Abby

The argument started over something so small it barely deserved the word argument, which was exactly why Macklin Celebrini didn’t take it seriously at first.

“I’m just saying,” you said, leaning against the kitchen counter with the kind of calm voice that meant she was absolutely not calm, “you’re not helping.”

Macklin blinked. “Not helping with what?”

She lifted their toddler onto her hip, the little girl immediately sticking her pacifier back in her mouth like it was a life-support device. “Weaning her off the dummy.”

Now that got his attention. “Okay, I am helping.”

“You’re not,” you say simply.

“I am literally here,” he says, gesturing to himself as if his physical presence should settle the matter. “That’s help.”

You give him a look. “Yes, the both of us being here means the world. But Yesterday you let her fall asleep with two dummies because she convinced you she was ‘extra tired’ even though she fought off her nap to argue.”

“She was extra tired,” he defended. “It was a double-header nap situation.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is.”

You sighed, shifting the exact toddler in question higher on your hip. “Every time I take it away, she looks at me like I’ve personally betrayed her. And then you walk in, smile at her, and hand it back like you’re awarding her a trophy.”

Macklin frowned. “She likes it.”

“She loves it,” you corrected. “That’s the problem.”

Baby girl, sensing tension, removes the dummy followed by a very serious “uh-oh.”

Macklin softened immediately. “See? She’s fine.”

“She is not fine just because shes not crying. She’s stil emotionally attached to plastic.”

Macklin opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because unfortunately, there was no good counterargument to that. So he tried a different angle. “She’s teething.”

“She has been teething since she was born.”

“That’s not true.”

“It feels true.”

The toddler reached out for Macklin, the pacifier still dangling from her fingers like a lifeline. He took her instinctively, bouncing her lightly on his arm. She immediately relaxed, latching back onto the dummy like it was a garnish on every action she participated in. You couldn't help it, it was right there happening and your heart ached a little that he would just let her go back on all you’d spent almost every day this week actively working on, and he didn’t even make a comment about it once. “See? That. That is your fault.”

Macklin froze mid-bounce. “My fault?”

“Yes.”

“What did I do?”

“You reinforced it Mack… C’mon, every time she cries, you go full emergency mode and give her the dummy like you’re disarming a bomb.”

“It is an emergency,” he argued. “She cries like it’s an emergency.”

“She is a toddler, she cries when we give her breakfast and she forgets she likes blueberries"

“Exactly, she's sensitive, that’s not her fault”

She exhaled through her nose. “You’re making this harder.”

Macklin shifted the toddler to his other arm, suddenly very defensive. “So what, I’m just supposed to let her scream and do nothing?”

“No,” you said. “You’re supposed to be consistent.”

“I am consistent.”

“You are emotionally consistent,” you correct, sighing through your nose trying to keep this as and informative discussion not a fight. “Not behaviourally consistent.”

“That sounds made up.”

“It’s not made up.”

The toddler chose that moment to dramatically drop her dummy onto the floor and begin whimpering like she had just lost her entire inheritance. Macklin immediately bent to pick it up. And, unfortunately, it was evidence of his reflex. Your voice cuts in before he could reach it, “Don’t.”

His hesitation made your toddler escalate. Just wanting to get her dummy back from her daddy despite him not being the one who took it from her. Because that was the thing, babies learn what gets reactions, and in this case she knew Mack always soothed her back with it. Instead, Macklin actually took a moment to look between them like a man negotiating two opposing governments. “She’s escalating.”

“She’s negotiating,” 

“She’s losing.”

“She’s learning.”

Macklin sighed. “This is cruel.”

“No, being cruel is letting her not learn how to be calm without a plastic chew toy. This is parenting.”

He looked down at the tiny, very upset human in his arms and made a decision that he absolutely believed was emotionally strategic. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.”

Your cheek is bitten, weary of the actual amount of success another time around would bring, but it's not like the option to give up was available or even in your heart. “Promise?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “I promise.”

You study him like you really need him to stick to believing his own commitments. “Okay,” you reply slowly. “But if you keep undermining me, she’s never going to drop it.”

“I am not undermining you.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“…I am occasionally supporting her emotional autonomy,” he amended.

“That’s not what that is.”

He smiled faintly. “It kind of is.”

You shook your head, but there was the slightest hint of a smile now. “Just try. One week. No dummy unless I say so.”

