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Parlez-Moi d’Amour JS20

“Speak to Me of Love”

Summary: When Y/N offers to help Montreal Canadiens rookie Juraj Slafkovsky improve his French, late-night tutoring sessions turn into laughter, inside jokes, and stolen kisses. What begins as language lessons slowly transforms into love.

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Chapter 1: The First Lesson

I never imagined tutoring a professional hockey player in French would end up being part of my week, let alone him.

The first time Juraj Slafkovský asked me for help, I thought he was joking. We were standing in line at a café a couple blocks from the Bell Centre, the kind of spot players and fans alike often wandered into before or after practice. I’d been there with a friend, but she’d left early, and I stayed behind to finish a coffee and review some notes. I didn’t even realize Juraj was behind me until I heard his unmistakable accent.

“Excuse me,” he said, tapping my shoulder lightly. “You… speak French, yes?”

I blinked up at him, because honestly, it’s hard not to blink when you’re suddenly eye level with someone’s chest. I tilted my head back, and there he was: towering, grinning a little sheepishly, his hair damp like he’d just showered after practice.

“Yes,” I said slowly, not sure where this was going. “I’m fluent.”

He exhaled like that was the best news he’d heard all week. “Good. Because I am… not.”

I laughed before I could stop myself. It wasn’t mean-spirited—just genuine surprise at his blunt honesty. His grin widened, like he’d been waiting for me to react that way.

“Alright,” I said, setting down my coffee cup. “What exactly do you need help with?”

He shifted awkwardly, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Everything. I take lessons with team, but… it is slow. Too slow. I want to talk more, understand more. And maybe… not sound like robot.”

I tilted my head, still unsure if this was some kind of setup. But his sincerity was obvious—earnest, even endearing. And when you’re confronted with a six-foot-four hockey player giving you puppy-dog eyes, it’s hard to say no.

“Okay,” I said finally. “I can help. But only if you actually try.”

His whole face lit up, boyish and relieved. “I try. I promise. Coffee on me, yes?”

And just like that, we sat down at a corner table, and my life tilted in a direction I hadn’t expected.

Our “first lesson” wasn’t really a lesson at all. It was more like me pointing out the things he already half-knew and laughing with him when he butchered pronunciation. He had a notebook with him, surprisingly neat, his handwriting blocky but careful. He showed me a page full of phrases he’d been practicing.

“Bonjour, je m’appelle Juraj. Je joue pour les Canadiens de Montréal.”

“That’s good,” I said, nodding. “But you’re swallowing the ‘r’ in ‘appelle.’ Try again.”

He frowned in concentration, repeating it, this time dragging out the wrong sound entirely.

I burst out laughing, covering my mouth. “No, no, no—that sounded like a dying goose.”

His eyes widened, then he laughed too, low and unbothered. “A dying goose? This is what I sound like?”

“Pretty much,” I teased, still grinning. “But don’t worry. We’ll fix it.”

Something about the way he looked at me then—bright-eyed, open—made me feel suddenly warm, like I was enjoying this far more than I should have.

We ended up spending over an hour at that café. He kept trying phrases, I kept correcting him, and somehow, it never felt tedious. He was patient, willing to laugh at himself, and always eager to try again. Every time he got close, his smile broke wide and proud, like a little kid finally riding a bike without training wheels.

When the barista finally came around to wipe down nearby tables, he glanced at the clock on his phone. “I need to go soon. Team meeting. But… can we do again?”

His tone was careful, almost shy, which seemed ridiculous for someone so famous, so larger-than-life on the ice.

“Sure,” I said, pretending to think it over. “If you promise not to sound like a goose next time.”

He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “No more goose. Promise.”

We exchanged numbers so we could plan another session, and as I walked home, my phone buzzed. A text from him, already:

Juraj: Merci, professeur 📝🪿

I laughed out loud on the sidewalk. He’d added the goose emoji.

A few days later, we met again, this time at the same café but with a more deliberate plan. I’d written out a list of common conversational phrases for him. When he arrived—sweatshirt, cap pulled low, trying to be inconspicuous but still unmistakable—he grinned the moment he saw the paper.

“Homework,” he said, holding it up. “Serious business.”

“Serious business,” I confirmed, though I couldn’t keep the smile off my face.

We worked through greetings, how to order food, even some casual slang he’d never heard before. I had to stifle giggles when he tried to say “tabarnak,” the infamous Quebecois curse, with way too much emphasis.

“Not bad,” I admitted. “But maybe don’t say that in an interview.”

He smirked. “Only for you, then.”

I rolled my eyes, ignoring the flutter in my chest.

By the end of our second “lesson,” we’d built a strange sort of rhythm. He was eager, determined, but also… surprisingly funny. He didn’t mind making mistakes as long as I laughed with him. And I realized something dangerous: I was starting to look forward to these sessions. Not just because I loved languages, not just because it was gratifying to see someone improve, but because it was him.

When he stood to leave, tucking the sheet of phrases into his notebook, he hesitated for a moment.

“Next time,” he said carefully, “your place maybe? More quiet.”

The idea of inviting him into my apartment sent a nervous thrill through me. But I found myself nodding before my brain could catch up.

