like state you can get into when you’re seeing every puck like it’s a beach ball. He doesn’t treat you like a rookie, and he doesn’t treat you like a woman. He treats you like another goalie, a fellow member of the strange, lonely union.
He pulls up in front of a sleek downtown hotel. “Team puts all the new guys up here until they find a place,” he explains, putting the truck in park. “It’s not bad. Good gym. Decent room service.”
He gets out and helps you with your bags, walking you into the lobby. The concierge greets him by name.
“Thanks for this, Thatcher,” you say, as he hands your duffel over to the bellhop. “You really didn’t have to.”
“Demko,” he corrects. “Everyone just calls me Demko. Or Demmer. And yeah, I did. Wanted to make sure you got a proper welcome.” He offers you a hand. You shake it. His grip is firm, confident. “Get some rest. Camp starts in two days. It’s gonna be a grind.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Good.” He gives you one last nod. “See you at the rink. Try not to let your pads touch.”
And with that, he’s gone. You watch him walk out of the lobby, leaving you standing there with a feeling you haven’t had in a long, long time. The feeling that, for the first time, you might have just found a place where you truly belong.
***
Two days later, that feeling of belonging is replaced by a tidal wave of pure nerves.
You walk through the corridors of Rogers Arena, following the signs to the Canucks locker room. The air is cool and smells of Zamboni fumes and stale popcorn. You can hear the distant, echoing clicks of pucks and the shouts of the early-arriving players. Every step feels momentous.
You push open the heavy door, and the room goes quiet.
It’s not a dramatic, movie-style silence. It’s more subtle than that. Conversations don’t stop mid-sentence, but they trail off. Heads turn. The dozen or so players already there, in various states of dress, all look at you. It only lasts for a second, but it feels like an eternity.
The room itself is exactly what you’d imagined. A large oval, stalls lining the walls, the iconic orca logo woven into the massive carpet in the center. Jerseys are hung with pristine care, a sea of blue, green, and white.
A man with a sharp suit and an even sharper expression detaches himself from a conversation with two other men in tracksuits. He walks towards you, hand extended.
“You’re here,” he says. It’s not a question. His voice is gravelly, no-nonsense. “Adam Foote. Welcome to camp.”
“Coach,” you say, shaking his hand. His grip is like iron. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
“Opportunity’s gotta be earned,” he says, but there’s no malice in it. It’s just a statement of fact. He turns to the rest of the room, his voice booming. “Alright, listen up! This is Y/N Y/L/N. She’s here to compete for a spot, same as everyone else. Introduce yourselves. Make her feel welcome.”
He gives you a short, sharp nod, and then he’s gone, back to his conversation. The ice is broken. A few guys call out a “Hey” or “Welcome.” One by one, players start to come over as you make your way to the empty stall someone has clearly designated for you. It’s between a veteran defenseman and an empty space.
A tall forward with a friendly, open face is the first to offer a proper handshake. “Brock Boeser. Good to have you here.”
“Conor Garland,” says another, his handshake firm, his eyes assessing. “Heard a lot about you.”
“Elias Pettersson,” a lanky Swede with intense eyes says with a polite nod.
You go through the motions, shaking hands, learning names, matching faces to the players you’ve watched for years. It’s a blur of polite greetings. Then, a goalie in full gear, minus his helmet, waddles over. He’s got a bright, optimistic look on his face.
“Kevin Lankinen,” he says in a slight Finnish accent, pulling off his blocker to shake your hand. “Welcome to the competition.”
You look him in the eye. He is, in the most direct way, your rival. The man you have to beat to earn that job. The smile he gives you is genuine, but his eyes hold a competitive fire that you know well, because you see it in the mirror every morning.
“Good to meet you,” you say, your tone even. “Looking forward to it.”
“May the best goalie win,” he says with a cheerful grin, and waddles back to his stall. There’s no animosity, just the clean, simple reality of professional sports.
You finally get to your stall and begin the long, familiar ritual of getting dressed. It’s a comfort. The specific order of things — shin pads, pants, skates, chest protector — is a meditation. You focus on the task, blocking out the low hum of conversation around you, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched.
“So, is it true?”
The voice is quiet, coming from your left. You turn your head. Leaning against the adjacent stall is a player you recognize instantly. Quinn Hughes. The captain. He’s smaller than most of the other guys, but he has an aura of quiet confidence. He’s watching you with a curious, almost academic interest.
“Is what true?” You ask, pulling a skate lace tight.
“That you sued the NCAA and won.” He says it casually, like he’s asking about the weather.
“Yeah,” you say, starting on your other skate. “That’s true.”
“That’s pretty badass,” he says with a small smirk. “Must have cost a fortune.”
“It did,” you admit. “My parents remortgaged their house.”
His smirk fades, replaced by a look of genuine respect. “Wow. So no pressure, then.”
You can’t help but smile. “None at all.”
He pushes off the stall and sits down on the bench in the empty spot next to you. He’s already in his lower gear, his skates on but unlaced. “I watched some of your games from last year. You, uh … you don’t move a lot.”
It’s an odd observation. “I move when I have to.”
“No, I mean, that’s a compliment,” he clarifies, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “A lot of goalies are all over the place. Hasek wannabes. All flash. You’re … efficient. Calm. Like you know where the puck is going before the guy even shoots it.”
He’s a student of the game. You can hear it in the way he talks. He’s not just seeing a goalie, he’s analyzing a system.
“It’s called anticipation,” you say. “Kind of important for the position.”
“Right.” He nods. “So, are you going to be able to anticipate my shot?” There’s a playful challenge in his eyes now.
You finish lacing your skates and stand up, looking down at him. “Which one? The slapshot you never use or that weird, jerky little wrist shot you release from your hip?”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and then he breaks into a wide, infectious grin. “Okay. Okay. You’ve done your homework. I respect that.”
“You have to,” you say, grabbing your chest protector. “It’s called being a professional.”
He laughs, a genuine, happy sound that draws a few glances. “I like you,” he declares. “You’re alright.”
“Glad I have the captain’s seal of approval,” you say dryly, pulling the bulky protector over your head.
“You don’t need my approval,” he says, his tone shifting back to something more serious. “You just need to stop pucks. That’s all anyone in here cares about. You do that, and you’ll be fine.”
He stands up, his presence suddenly feeling closer. “For what it’s worth,” he adds in a lower voice, “I’m glad you’re here. It’s good to have someone in the room who had to fight to get here.”
Before you can respond, Foote’s voice cuts through the room. “On the ice in five! Let’s go!”
Quinn gives you a quick tap on the shoulder pads. “See you out there. Try to keep up.”
He skates away, and you’re left with the echo of his words, a warmth spreading through your chest.
Stepping onto the ice at Rogers Arena is like stepping into another dimension. The lights are brighter, the ice is colder and harder, the rink feels both bigger and more intimate than any college barn you’ve ever played in. You take your place in one of the nets, Demko in the other, and begin your warm-up stretches, the movements as familiar and comforting as breathing.
Ian Clark, the legendary goalie coach, skates over. His eyes are piercing, and you feel like he’s taking a complete inventory of your technique, your stance, your very soul, in a single glance.
“Alright,” he says, his voice quiet but commanding. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Just movement drills to start. T-pushes. Shuffles. Butterfly slides. I want to see clean edges. No wasted energy. Let’s go.”
For the next twenty minutes, he puts you and the other goalies through the paces. It’s grueling, precise work. He corrects your hand positioning by an inch, the angle of your skate by a few degrees. He doesn’t offer praise, only corrections. You just nod, absorb the information, and execute. You feel Lankinen next to you, matching you move for move, his own movements economical and sharp. The silent competition has begun.
Then, the team drills start.
A 3-on-2 rush comes down on you. Garland is carrying the puck, Pettersson on his left, Boeser on his right. It’s a blur of elite speed and skill. Garland dishes to Pettersson, who one-touches it back. You read the return pass, sliding across the crease, every muscle screaming. Garland fires it, a hard, low shot aimed for the far corner. You extend your leg, the toe of your pad just catching the puck, deflecting it wide.
A defenseman taps your pads with his stick. “Great save!”
You just nod, resetting. The next rush comes.
For an hour, it’s a relentless onslaught. You face shots from every angle, every type of release. Breakaways, backdoor tap-ins, point shots through traffic. You feel yourself slipping into the zone, that hyper-focused state where the puck seems to slow down, where you’re not thinking, only reacting. You make saves you have no business making, your glove snatching pucks out of the air, your pads slamming shut on five-hole attempts. You let in a few, too. A perfect snipe from Pettersson that goes bar-down. A tricky deflection you can’t track. But you don’t let it rattle you. You reset. Next puck.
Late in the practice, you see him. Quinn, gathering the puck at the blue line. He skates laterally, his head up, surveying his options. He’s not looking at you, but you know he knows you’re there. He fakes a pass, freezing the forward covering him for a fraction of a second. In that tiny window, he lets it go — that jerky, deceptive wrist shot you’d mentioned in the locker room. It’s not a hard shot, but it’s perfectly placed, ticketed for the top corner, short side.
You don’t have time to think. It’s pure muscle memory. You explode upwards from your butterfly, your glove hand shooting up, and you feel the sharp thud of the puck nesting perfectly in the pocket.
The whistle blows. You hold the glove up for a second, then toss the puck out. You look over at him. He’s standing at the blue line, stick resting on his hips, just watching you. He doesn’t smile. He just gives you a slow, single nod. A nod of pure respect.
In the world of hockey, it’s better than a standing ovation.
When the final whistle blows to end practice, you’re drenched in sweat, your legs feel like jelly, and you’re utterly exhausted. But you’re also exhilarated. As you skate towards the gate, Demko glides alongside you.
“Not bad,” he says, his face impassive behind his mask, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Not bad at all.”
“Just trying to keep up,” you pant.
“Well, you did.” He taps your pads. “Good work. See you tomorrow.”
Back in the locker room, the atmosphere is different. It’s lighter. The curiosity has been replaced by a quiet acceptance. You didn’t just show up. You performed. You proved, on day one, that you belong on that ice.
As you’re pulling off your skates, Quinn walks by your stall. He stops, leaning an arm against the frame.
“So,” he says, a small grin playing on his lips. “I guess you anticipated that one.”
“I told you,” you say, trying to keep your voice even, trying to ignore the way your heart is beating a little faster. “It’s my job.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, pushing off the stall. “Tomorrow, I’m scoring.”
He winks, then walks away, leaving you to stare after him, a smile you can’t contain spreading across your face. It’s only day one, and the fight is far from over. But as you sit there in the loud, bustling, sweat-soaked locker room of the Vancouver Canucks, you feel a sense of rightness, a deep and profound certainty that you chose the right city. You chose the right team. You came to the right place.
***
Training camp is a blur. It’s a relentless, soul-crushing, beautiful grind. The days bleed into one another, marked only by the searing pain in your legs during bag skates and the fleeting satisfaction of a perfectly executed drill. Your world shrinks to the ice, the gym, the hotel, and the film room. It is monastic. It is punishing. It is exactly where you want to be.