Macklin nodded solemnly. “One week. Got it.” The toddler immediately slapped his cheek affectionately and stuck her thumb back in her mouth like she had just won the negotiation.

By the end of the week, Macklin thought he had actually done pretty well. There had been some chaos, sure. Some sleepless nights. One dramatic 6 a.m. meltdown that involved the toddler crawling after a forgotten dummy like it was a lost relic. But overall? Progress. He was feeling confident. Maybe even smug. Which is why he didn’t think twice when you put on a game replay later that night.

They were on the couch, toddler between them, a blanket piled over her legs. Macklin had his arm around both of them, relaxed in that post-game, post-practice exhaustion he knew too well. “Oh, this is from last month,” you remember, scrubbing through the footage.

“Yeah,” Macklin said, half watching. The toddler was half-watching too, more interested in chewing the corner of her toy than anything else. Then the replay cut to him on the bench, which is arguable where it took a dive for the worst. Not for the game. For the particular audience viewing. On full big screen replay was your man, your fiancee, the father of your child, Macklin Celebrini, in full gear, visor up, chomping down on his mouthguard like it personally owed him money. The sound wasn’t audible in the living room, but she didn’t need it. She knew that look. The focus. The chewing. The unconscious rhythm of it. Your words didn't need to hit him first because every bone in Mack’s body knew what your sudden silence said so he gathered to have the first say-

“It’s concentration,” he said defensively.

“It’s aggression chewing.”

“It’s a habit.”

The toddler paused. Then looked up. To her parents and then back to the screen. On the replay, he was still chewing the mouthguard. Slow. Repetitive. Distractedly intense. Her lip trembled. Mack didn’t notice at first, still too busy drafting more time for defence when she made a small sound– A confused, uneasy whimper. You noticed immediately. “Oh no.”

“What?” Macklin asked.

The toddler suddenly pointed at the TV. “Da,” she said softly but still wobbling.

“Yes,” Macklin smiled, still overjoyed when she recognised him even after she'd developed well past that learning phase. “That’s me—”

Then the replay showed him biting down harder on the mouthguard again. The toddler’s eyes filled instantly. And she started crying. Not the usual toddler crying. Not hunger crying or tired crying. This was a distressed realization crying. Like she had just discovered something deeply unsettling about the world.

Macklin froze. “Wait—what?”

you covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. “Oh my god.”

“She’s crying,” he said, alarmed. “Why is she crying?”

The toddler buried her face into her mother’s shoulder, sobbing like she had just witnessed betrayal on an existential level. Macklin pointed at the TV. “It’s just me on the bench!”

“You are chewing it just like she does!”

“It’s a mouthguard!”

“It’s for safety not stimulus- it’s meant to stay all the way in your mouth!”

The toddler peeked out, saw it again on the replay, and immediately dissolved back into tears burying her face in his shoulder. "Daddy gets dummy."

Macklin sighed realising avoiding his participation in the bare bones of this situation wasn’t ever going to end up helping. "Okay."

He looked at the television, then at his daughter, then back at the television. And suddenly he couldn't unsee it. Every clip, every replay, every bench shot. There he was – chewing, gnawing. The repetition of working the mouthguard around his mouth like it was essential life support. The toddler sniffled against him, still emotionally wounded. Macklin tightened his arms around slightly and rested his chin on her hair. A reluctant realization was settling in, because maybe you hadn't been entirely wrong. Children copied everything, especially their parents. And unfortunately their daughter adored him, which meant she watched everything he did. The way he sat, the way he talked, the way he laughed, the way he chewed. Apparently the way he obsessively gnawed on his mouthguard too.

The toddler finally lifted her head. "Daddy."

"Yeah?"

She reached up and poked his mouth, which in the present wasn't actually occupied by anything. "Daddy dummy."

“It’s not a dummy baby, its a-”

“NO daddy dummy!”

“Mouthgaurd. Safety-”

“NO DADDY DUMMY DADDY DUMMY", she was relentless once she knew what she was fighting for. Macklin looked down at his daughter who was still staring blatantly – as if she was offended he didn’t understand the severity of the issue. "Tell you what," he said.

Her eyes narrowed. "We'll work on giving up your dummy." She looked doubtful so he continued, making a choice on his weighted options. "And Daddy will stop chewing his mouthguard."

The room went suddenly noticeably stiller. Your eyebrows shot upward so fast it almost made you dizzy. Your toddler just blinked, slower now but still sticky with tears.