“Sure,” I said. “Next time.”

And as I watched him duck out of the café, tall frame weaving through the crowd, I wondered what exactly I’d gotten myself into.

That night, as I sat at my desk, his text popped up again.

Juraj: Merci encore. You are best teacher. But… goose still here. Maybe I need more lessons. 🪿

I bit my lip, smiling at my screen like an idiot.

I typed back:

Me: We’ll fix the goose. Don’t worry. See you soon.

And for the first time in a while, I was genuinely excited for what “soon” might bring.

Chapter 2: Coffee, Conjugations, and Chemistry

If someone had told me a few weeks ago that I’d be spending my evenings tutoring an NHL player in French, I probably would’ve laughed. But now, as I straightened up my tiny apartment for what felt like the fifth time that afternoon, I realized I wasn’t laughing.

I was… nervous.

Not I-have-an-exam nervous. More like a boy-I-shouldn’t-think-is-cute is coming over nervous. Which was ridiculous. This was supposed to be professional. Friendly, at most.

And yet, when my phone buzzed and Juraj’s name popped up with a simple “On my way 🚗”, I caught myself checking my reflection in the hallway mirror like I was heading out on a date.

“This is not a date,” I muttered to myself, smoothing my hair anyway.

He showed up exactly ten minutes later, hoodie pulled over his messy hair, grinning like we were co-conspirators in something mischievous.

“Salut, professeur,” he said, voice teasing.

“Salut, élève,” I shot back, holding the door open.

His smile widened. “Ooh, fancy. That means… student, yes?”

“Yes!” I said, pleased. “See? You’re learning already.”

“Or maybe I just like how you say it,” he replied lightly, and I felt heat crawl up the back of my neck.

I pretended to be busy shuffling my notes as he stepped inside. He took in my living room—a small space cluttered with books and plants—with an approving nod.

“Cozy,” he said.

“It’s code for ‘tiny,’ but thanks,” I said with a laugh, motioning him toward the table. “Sit. Let’s get started.”

We started with verb conjugations. He’d told me the team’s official tutor had them drilling grammar charts like military cadets, and it was making him hate the process. So I tried to make it fun.

“Okay,” I said, uncapping my pen, “today we’re doing avoir and être. Two of the most important verbs you’ll ever learn.”

He groaned, flopping dramatically into the chair. “Why do I feel like I will suffer?”

“Because you probably will,” I said cheerfully.

He shot me a look, then smiled.

I wrote out the present tense on the whiteboard I’d dragged from my closet:

être (to be)

je suis

tu es

il/elle est

nous sommes

vous êtes

ils/elles sont

He squinted at it like it was a defensive play diagram.

“Okay… ‘je suis’… I am?”

“Yes!”

“‘Tu es’… you are. Easy.”

“Good.”

“‘Il est’… he is.”

“Perfect.”

He grinned like he’d just scored a goal.

Then: “What about… ‘nous sommes’… we… are?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling.

He looked at the next one, frowning. “‘Vous… zzz-ettes?’”

“Êtes,” I corrected gently. “Like ‘et’ but with an s sound at the end. It’s tricky.”

He tried again, slow and careful. “Êtes.”

“Better.”

And then—because I couldn’t resist—I added, “Vous êtes très grand.”

He blinked, brow furrowed. “What?”

“You are very tall,” I translated, lips twitching.

His face lit up. “Ahhh. Yes. I like this sentence.” He straightened proudly. “Je suis très grand.”

“Yes,” I said, trying not to laugh. “We’ve all noticed.”

Somewhere between avoir and a very sloppy attempt at forming full sentences, we ended up with our chairs closer together, shoulders almost touching as we leaned over the same notebook.

“Okay,” I said, pointing to his half-finished sentence, “what are you trying to say here?”

“I… uh… ‘I have twenty… old?’”

“Twenty years old,” I corrected automatically. “In French, you say ‘J’ai vingt ans.’ Literally: I have twenty years.”

He blinked at me. “That makes no sense.”

“Languages don’t always make sense,” I said with a grin. “Trust me, French is full of things that don’t make sense.”

He gave me a look—half-exasperated, half-amused—that made my stomach flutter.

Then he pointed at me. “Okay. Your turn. Say something… about you.”

“About me?”

“Yes. But in French.”

I hesitated, then said, “J’aime… les livres.”

He frowned. “You… like books?”

“Exactly.”

He smirked. “Nerd.”

I gasped. “Excuse you—”

“Wait, wait,” he said, laughing. “How to say… I like… you?”

My heart stuttered.

“Oh,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Um. ‘Je t’aime bien’ if it’s like… friendly. Or… ‘je t’aime’ if it’s… romantic.”

He tried the words carefully. “Je… t’aime bien.”

And then—his eyes sparkling mischievously—“Je t’aime.”

I looked down quickly, pretending to rearrange my papers. “Stick with ‘bien’ for now,” I mumbled.

“Why?” he teased. “Too soon?”

“Yes,” I said, though my voice came out softer than I intended.

—

We took a break after an hour, and I made tea while he stretched his legs, pacing my little kitchen like a caged tiger. It was strange seeing him here—this space that had always been mine, now filled with his sheer presence, the way he seemed to take up all the air without even trying.