You and Kevin Lankinen exist in a state of professional orbit. You are never far from each other, a silent, magnetic push-and-pull of competition. You watch him during drills, noting the efficiency of his pushes, the quickness of his glove. He watches you, his eyes lingering after you make a sprawling save in a scrimmage. The respect is mutual, the goal singular. There is only one job.
Your friendship with Demko solidifies. He’s your unofficial mentor, your confessor in the church of goaltending. He’ll skate by your net after a drill, offering a quiet word. “You’re opening up your five-hole a hair early on your butterfly slides,” or, “Keep that blocker hand active. Don’t let it go dead.” It’s never criticism, only data. He’s helping you, sharpening you, not because he’s a saint, but because he wants the best possible goalie playing behind him. A strong tandem makes the whole team stronger.
And then there’s Quinn. The interactions are small, fleeting moments that somehow feel more significant than entire conversations. It’s a shared laugh in the middle of a brutal stretching session. It’s him skating by the bench and squirting water from his bottle at you, earning a playful glare. It’s him seeking you out in the lunchroom to ask a question about a defensive breakdown in the scrimmage, his tone treating you not as a rookie, but as a peer whose opinion he genuinely values. You find yourself looking for him, your eyes scanning the ice for the smooth, effortless stride of number 43.
The preseason arrives like a judgment. Six games to decide your fate. Foote announces that you, Lankinen, and a prospect from Abbotsford will split the first three starts. The math is simple and terrifying. Every single shot matters.
Your first test is in Seattle. You’re backing up Lankinen, which means you spend the first half of the game chewing on a towel and trying to keep your leg muscles from seizing up. The Climate Pledge Arena is loud, a wave of teal and navy blue. Lankinen looks … tight. He lets in a goal on the first shot, a wrister from the point that he seems to misread. Ten minutes later, a bad rebound kicks right out into the slot, and a Kraken forward buries it. You can see his shoulders slump.
At the halfway mark of the second period, during a TV timeout, Ian Clark skates to the bench and looks directly at you. “You’re in.”
That’s it. No pep talk. No instructions. Just “You’re in.”
Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. You pull on your helmet, grab your stick, and skate to the net. Lankinen is already there. He lifts his mask, his face slick with sweat and frustration.
“See ‘em well,” he says, his voice tight. It’s the goalie’s equivalent of ‘break a leg.’
“You got it,” you say, tapping his pads.
You do your ritual. The familiar routine is a rock in a stormy sea. The whistle blows. The puck is dropped. A Seattle forward carries it over the blue line and fires a slap shot from a mile out. It’s a tester, a nothing-burger of a shot. You swallow it up in your glove, holding it for a second before the whistle. You feel the tension drain out of you. Okay. Just hockey.
For the next thirty minutes, you are a black hole. Everything they throw at your net, you absorb. A frantic goalmouth scramble where you lose your stick and have to make a save with your blocker while lying on your stomach. A breakaway from Matty Beniers where you match his speed, hold your ground, and force him to shoot it wide. You aren’t spectacular. You’re just … there. A calm, immovable object. You make the saves you’re supposed to make, and one or two that you aren’t. The Canucks end up losing 3-1, but you let in zero goals. In the silent, brutal accounting of a goalie battle, that’s a win.
A few nights later, in the home locker room at Rogers Arena, Foote walks up to your stall. “You’ve got the Oilers tonight.”
A cold dread mixes with fiery excitement in your stomach. The Oilers. McDavid and Draisaitl. The two-headed monster that haunts the dreams of every goalie in the league.
“Yes, coach,” you say, your voice betraying none of your internal chaos.
Before you go out for warmups, Demko, who is sitting this one out, comes over to you. He leans in close.
“Forget their names,” he says quietly. “They’re just 97 and 29. They’re just two guys with sticks. Watch the logo on their chest, not the name on their back. Stop the puck.”
You nod, the simple advice cutting through the noise in your head. Stop the puck. It’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.
The game is the fastest you have ever experienced. The speed is breathtaking, particularly Connor McDavid’s. The first time he comes down on you with a head of steam, it feels like he’s warping reality around him. He skates past two of your defensemen like they’re traffic cones. He’s in alone on you. He dekes left, dekes right, his hands a blur. You don’t bite. You hold your depth, your focus narrowed to the six-ounce piece of vulcanized rubber on his stick blade. He tries to slide it five-hole. You slam your pads shut. The puck thuds into your pads and dies right there.
The arena, which had held its breath, explodes. You see Quinn skate by the net and bang his stick on the ice in appreciation.
You make forty-two saves that night. You rob Draisaitl on a one-timer that he blasts from his office at the side of the net, your glove shooting out to snag it. You stop a wraparound from Zach Hyman. You stand on your head. But they are who they are. McDavid scores on a ridiculous individual effort where he banks the puck off the back of the net to himself. Draisaitl scores on a power play. You lose 2-1.
But as you skate off the ice, exhausted and aching, the crowd is on its feet, giving you a standing ovation. You lift your stick to acknowledge them, a sense of gratitude washing over you. You lost the game, but you proved you could stand in the fire.
Your last chance is the final preseason game, on the road, against the Calgary Flames. The Scotiabank Saddledome is a sea of red, hostile and loud. This is it. The final exam. You feel a strange sense of calm. You’ve done everything you can. Now you just have to play.
And you do. You play the best game of your life. You’re in that surreal state of flow, the zone, where time slows down and you see everything. You’re reading plays before they happen, sliding into position a half-second before the pass is even made. You stop a 2-on-0 shorthanded breakaway. You make a glove save that is so audacious the Calgary crowd lets out a collective groan.
You pitch a shutout. The Canucks win 2-0.
In the locker room afterwards, it’s a quiet, happy scene. Guys are packing their bags, excited for the real season to start. You’re sitting in your stall, slowly peeling off your gear, when Quinn sits down on the bench next to you. He’s still in his gear, helmet off, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
“You know,” he says, looking straight ahead, “you’re a real pain in the ass.”
You turn to look at him, confused. “What?”
“For Foote,” he clarifies, a grin spreading across his face as he turns to you. “You’re making this decision impossible for him. Lankinen has a contract. You don’t. And you just came in here and outplayed him at every turn. It’s a real headache for management.”
“Oh,” you say. “Sorry to be a bother.”
“Don’t be,” he says, his voice softening. “It’s the best kind of problem to have. You were unbelievable tonight.”
“Thanks, Cap,” you say, a genuine warmth spreading through your chest.
“Anytime,” he says, standing up. “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”
He’s right. The next day, the final cut day, the air at the arena is thick with tension. The rink is quiet. Players walk around like ghosts, waiting for the summons. You sit in the players’ lounge, staring at a cup of coffee, your phone face down on the table. Every time a door opens, you jump.
At 11:30 AM, a team staffer finds you. “Foote wants to see you.”
Your blood turns to ice water. This is it. You walk down the hall, your footsteps echoing. The hallway to the executive offices feels a mile long. You knock on the door that says ‘HEAD COACH.’
“Come in.”
You open the door. Adam Foote is sitting behind his desk. Patrik Allvin is in a chair beside him. They both look serious. Your heart sinks. This is the ‘thanks for coming, but we’re going in another direction’ face. You’ve seen it before.
“Sit down,” Foote says, gesturing to the chair opposite them.
You sit. The leather is cold. You place your hands on your knees to keep them from shaking.
Allvin speaks first, his Swedish accent precise and clear. “We brought you into camp to compete for a job. We told you nothing would be handed to you. We told you that you would have to earn it.”
He pauses, letting the words hang in the air. You just nod, your throat too dry to speak.
“Well,” Foote cuts in, leaning forward. “You did. You came in here, you worked your ass off, you didn't say a damn word, and you were outstanding in all three of your games. You earned it.”
You stare at him, the words not quite registering.
Allvin smiles, a warm, genuine smile. “What Adam is trying to say is, we would like to offer you a two-year, two-way NHL contract. We want you to be Thatcher’s partner this season.”
The breath you’ve been holding for your entire life rushes out of you in a single, silent gasp. The room swims for a second. You feel a lightness in your head, a dizzying, overwhelming wave of relief and joy and disbelief. You swallow hard.
“Thank you,” you manage to say, your voice cracking. You clear your throat. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it.”
“We know we won’t,” Foote says, his stern expression finally breaking into a small smile. “Now get out of here. J.P. is waiting for your call. We’ve got a press conference to arrange.”
You stand up, shake both their hands, and walk out of the office in a daze. As the door clicks shut behind you, you lean against the wall in the empty hallway, closing your eyes. It’s real. You did it. All the years on the frozen pond, the taunts, the lawsuits, the 4 AM practices, the remortgaged house … it was all for this.
When you open your eyes, Demko is standing at the end of the hall, leaning against the wall, a huge, knowing grin on his face. He doesn’t say anything. He just gives you a slow, deliberate nod. You nod back, a wide, shaky smile spreading across your own face. He knew. Of course he knew.
***
Two hours later, you’re standing in the Canucks media room, but it feels more like a gladiator pit. The room is packed. Every major sports network in North America seems to be here. Cameras flash like lightning, and the low hum of dozens of conversations creates a palpable buzz of energy.
You, Allvin, and J.P. sit at a table on a small stage. Allvin makes the official announcement. “The Vancouver Canucks are proud to announce that we have signed goaltender Y/N Y/L/N to a two-year contract.”
The room erupts in a cacophony of camera shutters. After a few minutes of formal statements, they open the floor to questions. Most of them are for you.
They start easy. “How does it feel to make history?” “What does this moment mean to you?” You give the practiced, humble answers you’ve been preparing your whole life.
Then, a reporter from a major network in the front row gets the microphone. He has a smug, confrontational look on his face.
“A question for you,” he says, his voice amplified by the speakers. “We’ve seen a similar phenomenon in basketball with Caitlin Clark, who chose to embrace the WNBA and help grow that league. The PWHL is having incredible success in its own right. Why do you think you’re too good for the Professional Women’s Hockey League?”
The room goes quiet. It’s a loaded, cynical question, designed to trap you, to paint you as arrogant or as someone who is turning her back on women’s hockey. You can feel the weight of every female hockey player in the world on your shoulders.
You take a slow, deliberate breath. You look directly at the reporter.
“First,” you begin, your voice calm and steady, projecting through the room. “Let’s be clear. I think what Caitlin Clark is doing for the WNBA is incredible, and I think the PWHL is one of the most important things to ever happen to our sport. I have watched every game I can, and I am in awe of the talent in that league. I’m not too good for that league. No one is.”
You pause, letting that sink in.
“But my dream was never just to be a professional hockey player. It was to play in the best league in the world, against the best players in the world. Period. When I was a little girl, my dad didn’t tell me, ‘One day, you can play in a great women’s league.’ He told me, ‘One day, you can play in the NHL.’ My whole life, every decision I’ve made, every battle I’ve fought, including a lawsuit that took years off my parents’ lives, was for the right to have the opportunity to compete for a spot here.”