"Daddy no dummy?"

Macklin immediately regretted everything, but it was too late now. "No dummy."

The tiny face brightened "Together?"

His heart nearly exploded, because she was smiling now. Trusting him, wanting to do it together. Looking over he saw you suddenly looking very emotional for someone who'd spent the last ten minutes laughing at him. And Mack was the type to hold his daughter's peace in the list of precious things he wanted to keep the most in his life. Her arms wrapping around his neck in reaction, squishing her little hands into where they don’t quite connect at the back, loving the fact that she had all her rights to melt into her daddy. Maybe all this time she’d just needed solidarity. Maybe so did he. "Yeah, bug. Together."

And from the kitchen came the most infuriatingly smug voice imaginable. "Told you it was your fault."

Macklin closed his eyes, the television replayed another clip of him chewing his mouthguard like a Labrador with separation anxiety. And unfortunately, for the first time all day, he couldn't even argue.

✧˖°.˚ ˚.° ˖ ✧ ✧˖°.˚ ˚.° ˖ ✧ ✧˖°.˚ ˚.° ˖ ✧

The icy air bites at your cheeks as you step onto the rink, your skates feeling like foreign objects strapped to your feet. You grip the railing tightly, knuckles turning white as you watch kids half your size zip past you with effortless grace.

"You got this," you mutter to yourself, taking a tentative step away from the safety of the wall.

Your legs immediately betray you, wobbling like Bambi on ice. You flail your arms, managing to stay upright for approximately three seconds before your feet slide out from under you. With a surprised yelp, you land hard on your backside, the cold seeping through your jeans.

"Smooth," a deep voice says from above you.

You look up to find a pair of concerned eyes and a beautiful face framed by a black beanie. The guy extends a gloved hand to help you up.

"Having some trouble there?" he asks, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

Your cheeks flush with embarrassment as you accept his help. "Just a little. I think the ice has a personal vendetta against me."

He chuckles, steadying you with a firm grip on your arms. "Nah, you're just not speaking its language yet. Need some help?"

You're about to decline, too embarrassed to admit you need assistance, but another wobble convinces you otherwise. "Please," you say, your voice small.

"Alright," he says, positioning himself in front of you. "First lesson: bend your knees."

You obey, bending slightly at the knees.

"More," he instructs. "Pretend you're about to sit in a really low chair."

You bend deeper, your thighs burning with the effort.

"Good," he approves. "Now, push off with one foot, then the other. Like this." He demonstrates, gliding backward effortlessly. "Your turn."

You try to mimic his movements, pushing off with your right foot. Instead of gliding gracefully, you shoot forward like a rocket, arms pinwheeling wildly.

Connor catches you before you can face-plant on the ice again, his strong arms wrapping around your waist. "Whoa there! Careful."

"Sorry," you mumble into his chest, mortified. "I think I overestimated the 'gentle push' concept."

His chest vibrates with laughter. "It's fine. We'll work on controlling your power. You've got some serious acceleration there."

You pull back slightly to look at him, surprised by his easygoing nature. "You're really good at this. Do you play or something?"

"A bit," he replies vaguely. "Used to play a lot with my friends growing up."

"Well, you're a natural teacher," you say, finally finding your balance as he supports you.

"Thanks," he says with a grin. "Now, let's try again. Smaller pushes this time."

The next hour passes in a blur of laughter, near-falls and his patient instruction. He's surprisingly good at breaking down complex movements into simple steps you can actually follow.

"You're improving," he says as you manage to glide five whole feet without incident. "At this rate, you'll be ready for the Olympics by next week."

You laugh, shoving his shoulder playfully. "Yeah, right. I'd be lucky to make it around the rink without falling."

"Hey," he says, his tone suddenly serious. "Everyone starts somewhere. I fell more times than I can count when I was learning."

"You? Falling?" you tease. "I find that hard to believe."

"Oh, I fell," he admits with a grin. "Hard. My mom has videos to prove it. Black eyes, split lips, the whole nine yards."

The image of a young him wiping out on the ice makes you smile. "I'd pay good money to see those videos."

"Forget it," he says quickly. "Those are classified information. Now, are you going to try to skate without holding onto me, or are you just enjoying the proximity?"

You realize you're still clutching his arms like a lifeline. Heat floods your cheeks as you let go. "I can do it."