He was humming something under his breath when I brought the mugs over.

“What song is that?” I asked.

“Just… something from home,” he said with a shrug, a flicker of nostalgia in his voice.

“From Slovakia?”

He nodded, wrapping his huge hands around the tiny mug like it might shatter.

“Do you miss it?” I asked quietly.

“Every day,” he admitted. “But… Montreal is good too. Different, but good. Feels more like home… lately.”

I wondered if he meant because of me. The thought made my chest tighten.

When we sat back down, the mood had shifted—softer somehow. The laughter still came, but it was quieter, threaded with something warmer.

He stumbled over a word, and I reached across to tap the paper, guiding his pronunciation. Our hands brushed, and he froze.

So did I.

His eyes met mine, and for a second, the air seemed to go very still.

Then he smiled, slow and crooked. “You are a good teacher,” he murmured.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice embarrassingly unsteady.

We both looked back down at the notebook, pretending the moment hadn’t just happened.

By the time we wrapped up, it was late. He packed his notebook into his bag, then paused by the door.

“Merci,” he said softly.

“You’re welcome,” I replied.

He hesitated. “Next time… maybe we try full conversation only in French.”

I raised a brow. “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

He flashed a grin. “No. But maybe… if you talk slow… and smile at me like that… I understand anyway.”

My breath caught.

Before I could think of a reply, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

I stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where he’d been, my heart still racing like I’d sprinted across the city.

This was supposed to be simple. Friendly. Just tutoring.

So why did it feel like something much more dangerous had just begun?

Chapter 3: Late Night Study Session

By our third lesson, the routine felt natural—almost too natural. He texted me like clockwork after practice, always with some variation of “Professeur, ready?” followed by either a notebook emoji or, more often than not, a goose.

I pretended to roll my eyes at the running joke, but secretly, I looked forward to it.

This time, though, instead of just showing up empty-handed with his notebook, Juraj arrived at my door balancing two grocery bags.

I opened the door, blinking at him. “Uh… what’s this?”

He grinned, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. “Lesson… upgrade.”

“Lesson upgrade?”

“Yes. Cooking.” He held up the bags triumphantly. “I cook, you teach.”

I arched a brow. “You’re going to cook and study French at the same time? That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”

His grin widened. “You don’t trust me?”

I tried not to laugh. “Not even a little.”

He unloaded the bags onto my counter like he was setting up a science experiment. Potatoes, flour, butter, eggs.

“What exactly are you planning?” I asked.

“Bryndzové halušky,” he said proudly.

I blinked. “Gesundheit?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “No, no. It’s Slovak food. Potato dumplings with cheese. Very good. Very traditional. My mom makes best, but tonight… you will try Juraj version.”

I eyed the pile of ingredients skeptically. “Do I need to call the fire department in advance?”

“Very funny,” he said dryly, but there was amusement in his eyes. “Okay. First, French lesson. How do you say… dumplings?”

“Les quenelles,” I said.

He repeated it slowly, over-enunciating. “Les… quenelles.”

“Not bad.”

He nodded seriously, then held up a potato. “And this?”

“Une pomme de terre.”

He repeated it, frowning. “Pomme… de… terre.”

“Literally ‘apple of the earth,’” I added with a shrug.

His face lit up. “Apple of the earth! This I like.”

We fell into a strange rhythm—me rattling off vocabulary words, him repeating them with varying degrees of success, both of us laughing when he inevitably butchered the pronunciation.

“Beurre,” I said, pointing to the butter.

“Brrr,” he growled, rolling the r like he was a cartoon villain.

I burst out laughing. “No, no, no! That sounded like you’re freezing to death.”

He smirked. “Maybe I am. Your apartment is very cold.”

“It’s not cold, you’re just spoiled by heated arenas.”

“Or maybe I need… blanket,” he teased, eyes flicking toward the couch.

I shook my head, trying not to smile too hard. “Focus, élève. Butter. Beurre.”

He tried again, slower. “Beuhrr.”

“Better,” I said, still grinning.

—

Cooking with him was chaos. He grated the potatoes like he was in a race, water splashing everywhere, flour dusting the counter, eggshells cracking messily. I tried to keep up, reading instructions in French just to see if he could follow along.

“Ajoutez le sel,” I said, pointing to the salt.

He stared at me blankly. “Uh… what?”

“Add the salt,” I translated, laughing.

He grabbed the shaker dramatically. “Ajoutez le sel!” he declared like he was casting a spell, sprinkling it into the bowl.

“You’re impossible,” I said, laughing so hard I had to hold onto the counter.

“But you smile,” he shot back, eyes sparkling. “So maybe… not so impossible.”

By the time we got the dumplings boiling, the kitchen was a mess—flour on the counter, potato peels scattered, steam fogging the windows.

But when we finally sat down with steaming bowls, I had to admit: it smelled amazing.

I took a cautious bite, then widened my eyes. “Juraj… this is actually really good.”

He puffed up proudly. “See? No fire department.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “I owe you an apology.”

“Yes,” he said smugly. Then, after a pause, “How do you say… apology… in French?”

“Excuses.”