You lean a little closer to the microphone.
“This isn’t about me being too good for one league. This is about me finding out if I’m good enough for this one. The women in the PWHL are building something special, and they have my absolute respect. I’m trying to prove something different. I’m trying to prove that in hockey, the only thing that should matter is your ability to play the game.”
You lean back. The room is silent for a beat. You’ve answered the question, disarmed the trap, and stated your case without disrespecting anyone.
The scrum breaks up shortly after that, dissolving into a chaotic swirl of reporters trying to get one last quote. As you step down from the stage, you feel a hand clap you firmly on the back. You turn. It’s Quinn, a huge, proud grin on his face. The entire team had been watching from the back of the room.
He leans in close so you can hear him over the noise. “That,” he says, “was the best damn answer I’ve ever heard.”
He gives you a quick, conspiratorial wink, and then he’s swallowed up by the crowd of your new teammates, all coming over to congratulate you. But the wink lingers. It’s a seal of approval, a sign of alliance. It feels less like a welcome to the team and more like a welcome home.
***
The first four games of the season are a unique form of torture.
You are in the NHL. You have the contract, the stall in the locker room, the number on your back. You are living the dream. But you’re living it from the best seat in the house, on the bench, watching Demko do his job.
It's a strange purgatory. You are part of the team, but not yet part of the game. You chew on the nub of a Gatorade towel, your leg bouncing with a nervous energy that has nowhere to go. You track every puck, your body making phantom saves, your muscles twitching in sync with the action a hundred feet away. You are a loaded gun with the safety on.
“It’s the worst, isn’t it?” Demko says to you after the season opener, a solid 5-1 win against the flames where he was brilliant.
“What is?” You ask, looking up from the tablet where you’d been re-watching one of his saves from the third period.
“The waiting,” he says, leaning his head back against the wall. “Being the number two. You do all the same work, all the same prep, but you don’t get the release. It’s like being a race car driver who only gets to sit in the passenger seat. You just have to stay ready.”
“How do you do it?” You ask, the question genuine. “How do you stay sharp when you don’t know when you’ll play?”
“You get weird,” he says with a shrug. “Weirder than usual, I mean. Your practices become your games. Every shot in a morning skate is the Stanley Cup Final. You get into a competition with yourself. And you watch. You watch everything. You learn my tendencies, you learn the shooters’ tendencies. You become a librarian of hockey information. So when they finally call your number, you’re not thinking. You just know.”
You take his advice to heart. Your practices become legendary among the coaching staff. You stay out thirty minutes late every day, begging anyone — Pettersson, Garland, Boeser — to take extra shots on you. You become a student of your own team, learning how each defenseman likes to play a 2-on-1, which forward is most likely to block a shot.
Your bond with Quinn deepens, not through grand conversations, but through the quiet language of the game. He learns that you like to play the puck behind the net, and he starts presenting a better, more predictable target for your passes. You learn that on the power play, he loves the deceptive shot-pass, and you start anticipating the deflection. Before each game, as the team lines up in the tunnel, he’s the last one you see before you take your spot on the bench. He has a ritual. He skates by, taps Demko on the left pad, then skates to you and taps you on the right. Every single time. A small gesture of inclusion. A reminder that you’re part of the tandem.
After a tough 3-2 loss to the Blues at home, he finds you in the gym, long after most of the team has gone home. You’re on the exercise bike, churning out your frustration.
“Hey,” he says, walking over. He’s in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower. “Shouldn’t you be at home eating pizza or something?”
“Not tired,” you say, your breathing heavy.
He just nods, understanding. He grabs a foam roller and starts working on his legs a few feet away. You ride in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the whir of the bike and the squeak of the foam roller.
“That second goal,” he says finally, his voice quiet. “That was on me. I bit on the pass, left Hronek out to dry.”
You slow your pedaling. “It was a 2-on-1, Quinn. It happens.”
“It shouldn’t,” he says, his voice tight with the frustration of a perfectionist. “Demmer had the shooter, I’m supposed to take the pass. I got greedy. I thought I could strip the puck.”
He’s not looking for absolution. He’s just analyzing the data, frustrated with his own error. It’s the same way you break down goals against yourself.
“Next time you’ll take the pass,” you say.
He looks up at you, a small, grateful smile touching his lips. “Yeah. I will.” He gets up, stretching. “Don’t stay too late. We’ve got a flight to catch tomorrow.”
“Yes, Captain,” you say with a mock salute.
He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he walks away.
The moment finally comes on a gray, drizzly morning in Dallas, Texas. The team is going through a light morning skate ahead of their game against the Stars. It’s the fifth game of the season, and the second half of a grueling back-to-back that saw the Canucks lose a tight game in Chicago the night before. Demko had faced forty shots.
You’re in your net, feeling loose, tracking pucks, when Adam Foote skates over. His face is its usual stony mask.
“You’re in tonight,” he says, his voice a low gravel.
You freeze for a fraction of a second, a shot from Boeser sailing harmlessly past your ear. You turn back to the coach.
“You got this,” is all he says, before skating away to yell at a defenseman for a lazy pass.
Your stomach does a complicated series of flips. This is it. No more waiting. No more watching. The race car is yours to drive.
Demko skates over to your net, leaning against the crossbar. “Hear the news?”
“Heard the news,” you confirm, your voice coming out steadier than you feel.
“Good. It’s about damn time.” He looks around the American Airlines Center, at the thousands of empty green seats. “This is a tough barn to play in. They’re a heavy team. They love to crash the net. Stand your ground. Don’t let them push you around.”
“Got it.”
“It’s just another net,” he says, tapping the post with his stick. “Six feet by four feet. Same as it’s always been. Go have fun.”
The rest of the day is a slow, agonizing crawl towards 7 PM. You try to nap at the hotel, but your mind is racing, playing out every possible scenario. You eat your standard pre-game meal of salmon and quinoa, but it tastes like cardboard. You sit on the bus on the way to the arena, your headphones on, but you don’t hear the music. You just hear the thumping of your own heart.
In the locker room, the atmosphere is loose, but professional. The team is tired from the back-to-back, but they’re ready. As you go through the long, meticulous ritual of putting on your gear, you feel a sense of calm finally settle over you. This is your church. The smell of the room, the feel of the pads, the specific order of operations — it’s all familiar. It’s home.
When you’re almost dressed, Quinn walks over. He’s leaning against your stall, his expression unreadable.
“Ready for this?” He asks.
“Born ready,” you lie, trying for a confident smirk that probably looks more like a grimace.
“Good,” he says. “Because we’re gonna be running around a bit tonight. Tired legs. We’re gonna need you to be our best player.”
It’s not a pep talk. It’s a statement of fact. It’s a transfer of responsibility. He’s not trying to pump you up, he’s telling you what the team needs from you. It’s more effective than any rah-rah speech could ever be.
“I’ll be there,” you say.
“We know.” He offers you a fist bump. You meet it with your blocker. “See you in the tunnel.”
Walking down that tunnel is the most terrifying and exhilarating moment of your life. The lights of the arena are blinding, the roar of the Dallas crowd a physical force. You step onto the ice, and a chorus of boos rains down on you. They know who you are. They know this is your first start. They want to see you fail.
You skate to your crease, do your ritual.
The puck drops.
The first five minutes are a whirlwind. Dallas comes out flying, pinning the tired Canucks in their own zone. The puck is a blur. A shot from the point through a screen that you have to fight to see, your glove snatching it at the last second. A wrap-around attempt by Wyatt Johnston that you get your skate on, kicking it out of danger. A one-timer from Jason Robertson in the slot that you get your chest on, the puck thudding into your protector like a punch.
With each save, you feel the nerves melt away, replaced by the cool, clear focus you’ve been chasing your whole life. You are in the zone. The game slows down. The hostile crowd fades into white noise. There is only you, the puck, and the five skaters in front of you.
The Canucks weather the storm, and the game settles into a tense, grinding affair. It’s 0-0 at the end of the first. You’ve made 15 saves.
In the locker room, Foote is pragmatic. “Good period, good period! We bent, we didn’t break. She’s holding us in it,” he says, jerking his head in your direction. “Now let’s get our damn legs moving and get her some support. We can’t let her stand on her head all night.”
The second period is more of the same. It’s a goaltending duel. At the other end, Jake Oettinger, another young American star, is matching you save for save. He robs Pettersson on a breakaway, his long legs stretching to deny the deke. You stop Mikko Rantanen on a deflection from the top of the crease, the puck changing direction at the last second.
Late in the period, the Canucks finally break through. Garland forces a turnover at the blue line and feeds a pass to Boeser, who wires a wrist shot over Oettinger’s glove. 1-0 Vancouver. The small pocket of Canucks fans in the upper deck goes wild. You bang your stick on the ice, a jolt of pure joy running through you.
The third period begins, and Dallas comes with a desperate push. They are a proud, veteran team, and they hate losing at home. They throw everything at your net. The game gets chippy. A scrum ensues after you freeze the puck, and you get a little shove from a Stars forward. You don’t even flinch.
Then, it happens.
About eight minutes into the third period, there’s a mad scramble in front of your net. The puck is loose in the blue paint. You dive, covering it with your glove just as a skate kicks it. The whistle blows. You’re lying on your stomach, the puck safely under your glove.
As you start to get up, a massive weight lands on top of you. It’s Jamie Benn, the Dallas captain. He doesn’t just fall. He lands, and then he pushes. He grinds his weight into your back for a split second too long, a deliberate, antagonizing act of disrespect. A clear violation of the code.
You feel a flash of hot anger, but before you can even react, he’s gone. Because he’s been ripped off you.
Quinn, who had been the defenseman closest to the net, moves like a viper. He drops his stick, grabs the back of Benn’s jersey with both gloves, and yanks him back. Benn is bigger, stronger, a renowned tough guy. He turns, surprised, a snarl on his face. Quinn doesn’t care. He gets right in Benn’s face, his expression a mask of cold fury.
“Don’t you ever touch our goalie!” He screams, his voice raw, audible even over the crowd.
Benn shoves him hard. Quinn doesn’t go down. He shoves back. And then the world explodes.
Filip Hronek, Quinn’s defensive partner, is the next one in, grabbing Benn from behind. Another Stars player grabs Hronek. Suddenly, it’s a full-blown line brawl. Gloves are dropping everywhere. Garland finds his dance partner. Joshua squares off with another Dallas heavyweight. Every skater on the ice is paired up, grappling, shoving, throwing muffled punches that land with dull thuds against shoulder pads and helmets. The referees are overwhelmed, blowing their whistles uselessly, trying to separate the tangled knots of angry men.
And you? You get up, brushing the snow off your jersey. You watch the chaos unfold in your crease for a moment, a strange sense of calm detachment washing over you. This is insane. And it’s all for you. They are defending you. Your team.