"Show me what you've got," he challenges, skating backward to watch you.

You take a deep breath, remembering his instructions: knees bent, small pushes, look forward. You push off with your left foot, then your right, gliding slowly but steadily across the ice.

"See? You're a natural," he calls out, skating alongside you.

"I have an excellent teacher," you reply, feeling a surge of confidence.

"Excellent teacher, huh?" he repeats with a smirk. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Is that so?" you ask, gaining speed as you find your rhythm. "What else will flattery get me?"

He skates closer, lowering his voice. "Depends on what you're looking for."

Your heart skips a beat at the implication in his tone. Before you can respond, your skate catches an uneven patch of ice, sending you stumbling forward. He reacts instantly, wrapping an arm around your waist to steady you.

"Careful," he says softly, his face inches from yours. "We don't want you breaking anything before our next lesson."

"Next lesson?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Unless you don't want one," he replies, his eyes searching yours. "But I think you've got potential."

"I think I might need a lot more lessons," you admit, your gaze dropping to his lips.

His smile widens. "I think that can be arranged."

The rink's closing announcement echoes through the arena, startling you both. You hadn't realized how much time had passed.

"Guess that's it for today," he says, reluctantly letting go of your waist.

"Thanks for the lesson," you say as you carefully make your way to the exit. "I actually improved."

"You did great," he agrees, helping you navigate the rubber mats leading to the benches. "But I think next time, we should start with the basics."

"What are the basics?" you ask, sitting down to untie your skates.

"Learning how to stop," he says with a wink. "Kind of important if you don't want to end up in the boards every five seconds."

You laugh, shaking your head. "Good point."

As you're putting on your shoes, he pulls out his phone. "So, about that next lesson..."

You look up, heart pounding. "Yeah?"

"Can I get your number?" he asks, looking surprisingly nervous for someone who seems so confident on the ice. "For scheduling purposes, of course."

"Of course," you repeat, grinning as you recite your digits.

He types them into his phone, then looks up at you with a hopeful expression. "I'll text you later?"

"I'll be waiting," you reply, trying to play it cool despite the butterflies dancing in your stomach.

Later that night, as you're scrolling through your social media, a photo pops up from the local sports account. It's a picture from the rink earlier today and there's your skating instructor, smiling at the camera. The caption reads: "Blackhawks star Connor Bedard enjoys a day off at the local rink."

Your eyes widen as you stare at the screen. The cute boy who taught you how to skate today is not just some random guy, he's the Connor Bedard, hockey phenom and an NHL first round pick.

Your phone buzzes with a new message from an unknown number: "Hey, it's your favorite skating instructor. How are you feeling? Sore?"

You grin, typing back: "Surprisingly not too sore. But I'm wondering if my teacher forgot to mention he's kind of a big deal."

His reply comes almost instantly: "Does that change your mind about those lessons?"

"Not a chance," you type back, your heart fluttering. "But you're buying coffee next time. Deal?"

So as ceremony begins, and the bridesmaids start walking down the aisle, Fraser could hardly contain himself. Because he knows the order, he knows you’re going to be walking out any second in the dusty blue dress you tried on in front of him a few weeks ago.

The music continues, and as Fraser’s standing he feels the need to grab the back of his chair, or anyone’s chair, as he sees you. Your hair is swept up in an elegant updo, the small bouquet of flowers held in your hand, the other thrown around the arm of a groomsman.

As you make your way down the aisle, your eyes find Fraser. It doesn’t take any time, because at all times it feels like there is a magnet from him to you.

He’s standing in the row of seats along with mutual friends, and he looks damn good. His button down opened a bit at the top, the black shirt fitting him perfectly. His hair moves slightly in the breeze, and you give him a teasing wink before you walk past him.

Next walks the maid of honor, your cousins best friend. And while you feel like you should be focused on her, you cannot stop looking to a certain hockey player. And it just so happens that the hockey player also can’t stop looking at you.

And you can’t help as those thoughts of the future creep in. They’ve been doing that recently. When you see him making coffee in the morning, when you see him with kids at charity events or saying of course to taking pictures with them, when you think of Christmas, and see elderly couples at your favorite diner. And helping to plan this wedding? It’s taken its toll on you. It makes you think about what he would look like at the end of the aisle as you’re walking down. You wonder if he’d cry seeing you dressed in white. You wonder what his vows would be like, and wonder if Fraser would dip you in the aisle and kiss you in front of all the people who are important to you.