He pointed at me, grinning. “You… owe me… les excuses.”

I groaned, but my cheeks hurt from smiling.

After dinner, we cleaned up—well, I cleaned up while he tried to steal leftover dumplings straight from the pot.

When we finally settled back at the table with his notebook, the city outside my window had gone quiet. The hum of traffic was gone, replaced by the occasional car passing by or the muffled sound of footsteps in the hallway.

It felt… intimate. Like the rest of the world had gone to sleep, and it was just us.

“Okay,” I said, flipping to a fresh page. “Let’s practice conversation.”

He leaned forward, resting his chin on one massive hand. “Conversation, huh? Dangerous.”

“Why dangerous?”

“Because maybe I say wrong thing.”

“That’s the point. You learn by trying.”

He smirked. “Alright then. Bonjour, je m’appelle Juraj.”

“Très bien.”

“J’ai… vingt ans.”

“Correct.”

He hesitated, then said slowly, “J’aime… passer du temps avec toi.”

My heart stopped.

I swallowed, forcing a laugh. “Where did you learn that one?”

He grinned, clearly proud of himself. “Google Translate. Means… I like spending time with you, yes?”

I nodded, my face warm. “Yes.”

His gaze held mine for a beat too long. “Good. Because it is true.”

The silence stretched, thick with something unspoken.

Then he reached for the notebook, scribbling down the phrase in messy block letters.

“You will… fix my accent later,” he said lightly, but there was an edge to his voice.

I tried to focus on the page, but all I could think about was how close we were sitting, how the heat of his arm brushed mine whenever he shifted.

We went back to practicing phrases, but my concentration was shot. Every time he looked at me, it felt like a spark zipping straight through my chest.

At one point, our hands brushed reaching for the same pen. Neither of us moved right away.

“Oops,” I said weakly.

“Not oops,” he murmured.

I glanced up, startled by the softness in his tone. His eyes were steady on mine, something vulnerable flickering there.

And then, just as quickly, he cleared his throat, pulling back. “Next phrase,” he said, forcing a grin.

But the air between us had shifted, charged in a way I couldn’t ignore.

—

By the time he left, it was nearly midnight. He stood in the doorway, shoving his notebook into his bag, then hesitated like he wanted to say something more.

“Merci,” he said finally, voice low.

“You’re welcome,” I whispered.

He gave me one last crooked smile before stepping into the hall.

The door clicked shut, and I leaned against it, my heart hammering.

I told myself this was still just tutoring. Still just harmless.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was standing at the edge of something much bigger—and if I let myself fall, there would be no going back.

Chapter 4: The First Game Together

By the time our fourth lesson rolled around, we had settled into an unspoken rhythm: he texted me, I teased him, he showed up with either coffee or some random snack from a corner store, and we spent a few hours turning French into something that actually made him laugh instead of dread.

But that week, his text was different.

Juraj: Professeur… new homework. Come watch my game. Saturday.

I read it three times, half convinced I’d misinterpreted.

Me: You want me to come to the Bell Centre?

Juraj: Yes. You teach me words, but you never see me play. Not fair. You need to see me at my work too 😎

I stared at my phone, biting my lip. The idea of being in the stands, watching him in his world, felt different—intimate in a way I hadn’t expected. Still, I found myself smiling as I responded:

Me: Okay. But only if you promise to teach me a Slovak word afterward.

His reply came instantly:

Juraj: Deal. Best deal.

—

Saturday night, I pulled on a plain Canadiens sweatshirt, trying not to overthink it. The Bell Centre was buzzing with energy, fans pouring in, the air practically vibrating with excitement.

I found my seat—good ones, close enough to see the players’ faces clearly. And when Juraj skated out for warm-ups, tall and fluid and completely in his element, I felt something strange tug in my chest.

I’d gotten used to him as the goofy, determined student in my living room, stumbling over verb conjugations and spilling flour everywhere. But here, on the ice, he was something else entirely—focused, powerful, commanding.

And yet, when he glanced up toward the stands mid-lap, his eyes scanning, I knew he was looking for me.

When he spotted me, he flashed the quickest grin before turning back to his drills. My heart did a ridiculous little flip.

The game itself was electric. He didn’t score that night, but he had a beautiful assist, threading the puck like it was on a string. The crowd roared, and I found myself on my feet, cheering like a lifelong fan.

I wasn’t sure if he’d actually see me in the sea of faces, but part of me hoped he’d feel it somehow—that I was there, cheering just for him.

After the final buzzer, the Canadiens won 3–2. The whole arena pulsed with celebration, fans chanting, waving flags. I stayed in my seat longer than most, unsure of what came next. Did he actually mean for us to meet after? Or was that just something he’d texted in the moment?

Then my phone buzzed.

Juraj: Wait at section 110. I’m coming.

I followed the instructions, my stomach fluttering. Sure enough, ten minutes later, a very tall, slightly sweaty, very grinning hockey player appeared, hair damp, still in partial gear under his team jacket.

“You came,” he said, almost like he was surprised.

“Of course I came,” I said with a laugh. “I told you I would.”

His smile softened. “Good. Because was… different tonight. Better.”

“Better?”