You see Oettinger at the other end, standing in his crease, watching the mayhem just like you. A strange, unspoken goalie etiquette takes over. This isn't your fight. You look at him. He looks at you. You both give a slight nod, a silent agreement.
You calmly skate out of the warzone in front of your net, leaving your stick behind. You skate towards center ice. Oettinger does the same from his end. You meet right at the red line, the giant Stars logo beneath your skates. You both stop, standing a few feet apart, turning to watch the brawl like two patrons enjoying a particularly rowdy dinner theater performance.
“Well,” Oettinger says, his voice muffled by his mask. He leans on his knees, casual as can be. “That escalated quickly.”
“Tell me about it,” you say, shaking your head. “Benn get a little too friendly a lot?”
“That’s his move,” Oettinger says with a sigh. “Loves to stir the pot in the crease. Never does it when I’m in net, though. Professional courtesy, I guess.”
“Guess I haven’t earned that yet,” you say with a dry laugh.
“Oh, I think you just did.” He gestures with his blocker towards the pile of bodies, where Quinn is still trying to get at Benn, held back by a linesman. “Your captain seems to like you.”
You watch Quinn, his face flushed, still yelling at Benn. A strange, warm feeling spreads through your chest, a feeling that has nothing to do with the game. “Yeah,” you say softly. “He’s a good captain.”
“So, that save you made on Moose in the second,” Oettinger says, changing the subject with the ease of someone completely disconnected from the violence being perpetrated by his teammates. “The deflection. Did you read that off his stick or did you just get lucky?”
You can’t help but laugh. Your teams are engaged in mortal combat, and the two of you are here at center ice, breaking down film. “A little of both,” you admit. “I saw him get his stick free, and I know that’s his spot. I just tried to get my body in the way and hoped for the best.”
“Nice,” he says, nodding in appreciation. “Real nice. You’re looking solid tonight, by the way. Sucks that it’s against us, but, you know. Respect.”
“You too,” you say. “That stop on Petey was larceny.”
The linesmen finally start to get control of the situation, peeling players apart. The ice is littered with gloves and sticks.
“Well,” Oettinger says, straightening up. “Looks like the intermission’s over. Good luck the rest of the way.”
“You too,” you say. “Try to keep your captain in his pen.”
He chuckles. “No promises.”
You skate back to your crease, a small smile on your face. You pick up your stick. The rink crew comes out to scoop up the yard sale of equipment. The referees convene. The penalty box doors are about to get a workout. When the dust settles, Quinn gets two minutes for roughing. Benn gets two for goalie interference and two for roughing. The Canucks are going on the power play.
As Quinn skates to the box, his face still stormy, he looks over at you. You meet his eyes and give him a sharp, deliberate nod. A thank you. He nods back. An ‘anytime.’
The fight galvanizes the Canucks. They play the rest of the game with a ferocious energy. They kill off a late penalty with a desperation you haven’t seen all season. Every player on the ice is blocking shots, sacrificing their bodies. They are not letting this game slip away. Not tonight. Not your first start.
With ten seconds left, the Stars pull Oettinger for an extra attacker. A shot comes from the point. It’s deflected in front. You don’t see it, you just react, your body lunging to the side, your glove thrown out in desperation. You feel the puck hit the very tip of your glove, just enough to send it fluttering wide of the net.
The final horn sounds.
You’ve won. 1-0. Your first NHL start is your first NHL win is your first NHL shutout.
You’re immediately mobbed by your teammates. They swarm you, banging on your helmet, hugging you, their shouts of celebration a joyous, deafening roar. You feel Hronek’s arms wrap around you, lifting you off the ice in a bone-crushing hug. You see Garland’s ecstatic face, Pettersson’s rare, wide grin.
In the locker room, it’s euphoric. Foote comes into the center of the room.
“Hell of a win!” He yells over the music. “Hell of a gutsy, greasy, road win! That’s how we gotta play!” He looks over at you, a proud, almost fatherly look on his face. “And how about this one? Stood on her head. Unbelievable.” He tosses you the game puck. “Congrats on your first. Many more to come.”
The room erupts in stick taps and cheers. You hold the puck, the black rubber cool and heavy in your hand. It’s the single greatest object you’ve ever owned.
Later, after the media interviews and the chaos, when the room has mostly cleared out, you’re sitting in your stall, the puck on the bench beside you. You’re just staring into space, replaying the entire night in your head.
“You okay?”
You look up. It’s Quinn. He’s changed into a suit for the flight, but there’s a small, fresh cut above his right eye, a souvenir from his tangle with Benn.
“Yeah,” you say, your voice a little hoarse. “I’m okay. Are you okay?” You nod towards his cut.
He touches it gingerly. “It’s nothing. Just a love tap.” He sits down on the bench next to you. “You earned that one tonight. You were … incredible.”
“I had some help,” you say, looking at him meaningfully. “Thanks for … you know. Back there.”
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and serious. “No one touches our goalie. Ever. That’s the rule. I don’t care who it is. That’s my job.” He pauses, a small smile playing on his lips. “Especially when it’s you.”
You feel a blush creep up your neck, and you’re suddenly very grateful for the dim lighting of the locker room. You look down at the puck in your hand, then back up at him.
“Well,” you say, your voice softer than you intend. “It was nice of you to do your job.”
He just holds your gaze, his eyes warm and sincere. The noise of the world — the equipment managers packing bags, the distant sound of the bus engine starting — fades away. In the quiet aftermath of the battle, sitting on a bench in a locker room in Dallas, Texas, it feels like you’ve won more than just a hockey game. You’ve found your place. And you have a very strong feeling that the captain, the one with the cut above his eye, is a very big part of it.
***
The two months between your first start and the December road trip are a whirlwind of learning and adjustment. You settle into the rhythm of being an NHL goaltender, a rhythm that is both monotonous and exhilarating. You get ten more starts, winning six of them. You are no longer a curiosity, you are a reliable, effective number two goalie. You are part of the team.
The life is a series of airports, buses, hotels, and arenas. You learn which cities have the best coffee near the team hotel (Calgary) and which have the worst morning traffic (Los Angeles). You learn that Conor Garland is a fiend at cards, that Brock Boeser can sleep literally anywhere, and that Elias Pettersson analyzes crossword puzzles with the same intensity he uses to break down power-play footage.
And you learn Quinn Hughes. You learn him in the small moments. You learn that he hates losing more than he loves winning. You learn that he can be quiet and withdrawn after a bad game, but he’s the first one to crack a joke the next morning to reset the mood. You learn that he always asks the flight attendants their names and thanks them personally when he deplanes. You develop an easy rapport, a shorthand built on the ice that translates seamlessly to life off it. It’s a shared eye-roll during a boring team meeting, a quiet conversation in the back of the bus about a missed defensive assignment, a shared bag of peanut M&Ms on the plane. It’s simple. It’s comfortable. And it’s starting to feel like something you look for, something your day feels incomplete without.
The five-game East Coast swing in December is a notorious grind. New York, New Jersey, Long Island, Boston, and then Philadelphia. A ten-day sentence in the hockey gulag. The team is tired. You lose a sloppy game to the Devils. You grind out an overtime win against the Rangers.
The night before the game against the Islanders, you’re in your hotel room on Long Island, studying film, when your phone buzzes. It’s a text from Demko.
Demmer: Foote just told me I’m in tomorrow.
You stare at the message. Of course he is. The Islanders are a tough, veteran team. It’s the first half of a back-to-back. It’s the logical choice. But a knot of disappointment tightens in your gut anyway. The next game, the second half of the back-to-back, is in Boston.
You: Go get ‘em. Be great.
Demmer: Don’t you get it?
You: Get what?
Demmer: He’s giving you Boston. On purpose. Your homecoming.
You read the text again. And again. Demko is right. Foote could have easily started you here, against the Isles, and given Demko the more prestigious Saturday night game in Boston against the Bruins. But he didn't. He was giving you your stage. The city where you became a star. The city where you fought the NCAA and won.
A fresh wave of nerves, far more potent than anything you felt in Dallas, crashes over you.
The next day, you watch from the bench as the Canucks play a hard, heavy game against the Islanders, ultimately losing 2-1 in a shootout. Demko is brilliant, but the team looks gassed. After the game, on the short flight to Boston, the mood is subdued.
Quinn slides into the empty seat next to you. “You good?” He asks, his voice low.
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “Just tired.”
“Bullshit,” he says, not unkindly. “You’re thinking about tomorrow.”
You turn to look at him. He’s got that look on his face, the analytical one he gets when he’s reading a play. Right now, he’s reading you.
“It’s just another game,” you try, the words feeling hollow even to you.
“No, it’s not,” he counters gently. “It’s Boston. It’s where you played college. It’s where you became … you. Don’t pretend it’s not a big deal. It’s okay for it to be a big deal.”
His understanding, the simple act of him acknowledging the pressure you feel, makes the knot in your stomach loosen. “There’s going to be a lot of people there,” you admit quietly. “People I know.”
“Good,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “Then we’d better put on a show for them.” He bumps his shoulder against yours. “Don’t worry. We’ve got your back.”
***
TD Garden is electric. From the moment you step onto the ice for warmups, you can feel it. It’s different from the hostility in Calgary or the nervous energy in Dallas. This is … love.
You see them immediately. Scattered throughout the lower bowl, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Boston University jerseys. Terrier red mixed in with the Bruins’ black and gold. You see signs. ‘WE STILL LOVE OUR GOALIE.’ ‘ONCE A TERRIER, ALWAYS A TERRIER.’ BOSTON, BE NICE TO HER!’
As you skate your laps, a chant starts, low at first, then growing in volume. It’s not a Canucks chant, or a Bruins chant. It’s your name. The sound echoes through the cavernous arena, a surreal, overwhelming wave of affection from a crowd that is supposed to be rooting against you. You tap your heart with your glove, a lump forming in your throat.
At the other end of the ice, Quinn is leaning against the boards, watching you, a curious smile on his face. He’s never seen anything like this. An opposing player being serenaded by the home crowd before the game has even started.
The game itself is a war. The Bruins are one of the best teams in the league, and they play a heavy, punishing style. The tired Canucks are on their heels from the opening faceoff. The first period is a siege. You face nineteen shots. Nineteen.
You are a wall.
You stone Fraser Minten on a breakaway, refusing to bite on his deke and smothering the puck with your pads. You make a lightning-fast glove save on a David Pastrnak one-timer from the circle, a shot that has beaten the best goalies in the world. The Bruins fans groan in frustration, but their groans are mixed with a loud, appreciative roar from your personal cheering section.
You get lucky, too. A shot rings off the post with a deafening PING that vibrates through your bones. A puck trickles through your five-hole, but Hronek is there to sweep it off the goal line at the last second.
You go into the first intermission tied 0-0. Your teammates skate by your net, tapping your pads, their expressions a mixture of relief and awe.
“Just hang in there,” Quinn says as you skate to the tunnel. “We’ll get our legs under us. You’re keeping us alive.”