But then the music changes, and you’re snapped out of your thoughts to see your cousin making her way down the aisle. She looks stunning, and emotion tugs deep on your heart as you watch her and her very soon to be husband take each other in.

Fraser watches you from his seat, and he sucks in a breath as he realizes you’re trying not to cry. In fact, you promised him you weren’t going to cry. Because if you do, you’re going to end up starting some long chain reaction with the other bridesmaids. So in preparation for this, Fraser had to endure two weeks of you holding back tears from watching the ‘Top 20 movies that will make you ugly cry’. The list as he learned, did not lie.

You quickly and carefully wipe away a tear threatening to fall, standing up straight and focusing on what’s happening. Only your eyes keep straying back towards him, and his eyes you don’t doubt, had ever left yours.

—

As cocktail hour begins, you sneak to your boyfriend quickly before you’re summoned for pictures. He’s laughing in a small group of relatives and friends. Luckily, you have some very heavy Bruins fans in the family, and they are more than excited to talk Fraser’s ear off about games, strategy, and some comment about how Fraser needs to punch a Florida player, but you block that one out as you approach.

“Hey you.” You say, approaching him as he instantly opens his arm for you to slot yourself against him. He smiles at your words, leaning down to plant a kiss on your lips.

Your aunts blush and look to the grass, but your uncle Mike continues his rant about physical violence on the ice.

“I’m sorry guys I really only have a second before pictures start, do you mind if I steal him away?” You ask your family, and your aunts nod of course.

“Bring him back in one piece, I still have ideas on strategies!” Uncle Mike yells to you as you and Fraser escape for a moment.

“Oh my god.” You say with a laugh, pulling Fraser to the edge of the tree line. “I’m sorry about that, has he been bothering you?” You ask with a slight cringe, and Fraser chuckles before shaking his head no.

“No, he’s been fine.” Fraser says, his voice warm as he looks at you. “You’re so beautiful, Y/N.”

“You’re going to make me red before the pictures.” You say, slapping his chest teasingly.

“Do you think the bride would notice if you come back without lipstick on?” Fraser asks, and you smirk as you bite your lip. You glance around for a second. The venue is completely outdoor, there are huge gardens and pavilions, and a private area by the trees that you guys are currently occupying. So when you’re confident that you’re out of sight, not wanting to make a scene at your cousins wedding of course, you respond.

“And what on earth would happen to my lipstick?” You ask, not able to help yourself when it comes to giving into his teasing.

“This.” He says, before leaning down to kiss you. He keeps it soft, keeps it respectful in the way one of his hands is under your chin, the other on the dip of your back. You pull back after a little while, even though you want nothing more than to kiss him and never stop.

He smiles, taking his thumb and rubbing just under your lip, where you’re sure your lipstick was smudged.

“You looked amazing up there.” He admits, and your heart does that stupid thing it does every time he compliments you. “I just, I couldn’t help but image what you would look like if that was us.”

The confession makes your heart stop, because if he didn’t say it to you, you would have been saying it to him.

“And maybe that’s too soon, or inappropriate to say at somebody else’s wedding.” He says as you laugh. “But I want this, Y/N. I want this all with you.”

You kiss him again, your lipstick be damned.

“I’m so glad you said that.” You whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You confirm. “Because I was thinking the exact same thing.”

Fraser lets out a relieved laugh, and he kisses you again. You guys must have been so lost in the moment, that you don’t hear the footsteps of your cousin coming up behind you.

She clears her throat, and you and Fraser pull apart like you’ve been caught, which in hindsight, you kind of have been. Your cousin smirks at you, her eyes traveling from your messed up lipstick to the possessive hand placed on your back.

“I hate to break this up.” She says, her finger moving between you two. “But I need to take her for some pictures.” Your cousin says, and Fraser smiles, his fingers running through his hair.

You smile at Fraser as you step up to her, and she loops her arm through yours as you both start making your way to where the photographers are waiting.

“Sorry Romeo!” Your cousin says, and Fraser laughs as you both make it out of eyesight of your boyfriend.

“So when are you going to plan for?” She asks you, and you furrow your eyes at her.

“What are you talking about?” You ask with a laugh.

“We’ve known each other for our entire lives, Y/N. I think I can tell when you’re in love. Plus, you only have to know him for 20 seconds before figuring out he’s got it bad for you.”

