Joel had expected a lot of things when he came home from practice.

Maybe the smell of dinner drifting from the kitchen. Maybe the low hum of the TV. Maybe his girlfriend curled up on the couch with a blanket and one of her mystery novels.

What he had not expected was the sound of barely-contained laughter coming from the bedroom.

Not normal laughter, either.

This was the kind that came in waves — breathless, snorting, trying-and-failing-to-stay-quiet laughter.

Joel paused in the doorway, still shrugging off his jacket, and frowned.

“…Hello?”

The laughter abruptly cut off.

Then, a muffled, suspiciously guilty, “Hi, baby!”

Joel narrowed his eyes.

He followed the sound to the bedroom and found her sprawled across the bed, face half-buried in a pillow, phone clutched in one hand. Her shoulders were still shaking.

The second she looked up and saw him, she pressed her lips together so hard they nearly disappeared.

That only made him more suspicious.

“What?” Joel asked, dropping his gym bag by the dresser.

“Nothing.”

He stared.

She stared back.

Then her eyes flicked to the phone.

Joel crossed his arms. “You’re laughing at something.”

“No.”

Another beat.

A tiny snort escaped her.

Joel let out an offended breath. “You are.”

She groaned and covered her face with the pillow. “I’m sorry.”

That was not the response of an innocent person.

Joel stepped closer, looming over the bed. “Sorry for what?”

Her eyes peeked over the pillow, bright with tears from laughing too hard.

“…Memes.”

He blinked.

“Memes?”

She nodded.

Joel felt a strange mixture of relief and confusion. “About what?”

Her entire face crumpled as she tried not to laugh again.

“Oh no,” he said slowly. “About me?”

That did it.

She burst into helpless laughter, rolling onto her side, kicking her feet against the mattress.

Joel stared at her in disbelief.

“Seriously?”

“I’m sorry!” she gasped between laughs. “I really am, but they’re so funny.”

He put a hand on his hip. “Show me.”

Her expression instantly turned wary.

“No.”

Joel raised an eyebrow.

“Absolutely not.”

He leaned over and reached for the phone. She yelped and tried to pull it away, but he was bigger, faster, and far too curious now.

“Joel!”

Too late.

He got the phone.

The first image on the screen was a freeze-frame of him during a game, mouth open mid-yell, hair sticking up at a ridiculous angle, with bold white text over it:

WHEN YOU REMEMBER YOU LEFT THE OVEN ON

Joel stared.

Behind him, she made a strangled sound that was half laughter, half panic.

He swiped.

The next one was worse.

A screenshot of him in the penalty box, looking deeply unimpressed, captioned:

ME LISTENING TO MY FRIEND GET BACK WITH THE EX I WARNED HER ABOUT

Joel slowly turned to look at her.

She had hidden her face in the blanket now, though her laughter was still obvious.

“Oh my God,” he muttered.

“There are more,” she wheezed.

“There are more?”

She nodded against the blanket.

Joel looked back at the phone.

There were, in fact, more.

One was just a close-up of his game face with the words:

WHEN THE GROUP PROJECT GRADE DEPENDS ON THE GUY WHO SAID ‘I’LL DO MY PART’

Another had him skating full speed with:

RUNNING TO THE KITCHEN AT 2 A.M. BECAUSE YOU HEARD THE MICROWAVE BEEP

Joel exhaled through his nose.

Then, to her absolute shock, he laughed.

Her head popped up.

“You’re not mad?”

He looked at her, lips twitching. “Mad? No.”

He held up the phone, pointing at the oven one.

“This one’s actually pretty good.”

That sent her into another fit of laughter.

Joel climbed onto the bed beside her, and she immediately curled against his side, still giggling.

“I tried so hard not to laugh when you walked in,” she confessed.

“Clearly.”

She tilted the phone so they could both see. “Wait, wait, this one is my favorite.”

He braced himself.

It was a photo of him glaring across the ice during a faceoff.

The caption read:

ME WHEN SOMEONE SAYS ‘CALM DOWN’

Joel stared at it for three silent seconds.

Then he groaned and flopped backward onto the pillows.

“Okay, that one is accurate.”

She laughed so hard she nearly dropped the phone.

He turned his head to look at her — cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, completely undone by internet nonsense.

The sight made his chest ache in the best way.

Joel reached out, tugging her down beside him until she was half draped across his chest.

“You know,” he said, voice warm with amusement, “I’m choosing to be flattered that I’m apparently meme-worthy.”

“Oh, you absolutely are.”

She grinned up at him.

Then her expression turned mischievous.

“There’s also an entire thread about how unintentionally adorable you look when you’re angry.”

Joel groaned again.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Delete it.”

“Never.”

He pulled her closer until she squealed, trapping her against him.

“You’re laughing at me in my own house.”

She smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

“I’m laughing because I love you.”

Joel’s expression softened instantly.

“That’s a better answer.”

He kissed her forehead, then stole the phone back.

“…Send me the angry one.”

Her eyes widened.

“You want it?”

Joel smirked.

“I need it for when the guys annoy me.”

She laughed again, curling into him as the room filled with the easy warmth of shared jokes and evening light.

And a few minutes later, when his phone buzzed with the meme she’d just sent, Joel looked down at it, shook his head, and muttered with reluctant affection:

The line at the coffee shop moved slowly—one of those late-morning rushes where everyone seemed half-awake and overly particular about oat milk ratios. Oliver Moore stood there in a hoodie and a cap he hadn’t bothered to pull all the way down, absentmindedly scrolling his phone.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” a voice behind him said, not sounding sorry at all. “But I have to say it.”

He glanced back.

A girl stood there with two friends, all three trying—and failing—not to laugh.

“What?” he asked, already smiling a little.

“It’s your hair,” she said, pointing like she’d just discovered something groundbreaking. “It’s so blonde it looks like Barbie hair. Like… actual plastic Barbie hair.”

Her friends lost it.

For a split second, he just blinked at her. Then he ran a hand through it, pushing it back like he was inspecting it for himself.

“Wow,” he said. “First of all, that’s premium genetics. Second, Barbie wishes.”

That only made them laugh harder.

“I’m serious!” she said. “If you stood in the sun, you’d probably reflect light and blind someone.”

“Good,” he shrugged. “That’s how I win arguments.”

There was something easy about it—no awkwardness, no edge. Just… instant banter.

The line shuffled forward a step.

“So,” he added, turning halfway toward her now, “is making fun of strangers in coffee lines your hobby, or am I just lucky?”

“Extremely lucky,” she shot back. “We’re very selective.”

“Honored, honestly.”

Another step forward.

“What’s your name, Barbie?” one of her friends chimed in.

He laughed. “Oliver.”

Her expression shifted slightly—recognition flickering, but she didn’t make a big deal out of it.

“I’m—” she started, then paused. “Actually, no. I think I’m gonna keep my identity secret for now. Builds mystery.”

“Right,” he nodded. “Mysterious girl who bullies people about their hair. Great brand.”

“Exactly.”

By the time he reached the counter, they were still talking—about coffee orders, about how none of them really understood what a macchiato was supposed to be, about whether his hair had always been like that or if it was some kind of long-term commitment to the bit.

He ordered, stepped aside, and—without really thinking about it—waited instead of leaving.

She noticed.

“Waiting to make sure I don’t start roasting someone else?” she asked.

“Nah,” he said. “Just making sure you don’t spread misinformation about my hair.”

“Too late,” she grinned. “Group chat already knows.”

“Unbelievable.”

When her drink came, she hesitated for a second, then looked at him.

“Okay, fine,” she said. “I’ll trade you. My name for… proof your hair isn’t actually plastic.”

He leaned closer like he was letting her in on a secret.

“You can try to mess it up,” he said. “That’s usually convincing.”

Her friends immediately started hyping her up.

“Do it.”

“Go on.”

She narrowed her eyes, then reached up and quickly ruffled his hair before she could overthink it.

It fell right back into place.

She blinked.

“…Okay, that’s actually kind of impressive.”

“Told you,” he said, smug.

She laughed again, shaking her head.

“Alright. I’m—”

And just like that, introductions happened. Real ones this time.

They ended up sitting at the same table—originally “just for a minute,” which turned into an hour. Then numbers got exchanged under the excuse of “continuing the debate about the hair,” which everyone knew was a flimsy excuse at best.

By the time they finally left, the joke had already turned into a running thing.

Barbie hair.

Premium genetics.

A story they’d retell—probably exaggerate—every time it came up.

The fight shouldn’t have surprised you.

But somehow, it still did.