“Yes.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Because I knew you were watching.”

Heat spread through me, and I looked away, hoping he didn’t notice how flustered I felt.

“So,” I said quickly, “what’s my Slovak word?”

He smirked, clearly aware of my deflection but letting it slide. “Hmm. Something useful. Okay. ‘Ďakujem.’ It means thank you.”

I repeated it clumsily: “Dya… koo… yem?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Close. Again.”

I tried again, slower.

This time, he leaned in, his voice low, correcting me. “Ďa-ku-jem.”

Our eyes met, and suddenly the noise of the crowd faded.

“Better,” he murmured.

“Thanks,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure if I meant for the word or for the way he was looking at me like I was the only person in the arena.

We left together, slipping out a side exit to avoid the throngs of fans. The night air was cool, the city alive with weekend energy. He walked beside me, shoulders relaxed, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

“You really liked it?” he asked, almost shy.

“I did,” I admitted. “You’re incredible out there.”

His lips curved into that crooked smile. “You cheered loud?”

I laughed. “I did. Probably not as loud as everyone else, though.”

“Still good,” he said. “Because it was you.”

My chest tightened. He had this way of saying things so simply, so directly, that it hit harder than any carefully crafted compliment.

We ended up at a quiet café still open late, tucked into a corner booth with mugs of hot chocolate. It was the same easy chaos as always—me teaching him French phrases, him trying to slip in Slovak ones in return, both of us laughing when we inevitably failed.

“Okay,” I said, pointing at his mug. “In French: le chocolat chaud.”

“Le… shoco-lat… show?” he repeated, mispronouncing it badly.

I giggled. “No, no. Chaud—like ‘sho.’ Soft.”

He pouted dramatically. “You always say no.”

“Because you always say it wrong.”

“Or maybe,” he said, leaning in just slightly, “I say it wrong so you stay close and correct me.”

My breath caught.

For a second, neither of us moved. His eyes dropped briefly to my lips before snapping back up to meet mine.

Then he smirked, breaking the tension. “Okay. One more time. Chaud.”

I swallowed hard, my voice steadier than I felt. “Chaud.”

He repeated it, this time nearly perfect.

“See?” I said, trying to sound casual. “You can do it when you try.”

He grinned. “Maybe I just need good motivation.”

—

We talked until the café closed around us, the staff politely hinting it was time to go. As we stepped back into the cool night, he glanced at me, his expression softer now.

“Merci,” he said, his French smoother than usual.

“For what?” I asked.

“For tonight. For cheering. For…” He trailed off, then shrugged, smiling sheepishly. “Just… merci.”

I smiled back, feeling the words settle warm and heavy in my chest.

“You’re welcome,” I said softly.

We stood there for a moment, the city humming around us, before he finally shoved his hands back in his pockets.

“Next lesson,” he said, “we do the whole night only in French. No English. Deal?”

I raised a brow. “You really think you’re ready for that?”

He grinned, eyes glinting. “No. But I want to try—with you.”

And somehow, I knew I wouldn’t be able to say no.

—

That night, lying in bed, I replayed it all—the way he’d looked for me in the stands, the way his grin had found me in the crowd, the way his voice softened when he said merci.

This was still supposed to be just tutoring, just helping him learn.

But as I closed my eyes, all I could hear was his voice, low and certain: Because it was you.

And I knew—whether I admitted it to myself or not—that this was already something more.

Chapter 5: Slipping Between the Lines

When Juraj suggested our next lesson be “all French, no English,” I thought he was joking. But when he showed up at my apartment on Tuesday night with a mischievous grin and an extra-large bag of chips, he greeted me with a very deliberate:

“Bonsoir, professeur.”

I blinked at him. “You’re serious?”

He nodded, plopping onto the couch and tossing the chips on the table. “Seulement français.”

“Seulement français,” I repeated slowly, already sensing the disaster this would turn into.

He grinned like he’d just won a faceoff.

The first twenty minutes went about as expected—painful, awkward, and hilarious. He tried to string together sentences with words he half-remembered, and I tried not to laugh too hard when he accidentally asked me if the table was delicious instead of wooden.

“La table est… délicieuse?” he said proudly, pointing at it.

I choked on my water. “Non! Non, non, non. You just called my table delicious.”

His eyes widened, then he burst out laughing so hard he doubled over. “Okay, okay… maybe table looks good enough to eat!”

I shook my head, giggling. “C’est ‘en bois.’ Wooden. La table est en bois.”

He repeated it carefully, then shot me a wicked grin. “Still… délicieuse.”

I rolled my eyes, but warmth crept into my cheeks all the same.

The more he struggled, the closer I had to sit beside him to correct his pronunciation. At first, it was innocent—me leaning over to point at his notebook, him repeating after me.

But then there were little things. His knee brushing against mine when he shifted on the couch. His shoulder lingering close when we bent over the same page. The way his voice dropped just slightly whenever he repeated a word I whispered.

At one point, he stumbled through a sentence: “J’aime… le… professeuse?”

I tilted my head, frowning. “Professeuse? That’s not a word. You mean professeur.”

He grinned, eyes gleaming. “No. I mean you.”

My heart stopped.