You gasp at your cousin, and if not for it being her wedding day and her looking gorgeous you would have lightly shoved her.

“Yes, I love him-“ You start, but she cuts you off.

“And he deserves you.” She says, and that comment makes you stop. “I see the way he looks at you. Hell, I think our mostly blind grandmother can see how much that man loves you.” She says, and she motions for you to wipe a bit of lipstick off the corner of your mouth. “All I’m trying to say is, you’ve deserve someone who is your best friend, you deserve someone who doesn’t make you question yourself. And honestly, I’ve never seen you more yourself than you are with him.”

“Don’t make me cry before your pictures.” You mumble, looking away from her.

“You deserve the sun and the stars, so marry him, because I know he’ll give them to you.”

—

True to her word, your cousin returns you back to Fraser after pictures are taken and as the reception starts. But after nearly six hours in these shoes, you’re starting to feel their wrath.

Fraser notices you walking back to him, but his smile drops slightly as he notices how you’re walking. He knows immediately why.

You make your way to him, and lean yourself into his chest, while you do that because you want to, you also do it because you need someone holding you up.

“You alright baby?” He asks silently so he doesn’t attract anyone’s attention.

“I think my feet are somewhere in that garden.” You mumble, and Fraser winces as he looks down to your heels. He knows you walk in them everyday at your job, but your job doesn’t have you walking through grass and on outdoor paths.

“Take them off for a while.” He says, and you look at him like he just said a cardinal sin.

“I can’t take them off.”

“Says who?” Fraser asks, eyebrows going up.

“Says me!” You exclaim with a laugh, but it’s cut off early as you adjust your weight to the other foot now.

“Baby.” He says. “No one’s going to notice if you slip them off. Your dress basically covers them, and I can’t stand the thought of you being in pain for the rest of the night.”

“People will notice that I’m almost four inches shorter.”

“No one will. And if anyone does they can answer to me.” He says jokingly, and you smile as he does.

“My savior.” You say, and he laughs before leading you away from the tables and out to one of the benches by the gardens.

“Sit.” He says, and you do not have to be told twice. You sit down, your blue dress blowing slightly in the breeze as Fraser kneels in front of you.

He takes your ankle in his one hand, the other going to unstrap the heels. You sigh in relief as they both come off, and the shoes hang off his finger tips by the backs.

“Fraser Minten, I think I’m hopelessly in love with you.”

“Good, if you weren’t, that would make this next part really embarrassing.” He says, and you give him a questioning look as he captures your chin in his free hand, and starts talking.

“I want this with you.” He starts, and your heart drums quickly in your chest. “I want the wedding, I want the family butting into our lives, I want the vows and the speeches, I want to marry you, baby.”

The setting sun behind him casts him in a golden light. And you notice from the shine of the sun that he’s got tears in his eyes.

“I want the family, and the house that we can chase our kids around in. I want the rink, and the little skates, or whatever sport they want to play.” He says and you laugh. “But mostly, I want you.”

“Frase.”

“It’s always been you. And seeing you up there today? God baby, I don’t even have the words to describe how beautiful you looked, how beautiful you are.”

“Fraser.” You say, your voice cracking with emotion.

“Don’t say anything.” He says, smiling down at you. “Just come dance with me.”

You don’t say a word, you only nod as Fraser leads you to the dance floor that’s filled with people slow dancing to some old romantic song.

“For the record,” You whisper in his ear, your feet balancing on his shoes as he continues to sway you both. “If you ask me someday, I already have my answer.”

Sid:

Leaving with the guys, did your dinner come?

You:

Yes, it’s me, Chinese, and my show

Sid:

Maybe I’ll just come by you instead

You:

Go out with your team, captain

You smirk at the nickname, knowing it normally makes his face red when you call him that. And even in your crop top and shorts you feel hot at the thought, and you groan while trying to shove images of your best friend far from your mind.

It takes less than an hour for Sidney to text again, and you smirk when you read the messages.

Sid:

Not sure how well whiskey and the guys mix

You:

You sure it’s the guys it doesn’t mix well with? Or is it you

Sid:

Maybe a bit of both

Then, you’re just throwing away empty Chinese cartons when another text comes through.

Sid:

You’d tease Geno about his shirt tonight

You:

Why’s that?

You reply back, and laugh when you read his response.