It started small—something stupid about time, about effort, about who was trying harder. The kind of argument couples circle back to again and again, like picking at a bruise just to see if it still hurts.

It did.

“You know what?” he snapped, running a hand through his hair. “I’m tired of feeling like I’m not enough for you.”

Your chest tightened. “That’s not what this is.”

“It’s always what this is.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than the words. Final. Like something had quietly snapped in half, too clean to fix.

You swallowed, your voice quieter now. “Maybe… maybe we just don’t work anymore.”

He didn’t fight it. That was the worst part.

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe we don’t.”

And just like that—after everything—you were done.

By the time you got home, the ache had settled deep in your bones. Not dramatic. Not explosive. Just… hollow.

So you did the only thing that made sense.

You texted your friend.

Drinks. Tonight. I don’t care where.

The bar was loud—exactly what you needed.

Music thumped through the walls, conversations blurred into noise, and the dim lighting made everything feel a little less real. You leaned against the counter, wrapping your fingers around a cold glass as your friend talked beside you, her voice cutting in and out of your thoughts.

“…and honestly, you’re better off—are you even listening?”

“Mm,” you hummed, taking a sip. “Trying to.”

But your mind kept drifting. Back to him. To the way it ended so… quietly.

God, you hated quiet endings.

“Hey,” your friend nudged you. “Stop spiraling. Tonight is about distraction, remember?”

You exhaled, forcing a small smile. “Right. Distraction.”

“Exactly. And speaking of—” she leaned closer, eyes flicking past you, “don’t look now, but there’s a very attractive guy who hasn’t stopped glancing over here.”

You rolled your eyes instinctively. “Not tonight.”

“I’m serious.”

“I just got dumped.”

“Which is exactly why you should look.”

You hesitated.

Then, against your better judgment, you turned slightly—

—and your breath caught.

He was across the bar, half-turned toward you, mid-conversation with someone else. Dark hair, sharp features, the kind of effortless confidence that didn’t feel forced. When your eyes met his, he didn’t look away.

If anything, he smiled.

Not cocky. Not overly charming.

Just… genuine.

Your stomach flipped, and you immediately looked back at your drink.

“Okay,” your friend whispered, barely containing her grin. “You saw that, right?”

“I saw it,” you muttered.

“And?”

“And I’m ignoring it.”

“Absolutely not.”

Before you could protest, she was already sliding off her stool. “Be right back.”

Your eyes widened. “Don’t you dare—”

Too late.

You watched in horror as she walked straight over to him.

There was a brief exchange. A laugh.

And then—

He glanced back at you again.

Oh, no.

“No, no, no,” you mumbled under your breath, suddenly very interested in your drink.

Footsteps approached.

“You know,” a voice said beside you, warm and easy, “your friend is very convincing.”

You looked up.

Up close, he was somehow even more distracting.

“Is she now?” you replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Mm. She said you just had a rough night.”

You let out a quiet huff. “That obvious?”

“A little,” he admitted, but there was no judgment in it. “I’m Macklin, by the way.”

You hesitated for half a second—then shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

There was something grounding about him. The way he spoke, the way he looked at you—like he wasn’t trying to impress you, wasn’t expecting anything.

Just… present.

“So,” he said, leaning lightly against the bar beside you, “bad breakup?”

You laughed softly, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Fresh. Like, a few hours ago fresh.”

“Damn,” he winced. “That’s brutal.”

“Yeah.” You stared down at your glass. “It wasn’t even a big, dramatic thing. Just… over.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“Those are the worst,” he said finally. “No closure. Just… gone.”

You glanced at him, surprised. “Exactly.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “Guess I’m good for something tonight.”

“Maybe,” you admitted.

And just like that, the conversation flowed.

You didn’t notice how much time passed.

Somewhere between the second drink and the third, the heaviness in your chest started to loosen. He made you laugh—really laugh—for the first time all night. Not forced. Not polite.

Real.

You told him things you hadn’t planned to say. Nothing too deep, but enough that it felt… honest.

And he listened.

Actually listened.

At some point, your friend gave you a very obvious thumbs-up from across the bar before disappearing entirely.

Traitor.

But you didn’t mind.

Because now you were outside, the cool night air brushing against your skin as you stepped onto the sidewalk together.

“Better?” he asked, glancing at you.

You exhaled, looking up at the sky. “Yeah. A little.”

“Good.”

There was a pause.

Not awkward.

Just… quiet.

Different from earlier.

Your eyes met his again, and something shifted.

It wasn’t about your ex anymore. Or the breakup. Or the bad night.

It was just this moment.

“You know,” he said softly, “for someone who had a terrible day, you’re still pretty incredible company.”

You laughed under your breath. “Careful. I might start thinking you’re just saying that.”

“Not my style.”

There it was again—that honesty.

Your heart did that annoying little flip.

“This is probably a bad idea,” you murmured, though you didn’t move away.

“Probably,” he agreed.

Neither of you stepped back.

There was a split second where you could’ve ended it. Made a joke. Walked away.

Instead, you stayed.

And when he leaned in—

you met him halfway.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative. Like both of you were testing the moment, making sure it was real.

It was.

And then it deepened—just slightly, just enough to make your chest tighten for an entirely different reason than earlier.

Warm. Steady. Unexpected.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead brushed lightly against his.

“Well,” you whispered, a small smile forming, “that definitely counts as a distraction.”

He smiled back, just as softly. “Told you I’d be useful.”

For the first time all night, the ache in your chest didn’t feel so heavy.

Not gone.

But lighter.

And standing there, under the dim glow of the streetlights, you realized something simple, but important:

Maybe endings didn’t always have to feel like the end of everything.

Sometimes—

The first thing you learned about Lucas Raymond was that he took hockey very seriously.

The second thing you learned?

He took Harry Potter even more seriously.

It started innocently.

You were sitting on the couch in his apartment in Detroit, wearing one of his Detroit Red Wings hoodies that swallowed you whole, when you noticed a very suspiciously familiar spine on his bookshelf.

You squinted.

No.

It couldn’t be.

You stood up slowly. “Lucas… why do you own a hardcover boxed set of Harry Potter… in English… and Swedish?”

He froze mid-sip of his protein shake.

“…Research.”

“You annotated them.”

“Research,” he repeated firmly.

You pulled out Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and flipped it open. There were sticky notes. Tabs. Highlighting.

You turned slowly.

He looked like a man who had just been caught using an Unforgivable Curse.

“You color-coded Triwizard strategies,” you said weakly.

“It’s tactical analysis,” he defended. “If I were in the tournament, I’d obviously win.”

You gasped. “Obviously? Obviously? You’d be eliminated in the first task.”

His eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“You’d try to reason with the dragon.”

“I would successfully reason with the dragon.”

“Lucas. You think Crookshanks is ‘just misunderstood.’”

“He is misunderstood!”

You stared at him.

He stared at you.

And then, like two overly competitive Gryffindors (you) and one extremely defensive Ravenclaw (him), it began.

“Okay,” you said, crossing your arms. “What house are you in?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Ravenclaw.”

You blinked. “You didn’t even think about it.”

“I’ve taken the test twelve times.”

“Twelve?”

“You have to account for algorithm variance.”

“You’re insane.”

“And you’re a Gryffindor,” he shot back.

You gasped dramatically. “I am absolutely not.”

“You absolutely are. You once tried to assemble IKEA furniture without instructions.”

“That was bravery!”

“That was reckless.”

“That was leadership.”

“That was chaos.”

You lunged for a pillow and hit him with it.

He laughed — that soft, bright laugh that made his eyes crinkle — and grabbed the pillow, pulling you forward with it until you nearly fell into his lap.

“You’re Gryffindor,” he said again, quieter now. “Big heart. Zero self-preservation.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And you’re Ravenclaw because you overthink everything.”

“Correct.”

“And because you definitely would’ve figured out the basilisk situation before Harry.”

“I absolutely would have.”

“You would’ve Googled ‘why are people petrified Hogwarts plumbing problem.’”

He grinned. “Exactly.”

You flopped back dramatically.

“Fine. But who’s your favorite character?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Suspicious.

“Lucas,” you said slowly. “If you say Draco—”

“I’m not saying Draco!”

“Okay good.”

“…I’m saying Luna.”

You froze.

“Luna?”

He nodded. “She’s weird and confident about it. Doesn’t care what people think. Sees things differently. That’s cool.”

You softened a little. “That’s… actually a very good answer.”

He shrugged, suddenly shy. “What about you?”

You hesitated.

“Hermione,” you admitted. “Because she’s brilliant and strong and carries the entire trio and deserved more credit.”