In the locker room, Foote is calm. “They gave us their best punch, and we’re still standing,” he says, his eyes finding yours. “Because our goalie is a damn rock star. Now, let’s get our heads out of our asses and go play some hockey. Let’s reward her.”
The second period is a different story. The Canucks come out with a renewed energy. Five minutes in, Pettersson threads a perfect pass to Garland, who rips a shot past Jeremy Swayman. 1-0 Canucks. The building falls silent, except for the pocket of Terrier fans who erupt in joyous celebration.
The lead is short-lived. The Bruins come back with a vengeance. Elias Lindholm crashes the net, creating chaos. In the ensuing scramble, the puck squirts out to Pavel Zacha, who flips it over your outstretched pad. 1-1.
The game is a track meet from there. Brock Boeser scores on a wicked wrister. Charlie McAvoy ties it for the Bruins on a blast from the point that you never saw through a screen. It’s 2-2 heading into the third.
The third period is the most intense twenty minutes of your life. Every save feels like the most important save you’ve ever made. The crowd is a single, roaring entity, living and dying with every shot. With five minutes left, the Bruins get a power play. It feels like the air has been sucked out of the building. This is it. The breaking point.
They set up in the zone. Pastrnak with the puck on his stick is a terrifying sight. He winds up for a one-timer. You slide across, every fiber of your being focused on that puck. He fires. You get your blocker on it, the puck deflecting high up into the protective netting. Faceoff.
They win the draw. The puck goes back to the point, then over to Morgan Geekie. He fakes a shot, freezing you for a split second, and slides a pass across the royal road to a wide-open Pastrnak. The net is empty. It’s a sure goal.
You don’t think. You explode. You push off your right skate with all the force you have left, throwing your body, your glove, your entire existence across the crease. The puck is already on its way. You feel a sharp, stinging impact in the webbing of your glove, your arm fully extended, parallel to the ice.
You’ve got it.
The entire arena, Bruins fans and your fans alike, rises to its feet with a single, unified roar of disbelief. It’s the save of the year. It’s the save of your life.
The Canucks kill off the rest of the penalty, feeding off the energy. The horn sounds. 2-2. You’re going to overtime. You collapse onto your knees in the crease, head bowed, utterly spent.
Overtime is a frantic, chaotic blur of 3-on-3 hockey. There are chances at both ends. You stop a 2-on-1. Swayman stones Pettersson. Finally, Quinn gets the puck in his own end. He sees a seam and takes off. He flies through the neutral zone, his skates barely seeming to touch the ice. He cuts around a Bruins defenseman, the move so slick it looks like the other player is standing still. He’s in alone on Swayman. He fakes the shot, pulling the puck to his backhand and sliding it gently, perfectly, into the open net.
The Canucks win.
The bench empties, a wave of blue jerseys flooding the ice and heading straight for Quinn. But he just skates past them, his arms raised in triumph, and comes directly to you. He crashes into your crease, wrapping you in a hug that lifts you off your skates.
“You did it!” He yells into your mask, his voice filled with pure, unadulterated joy. “You stole that game! You were unbelievable!”
The rest of the team piles on, a joyous scrum of exhaustion and victory. When they finally disperse, you’re named the first star of the game, to absolutely no one’s surprise. You skate your lap, saluting the crowd, your heart feeling like it’s going to burst.
As you head towards the tunnel, you see them. Pressed up against the glass is a sea of familiar faces. Your old BU teammates, the ones who are still on the team. They’re banging on the glass, their faces split with massive grins.
“Y/N!” Yells your old defenseman, a big kid named Mick. “Get over here!”
You skate over, a huge smile breaking across your face. “You guys came!”
“Are you kidding me?” Shouts your old backup goalie, Mathieu. “We wouldn’t miss this for the world! You were insane!”
You open the gate at the end of the bench and step out onto the walkway. You’re immediately swallowed by them. They’re all talking at once, a chaotic, loving cacophony.
“That save on Pastrnak! What was that?”
“You’re buying drinks for the whole team for the next year!”
“Coach watches every game from his office, he screams so loud I always think he’s gonna have a heart attack!”
Mick, who is about six-foot-two and built like a lumberjack, grabs you and lifts you effortlessly onto his shoulders. You yelp in surprise, your helmet still on, as the whole group cheers. They’re parading you around the small concrete walkway like you just won the national championship all over again. It’s loud, it’s chaotic, it’s ridiculous, and it’s the purest form of love you’ve ever felt.
You’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe, your body aching, your heart soaring. This is your family. The boys you went to war with for four years. The ones who saw you cry after a tough loss and who celebrated with you after a huge win. For a moment, you’re not an NHL goalie. You’re just their goalie.
***
Down the long, sterile tunnel that leads to the visitors’ locker room, Quinn is leaning against the concrete wall. He’s watching the scene unfold at the edge of the ice, a small, genuine smile on his face. He sees the joy, the friendship. He sees you, beaming, being hoisted onto some giant defenseman’s shoulders. He’s happy for you. Truly.
But there’s something else, too. A strange, unfamiliar pang in his chest. It’s a feeling of distance. He’s watching you be a part of a world he has no access to, a history he wasn’t there for. He sees the easy way they touch you, the inside jokes he can’t hear, the shared history that radiates from the group. And he feels … separate. An outsider.
“She’s not going to see you from all the way back here.”
Quinn jumps slightly. Petey has materialized beside him, silent as a ghost. He’s leaning against the wall in a similar pose, his intense eyes also fixed on the scene.
“I’m not trying to be seen,” Quinn says, trying to sound casual. “Just giving her a minute. It’s a big night for her.”
“Yes,” Petey says, his gaze unwavering. “She is very popular.”
Just then, Brock strolls up, a towel around his neck and a wide, easy-going grin on his face. “What are we lookin’ at, boys? Oh, wow. Look at that. They’re treating her like she’s the Stanley Cup.”
“She basically won it for us tonight,” Quinn mutters, his eyes still locked on you. He sees the big defenseman finally set you down, only for you to be pulled into a dozen different hugs.
“You have a funny look on your face,” Petey observes, his tone flat and analytical.
“I do not have a funny look on my face,” Quinn retorts, a little too quickly. “I’m happy for her. That’s my ‘happy for my teammate’ face.”
Brock snorts. “Dude, no offense, but that is not your ‘happy for your teammate’ face. That’s your ‘I just watched Garland take the last donut’ face.”
“I’m not …” Quinn starts, then stops, frowning. He can’t quite name the feeling himself. It’s a weird, protective, possessive knot in his stomach. He hates it.
“You look like a little puppy who has been left in the car,” Petey adds, with absolutely zero malice. It is a simple statement of fact, as he sees it.
“I do not look like a puppy!” Quinn snaps, finally tearing his gaze away from the celebration to glare at his teammates. “What is wrong with you two? I’m the captain. She’s my goalie. I’m just … watching out for her.”
Brock’s grin widens. He exchanges a look with Petey, who allows the barest hint of a smirk to touch his lips. They know. Oh, they know.
“Right. ‘Watching out for her’,” Brock says, making air quotes with his fingers. “From fifty feet away. Behind two security guards. Very effective protection, Cap.”
“You are jealous,” Petey says, the words landing with the simple finality of a judge’s gavel.
“I am not jealous!” Quinn insists, his face flushing. The accusation hits a little too close to home. “Jealous of what? A bunch of college kids? That’s ridiculous.”
“It is not ridiculous,” Petey counters, pushing off the wall. “They know a part of her you do not. They are lifting her up. You wish you were the one lifting her up.”
Quinn opens his mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because, in a way the quiet Swede couldn't possibly understand the full scope of, he's right. It’s not about lifting you physically. It’s about being part of that inner circle, about being the one who gets to share in that uninhibited joy.
“Whatever, guys,” he finally mumbles, turning to head towards the locker room. “I’m gonna go shower.”
“Don’t want her to see your sad puppy face when she gets back?” Brock calls after him, laughing.
Just as Quinn is about to round the corner, he hears your voice, bright and breathless, echoing down the tunnel.
“Quinn! Wait up!”
He freezes, caught. He turns around as you jog to catch up, your face flushed and glowing, a smile so wide it looks like it hurts. Your old teammates are waving from the edge of the ice before being shooed away by security. Petey and Brock are standing there, identical looks of smug amusement on their faces.
“Did you see that?” You say, completely oblivious to the conversation that just took place. “That was my whole team! Mick put me on his shoulders! Can you believe it? I think my ribs are bruised.”
Quinn has to physically reset his face from ‘flustered and annoyed’ to ‘happy and supportive.’ He shoves the strange, confusing feelings down, deep down.
“Yeah, I saw,” he says, and he’s relieved to find his voice is normal. He even manages a genuine smile. “Looked like fun. You deserved it. You deserved every second of that tonight.”
“It was the best,” you say, still buzzing. You look up at him, your eyes shining with leftover adrenaline and pure happiness. “Thanks for scoring that goal, by the way. You kind of saved my butt.”
“Nah,” he says, his smile softening as he looks at you. “You saved ours about twenty times first.”
He gives a pointed look over your shoulder at Brock and Petey, who are failing to hide their laughter. “Come on. Let’s go. These two are weirdos.”
He puts a hand lightly on your back, guiding you towards the locker room, away from the prying eyes of his far-too-observant teammates. And as you walk beside him, still chattering excitedly about the game and your friends, he feels that strange, possessive pang in his chest again. But this time, it’s a little less confusing. And it feels a little more like home.
***
The months after the Boston game are a crucible. The easy comfort between you and Quinn deepens into something more charged, a low-voltage current that hums just beneath the surface of every interaction. It’s in the way his eyes find yours across a crowded locker room after a big win. It’s in the way you start saving the seat next to you for him on the plane without even thinking about it. It’s in the lingering moments after practice when you’re the last two on the ice, him feeding you pucks for one-timers, the only sound the scrape of your skates and the echo of the puck off the boards, a rhythm that feels more intimate than any conversation.
He imagines asking you out a thousand times.
He plays the scenarios in his head on a loop. A casual coffee on an off-day. A well-planned dinner during a road trip. A simple, direct question after a practice. Each version is smooth, confident, charming. Each version ends with you smiling and saying yes. And each version evaporates into a cloud of anxiety the moment he’s actually near you.
The timing is never right. The stakes are too high. What if you say no? What if it makes things weird? What if it messes with the delicate chemistry of a team that is, against all odds, scratching and clawing its way into playoff contention? So he says nothing, and the unspoken thing between you grows, a tangible presence in the room.
April arrives, cold and cruel. The final two weeks of the regular season are a gauntlet. Every game is a playoff game. The city of Vancouver is holding its collective breath. You, the surprising Canucks, are on the bubble, locked in a brutal three-way race for the final wild-card spot.
The second-to-last game of the season is at home, against the Vegas Golden Knights. The math is simple and devastating. A win, in any fashion, and you clinch a playoff spot. A loss, and you need a miracle on the final day. The pressure is a physical weight, pressing down on the entire city.