Sid:

It’s got little penguins all over it

You smirk, laughing a bit as you type out your response.

You:

A bit on the nose, don’t you think?

Sid:

Maybe I’ll borrow it sometime

You:

That shirt is not allowed in my house

Sid:

So what happens if I come over wearing it?

You:

Who are you and what have you done with my stoic best friend?

Sid:

He’s me

You:

Well captain if you did, I’d make you take it off

Sid:

I’m going to borrow it

You bite your lip for a second, the flirting making your chest tighten in the best possibly way. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for you guys to do this, actually, it was very much in the ordinary. And each time you both get a bit less nervous about the things you say.

By 10pm, you’ve missed a few texts.

Sid:

This place is so loud, I’d much rather be watching you fawn over that guy in your tv show

Sid:

They have those fruity drinks you love

Sid:

Geno’s being an ass

Sid:

I’m definitely not being needy

You:

You? Needy? Never!

Sid:

Don’t make me come over there

You shake your head, sending Sidney a picture of yourself looking very unamused by that threat.

Sid:

Fuck

You:

You okay?

This response took a second, the bubble appearing, disappearing and appearing again before he responds with,

Sid:

Not after that picture

You:

Sid?

But he didn’t respond, not for a long while anyway. And you stare at the picture you sent, looking over your makeup free face, your black crop top, your shorts, the shine of your belly button piercing evident under the kitchen lights.

And it’s not until almost midnight that your phone lights up from him.

Sid:

Okay. Leaving

You:

Heading home?

Sid:

Home, yeah

You laugh, able to tell he’s obviously drunk, but you set your phone down on the counter top as you go to make tea. You’re deep in your own head when the doorbell rings. 12:16am, your stove tells you, and you furrow your brows at who the hell is at your house at this hour. But then your phone once again lights up.

Kris:

It’s us. Please open the door he’s getting heavy

You set everything down immediately, rushing towards the door as you unlock it and swing it open.

In front of you, on your front step, is Geno, Sid, and Kris. Both Geno and Kris’s arms holding Sidney up.

“Oh my.” You say, eyes widening at your best friend.

“Hi.” Sidney says, his eyes latching onto yours as he gives you a very drunk smile.

“Hi, Sid.” You say with a laugh, immediately moving to the side so Geno and Kris could bring him in.

“We tried.” Geno says, grunting as they haul him in and set Sidney onto your couch. “I say, Sid, we take you home now. He says no. Kris says, come on, you need sleep. He says no. Then he gives your address.”

Your gaze turns to Sid, who’s looking very flushed and very sheepish on your couch.

“I know it.” He says, tapping his temple, and Geno and Kris both look down so they don’t outright laugh at their very drunk captain.

You roll your eyes, walking towards the kitchen to grab him a glass of water, as you return his eyes travel from your face, down to your stomach. And they stay there.

“Sidney.” You say, and he moves, but his eyes stay glued in place. “My eyes are up here.” You say, and that breaks his concentration. “Were you just staring at my belly button piercing?” You ask with a laugh, and Sidney opens his mouth to respond, but it takes a second for words to come out.

“Yeah.” He finally says, no embarrassment behind it.

“You’ve seen it before you know.” You joke, thinking back to all the times you’ve been in a swimsuit or in a crop top during blistering hot summer days.

“Yeah.” He says, very seriously. “But usually I notice it and then I have to pretend I didn’t.”

The truth slips out and the three sober people all freeze. You bite back a laugh before turning to the two penguins players.

“Thank you for getting him here safely.” You say, and you follow Geno and Kris to the door.

“Text if he become worse.” Geno says, and you just smile and nod, closing the door gently behind them and locking it once more.

You head back to Sidney whose head is thrown back on your couch, his eyes closed.

“Sid.” You say gently, and he opens his eyes, blinking slowly trying to focus his vision.

“Let’s get you to bed.” You say, and he nods, before you reach out to help him stand. He stumbles almost immediately, and you plant your hand across his chest as you help steady him.

“Sorry.” He whispers, and you smile lightly, motioning for him to lean into you as much as he needs as you both slowly make your way to the bedroom.

He stares into the room as you make it past the door, and he gives out a heavy sigh.

“What?” You ask him, and he gives you a drunk smile.

“Smells good in here.”

“Smells like what?” You ask, helping him sit down on the edge of your bed.

“Home.” He says, his eyes so drunk and sparkly as he stares up at you.