He studied you carefully.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “That tracks.”

You squinted. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, reaching over and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “you’re the smartest person I know, and half the time I don’t think you realize it.”

Oh.

Oh no.

He was doing the soft voice thing.

You recovered quickly. “If I’m Hermione, that makes you—”

“Harry,” he said immediately.

You burst out laughing. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’d panic.”

“I would not panic!”

“You panic when the Wi-Fi goes out.”

“That’s a valid emergency!”

You leaned closer. “You’re Ron.”

He gasped like you’d insulted his entire bloodline.

“RON?”

“You’re loyal. Dramatic. Slightly jealous when I beat you at Mario Kart.”

“That was one time.”

“You brought it up for three weeks.”

He lunged again, this time pulling you fully into his lap as you squealed.

“Take it back,” he demanded.

“Never.”

“Take. It. Back.”

“You’re Ron and you’d absolutely eat twelve Hogwarts feasts per semester.”

“That’s just efficient bulking!”

You were both laughing now, breathless and tangled in oversized hoodie fabric.

Eventually, the chaos softened into something quieter.

You were still in his lap, your head resting against his shoulder, his chin brushing your hair.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “if Hogwarts was real… I’d want to go with you.”

You smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’d sit next to you in the Great Hall. Study with you. Probably copy your homework.”

“You would absolutely copy my homework.”

He hummed. “And during the Battle of Hogwarts?”

You tilted your head. “What about it?”

“I’d stay.”

Your heart squeezed.

“Even if it was dangerous?” you teased gently.

He didn’t joke this time.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “I’d stay.”

The room felt very still.

Very warm.

Very… not fictional.

You looked up at him.

“Well,” you said softly, “good thing we don’t need magic castles and dark wizards to be brave.”

He smiled down at you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said. “You just need a Red Wings jersey and questionable dragon diplomacy skills.”

He laughed quietly and leaned his forehead against yours.

“Hey,” he murmured. “If I’m Ron… does that mean I get to marry Hermione?”

Your breath caught.

You pretended to think about it.

“…Only if you promise not to panic when the Wi-Fi goes out.”

He grinned.

“No promises.”

And then he kissed you — soft and warm and a little bit smiling — like the ending of a book you never wanted to close.

Somewhere, in some alternate universe, the Sorting Hat probably would’ve called it destiny.

But here in Detroit?

It was just you, him, and a very well-annotated copy of Goblet of Fire — which, by the way, he still insists he could win.

And honestly?

It wasn't often that Brock Faber had a whole weekend off during the season. Between practices, video sessions, and games with the Minnesota Wild, his schedule usually followed an impeccable timetable.

So when he showed up at her apartment on Saturday morning in a faded Wild hoodie, sweats, and a pair of rectangular glasses perched on his nose, she knew she was in trouble.

Not the bad kind.

The dangerous kind.

“Your sink still doing that weird cough thing?” he asked, setting down his duffel bag like he was clocking into a shift.

“It gurgles,” she corrected, trying not to stare at the way his glasses slid slightly down his nose when he tilted his head.

“Yeah. That.”

He disappeared under her kitchen sink with the confidence of someone who’d studied more than just defensive zone coverage. A small toolkit appeared from his bag — because of course he brought his own. Of course he did.

She leaned against the counter, pretending to scroll on her phone while stealing glances.

There was something unfair about it. On the ice, he was all speed and composure, steady blue-line presence, impossible to knock off the puck. Here, he was focused in a completely different way — brows slightly furrowed, jaw set in concentration, one hand braced on the cabinet frame.

And the glasses.

She didn’t know when that had started doing things to her.

“Okay, so,” he muttered mostly to himself, “whoever installed this tightened it way too much.”

“You sound personally offended.”

“I am,” he said, nudging his glasses up with his wrist because his hands were busy. “This is lazy workmanship.”

Her heart did an unnecessary little flip.

Five minutes later, the gurgling stopped.

He ran the water, listened carefully, nodded once in quiet satisfaction. “There. Fixed.”

She stared at him.

“What?” he asked, pushing himself up from the floor.

“Nothing. It’s just… you look very capable right now.”

He blinked, confused. “Because I fixed your sink?”

“Because you fixed my sink while wearing glasses.”

A faint flush crept up his neck. “They’re just reading glasses.”

“I know.”

He tried to hide a smile, failing spectacularly. “You’re weird.”

“And yet,” she said, stepping closer, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his hoodie, “you keep coming back.”

He slid his arms around her waist automatically, toolkit forgotten. “You had three lightbulbs out, too.”

Her stomach dropped.

“You fixed those?”

“Yep.”

“The wobbly cabinet door?”

“Adjusted.”

“The squeaky bathroom hinge?”

“Handled.”

She stared at him like he’d just scored an overtime goal.

“You did all of that this morning?”

He shrugged. “You mentioned it last week.”

It was such a simple thing. He’d listened. Remembered. Taken care of it without being asked again.

On the ice, he read plays before they happened. Off the ice, apparently, he read her.

She reached up and gently straightened his glasses this time, her fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured.

“For fixing things?”

“For being this attractive while fixing things.”

He laughed softly, the sound warm and unguarded — nothing like the intensity he carried during games. “You know I also do dishes, right?”

Her eyes widened.

He grinned. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Brock.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re staying for dinner.”

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, domestic and sweet and entirely unfair. “Only if I get to reorganize your pantry.”

She pulled back just enough to narrow her eyes. “Don’t push it.”

But she was smiling.

And when he headed toward the kitchen again — glasses catching the afternoon light, sleeves pushed up, fully committed to improving her apartment one small repair at a time — she realized something.

It wasn’t just the competence.

It was the care.

And somehow, that was even hotter.

-

It started with the bookshelf.

She should have known better than to casually mention, “Yeah, it leans a little to the left.”

Because now Brock Faber was standing in the middle of her living room, glasses on, sleeves pushed up, holding a level like it had personally insulted him.

“It’s not ‘a little,’” he said gravely. “It’s 1.3 degrees off.”

“Brock,” she said carefully, “it’s holding paperback romance novels.”

“That’s not the point.”

He crouched, adjusted the base, stood up, checked again. His jaw tightened. The glasses slid down his nose.

She had to look away.

This was getting dangerous.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

He shifted the bookshelf half an inch. Rechecked the level. Nodded once, satisfied in a way that felt deeply competitive.

“Perfect.”

She glanced at it. “It looks the same.”

“It does not.”

“It does.”

He straightened to his full height and gave her that look — the one he probably used on opponents when they underestimated him during games with the Minnesota Wild.

“You want structural integrity or vibes?” he asked.

“I want you to stop saying ‘structural integrity’ in my one-bedroom apartment.”

Too late.

He had already spotted the next victim.

“The thermostat is inefficiently placed.”

Her stomach dropped.

“Don’t,” she warned.

He was already pulling out his phone. “If we move your couch six inches, airflow improves.”

“Or,” she countered, “we leave the couch alone.”

“But the draft—”

“Brock.”

He paused.

She softened her voice. “You’re off duty.”

He looked around her apartment, visibly trying to power down whatever hyper-focused system ran in his brain. It lasted approximately four seconds.

“The curtain rod is uneven.”

She lunged for him.

He dodged — defenseman reflexes — and ended up laughing, backing away as she tried to grab the measuring tape from his hand.

“You’re impossible!” she said.

“I’m helpful!”

“You alphabetized my spice rack.”

“It was chaos.”

“It was personality.”

He gasped like she’d just suggested he deliberately turn over the puck at center ice.

“You can’t just mix cumin and cinnamon like that.”

“Watch me.”

He stared at her. Horrified. A little impressed.

There was a knock at the door.

They both froze.

She wasn’t expecting anyone.

When she opened it, her neighbor stood there holding a small potted plant.

“Hey, um… I don’t know what your boyfriend does for a living, but he fixed my hallway light?”

She slowly turned.

Brock stood in the kitchen holding a screwdriver.

“You left your door open,” he said defensively. “It was flickering.”

“You’re not the building superintendent!”

“It was bothering me.”

The neighbor blinked. “He also tightened the railing on the stairs.”

Her eye twitched.

“Brock.”

“What?”

“Have you been repairing the building?”

“I might’ve made a few minor adjustments.”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You can’t just free-range handyman the complex.”

“It’s community support.”

“You’re not on a penalty kill.”

He tried not to smile.

The neighbor grinned. “Well, whatever you’re doing, the third-floor guy says thanks.”

The door closed.

Silence.

She crossed her arms. “So. What else have you fixed?”