Demko gets the start. Of course he does. He’s the number one, the Vezina candidate, the man you trust with the season on the line. Your job is to be ready, to be the best teammate you can be from the bench, to open the door and have a towel ready.
The game is a masterpiece of tension. Rogers Arena is a shaking, roaring cauldron of blue and green. Every save Demko makes, every blocked shot, every hit, is met with a deafening roar. The first period ends 0-0. The second period is just as tight, a chess match played at a hundred miles per hour.
And then, disaster.
With three minutes left in the second, there’s a collision in the crease. A Vegas forward drives the net, gets tangled with Hronek, and they both go crashing into Demko. It doesn’t look malicious, just a hockey play gone wrong. But Demko stays down.
The arena falls silent. You’re on your feet, peering over the boards, your heart in your throat. He tries to get up, and his left leg buckles. The trainer is on the ice. After a tense few minutes, Demko is helped off, unable to put any weight on his leg. He gives you a grim nod as he passes the bench.
Ian Clark is at your side before Demko is even off the ice. “You’re in,” he says, his voice eerily calm. “Stay square. Breathe. You’ve done this a hundred times.”
Your blood runs cold. You have to go in. Cold. Into a 0-0 game, with the entire season on the line. Your mind is a screaming siren of panic, but your body goes on autopilot. You do the stretches, take the sips of water. You are a machine built for this, even if the ghost inside is terrified.
You step onto the ice. The crowd, which had been silent with worry, gives you a tentative, hopeful cheer. You skate to the net, give it a few taps with your stick.
You survive the final three minutes of the period. The horn sounds. In the locker room, the mood is grim. Demko is already in the trainer’s room. Foote is pacing.
“Listen up!” He barks. “Nothing changes! We feel for Demmer, but we’ve got a game to win. And we have all the confidence in the world in the person in that net.” He points his clipboard directly at you. “We’ve seen what she can do. Now let’s go out there and play our asses off for twenty minutes and get this goddamn thing done.”
The third period is the most intense, high-stakes hockey you have ever played. It’s a track meet. The Golden Knights, sensing blood in the water, come at you in waves. You make a save on Jack Eichel. You stop a point-blank shot from Mark Stone. You are no longer thinking, you are pure reaction, a vessel of instinct and muscle memory.
With ninety seconds left on the clock, the game is still tied 0-0. And then, a turnover. A bad pinch by a defenseman at the Vegas blue line. Suddenly, it’s a 2-on-0. William Karlsson and Mitch Marner are streaking down the ice, all alone, with only you between them and the Canucks’ playoff death.
Quinn is the lone man back, skating for his life, but he won’t get there in time. The arena holds its breath. This is it. This is the season.
Karlsson carries the puck, his eyes locked on Marner. He knows you have to respect his shot. You hold your ground, refusing to cheat to the pass. He slides it across at the last possible second. A perfect pass. A backdoor tap-in. Marner has the entire right side of the net empty, a gaping four-foot by six-foot invitation.
He one-touches it.
You have already pushed off. It’s not a calculated move, it’s an act of pure desperation. You throw your body across the crease, your stick fully extended along the ice, your glove hand reaching, reaching, reaching for something that seems impossibly far away.
You feel it before you see it. A faint vibration up the shaft of your stick. The puck, ticketed for the back of the net, hits the paddle of your outstretched stick and deflects up, over the crossbar, and out of play.
The buzzer for a TV timeout sounds a second later.
The sound that erupts from the crowd is not a cheer. It’s a sonic boom of disbelief. A primal roar of catharsis. Your teammates are staring, mouths agape. Quinn, who had dove in a last-ditch effort, just lifts his head from the ice and stares at you, his eyes wide.
You just lie there on the ice for a second, your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest. You did it. You saved it.
The team skates over to you, a jumble of white jerseys. They’re banging your helmet, screaming your name. “Unbelievable!” “Holy shit!” “You’re a maniac!”
Quinn is the last to arrive. He skates right up to your crease, his hair matted with sweat. He’s looking at you with an expression you’ve never seen before. It’s awe. It’s relief. It’s something so raw and open it makes your breath catch in your throat. He leans in close, his mouth right next to the earhole of your mask, the arena noise fading into a dull roar around his voice.
“That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen,” he breathes, his voice shaky with adrenaline. And then he says the words that shatter the world. “Go out with me.”
You freeze. The blood drains from your face. You are certain you misheard him. The roar of the crowd, the adrenaline, the exhaustion — it has to be a hallucination.
“What?” You manage to say, your voice a faint croak.
“After the season,” he says, his eyes, wide and intense, pleading with yours through the bars of your mask. “One date. Please.”
The referee is blowing his whistle, gesturing for the players to get ready for the faceoff. Foote is screaming from the bench. You have to finish the most important ninety seconds of your season, and your brain has just short-circuited.
You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to say. So you just give a single, tiny, bewildered nod.
He squeezes your shoulder, his eyes never leaving yours, and then he skates away to the faceoff circle. You’re left alone in your crease, your mind a complete blank. Did that just happen? Did the captain of the Vancouver Canucks just ask me out during a TV timeout after I made a save?
Somehow, you get through the rest of the game. You get through overtime. You get to a shootout. And you stop all three Vegas shooters stone cold. The Canucks win. They’re going to the playoffs. The arena is pure bedlam. You are mobbed, the hero, the savior. But all you can think about is him.
***
The locker room is a joyous, chaotic asylum. Champagne and beer are spraying everywhere. The music is so loud the walls are vibrating. Players are hugging, screaming, celebrating a hard-fought, year-long battle finally won. You are at the center of it, guys lifting you up, chanting your name.
But your eyes keep finding him across the room. He’s celebrating, too, but every few seconds, his gaze meets yours. There’s a question in his eyes. An apology. A hope.
An hour later, the room has finally cleared out. The music is off. The puddles of beer are being mopped up by the equipment staff. Most of the players have left to meet their families. It’s just you and him. You’re sitting in your stall, still in your undershirt and hockey pants. He’s sitting in his, a few stalls down. The silence is deafening.
He’s the first to break it. He gets up and walks over, pulling a rolling stool with him. He sits down in front of you, his knees almost touching yours.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey,” you reply, your voice barely a whisper.
“I am so, so sorry,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice is overwhelming. “That was … I don’t know what that was. I didn’t plan it. I swear. It just … came out. My brain shut off and my mouth kept working. It was the stupidest possible time to do that, and I’m sorry.”
You just nod, looking down at your hands.
“I’ve wanted to ask you for months,” he continues, his voice low and earnest. “Since the fall. I kept trying to find the right time, the perfect moment, and I just … I kept chickening out. And then you made that save, and it was just … you were incredible. And I …” He trails off, running a hand through his damp hair. “I’m an idiot.”
You finally look up at him. You see the genuine remorse in his eyes, the nervousness. And you know you have to say what’s in your heart.
“Quinn,” you start, your voice trembling slightly. “You know what my life has been like. You know what I’ve had to fight for. The headlines, the lawsuit, the commentators … it was always ‘the girl goalie.’ For years, that’s all I was. I fought so hard, I worked so hard, for people to just see ‘the goalie.’ For my play to be the only thing that mattered.”
You take a shaky breath. “If I start dating the captain … I become a story again. A different story. A cliché. ‘The first woman in the NHL finds love with her captain.’ It sounds like the plot of a bad movie. It’s not fair, but it’s the truth. People will talk. They’ll say I didn’t earn my place, that I had a distraction. It threatens to undermine everything I’ve ever worked for.”
Tears well up in your eyes, and you hate it. You hate feeling this vulnerable.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just listens, his eyes never leaving yours. He doesn’t try to interrupt or argue. He just lets you speak your truth. When you’re finished, he reaches out and gently, tentatively, takes your hand. His touch is warm and steady.
“I hear you,” he says, his voice full of a quiet strength. “I get it. And it is completely and totally unfair that you have to carry that weight. That you have to even think about those things. What you’ve accomplished, what you’ve earned … it stands on its own. It’s historic. Nothing and no one can ever undermine that. Especially not me.”
He squeezes your hand. “But it’s also not fair for you to have to build a wall around your life because of what a bunch of idiots with microphones might say. We can’t let them write our story, Y/N. That’s their narrative. We have to be able to write our own.”
He looks at you, his expression so sincere it makes your heart ache.
“One date,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “That’s all I’m asking. After the playoffs are over. We’ll go somewhere quiet. No cameras. No jerseys. Just you and me. And if it’s weird, or if it feels wrong, or if it’s just not right for you, we go right back to being teammates and friends. And I will never, ever bring it up again. I swear on my life. But …” He hesitates, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “What if it’s not weird? What if it’s great?”
You look into his eyes, and you see your future. Not the one the reporters will write, but the one you want. A future where you can be the goalie, the trailblazer, and a person who gets to be happy. You see a future with this man, who waited, who respected you, who fought for you, and who just laid his heart at your feet.
A slow smile spreads across your face. The tears are gone, replaced by a feeling of profound, heart-stopping hope.
“Okay, Hughes,” you say, your voice clear and steady. “One date.”
The relief that washes over his face is so absolute it’s like watching the sun come out from behind the clouds. He breaks into a grin so wide and boyish it makes you laugh.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you confirm, laughing. “Now, are you going to let go of my hand, or are we going to sit here all night?”
He laughs, too, a sound of pure joy, and reluctantly lets go. You both stand up, the quiet locker room suddenly filled with a new, fragile, wonderful energy.
You walk out of the room together, side-by-side. As you step into the main hallway that leads to the players’ parking lot, you see a strange scene unfolding.
Clustered near the exit are Petey, Brock, Garland, Hronek, Joshua, and at least five other players. They’re all gathered around Demko, who is leaning against the wall with his injured leg propped up on a chair. And every single one of them is pulling out their wallet and handing cash to Demko, their faces a mixture of disgust and grudging respect.
Demko is raking in a pile of twenties and fifties, a smug, triumphant grin plastered on his face. “Pay up, boys,” he says cheerfully. “The bookie always wins. Told you it’d happen after a season-defining moment of emotional vulnerability.”
Quinn stops dead in his tracks. You stop with him, staring at the bizarre transaction.
“Are you kidding me?” Quinn says, his voice a mixture of disbelief and horror. “There was a betting pool?”
Demko looks up, completely unfazed. He gestures to Quinn with the wad of cash in his hand. “Of course, there was a pool. What do you think we talk about on road trips? Defensive pairings?”
Brock claps a dejected hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Don’t feel bad, man. I lost a hundred bucks. I had ‘day after the end-of-season party’.”
“I had ‘during bye week’,” Garland grumbles, handing a fifty to Demko. “I thought you had more game than this, Huggy.”
Petey shakes his head, his expression deadpan as he pays his debt. “I was logical. I predicted he would ask after the first playoff series win. I did not account for him being a complete lunatic.”