He must have seen the way I froze, because he quickly added, “Joke. Just a joke.” He gave a nervous laugh, running a hand through his hair. “My French… not yet good enough for real flirting.”

I forced a laugh, but my pulse was racing. Because the truth was—joke or not—I felt it.

An hour in, I gave up and allowed him some English. His vocabulary just wasn’t wide enough yet, though I had to admit he was trying harder than ever.

We sprawled across the couch, his notebook between us, my handwriting scrawled all over the pages with arrows and corrections. He studied it with a furrowed brow, chewing the end of his pen.

“You make this look easy,” he muttered. “French is… heavy in my mouth. Hard.”

“Because you’re overthinking it,” I said gently. “You want it to sound perfect, but you need to just let it flow.”

“Like you,” he said.

I blinked. “Like me?”

“Yes.” He turned, his gaze steady on mine. “When you speak French, it’s… natural. Beautiful.”

Heat spread across my cheeks. I looked down quickly, pretending to fix something in his notes. “Well, I’ve been practicing longer than you.”

“Still,” he said softly.

Later, as the clock crept past eleven, I tried to wrap up the lesson. “Okay, one more phrase before we’re done. Say: Tu me fais rire.”

He repeated it slowly: “Tu… me… fais… rire.”

“Good,” I said. “It means, ‘You make me laugh.’”

He grinned, pointing at me. “Tu me fais rire.”

I laughed. “See? Perfect.”

But then his expression shifted, softened.

“Also true,” he said quietly.

The air between us thickened. I felt suddenly aware of how close we were on the couch, of the way his knee still pressed lightly into mine, of the faint smell of his cologne mixed with soap and something uniquely him.

I swallowed, my voice catching. “Juraj…”

His eyes flicked down to my lips, then back up to meet mine. For a moment, the world tilted, balanced on the edge of something I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

He leaned in, just slightly, enough that I felt his breath.

My heart pounded in my chest. I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

But then, just as his lips nearly brushed mine, he froze. His jaw tightened, and he pulled back an inch, raking a hand through his hair.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Too fast.”

I exhaled shakily, both disappointed and relieved. “It’s… okay.”

He gave me a crooked smile, one that looked a little self-conscious. “Next time, maybe I say it right first. Then… maybe.”

My laugh was soft, nervous. “Next time.”

—

When he left that night, I leaned against the door after it closed, my pulse still racing.

This had started as tutoring. Just tutoring. But somewhere between the bad pronunciation, the laughter, and the almost-kiss, the lines had blurred.

And I wasn’t sure if I wanted them straightened again.

Chapter 6: Lost in Translation

After the almost-kiss, I told myself I’d keep things normal. Keep the boundaries clear. After all, I was supposed to be helping him learn French, not… whatever this was turning into.

But the truth was, everything felt different now.

Every time he texted me, my stomach flipped. Every time I heard his laugh echo in my apartment, warmth rushed through me like it belonged there. And every time his knee brushed mine, or his gaze lingered too long, I couldn’t help but think about that moment on the couch—how close he’d come, how close I’d let him.

When he showed up for our next session, I noticed immediately he was quieter than usual. Less joking, less easy. He slouched onto the couch, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Long practice?” I asked gently.

He nodded. “Coach was very tough today. My French brain is tired already.”

I smiled. “Then tonight we’ll keep it simple. No pressure.”

He gave me a half-smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

I started us off with a light review, pointing at things around the room and having him name them. At first, he played along—“la chaise,” “la fenêtre,”—but after a while, he groaned and tossed his pen down.

“Why is this so hard?” he muttered, switching to English. “I learn English fast. Why does French not stay in my head?”

“Because French is tricky,” I said softly. “It’s not a reflection on you. You’re juggling so much—English, Slovak, hockey—it’s a lot.”

He shook his head, frustration clear in his eyes. “But I want to get it. I want people here to… to understand me. I don’t want to just always smile and nod like idiot.”

I reached over without thinking, resting my hand on his arm. “Hey. You’re not an idiot. You’re doing better than you think.”

His gaze flicked to my hand, then back to my face. Something unspoken lingered in his eyes, raw and vulnerable.

“Sometimes,” he said quietly, “I wish you could just… translate me. Everything I feel. Make it come out right.”

The air stilled.

My hand stayed on his arm a second too long before I pulled back. My voice came out softer than I intended. “Maybe some things don’t need translating.”

—

We tried to go back to the lesson, but the words blurred. He leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes as I corrected his pronunciation.

“Amis,” I said. “Friends.”

He repeated it, but his voice was low, distracted.

“Good,” I murmured. “Now, amour. Love.”

His eyes opened, locking onto mine. He didn’t repeat the word right away. Just stared, something unguarded flickering across his face.

Finally, his voice rough, he said, “Amour.”

The word hung between us like a secret.

I looked away, flipping the page in his notebook too quickly. “Let’s, um… let’s practice some phrases instead.”

But I could feel his gaze on me, heavy and searching.

We worked through sentences clumsily—“Je suis fatigué,” “Tu es drôle,”—but everything felt charged, loaded with meanings beneath the surface.

When he stumbled over one phrase, I leaned in to correct him, whispering it slowly. He repeated it, his breath brushing my cheek.