He hesitated.

That was never a good sign.

“The mailboxes were misaligned.”

“Brock.”

“And the lobby bench was uneven.”

“Brock.”

“And technically—”

She grabbed him by the hoodie and pulled him toward her before he could confess to reinforcing the foundation.

“You need a hobby,” she said.

He blinked behind his glasses. “Hockey is my hobby.”

“No. Hockey is your profession. This—” she gestured wildly around the apartment, “—this is you trying to optimize civilization.”

He considered that.

“…Okay, but the bathroom faucet still drips slightly.”

She stared at him.

Then she did the only thing that worked.

She reached up and slowly, deliberately slid his glasses off his face.

He froze.

“You are done fixing things for today,” she said sweetly.

He swallowed. “That’s not fair.”

“You reorganized my freezer.”

“It makes more sense now.”

She placed his glasses on the counter, just out of reach.

He looked at them like they were the Stanley Cup.

“You’re weaponizing my vision.”

“Yes.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You know I can still fix things without them.”

“Oh, I know.”

He paused.

The grin that spread across his face was softer now, less contractor, more boyfriend.

“Fine,” he said. “No more repairs.”

“Good.”

A beat.

“…Unless something else breaks.”

She groaned.

But she was laughing when he pulled her into his arms — warm, steady, slightly smug — the man who could hold a blue line under pressure but somehow could not coexist peacefully with an uneven curtain rod.

And later, when she walked into the kitchen and found he had quietly adjusted the one crooked picture frame she secretly hated?

She didn’t say a word.

The podcast studio lights weren’t too bright, but they were bright enough to make her slightly aware of every expression on her face.

Across from her, the host grinned mischievously.

“So… I have to ask,” he said, glancing at his notes. “Are you aware that your boyfriend has a bit of a reputation in the NHL?”

She blinked. “Oh no. Which one?”

The host laughed. “The… let’s say… most punchable face in the league reputation.”

She burst into laughter before she could stop herself, covering her mouth. “Oh my gosh. Yes. Yes, I am aware.”

“So it’s true? You know about this?”

“Unfortunately,” she said dramatically, still laughing. “I regret to inform you that I do.”

The host leaned forward. “And how does he feel about that?”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “He pretends not to care. But I know he’s seen the memes.”

Back in Minnesota, inside the locker room of the Minnesota Wild, Joel sat on the wooden bench, phone in hand, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. A couple of teammates leaned over his shoulder, snickering.

“Oh, this is good,” one of them muttered.

On screen, she continued.

“I mean, I get it,” she said. “On the rink, he has that intense look. The jaw clench, the stare, the whole ‘I will absolutely annoy you for sixty minutes straight’ vibe.”

The host laughed. “That’s very accurate.”

“But,” she added quickly, her expression softening, “outside the rink? He’s the complete opposite. He’s quiet. Sweet. He overthinks texts. He always makes sure everyone gets home safe. He remembers tiny details about people. He’s… honestly one of the kindest people I know.”

In the locker room, someone let out a dramatic “Awww.”

Joel shook his head, trying and failing to hide his grin. His ears were red.

“And he’s a great boyfriend?” the host teased.

She smiled shyly. “The best. Don’t tell him I said that. His ego doesn’t need it.”

Too late.

Joel locked his phone, still smiling to himself. One of his teammates nudged him.

“Most punchable face in the league, huh?”

He shrugged, trying to play it cool. “At least someone likes it.”

But the small, soft smile on his face didn’t fade for the rest of practice.

-

The locker room of the Minnesota Wild was loud, as usual — music playing, sticks clattering, someone arguing about tape jobs.

Joel, however, was very still.

Seated at his stall, elbows on his knees, he held his phone just slightly angled away from the rest of the team.

Which, unfortunately for him, did absolutely nothing.

“Is that her?” a teammate asked, already halfway over his shoulder.

“No,” Joel muttered. “It’s the weather forecast.”

“Ah yes,” another chimed in. “The romantic weather forecast podcast.”

Before Joel could respond, the interviewer’s voice came clearly through the speaker:

“So… are you aware that your boyfriend has a bit of a reputation?”

Joel’s stomach tightened.

Oh no.

On screen, she smiled innocently. “Which one?”

The room went quieter. A couple guys drifted closer.

“The ‘most punchable face in the league’ reputation.”

The second she burst into laughter, the entire locker room exploded.

“Oh my God!” someone yelled. “Confirmed!” “We’ve been saying this for YEARS!”

Joel pressed his lips together, but he couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from lifting.

“Traitor,” he murmured under his breath — though his chest felt suspiciously warm.

On the screen, she was still laughing.

“Oh my gosh, yes. I know about that.”

A teammate clutched his heart dramatically. “She didn’t even hesitate.”

Joel nudged him with his elbow. “Shut up.”

“She said YES immediately,” another added. “Didn’t defend you. Not even a little.”

Joel rolled his eyes, but his gaze stayed glued to the screen.

Joel’s POV

Okay. That’s fine.

It’s funny. It’s a joke. I’ve heard it a thousand times.

Still.

He scratched the back of his neck, trying to ignore how warm his face felt. He knew he had “that look” during games — the stare, the jaw thing. He’d seen the screenshots. The slow-motion replays where he looked like he personally offended someone’s entire family line.

But hearing her laugh about it?

Weirdly… he didn’t mind.

Because she wasn’t laughing at him.

She was laughing like it was an inside joke. Like she knew something no one else did.

On screen, she continued.

“I mean, I get it. On the rink, he looks intense. He’s annoying. He’s in everyone’s face.”

The locker room erupted again.

“ANNNOYING?” “Clip that!” “That’s bulletin board material!”

Joel exhaled slowly through his nose.

Annoying is part of the job.

He’d built that reputation. He was proud of it, in a way. If opponents were irritated, he was doing something right.

Then her tone shifted.

“But outside of it?” she said, softer now. “He’s the opposite. He’s quiet. Really quiet, actually.”

Someone in the locker room pointed dramatically. “That part’s true.”

Joel didn’t even bother reacting.

“He overthinks texts,” she continued.

The guys LOST it.

“YOU OVERTHINK TEXTS?” “‘Hey.’ — What does she mean by hey?” “‘K.’ — Is it over? Is it done?”

Joel dropped his head into his hand.

“I do not—” he started.

“You absolutely do,” someone cut in. “I’ve seen you type and delete.”

He glared — which only made them laugh harder.

But then she kept talking.

“He remembers little things. Like if I say I liked something once, he’ll show up with it weeks later. He checks if I got home. He always makes sure everyone else is okay before himself.”

The room quieted.

Joel felt his throat tighten unexpectedly.

He hadn’t realized she noticed that stuff.

He did it automatically. It wasn’t… something he thought about.

“He’s one of the kindest people I know,” she finished. “He just hides it behind that scary game face.”

There was a collective “Awwww.”

Someone clapped him on the back hard enough to jolt him forward.

“Kindest guy I know,” the teammate mocked gently.

“Shut up,” Joel muttered, but his voice lacked bite.

On screen, the host teased, “And he’s a great boyfriend?”

She smiled, soft and a little shy.

“The best. Don’t tell him I said that.”

Joel’s heart did something very inconvenient in his chest.

Too late.

Back to the Locker Room

“Well,” one teammate announced, standing dramatically, “I would like to formally apologize. Your face may be punchable, but your heart is apparently gold.”

Another nodded solemnly. “We misjudged you.”

Joel locked his phone before they could rewind it again.

“Practice,” he said, standing up.

“Oh no, we’re not done,” someone insisted. “We need to discuss the text overthinking.”

He shook his head, but he couldn’t stop smiling.

As he grabbed his gloves, one teammate leaned in and lowered his voice.

“She’s good for you, man.”

Joel paused.

He looked back at the dark screen of his phone, where her frozen smile reflected faintly.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

Then, with that familiar serious expression settling back onto his face — the one that had started all the memes in the first place — he headed toward the ice.

Most punchable face in the league.

Maybe.

But right now?

He’d never felt softer.

-

The Moment She Finds Out

She didn’t think he’d actually watch it.

Maybe clips. Maybe someone would send him the “most punchable face” part and he’d roll his eyes.

But the full episode?

No way.

She was halfway through taking off her heels in their apartment when she noticed something odd.

Her phone buzzed.

Joel: So I overthink texts?

She froze.

Oh.

Oh no.

She stared at the message for a full ten seconds.

He watched it.

She typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Deleted again.

…Oh, this is ironic.

Finally:

Her: You watched it???