Demko points a thumb at Quinn. “That’s where you went wrong, Petey. You gotta factor in the crazy. I was the only one who bet on ‘in the middle of the most important game of the season immediately following an impossible save.’ High risk, high reward.”
You look at Quinn. His face is the color of a ripe tomato. He looks mortified. And then you start to laugh. Not a small chuckle, but a full, deep, belly laugh. The absurdity of it all, the tension of the last few hours, the ridiculous, supportive, wonderful stupidity of your team — it all comes bubbling out.
Your laughter is infectious. Quinn looks at you, then at his teammates, who are all grinning now, and a reluctant smile spreads across his face. He shakes his head, defeated but happy.
This is it. This is the story. Not the one the media will write. This one. The real one. Messy, and chaotic, and dramatic, and funny. It’s yours. And as Quinn takes your hand again, this time with no hesitation at all, you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your bones, that this is only the first chapter.
***
Two Years Later
The air in the arena is thick enough to breathe. It’s Game 6 of the second round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs. The weight of an entire city, desperate and dreaming, rests squarely on your shoulders. Two years ago, that pressure would have terrified you. Now, it’s just fuel.
The ‘you’ of today is not the same person who stepped onto the ice for that first start in Dallas. This version is etched from playoff wars and Vezina nominations. The ‘rookie sensation’ and ‘female phenom’ headlines have long since faded, replaced by simpler, more powerful words: ‘elite,’ ‘unflappable,’ ‘franchise goalie.’ You are the starter. The number one. The last line of defense for a team, and a captain, that you love.
Demko is still here, your partner and best friend, a formidable 1B in the best tandem in the league. But tonight, this series, this run — it’s your net.
The game against the Los Angeles Kings is a street fight on ice. It’s 2-1 for you in the third period, and every inch of ice is contested with a slash or a cross-check. They crash your net relentlessly, a swarm of white and black, trying to break you through sheer force of will.
There’s a scramble in your crease. You make the initial save, but the rebound sits dangerously in the blue paint. You lunge, covering the puck with your glove a split second before a Kings forward can poke it home. The whistle blows, a shrill mercy in the chaos.
As you lie there, Joel Edmundson, a player who seems to exist purely to irritate, skates by and deliberately sprays you with a shower of ice shavings, right in the face. It’s a classic, infuriating act of disrespect.
The old you might have ignored it. The current you does not. You look up, your eyes locking with his through your mask, and you give him a slow, deliberate whack on the shin pads with the paddle of your stick. A clear message: Not in my house.
He snarls something at you. But he doesn't get to finish.
Because Quinn is there.
It’s not the frantic, furious rush of two years ago. This is something far more dangerous. It’s a cold, calculated arrival. He glides between you and Edmundson, a silent, blue-and-green wall. He doesn’t shove him at first. He just gets in his space, forcing him back, his eyes burning with an intensity that could peel paint.
“Are we doing this again, Joey?” Quinn’s voice is deceptively calm, a low rumble that cuts through the din. “You seem to forget the rules.”
“She’s a goalie, not the damn queen,” Edmundson spits back, trying to push past him.
Quinn’s hands come up, grabbing the front of Edmundson’s jersey. He shoves him back so hard the King stumbles. “She’s my goalie,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that’s more threatening than any shout. “And my only rule is that scum like you doesn’t get to breathe her air. Now get the hell out of the crease before I help you.”
A jolt, sharp and electric, goes through you. It’s not fear. It’s not even just gratitude anymore. It’s a dark, thrilling, proprietary feeling that is yours and his alone. Watching him, your captain, your partner, stand guard over you with that cold fire in his eyes … it’s a language only the two of you speak. Two years of this, of these moments, and it still lights a fuse deep inside you.
The referees move in, separating them before it can escalate further. As Quinn skates away from the scrum, he circles back past your net. He doesn't say a word. He just looks at you. His eyes, dark with leftover aggression and something else, something deeper, lock with yours. It’s a look that has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with the hotel room that awaits you both in a few hours. A silent, searing promise.
You just give him a slow, deliberate nod, your heart hammering against your ribs for an entirely new reason.
***
An hour later, the locker room is vibrating with the joy of a 2-1 series-clinching win. You’re advancing to the Western Conference Final. The music is blasting, players are celebrating, the weight of the game replaced by the giddy anticipation of what’s to come.
You’re sitting in your stall, peeling off your drenched gear, when Quinn comes over. He leans against the stall beside yours, a towel slung around his neck, that intense look still lingering in his eyes.
“You okay?” He asks, his voice a low murmur meant only for you.
“Never better,” you reply, your own voice dropping to match his. You meet his gaze, and the noisy, crowded locker room melts away. There’s only him, the promise in his eyes, and the echo of that on-ice fire.
You are so lost in the moment that you don’t notice the audience you’ve gathered.
“Uh oh,” Garland says, not even trying to be quiet. He’s sitting across from you, taking off his skates. “Everybody see that? They’re making the eyes.”
Brock, sitting next to him, grins. “Yep. That’s the ‘Quinn played knight in shining armor’ look. It’s got its own gravitational pull.”
You feel a blush creep up your neck, but you can’t bring yourself to look away from Quinn. He just rolls his eyes at his teammates, a small, private smile playing on his lips. He’s used to it. They all are.
Garland sighs, a loud, dramatic sound that cuts through the music. He stands up and stretches, making sure he has the attention of the entire room.
“Alright, boys,” he announces, his voice booming. “Just a friendly reminder for everyone on the leadership group’s floor at the hotel …” He pauses for dramatic effect.
“I certainly hope you all brought your earplugs.”
The room explodes. A wave of laughter, catcalls, and stick taps echoes off the walls. You finally break eye contact with Quinn, burying your hot face in a towel, your shoulders shaking with laughter. You feel mortified and ridiculously, incandescently happy all at once.
Across the way, Quinn just shakes his head, a huge, unbothered grin spreading across his face. He picks up a crumpled roll of sock tape and wings it at Garland’s head, who ducks it with a triumphant laugh.
The noise eventually dies down. You look up from your towel. Your eyes find his again across the room. The laughter is gone, replaced by that same, searing look from the ice. It’s a look of profound love, of shared history, of a fierce, protective partnership that transcends the game. And it’s a look that still holds the silent, thrilling promise of later.
This was the story. Not the one the reporters wrote, but the one you built together. The one with the fights, the saves, the bets, and the love that was forged in the fire of the NHL. And as he gives you a slow, deliberate wink, you know with every fiber of your being that the best chapters were still to come.
You don’t know much about Sweet Pea, except for what you hear in the hallways around school. You pass him on your way to and from classes and you’ve perhaps brushed his arm a hand full of times. You don’t know him and he doesn’t know you.
That is until you save his baby sister from the Ghoulies all while simultaneously getting involved in a world you want nothing to do with and events you would rather stay out of.
A/N: Hi everyone! Here is the masterlist for my work. I will also be uploading them onto AO3. A little bit about me is that I love to write, read, watch anime, and more!. I am 27 years old, and writing has just been my way to get either a message out there or to tell a story. Some stories will have bonus chapters so that we can dive in some more on details that may not have been featured on the main series. Each one will say a bonus chapter on them. I will also write:
Short series,
Long Series,
One shots.
Some of the chapters may contain strong language, violence, smut, etc. Listed below are the works I have done and the new ones that will be worked on once I completed the series or works done.
Lost and Found: A Pirate’s Promise- Sanji x Y/N, One piece x Reader- (On going) Synopsis:
Y/N is an established pirate and a formidable warrior, with the third highest bounty in the Straw Hat crew. She's not just another member; her strength and skills have earned her a respected spot among the crew.
Sanji, our favorite lovesick cook, falls head over heels for Y/N almost immediately. True to his nature, he tries every trick in the book to catch her attention, from cooking her favorite meals to showering her with compliments. On the other hand, Y/N may have a small crush on Sanji, but she’s cautious and focused on her goals as a pirate.
As the story progresses, that small crush gradually blossoms into something more profound, but their journey together won't be easy. With the chaos of the New World looming, the dangers they face will test their bond and loyalty to each other. Will their love be strong enough to survive the trials ahead, or will the perils of their pirate life tear them apart?
Chapter 1,
Chapter 2,
Chapter 3,
Chapter 4,
Chapter 5,
Chapter 6,
Chapter 7,
Chapter 8,
Chapter 9,
Chapter 10,
Chapter 11,
Chapter 12,
Chapter 13,
Chapter 14,
Chapter 15,
Chapter 16,
Chapter 17,
Chapter 18,
Chapter 19,
Chapter 20,
Chapter 21,
Chapter 22,
Chapter 23,
Chapter 24,
Chapter 25,
Chapter 26,
Chapter 27,
Chapter 28,
Chapter 29,
Chapter 30,
Chapter 31,
Chapter 32,
Chapter 33,
Chapter 34,
Chapter 35,
Chapter 36
Chapter 37,
Chapter 38 ,
Chapter 39 ,
Chapter 40 ,
Chapter 41
Chapter 41.5 (Bonus Chapter) ,
Chapter 42 ,
Chapter 43
Chapter 44 ,
Chapter 45 ,
Chapter 46 ,
Chapter 47 ,
Chapter 48 Part 1 ,
Chapter 48 Part 2,
Chapter 49 Part 1 ,
Chapter 49 Part 2 ,
Chapter 50 ,
Chapter 51 ,
Chapter 52
Chapter 53 part 1
Chapter 53 Part 2
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60 part 2
Chapter 61 part 1 , part 2, part 3(new)
Queen of the Night-Halloween special ft Sanji and Usopp
Die with a Smile - Portgas D. Ace x Y/N- Synopsis: Y/N, the determined daughter of Fleet Admiral Sakazuki, and Ace, the free-spirited son of Gol D. Roger, have always been bound by their legacies. After going their separate ways to pursue their own pirate dreams, they find themselves crossing paths once again. As they face off against the dangers of the Grand Line, old wounds resurface, and the sparks between them become impossible to ignore. With freedom and their futures on the line, can they overcome their pasts and the expectations that threaten to pull them apart?
Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it's his apartment.
If only she had listened to Damian's pleas, maybe he wouldn't have found himself with a slight heart attack when she fell under the snow ice.
Warnings: angst, mentions of drowning, fluff towards the end
Word Count: 1.6k
Damian Wayne had dealt with stupidity and questionable choices throughout his life. His brothers constantly made questionable choices. So why was his girlfriend making questionable choices? Why was he now standing in the backyard of the manor watching as she ran through the untouched snow? So many questions, but with answers that could only get an eye roll from the young boy. His body slightly shivered from the cold air; his ears already so red from the lack of protection of keeping them warm. He could be sitting in the comfort of the manor, the heat calming his nerves, but he couldn’t find it within himself to turn around.
“Beloved,” He tried watching the way she ran around in the snow, similar to a child. He sighed with another eye roll and a tut when she didn’t reply. “Beloved?” A bit louder this time but still received nothing from her. Not even a glance of acknowledgment. He watched carefully as she ran through the untouched snow. It was well below 20 degrees. But the moment Alfred pulled into the driveway of the manor she had run past him much to his dismay and to the back.