I froze, and so did he.

Our eyes met, and suddenly it was happening again—the pull, the almost.

But this time, instead of stopping, he murmured, “No translation for this,” and closed the space between us.

His lips met mine gently, cautiously, as if he was giving me every chance to pull away.

I didn’t.

The kiss deepened slowly, a question and an answer all at once. His hand cupped the side of my face, warm and steady, while mine tangled in the fabric of his hoodie.

When we finally broke apart, breathless, he whispered, “Sorry… I—too fast again?”

I shook my head quickly, heart racing. “Not too fast.”

Relief flashed in his eyes, followed by a smile that could have lit up the whole room.

“Good,” he murmured.

We sat in silence for a moment, both of us trying to process what had just happened.

“Juraj,” I said finally, my voice trembling. “This is… complicated.”

He frowned slightly. “Because you are professeur?”

I gave a weak laugh. “Because you’re… you. A rising star on the Canadiens. Everyone wants a piece of you. And me? I’m just—”

“Not just anything,” he interrupted firmly. His accent thickened when he was serious, his words deliberate. “You are… the only one who makes me feel like I am not lost here. Like I can be… me. That is not ‘just.’”

My chest ached at the sincerity in his voice.

“But what if—” I started.

“No what if,” he cut in gently. “We can try. Slowly. No rush. But… don’t tell me you don’t feel it.”

I couldn’t. Because I did. Every part of me did.

We didn’t talk much after that. Words felt clumsy, unnecessary. Instead, we sat close, shoulders touching, his hand brushing against mine until I finally laced our fingers together.

The rest of the lesson was abandoned. Instead, we just… were. Two people lost in a language neither of us fully knew how to speak, but both of us understood perfectly in that moment.

—

When he left that night, he paused at the door, turning back to me.

“In Slovak,” he said softly, “there is a word: domov. It means home. Not house. Home.”

He hesitated, then added, “That’s how you feel.”

My throat tightened. “Juraj…”

He smiled, gentle and sure. “Don’t translate it. Just… feel it.”

And then he was gone, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and his words echoing in my chest.

That night, lying in bed, I realized something: I’d been so focused on teaching him a new language, I hadn’t noticed how quickly he was teaching me one of my own.

One without words.

One I was falling into, piece by piece.

Chapter 7: Between Games and Goodbyes

The week after our kiss, everything felt different—both more complicated and more effortless at once.

On the surface, not much changed. Juraj still showed up for our “lessons” with snacks, still stumbled through French verbs, still teased me about my handwriting. But underneath, there was a shift, something unspoken threading between us.

The way his hand lingered at the small of my back when he passed me in the kitchen. The way his smile softened when our eyes met. The way our conversations now stretched later and later into the night, until the lines between French, English, and silence blurred completely.

But just as we found this new rhythm, hockey intervened.

The Canadiens were heading out for a long road trip—two weeks, multiple cities. When he told me, I nodded like it was nothing.

“That’s the life of a pro athlete, right?” I said lightly, even though my chest ached.

He frowned. “You say it like you don’t care.”

“I do care,” I admitted. “But I don’t want to make it harder for you. You have to focus.”

His gaze softened, but he didn’t push. He just said, “Then maybe you can still help me… long distance? French homework by phone?”

I smiled despite myself. “Deal. But no cheating with Google Translate.”

He grinned. “I only cheat when I play against Toronto.”

—

The night before he left, he came over after practice. He looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, hair damp from a quick shower—but he still showed up at my door with a grin and two containers of takeout.

We ate cross-legged on the floor, too comfortable with each other to bother setting the table. He tried out a few French phrases between bites, and I corrected him gently, though my heart wasn’t in it.

Because all I could think about was how empty the next two weeks would feel without him.

At one point, he set his fork down and studied me.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

I forced a smile. “Just tired.”

He tilted his head, unconvinced. “Or maybe you think too much.”

I laughed softly. “Maybe both.”

He reached over, his big hand covering mine. “Don’t think too much. We are good. Okay?”

I looked at him, at the sincerity in his eyes, and nodded. “Okay.”

Later, as he stood at my door ready to leave, I found myself blurting out, “Be safe.”

He chuckled. “It’s just hockey. Not war.”

“Still,” I said stubbornly.

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. “You worry too much.”

Then, softer, “But I like it.”

And just like that, he was gone.

—

The first few days without him were harder than I expected. My apartment felt too quiet. French homework sat untouched on the coffee table because it wasn’t the same without his clumsy accent filling the room.

He called when he could—late at night from hotel rooms, sometimes whispering so his roommate wouldn’t overhear. The first time, I could hear muffled voices in the background, laughter, the faint buzz of TV commentary.

“Bonsoir, professeur,” he said, his accent heavier when he was tired.

I grinned into the phone. “Bonsoir, étudiant.”

We slipped into our routine, me quizzing him on vocabulary, him groaning dramatically. But more often than not, the conversations drifted.

He told me about the locker room pranks, about the endless flights, about the rush of stepping onto the ice in another city. And I told him about the little things he was missing—how the weather had turned, how the café near my place had changed its menu, how empty my couch looked without him on it.