The reply came almost instantly.

Joel: Unfortunately. The whole team watched it.

Her jaw dropped.

All of them?

Before she could respond, the apartment door opened.

And there he was.

Still in sweats from the rink. Hair slightly damp from the shower. That familiar serious expression on his face — the one that had earned Joel Eriksson Ek his infamous reputation.

She swallowed.

“Hi,” she said cautiously.

He stepped inside, closed the door slowly.

“You regret my face?” he asked, completely deadpan.

Her hands flew up. “I said I regret that you have the reputation! Not your actual face!”

He raised an eyebrow.

She squinted at him. “Are you enjoying this?”

A pause.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Just slightly.

“You laughed,” he added.

“I panicked!” she defended. “It was funny! You know it’s funny!”

He took a few steps closer. “The most punchable face in the league?”

“On the rink,” she corrected quickly. “Specifically on the rink.”

He hummed thoughtfully.

“And I overthink texts?”

She folded her arms. “You absolutely do.”

“I do not.”

“You once rewrote ‘Drive safe’ four times.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I was trying to sound calm.”

She stared at him.

He stared back.

Silence.

Then she broke first, laughing.

And just like that, his serious expression cracked completely.

He smiled — wide and real.

“Okay,” he admitted quietly. “Maybe I overthink texts.”

“I know,” she said gently.

The Reunion After It Airs

Later that night, after the teasing messages from teammates finally slowed down, they ended up on the couch together.

The episode was trending.

Clips everywhere.

Memes already circulating.

She buried her face in his shoulder. “I made it worse.”

“You didn’t,” he said.

“They’re going to use it forever now.”

“They were going to anyway.”

She peeked up at him. “You’re not mad?”

He looked at her like the question didn’t even make sense.

“Why would I be mad?”

“I laughed at your reputation. I told the world you overthink. I exposed your soft side.”

He leaned back against the couch, pulling her with him until she was half draped over his chest.

“I liked it,” he said simply.

She blinked. “You… liked it?”

His fingers traced lazy circles on her arm.

“You didn’t sound embarrassed,” he explained. “You sounded… proud.”

Her expression softened.

“I am proud.”

He hesitated for a second — just long enough to show that this part mattered.

“When you said I’m kind,” he continued quietly, “I didn’t know you noticed that stuff.”

She lifted herself up slightly so she could see him properly.

“Joel,” she said, voice soft but firm. “I notice everything about you.”

That did it.

That tiny shift in his expression — the one that never showed up on the ice — appeared.

The walls down. The intensity gone.

Just him.

“You really don’t mind the face thing?” she asked gently.

He shrugged. “If they’re trying to punch me, they’re not scoring.”

She snorted. “That’s the most hockey answer you could’ve given.”

He smiled again — smaller this time.

“And,” he added, “if the worst thing people say about me is that I look annoying during games… I’m doing okay.”

She studied him for a second.

“You know,” she said, brushing her thumb along his jaw, “I actually love your game face.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s terrifying. Very attractive.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Terrifying and attractive?”

“Multitalented.”

He shook his head, but he was smiling again — that shy, almost boyish smile that barely anyone outside of family and close friends ever saw.

“Come here,” he murmured.

She settled back against him.

After a quiet moment, she added, teasing, “You’re going to overthink posting about this, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

She laughed.

And as the episode continued playing softly in the background, Joel pressed a kiss to the top of her head — subtle, private, unseen by cameras or commentators.

On the rink, he might have the most punchable face in the league.

But here?

Morning comes in slowly, the way it always does when Kirill doesn’t have practice until the afternoon. The apartment smells like coffee—strong, dark, the Brazilian kind she insists is better than anything he’s ever had in Russia. He doesn’t argue anymore. He’s still waking up.

Kirill is sunk into the couch, long legs stretched out, socked feet crossed at the ankles. One arm is slung along the back cushion, the other wrapped loosely around a mug that says Bom dia in cheerful yellow letters. He does not remember when that mug entered his life. He uses it every day.

The TV is on, volume low. Soccer highlights flicker across the screen—green fields, fast feet, the roar of a crowd—and a rapid stream of Portuguese pours from the speakers. Kirill blinks at it, squinting like the meaning might eventually reveal itself if he stares hard enough.

“Gol,” the commentator shouts.

Kirill nods gravely. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Gol.”

From the kitchen, she laughs. Not loud—fond. “You have no idea what they’re saying, do you?”

“I know some things,” he says, defensive but not really. He lifts the mug, takes a careful sip. “They are excited. Someone did something good.”

She walks in barefoot, hair still a mess, leaning against the doorway with her own cup. She watches him for a second, then the screen. “That’s a replay from last night. Brazil versus—” she pauses, smirking. “—Russia.”

Kirill groans softly and drops his head back against the couch. “Why would you tell me this.”

She grins, wicked and affectionate. “You should know your country’s legacy.”

“We are… working on it,” he says, eyes still closed. “Soccer is… not our main thing.”

“Mmhmm.” She perches on the arm of the couch, bumps his shoulder with her knee. “That’s one way to say it.”

He opens one eye, looking up at her. “But listen,” he says, suddenly serious in the way that always makes her laugh harder. “Brazil makes very good soccer players.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“And I make very good athletes.” He gestures vaguely to himself, like this is self-evident fact. “Statistically… this should work.”

She stares at him for a beat. Then she laughs, full-bodied, leaning forward until her forehead presses against his. “You’re planning our children’s international sports careers before 9 a.m.”

He shrugs, wraps an arm around her waist, pulls her closer. “I am thinking long-term.”

On the screen, another goal explodes across the stadium. The commentator shouts again. Kirill smiles into her shoulder, half-awake, already imagining tiny cleats lined up next to tiny skates by the door—and somehow, impossibly, it all makes sense.

Later that afternoon, Kirill is determined to understand.

He sits at the kitchen table with his laptop open, a notebook beside it—actual paper, pen uncapped, like he’s studying game tape. On the screen: a paused soccer match. Players frozen mid-chaos. Lines drawn badly with the trackpad.

She leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with deep suspicion. “You look like you’re about to overthink this.”

“I am underthinking,” Kirill says calmly. “You said offsides is simple.”

“It is simple.”

He taps the screen. “Okay. So. This guy—” he circles a forward in red, “—cannot be past the defense when the ball is passed.”

“Yes.”

“But what if he gets there very fast?”

She blinks. “Speed doesn’t—”

“In hockey,” Kirill continues, warming up, “if you enter the zone before the puck, it is offsides. But if you tag up, it is fine. So maybe in soccer—”

“No tagging up.”

“But what if the defense moves backward?”

“No.”

“But what if—”

She laughs, walks over, gently closes the laptop. “Kirill.”

He looks up at her, earnest. “I just want to explain it correctly to our future children.”

“Our hypothetical future children.”

“Exactly. This is important.”

She sits across from him, reaches for his hand, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Okay. Explain it to me. Like I’m five.”

Kirill straightens, thinking hard. “If you are too sneaky… the referee gets mad.”

She snorts. “That’s it? That’s your final answer?”

He nods. “Yes. Soccer punishes sneakiness. Hockey punishes hesitation.”

She laughs again, softer this time, and squeezes his hand. “You know what? If they play soccer, they’ll have me. If they play hockey, they’ll have you.”

“And if they play both?” he asks.

She smiles. “Then they’ll be unstoppable.”

Kirill leans back in his chair, satisfied. Somewhere in his head, a future unfolds—kids running on grass, wobbling on ice, yelling in three languages while he cheers too loud from the sidelines.

He thinks, not for the first time, that winning the World Cup might be hard.

But this part? This part already feels like a victory.

The first youth soccer game Kirill attends is in early spring, which means Minnesota has decided it is warm now, even though it very clearly is not.

Kirill stands on the sideline in a Wild hoodie, hands shoved deep into the pockets, breath puffing out in little clouds. He watches a pack of children sprint across a muddy field, all elbows and enthusiasm, the ball ricocheting wildly between feet that haven’t yet learned coordination.

Beside him, she’s perfectly comfortable, clapping and cheering like this is the World Cup final.

“Why are there no boards?” Kirill asks quietly.

She doesn’t look at him. “Because it’s soccer.”

“So the ball just… leaves?”

“Yes.”

“That seems inefficient.”

One of the kids slips, lands in the grass, pops right back up. No whistle. No stoppage. Kirill frowns.

“No one helps him,” he says.

“He’s fine.”

In hockey, that would be a crime.

A little boy near the goal suddenly kicks the ball with all his might. It sails in, messy but triumphant. The sideline erupts. The kid freezes for a second, stunned—then grins like he’s just discovered joy for the first time.