The argument was almost pointless. Once she had her mind set on something it would happen. He should’ve known that. That small glimmer in her eye never changed. Not after a year of dating. Of course, she told him he could sit his grumpy ass inside, but like a stubborn idiot he was, he forced his arms down the sleeves of his coat. He couldn’t recall how long the two of them were standing outside for. But it was well enough that his body started shaking and the smile on her own face never letting up. Especially after the first flake of snow landed not even a minute after the two went out.
He gave up trying to call out for her. Her mind was too deep in the excitement for the snow that his words would simply fall upon deaf ears. He watched carefully as she picked up the snow, throwing it up in the air giggling like a schoolgirl the second the wet flakes hit her rosy cheeks. He couldn’t help but smile at himself. One he had hoped his brothers wouldn’t see. Quickly he looked back with a raised brow checking to see if Jason was standing in one of the windows recording this. Jason had a knack for doing that.
Damian could only recall the first time he brought her over. He immediately wanted to die of embarrassment. Not only was Jason there, but his own father was out of his office standing there waiting with the brightest smile. He didn’t know how to feel, but he could only watch as Jason wrapped his arm around her leading her deeper into the manor, sending Damian a small wink as the two of you turned the corner. It was the loud “TODD!” that had Jason grab her hand running cackling like an idiot.
His attention was now back on her, his hands now deep in the pockets of his jacket. How she wasn’t freezing was beyond him, but he allowed you to dance around almost like a headless chicken. He laughed so silently as her tongue came out to collect the falling snow. How he managed to get her, someone so bright and full of energy when wanted was once again beyond him. But he couldn’t complain, perhaps he couldn’t find it within himself to complain. She was happy, so he was happy.
“Please be careful,” he spoke up again, noticing how deep into the yard she had wandered off into. He remembered a pond being there. Or was it a lake? He couldn’t recall. The worry ate away at his anxiety as she turned to him for the first time since the two of them came out. A slow almost mischievous smirk etched its way onto her face.
“Relax, Dami.” His heart almost died when she slid on the ice. He didn’t care to check if the ice was thick enough for a person to stand on, but he knew he’d go into cardiac arrest if she slipped into the freezing waters.
“Why don’t we head back inside? Grayson is going to be coming home for a few days.” He tried to reason, worry lacing his voice. His eyes were trained to the ice just below her. He swore he almost cried when she jumped slightly, almost testing the water or testing his heart. Either one could kill him.
“Dami, I think you’re overreacting.” She giggled moving deeper into the icy area. She let out a small sound of excitement as the ice allowed you to spin in a circle almost flawlessly. “Look, the ice is holding up-” Just as she was about to finish her sentence the ice gave out, almost laughing at her, at him.
“Shit!” He cried out immediately running towards where she previously stood. A hole small enough for her to fall in was now there in replace of her body as the water splashed out at him almost teasingly. Green eyes followed his hands as they wiped away the snow that laid on the thicker ice. His heart was racing, and his hands were shaking no longer from the cold air.
“Master Damian?” Alfred called out in confusion watching as the younger boy moved around in panic.
“Go grab blankets quickly, Pennyworth! She fell in!” Damian cried not even sparing the butler a glance as he tried to find where your body had gone. “Oh god,” He mumbled, finally catching a glimpse of her white coat. He moved down slightly bringing his fist to the ice.
One punch turned into five, possibly more but he didn’t care. He threw everything he could into the punches not caring about his bloody fists. Finally, the ice broke. His arm plunged deep into the harsh cold-water fishing around for something, fingers finally catching the hood to her coat. Pulling her towards the hole he pulled her out of the water panicking when her eyes were shut and no pulse.
“Beloved?” He almost cried out letting her body lay on the solid ground. He began using CPR and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. His mind was racing almost so fuzzy as her life was practically in his hands at this point. Two breaths, thirty compressions. He did this on a cycle until a gasp, and finally, coughing was heard. She shot up coughing up the water. She had no chance to question what exactly happened as two arms wrapped around her pulling her body into a hard chest.
He held her close, his hold iron tight as her body shook against his no doubt freezing and terrified body. Her fingers held his jacket tightly trying to control her erratic breathing. Seconds turned to minutes once she was finally calm. No words were shared, only allowing the silence to be held. Damian was no doubt a shaking mess. Probably worse than her at this rate. He mumbled soft words in Arabic, words that she didn’t know, but continued to listen to anyways.
“I don’t know if I should be mad at you or upset with you,” Damian spoke as she sat on the floor directly in front of the fireplace. The two of them moved into the warmth of the manor after Alfred scolded the two of her for continuing to sit out there. A blanket was wrapped snuggly around her body, the clothing she once wore now thrown into the dryer as Damian’s clothing being her backup. She shot her boyfriend a soft look that screamed “please don’t” but he shot her another that said, “watch me.”
The crackling fire was the only thing to be heard as she waited for her scolding from Damian. Of course, she felt bad. There was no doubt about that. She went against his words like a cocky idiot and practically died. It was her boyfriend who had brought her back. She glanced back watching as Damian’s focus was on the fire, the once happier green eyes now showing her nothing but sadness.
“Do you know how hard it was feeling no pulse?” He asked suddenly not once taking his eyes off the fire. “I swore my own heart died. What if I couldn’t bring you back?” He asked, finally looking at her. “What would I do then?”
“I-” She was lost for words. She understood the meaning of death well enough, but not even Damian wanted to think of a life without her. Not this early on in their relationship.
“How could you have been so stupid?” He balled his hands into fists. “I told you not to temp it. And what did you do? You played with fire.”
“Ice actually…”
He shot her rather harsh glare. One that had her sink deeper into her covers.
“Don’t be a fool.” He barked. “You almost died for being a foolish idiot! I brought you back.”
She didn’t say anything. Rather she couldn’t form the words. She turned her attention back to the fire hoping that could blow away all of her problems. She nearly jumped when the blanket was lifted and an arm wrapped around her waist. Almost out of instinct she laid her head on his shoulder enjoying the warmth his body gave her.
“I’m sorry Dami.” She whispered while watching the fire.
“It’s alright Beloved.”
“One thing I learned though is that wet socks blow.”
Summary: Why are you the only person that can see Jack’s wings?
Pairing: Jack Kline x Reader
Word count: 6k (i didn’t mean for it to happen but here we are)
Warnings: self doubt from both jack and reader, jack being a total sweetheart as always bc that’s totally a warning
A/N: soulmate AU with Jacky boy bc he has wings too and dangit he deserves the ever so lovely cliche “soulmates can see an angel’s wings” trope. Hopefully this can satisfy y’all’s needs for fluffy Jack content, even if I did make it a bit too long. I got excited.
Taking Jack in after everything was strange to say the least. The boy was always exceedingly kind to you and consistently tried his best to make everyone around him happy, yet opinions on him were quite divided in the bunker for quite a while. While you and Sam both held strong to the idea that he was inherently good despite his parentage, Dean couldn’t seem to shake his grudge against him. Every time the poor kid tried to do something for the team, Dean would always be prepared with a snarky remark.
Another thing about Jack’s presence in the bunker that had your mind twisted in confusion was the large pair of wings behind his back. You had never really seen an angel’s wings before, and from what you knew of angel lore, no one but other angels really could see them. Cas has tried to explain it to you one night as you sat side by side in the library of the bunker, but he tended to use references to sciences that humans had no grasp of yet, making the whole thing a bit pointless, really. Needless to say, it was a pretty big shock when you took in the sight of the young nephilim’s wings. Was this because he was a nephilim? Do nephilims usually have their wings out and visible? You wanted nothing more than to come forward to the boys with all of your questions, but something about it felt… wrong. Surely if it was polite to ask about an angel’s wings, then they would have mentioned them already. Perhaps it was even dangerous to ask, seeing as Dean had no intentions of remaining civil with the boy, and he, too, remained silent on the matter. Besides, they were the ones that knew more about nephilims. Maybe it was best to just follow their lead.
Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist by @dianawinchester03
In this rewrite of CW's hit TV Show 'Supernatural'.
Y/N L/N is a longtime friend of the notorious Winchester Brothers, coming from a long line of hunters herself. Growing up with them, their fathers had a goal of avenging their wives deaths. Currently on her own hunting, much to her own fathers demise, she gets a call from her childhood crush, Dean Winchester. Notifying her of his fathers disappearance, will she join the brothers on the hunt to find their father? And will she resolve her relationship with her own?
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Season One (Complete!)
Prologue - Enter Y/N L/N
Season 1, Episode 1 - Pilot
Season 1, Episode 2 - Wendigo
Season 1, Episode 3 - Dead in Water
Season 1, Episode 4 - Phantom Traveler
Season 1, Episode 5 - Bloody Mary
Season 1, Episode 6 - Skin
Season 1, Episode 7 - Hook Man
Season 1, Episode 8 - Bugs
Season 1, Episode 9 - Home
Season 1, Episode 10 - Asylum
Season 1, Episode 11 - Scarecrow
Season 1, Episode 12 - Faith
Season 1, Episode 13 - Route 666
Season 1, Episode 14 - Nightmare
Season 1, Episode 15 - The Benders
Season 1, Episode 16 - Shadow
Season 1, Episode 17 - Hell House
Season 1, Episode 18 - Something Wicked
Season 1, Episode 19 - Provenance
Season 1, Episode 20 - Dead Man’s Blood
Season 1, Episode 21 - Salvation
Season 1, Episode 22 - Devil’s Trap
Season 1 - Gag Reel
Season Two (Ongoing)
Season 2, Episode 1 - In My Time Of Dying
Season 2, Episode 2 - Everybody Loves A Clown
Season 2, Episode 3 - Bloodlust (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 4 - Children Shouldn’t Play With Dead Things (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 5 - Simon Said (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 6 - No Exit (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 7 - The Usual Suspects (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 8 - Crossroad Blues (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 9 - Croatoan (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 10 - Hunted (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 11 - Playthings (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 12 - Nightshifter (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 13 - Houses of the Holy (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 14 - Born Under A Bad Sign (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 15 - Tall Tales (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 16 - Roadkill (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 17 - Heart (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 18 - Hollywood Babylon (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 19 - Folsom Prison Blues (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 20 - What Is and What Should Never Be (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 21 - All Hell Breaks Loose: Part 1 (coming soon)
Season 2, Episode 22 - All Hell Breaks Loose: Part 2 (coming soon)
Season 2 Gag Reel (coming soon)
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Also available on:
📖; ao3
📖; wattpad
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Authors Note: I finally learnt how to do a Masterlist! Hallelujah now life will be easier for you guys. Hope you check out my book and enjoy🫶I’ll update the list after each chapter release
I reblogged her late last year and my 2024 has been very satisfying work-wise and (secure enough to not stress out) money-wise so far. Money Snake is wise and good.