Your heart squeezes, and for a second you want to lean down, to kiss his lips. But then you remind yourself that he’s drunk, and he’s your best friend. So you bite back your smile, hoping he doesn’t see it.

“Alright, you.” You say, motioning to his outfit. “Jacket off let’s go.”

He groans with a smile, but slowly starts removing his arms, he gets them stuck for a moment, and you hold the jacket still so he can fully pull his arms out.

“Shirt next.” You say, happy that the lights are dim in your bedroom so he doesn’t see the blush on your cheeks at your words. But you know there’s bound to be some sort of alcohol on his shirt, so it’s next to go.

His fingers fumble over the buttons, and he grunts in frustration.

“Y/N.” He says, looking at you again.

“Alright superstar, let me.” You say, your fingers moving down his chest, unbuttoning it carefully. You try your hardest to keep your eyes off of his chest, off of his abs, off of the chain you fantasize about more than you’d like to admit.

But you can tell Sidney is fully aware of you. Aware of your breathing, aware of your tongue wetting your lips as you work, aware of how his legs bracket you. And Sidney is so painfully aware that the person he’s in love with is undressing him, the shine of your piercing that he longs to kiss on his way down between your thighs is right in front of him.

“Arms.” You say, motioning for him to unfurl his grip from the edge of your bed so you could take the shirt off.

He listens to you, and you’re careful as you slide it off.

“Think you can manage your jeans?” You ask him, grabbing a spare set of shorts he left here one day, and handing them over.

“What if I say I can’t?” Sidney says, drunk confidence radiating off of him.

“Then I guess Geno can turn that car around and come help you.” You say in a teasing tone, one eyebrow raising in challenge.

Sidney laughs deeply, swaying a bit as he stands, and you turn around. You hear the shuffling, the unzipping of his jeans and the sound of soft swears as he gets the shorts on.

“Decent.” He says, and you turn around and blush instantly. The black shorts are tilted on his body. The hem pulled up high on his left side, while the right side sits very .. very .. low on his hips. His abs move as you stare, and your eyes trace the v-line leading down into his shorts.

“Jesus.” You say, and before you can even tell him to fix it, you find yourself doing it for him. You pull up one side, while lowering the other just a touch so the shorts sit horizontally on his hips.

“Sweetheart.” He mumbles, and you flush even worse at the nickname.

“Bed.” You say, only able to say one word due to how distracted you are. You pull down the comforter and sheet, and watch as Sidney slides in like he’s done it a thousand times. His face pressing down into your pillow, and a silly smile covers his lips.

“Smells like you.”

“So you’ve said.”

He hums, and you sigh.

“You need anything else?” You ask, pulling the comforter up a bit more.

“Where are you going?” He asks, sounding sad and panicked.

“The couch?” You respond with a question.

“No you’re not.” He says, and you laugh in a teasing way.

“Oh yes I am.”

“Stay.” He says, and the softness makes your knees buckle.

“Sid-“

“Please. Please stay.” He begs softly, and finally let out a sigh as you nod. Turning off one of the lights and crawling into your bed on the other side.

The sheets are cold, but you can feel his body heat radiating from where he’s laying. Sidney lasts all of five seconds before he’s pulling you towards him. One arm around your waist, the other curling into you along with the rest of him. This head lands on your chest, his legs beside yours under the sheets. And like you’ve done this a thousand times, like it was second nature, your arms go around him. One hand planting itself in his dark curls, the other stroking up and down his back.

Sidney shifts, cheek pressed against the soft fabric of your crop top, his hair brushing your chin.

“Your heart is beating fast.” He mumbles.

“That’s because you’re heavy.”

“No.” He says, calling you on your lie immediately. “You’re nervous.”

“You’re drunk and shirtless in my bed, Sid. I think I’m allowed to be a little nervous.” You say, and he is quiet for a moment. Before his body relaxes as you run your fingers through his curls slowly, scratching gently at his scalp.

“There you go.” You whisper, and your best friend melts further into you. You keep going, your other hand moving to rub into the muscles of his bare shoulder. And Sidney groans deeply into your chest. “Feels good?” You question, and Sid nods against your chest.

“Thank you.” He mumbles, his grip tightening slightly on your waist.

“Of course, superstar.” You whisper, and his shoulders shake once lightly before his breathing gets deeper, his fingers still holding you but a bit more relaxed than a few moments prior.