Kirill’s chest does something strange.

“That,” she says softly, nudging him, “is why people love this.”

Kirill watches the kid run in circles, arms out, teammates piling onto him. No precision. No systems. Just happiness.

“…Okay,” Kirill admits. “I get it a little.”

She smiles, victorious.

That night, they sit on the couch again, lights low, a game murmuring on the TV. Kirill’s arm is around her, absentmindedly tracing patterns on her sleeve.

“You know,” he says, after a while, “if they want to play soccer… I will support it.”

She tilts her head, amused. “Even if they don’t like hockey?”

He pauses. This is serious.

“…I will be disappointed,” he says honestly. Then he exhales. “But quietly.”

She laughs and presses a kiss to his jaw.

“They don’t have to win the World Cup,” she says gently. “They don’t have to win anything.”

Kirill nods. He thinks about skates and cleats, cold ice and warm grass, about languages overlapping at the dinner table. He thinks about mornings with coffee, and noise, and love that shows up whether you understand the rules or not.

“I just want them to love something,” he says. “And to work hard. And to come home happy.”

She curls closer to him. “They will.”

The commercial was supposed to be easy.

That’s what Jack Hughes told himself as he sat in the makeup chair, jersey swapped for a perfectly pressed sweater that cost more than his first NHL stick. Thirty seconds. Smile. Hold the product. Say the line. Done.

Then she walked in.

Pop royalty, sunglasses indoors, hair effortlessly messy in a way that took a professional forty-five minutes. The ex. The one whose name he hadn’t said out loud in a year but still recognized in every crowded room.

“Wow,” she said, pushing the sunglasses up onto her head. “They really did put you in a sweater. Who died?”

Jack snorted before he could stop himself. “Nice to see you too.”

The director clapped his hands. “Okay! Chemistry check! You two dated, right? Perfect. This is going to be gold.”

Jack and his ex spoke at the same time.

“We did not—” “It was years ago—”

The director grinned wider. “Even better.”

They were positioned on a couch that was definitely too small for two people pretending they had no history. Jack’s knee brushed hers. Neither moved.

“Remember,” the director said, “this brand is about connection. Warmth. Intimacy. You’re two people who know each other.”

“Oh, we know each other,” she muttered under her breath.

Jack stared straight ahead. “Don’t start.”

Cameras rolled.

She leaned in, smiling sweetly for the lens. “So,” she said brightly, “how’s hockey?”

“Still… cold,” Jack replied. “How’s being famous?”

She laughed—a real one, the kind that slipped past her pop-star polish. “Still loud.”

The script called for her to hand him the product. Instead, their fingers lingered. Just a second too long. The director’s eyes lit up.

“Yes. That. Hold that.”

Jack swallowed. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to write a breakup song.”

She smiled, softer now. “Relax. I already wrote those.”

The next take required them to sit closer. Then closer again. By the fourth take, Jack’s arm was along the back of the couch, not touching her, but close enough that he could smell her perfume—familiar, dangerous.

Between takes, she nudged his knee. “You’re tense.”

“You’re the one leaning into me.”

“That’s literally the job.”

“Is it?” He finally looked at her. Really looked. Same eyes. Same impossible calm that used to undo him before big games.

She hesitated, just for a beat. “You’re still impossible, you know that?”

He smiled. “You’re still dramatic.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

The director interrupted again. “Okay, final shot. Jack, you look at her like she’s the only person in the room. And you—” he pointed at her “—like you’re trying not to fall back in love.”

Silence.

She laughed first. “Easy.”

Jack didn’t answer.

Action.

For once, there were no lines. Just a look. The kind that carried inside jokes, late-night calls, and all the things neither of them said out loud anymore. She reached up, adjusted his collar—unscripted—and he froze.

“Cut,” the director whispered, awed. “That was perfect.”

No one moved right away.

Then she stepped back, clearing her throat. “Well. That was… professional.”

Jack nodded. “Very.”

They stood there, inches apart, pretending the cameras weren’t already packing up.

She smiled, softer again. “You did good, Hughes.”

“So did you,” he said. “Still good at pretending.”

Her eyes flicked up to his. “Pretending what?”

“That we don’t care.”

She laughed, shaking her head as she walked away. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Jack watched her go, heart doing things it hadn’t done since their last goodbye.

Too late.

The commercial was a hit.

Colton had known the night was going to be interesting the moment his girlfriend had handed him a black button-down and said, far too casually, “My friends are excited to finally meet you.”

That should have been his first warning.

The party was already loud when they arrived—music thumping, laughter spilling out onto the balcony, fairy lights tangled everywhere. The kind of party where everyone pretended they weren’t trying to impress everyone else. Colton stuck close to her at first, one arm draped comfortably around her shoulders, the way he always did without thinking.

Big mistake.

Within ten minutes, one of her friends had clocked his height.

Within fifteen, another had clocked the shoulders.

Within twenty, someone had whispered, a little too loudly, “Oh my god, he’s way hotter in person.”

Colton, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware. He was being polite. Smiling. Laughing at jokes that weren’t very funny. Answering questions with that easy, charming sincerity that made people feel like they’d known him forever.

“So you’re really a hockey player?” one friend asked, leaning in far too close.

He nodded. “Yeah. Well—trying to be,” he said with a sheepish grin.

That grin.

His girlfriend watched from across the room, drink forgotten in her hand, as three of her friends slowly formed a semicircle around him like he was an exhibit.

Jealousy crept in first—sharp and unexpected.

Then something warmer. Heavier.

Because Colton wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was just… existing. Tall. Broad. Laughing softly. Occasionally glancing over to make sure she was still there.

That glance alone should’ve made her feel better.

Instead, it made her pulse jump.

“Does he know he’s doing this?” one of her friends whispered to her, eyes glued to Colton.

“Doing what?” she replied tightly.

“Being… that.”

She took a long sip of her drink.

“Oh, he has no idea.”

When she finally walked over and slid her hand into the back pocket of his jeans, Colton visibly relaxed, like a switch had flipped.

“There you are,” he said, turning to her with an easy smile. “I was starting to think you abandoned me.”

One of her friends blinked. Another straight-up stared at her hand placement.

She leaned in close to his ear. “Having fun?”

“Yeah,” he said honestly. Then, lowering his voice, “Your friends are intense.”

That did it.

She smiled sweetly at the group. “Okay, I’m stealing him.”

Colton didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate. Just let her pull him away, fingers lacing with hers like he belonged there—because he did.

Out on the balcony, away from prying eyes, she crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “You were enjoying the attention.”

He frowned, genuinely confused. “What attention?”

She laughed despite herself. “Colton. Half my friends were ready to risk everything.”

His ears turned red. “Wait—seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

He shook his head, stunned. “I was just talking.”

“That’s the problem,” she muttered.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Hey. I only care about you.”

She looked up at him, jealousy melting into something much more dangerous. “I know.”

The music thumped through the walls behind them, laughter floating out into the night. Inside, her friends were probably still talking about him.

Good.

Because when Colton tilted his head and smiled at her—soft, familiar, undeniably hers—she decided she didn’t mind the jealousy at all.

After all, everyone else could look.

You’re thirty years old when the wanting becomes unbearable.

It’s not sudden. It’s not dramatic at first. It’s a quiet ache that starts in the background of your life and slowly takes over everything—like the hum of the United Center ice plant that never truly shuts off. You notice it in moments no one else would understand: when you’re packing your recorder after practice and a player FaceTimes his toddler; when you hear a baby cry in the concourse during intermission; when your phone shows another engagement announcement instead of the pregnancy news you’ve secretly been hoping for.

You are the Chicago Blackhawks beat reporter everyone knows—professional, sharp, respected. You ask the right questions. You don’t fawn. You don’t flirt. You don’t cross lines. Your world is press scrums, road trips, late nights editing copy in hotel rooms that all smell faintly of coffee and stale air.

And yet.

Every night you go home alone to your apartment overlooking Lake Michigan, you feel the silence pressing in. Thirty becomes a number that echoes in your head. You’ve done everything right—career, stability, independence—and somehow still feel like time is slipping through your fingers.

You want to be a mother more than you’ve ever wanted anything.

But there is no partner. No slow-burn romance. No neatly packaged future. And the idea of waiting—waiting for the right person, the right moment—feels like asking your body to betray you.

So you research. Quietly. Carefully. Options that don’t involve fairy tales. Clinics. Contracts. Words like donor, consent, logistics. Everything feels sterile and detached, and you cry in the bathroom one night because none of it feels human enough.

That’s when Ryan Greene becomes… different.

Ryan is younger than you, but not in a way that feels immature. He’s thoughtful, steady, the kind of player who stays late on the ice working on faceoffs no one is watching. You’ve interviewed him dozens of times. He’s always polite, always earnest. Never flirty. Never careless.

And one night—after a brutal loss, when the locker room is quieter than usual—you ask him something off script.

Not about hockey.

He notices your voice shake before you do.

“You okay?” he asks softly once the recorder is off.

You almost lie. You’re trained to. But exhaustion cracks you open instead.

“I just…” You swallow. “Do you ever feel like your life is happening in the wrong order?”

Ryan blinks, surprised. Then he nods slowly. “Yeah. All the time.”

That’s how it starts. Not with intention. With honesty.

Weeks pass. Conversations deepen. You talk about pressure. Expectations. The strange loneliness of being surrounded by people all the time. Ryan listens in a way that makes you feel seen, not analyzed.

One late night after a road trip, you tell him the truth.

Not all of it. Just enough.

“I want a child,” you say, staring into your coffee like it might give you courage. “I don’t want to wait anymore.”

Ryan doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t panic.

He asks one question, carefully. “Do you want one alone?”

“Yes,” you whisper. “But not… without trust.”

The silence stretches. Heavy. Dangerous.

You expect him to pull away. To remind you of boundaries. Instead, he exhales slowly, like he’s making a decision that scares him too.

“I’d help,” he says finally. “If you’re sure. If it’s respectful. If it’s safe. If it’s what you want.”

Your heart doesn’t race. It shatters—in relief, in fear, in disbelief.

You talk through everything like adults. Legalities. Privacy. Futures. What it would and wouldn’t mean. You promise each other honesty. No expectations beyond kindness. No fairy tales.

The night it happens is quiet. Intimate without being romantic. Two people choosing trust over fear.

You cry afterward—not from regret, but from the overwhelming weight of possibility.

Ryan sits beside you, grounding, steady. He doesn’t hold you like a lover. He holds you like someone who understands the magnitude of what you’ve done together.

Months later, when the test turns positive, you sit on your bathroom floor shaking so hard you can barely breathe.

You don’t tell anyone right away.

Except Ryan.

He doesn’t cheer. He doesn’t shout. He just closes his eyes and smiles, soft and reverent, like he understands that something sacred has happened.

“You okay?” he asks again—just like that first night.

You nod through tears. “I’m going to be a mom.”

Your career doesn’t fall apart. It changes. You set firmer boundaries. You protect your privacy like your life depends on it—because now, it does.

Ryan is there quietly. Supportively. Never crossing lines. Never claiming something that isn’t his. But when you feel the baby kick for the first time, he’s the one you text. When you’re scared, he answers. When the world feels overwhelming, he reminds you that you didn’t do this alone.

And sometimes—late at night—you wonder if unconventional love is still love. If family doesn’t have to look the way it’s supposed to.

You don’t know what the future holds.

But you know this:

You chose courage over fear. You chose life over waiting. And somehow, against all odds, you found exactly what you needed.

You don’t fall in love.

That’s the first rule you both silently agree on.

Not because there isn’t tenderness, or care, or something that could easily blur into more—but because this isn’t about that. This is about a child. About stability. About building something that doesn’t rely on wishful thinking.

Ryan becomes… present.

Not loudly. Not in ways anyone would question. Just enough that you stop feeling like you’re carrying everything alone.

He comes to the first ultrasound.

You almost don’t invite him. You sit with the message typed out for a full ten minutes before hitting send.

You don’t have to come if it’s weird.

He replies immediately.

It would be weird if I didn’t.

The technician doesn’t ask questions. Just smiles at both of you like this makes perfect sense. When the heartbeat fills the room, Ryan’s breath stutters audibly.

“Wow,” he whispers. “That’s… loud.”

You laugh through tears. “They’re dramatic. Must run in the family.”

He snorts, and the tension breaks.

From then on, he’s involved — carefully, respectfully, intentionally.

He comes to appointments when he can. He learns the schedule better than you do. He sends you reminders.

Drink water. Did you eat actual food or just crackers again? Doctor said no stress. You’re stressing.

You start involving him in the little things.

You text him pictures of onesies you’re considering.

Is this too much?

He responds:

It looks like a tiny referee. Which feels right.

You let him feel the baby kick for the first time in person. He freezes, hand hovering awkwardly over your stomach like he’s afraid he’ll break something.

“Okay,” he says nervously. “I don’t want to be weird.”

“They’re literally punching my organs,” you deadpan. “You’ll be fine.”

When the baby kicks, his eyes go wide.

“They’re strong,” he says.

“Yeah,” you reply softly. “So are you.”

You don’t say what you mean by that. He doesn’t ask.

Ryan helps in ways that don’t draw attention.

He assembles furniture in your apartment because “you’re not lifting anything heavier than a mug.” He installs the car seat after watching three YouTube videos and swearing under his breath the entire time.

“This thing is a puzzle designed by enemies,” he mutters.

“You play professional hockey.”

“That’s easier.”

You argue over names — not seriously, but playfully.

“You can’t name a child after a defenseman,” he insists.

“I absolutely can. It builds character.”

“Trauma builds character.”

You both laugh harder than the joke deserves.

At work, nothing changes — and everything does.

Ryan treats you exactly the same in public. No lingering looks. No special treatment. Just professionalism. But in private, there’s an ease now. A rhythm.

You’re partners.

Not romantically. Something deeper, quieter.

You talk about boundaries.

He asks what you need from him.

You ask what he wants to be.

“I don’t want to replace anything,” he says carefully. “But I want them to know me.”

“They will,” you promise. “From the start.”

Some nights, you’re exhausted and emotional and irrational, and Ryan sits on your couch while you cry about nothing.

“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” you sob.

He hands you tissues. “Hormones. Or the world is terrible. Or both.”

“You’re bad at comforting.”

“I’m trying.”

You smile anyway.

There’s no romance. No longing glances. No moments that cross the line.

Just two people showing up.

When you finally tell a few close friends you’re pregnant, the questions come.

“Is the father involved?”

You answer honestly. “Yes.”

And that’s enough.

Late in the pregnancy, you catch Ryan talking to your stomach when he thinks you’re asleep.

“Hey,” he murmurs quietly. “Your mom’s doing great. She’s tougher than anyone I know.”

You don’t interrupt.

Because this — this is exactly what you hoped for when you chose the unconventional.

Not perfection. Not fairy tales.

But support. Friendship. And a child who will grow up surrounded by love that doesn’t need labels to be real.

-

Years later, life doesn’t look the way you once imagined it would.

It looks better. Messier. Real.

Your child—no longer a baby, no longer small enough to carry everywhere—skates clumsily across the ice at a public rink on a Sunday morning. They wear a helmet that’s slightly too big and gloves that Ryan insists are regulation size even though you know he just grabbed the first pair he found.

“Eyes up,” Ryan calls gently from the boards. “You’ve got it.”

Your child immediately falls.

You wince. Ryan doesn’t. He just crouches, arms open, patient.

“You okay?”

A beat. Then a nod. Then laughter.

You watch from the bench, coffee cooling in your hands, heart painfully full.

This is the family you built. Not by accident. Not by tradition. By choice.

Ryan is still part of everything.

School drop-offs when your schedule explodes. Emergency contacts. Saturday mornings at the rink. Parent-teacher conferences where the teacher hesitates before asking, “So… how do you both—”

And you smile and say, “We’re a team.”

He’s moved into a place not far from yours. Close enough to help. Far enough to maintain space. Boundaries have shifted over time, but they’ve never disappeared.

There was never a dramatic moment where you decided this is what we are now. It just… happened. Slowly. Naturally.

Sometimes you forget how unconventional it all once felt.

Ryan never misses birthdays. Never misses milestones. He remembers things you don’t—dentist appointments, library books due, the name of the stuffed animal that cannot be left behind.

“You realize,” you say one evening as you watch him help with homework, “you’re better at this than I am.”

He smirks. “I’m a systems guy. Kids are chaos systems.”

Later, after bedtime, you sit together on the couch. No tension. No expectations. Just quiet.

“Do you ever think about how weird this would look to other people?” you ask.

“All the time,” he replies. “Then I think about how it actually feels.”

You nod.

It feels like stability. It feels like trust. It feels like love that didn’t need romance to exist.

Your child asks questions now.

“Why don’t you and Ryan live together like other parents?”

You answer honestly. “Because families can look different.”

They think about this seriously before nodding. “Okay.”

Kids accept what adults complicate.

On game nights, your child wears Ryan’s jersey and sits between you in the stands, proud and loud and utterly unbothered by explanations. Fans assume what they want. You’ve stopped caring.

Sometimes—rarely, quietly—you wonder if the door to something more ever truly closed.

You and Ryan never talked about it. Not because you were afraid, but because you didn’t need to. What you built worked. And changing it always felt riskier than leaving it as it was.

One night, years later, after a long day, you stand on your balcony watching the city lights reflect off the lake.

Ryan joins you, hands shoved into his pockets.

“We did okay,” he says.

You smile softly. “We did more than okay.”

There’s a pause. A comfortable one.

“What happens next?” you ask, not looking at him.

Ryan shrugs gently. “I think… we keep choosing each other. In whatever way makes sense.”

You turn to him then.

Not with longing. Not with regret. Just with understanding.

Chicago hums around you. The future remains unwritten. And for the first time in your life, that doesn’t scare you.

Because no matter what comes next—

You already built something extraordinary.

Luke Hughes had just put pen to paper, the official announcement lighting up social media with photos of him in a sharp suit, grinning ear to ear. It was a huge day—his contract extension with the New Jersey Devils meant more than just security, it was a sign of trust, growth, and a bright future.

Later that night, he and his girlfriend slipped away from the chaos of interviews and congratulatory texts. She’d surprised him by booking a cozy rooftop dinner overlooking the city skyline, twinkling lights reflecting the glow in his eyes.

He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close as the waiter brought out champagne flutes. “To the Devils,” she teased, raising her glass. Luke chuckled, shaking his head, “To us. You’ve been with me through every step—this is our win too.”

They clinked glasses, the bubbles fizzing as fireworks from a nearby festival unexpectedly lit up the sky, perfectly timed for their celebration. She laughed, saying it was a sign that the universe was just as excited for his future as she was.

By the end of the night, Luke had his head resting against hers, a soft smile on his face. “I can’t wait to see what’s next,” he whispered, knowing that the best part of the new chapter wasn’t just the contract—it was sharing every milestone with her.

-

The next morning, Luke woke up still smiling. His phone buzzed nonstop with messages from teammates and family, but when he turned and saw her curled up beside him, he felt a different kind of peace.

“You’re staring,” she mumbled sleepily, hiding her face in the pillow. “Can you blame me? I just signed the biggest deal of my life, and I get to celebrate it with the prettiest girl in the world.”

She rolled her eyes, laughing as he pulled her into his chest. “You know,” she teased, “you could buy me so many celebratory coffees with that contract.” Luke grinned. “Babe, you’re not paying for coffee for the next… let’s see… eight years.”

Later, they headed to the rink where some of his teammates were waiting. Jack was the first to greet them, wrapping Luke in a dramatic hug. “Look at this guy! Mr. Franchise Player!” Jack said loudly, making everyone laugh.

Throughout the day, Luke kept sneaking glances at his girlfriend—she was there through it all, smiling proudly, chatting with everyone like she belonged (because she did). By the time they left, the team had already made plans for a bigger celebration that weekend.

Back at their apartment, Luke dropped his gear by the door and wrapped his arms around her from behind. “You know,” he said softly, kissing her temple, “signing the contract was amazing. But coming home to you… that’s what makes it feel real.”

She leaned back into him, heart swelling at the sincerity in his voice. “And I’ll be here for all of it,” she whispered.

Luke smiled, knowing that this was just the start of something even bigger—both for his career, and for the life they were building together.

-

The apartment was finally quiet after a whirlwind of days filled with texts, calls, and congratulations. Luke sat on the couch with his girlfriend tucked against him, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder. He felt calm for the first time since the announcement.

There was a knock on the door. Before Luke could even move, Jack barged in, Quinn trailing behind him with his usual steady, older-brother presence.

“Hope you didn’t think you’d celebrate without us,” Jack said with a grin, carrying a pizza box in one hand and a bag of snacks in the other. Quinn rolled his eyes but smiled. “Jack insisted we come by. Said he couldn’t let you have a ‘quiet night in’ after signing a massive contract.”

Luke laughed, shaking his head. “Of course he did.”

His girlfriend slipped off the couch to grab extra plates, but Quinn waved her off and started setting things out himself. Jack had already sprawled across the other end of the couch, chattering nonstop about how “the Hughes brothers are officially running this league now.”

Later, when the pizza box was nearly empty and the TV hummed in the background, a softer silence settled in. Luke sat between his brothers, his girlfriend curled under his arm again. Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, suddenly serious for a moment. “Honestly, man… we’re proud of you,” he said, glancing at Luke before quickly looking back at the floor. “You worked for this. You deserve it.”

Quinn nodded in agreement. “Yeah. It’s not just about the contract—it’s the way you’ve handled everything. You’ve grown up a lot.”

Luke blinked, caught off guard by the rare sentiment from both brothers. His girlfriend squeezed his hand gently, smiling at him like she already knew how much this meant.

“Thanks,” Luke said quietly, his voice thick. “It means more coming from you guys.”

The incense hung in the air like a quiet blessing, and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as the organ swelled. Mass was always her sanctuary—a place where time felt slower, steadier, sacred. She tried to focus on the liturgy, but her eyes wandered for just a moment to the pew across the aisle.

That’s when she noticed him. A boy, maybe a little older than her, head bowed reverently, shoulders broad beneath a pressed shirt. There was a quiet seriousness about him, the kind of presence that made her heartbeat quicken even though he hadn’t so much as glanced her way.

It wasn’t until after Communion, when the final hymn rose and the congregation began to file out, that she caught a better look. His face was sharp, familiar somehow. She frowned, trying to place where she’d seen it before—maybe on TV, or in some article her brother had shown her about hockey?

Then it clicked. Her breath caught. No way. That wasn’t just some boy at Mass. That was Will Smith—the rising star of the San Jose Sharks, the one with highlight reels flooding the sports channels.

He lingered by the candles, lighting one with careful hands, his expression soft and thoughtful. Not the fast, fierce athlete the world cheered for, but simply a young man rooted in the same faith she cherished.

And in that moment, something shifted. The NHL felt galaxies away from the quiet church she loved, but here he was—real, grounded, within reach.

She smiled nervously, clutching her missal a little tighter. Maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something unexpected. Something that felt both like chance and destiny, the beginning of a love story whispered between prayers and hymns.

-

The church had mostly emptied, but she lingered in the pew, pretending to flip through her hymnal as she stole one more glance his way. He was taller up close, moving with that unmistakable confidence of an athlete—but his expression was almost shy as he extinguished the candle flame with a gentle breath.

He turned then, and their eyes met.

“Hi,” he said softly, almost hesitant, as though unsure if he should disturb the silence of the sanctuary.

Her heart fluttered. “Hi.”

“You come here often?” he asked, a nervous smile tugging at his lips.

She laughed lightly at the old cliché, but something about the way he said it made her shoulders relax. “Every Sunday. It’s… home.”

He nodded, his gaze warm. “I’m Will.”

Of course she knew who he was—but she bit her lip and tilted her head. “Will… Smith?”

The corner of his mouth curved sheepishly. “Yeah. Guilty.”

The moment could have turned awkward, but instead, it felt strangely normal. Here, away from the roar of arenas and flashing cameras, he wasn’t a hockey star. He was just a boy in church, fumbling his way into a conversation like anyone else.

They walked together out into the golden afternoon. He asked about her favorite saints; she teased him about whether hockey counted as a penance during Lent. He laughed, and the sound of it made her cheeks warm.

At the church steps, he paused. “Listen… I know it might sound crazy, but would you maybe want to get coffee sometime? I promise I don’t usually ask strangers out after Mass.”

Her heart raced, but she nodded. “I’d like that.”

–

Weeks turned into months. Coffee dates became dinners, phone calls stretched past midnight, and she found herself learning the language of hockey while he discovered the peace of quiet rosaries and early-morning Masses.

There were challenges, of course—his busy schedule, the distance of road games, the curious eyes that followed him everywhere. But in the quiet moments, when it was just the two of them, she felt something steady, something real.

And one evening, sitting together in the dim glow of votive candles after a long day, Will reached for her hand.

“You know,” he whispered, “I’ve scored a few big goals in my life. But meeting you here—that’s the one I’ll never forget.”

She squeezed his hand, smiling through the flicker of candlelight.

In that moment, it didn’t matter that he was Will Smith of the San Jose Sharks. He was simply Will—the boy she’d met at Mass.