One night, after a tough game he said he didn’t want to talk about, the conversation turned quieter.

“I miss… home,” he said.

“You mean Montreal?” I asked gently.

There was a pause. “I mean you.”

My breath caught.

“Juraj…”

He sighed. “It’s strange. I play in big arenas. Thousands of people scream my name. But when I go back to the hotel… it feels empty. Except when I hear you.”

I pressed the phone tighter to my ear, wishing I could reach through the line. “I miss you too.”

“Good,” he said softly. “Then we both wait. Just two weeks, not forever.”

But waiting wasn’t easy.

The media kept buzzing—articles about his performance, interviews about his progress, endless speculation about his future. His face was everywhere: on TV screens in restaurants, on the front page of sports sites, even on ads plastered in the metro.

And every time I saw his name, I felt the weight of reality pressing in.

Because while to me he was just Juraj—the guy who spilled flour in my kitchen, who mispronounced half the French dictionary, who kissed me like he was terrified and certain all at once—to the world, he was something else entirely.

And I wasn’t sure if there was room for me in that world.

—

The night before his team was due back in Montreal, he called later than usual. His voice was low, almost hesitant.

“Tough game,” he muttered.

“I saw the score,” I said gently. “I’m sorry.”

He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “You ever think… maybe we are stupid for trying this?”

My heart sank. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He sighed. “I am always gone. Media everywhere. You deserve someone who can be with you, not just call from hotel rooms.”

I swallowed hard, fighting the sting in my chest. “Maybe. But I don’t want someone else. I want you.”

Silence crackled over the line. Then he exhaled, his voice softer. “Good. Because I don’t want anyone else either.”

Relief washed over me, though my heart still ached with how much I wanted him here, not there.

—

When he finally returned, I met him after practice. He looked bone-tired, but when he saw me waiting outside the rink, his whole face lit up.

“Professeur,” he said with a grin, pulling me into a hug so tight it nearly lifted me off my feet.

“You smell like hockey gear,” I teased against his chest.

He laughed, not letting go. “Best smell.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Debatable.”

But truthfully, I didn’t care. Because he was here. Warm and solid and real.

That night, back at my apartment, neither of us bothered with French lessons. We sat tangled together on the couch, the TV flickering in the background, his hand tracing lazy circles on the back of mine.

At one point, he murmured, “Maybe… sometimes goodbye makes us better.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged, eyes thoughtful. “Because now I know. I don’t want goodbyes. I want this. With you.”

My chest tightened, emotion catching in my throat.

“I want this too,” I whispered.

And when he kissed me, it wasn’t cautious this time. It was certain. Like he’d decided, once and for all, that whatever obstacles lay ahead, he wanted to face them—with me.

Chapter 8: Parlez-Moi d’Amour

It started as tutoring. A few hours here and there, me correcting his accent and him pretending to hate it. But by the time winter rolled around, the books were more decoration than anything else.

Our lessons still happened, but they had shifted—less about grammar, more about laughter, quiet moments, and stolen kisses between verb drills.

And yet, there was one phrase he hadn’t dared to try.

It was late on a Friday night when he showed up unannounced, hair damp from a shower, cheeks red from the cold. He carried a bag with two steaming containers of poutine, grinning sheepishly when I opened the door.

“Hungry?” he asked.

I laughed, stepping aside. “Always.”

We ate on the couch, our knees brushing, the room glowing softly with the light from the lamp. He told me stories about practice, about how his teammates teased him for his French, about how he sometimes caught himself slipping Slovak words into sentences without realizing.

I teased him right back, making him repeat fromage until it sounded less like “fro-magee” and more like “fro-mahj.” He retaliated by making me pronounce Slovak words that twisted my tongue into knots.

But under the playfulness, something heavier lingered. I could feel it in the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching, in the way his hand rested on mine a little longer than usual.

Finally, I set down my fork. “Okay. What’s going on?”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been… different tonight. Quieter. Like you’re working up to something.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a sure sign he was nervous. “Maybe I am.”

I waited, my heart already racing.

He took a breath, then switched to French. The words were slow, careful, but deliberate.

“Je veux dire quelque chose, mais… c’est difficile.”

I blinked, startled. “You want to say something, but it’s difficult?”

He nodded, eyes locked on mine.

My pulse quickened. “Okay. Try.”

He swallowed, then said softly, “Je t’aime.”

The room went still.

My breath caught. I stared at him, unsure I’d heard right.

“You…” My voice cracked. “You just said—”

He nodded again, determination shining through his nerves. “Je t’aime.”

Tears pricked my eyes before I could stop them. “Juraj…”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “I practiced for weeks. Wanted to say in French first. Because you teach me everything, but… this, I wanted to learn myself.”

My chest tightened, my heart aching and soaring all at once.

“I love you too,” I whispered. “So much.”

Relief and joy washed over his face, and then he was kissing me—fierce and tender, like the words had unlocked something we’d both been holding back.

—

Afterward, we curled up together on the couch, his arm wrapped securely around me, my head against his chest.

“Say it again,” I murmured.

He chuckled softly. “Je t’aime.”

I smiled through my tears. “Perfect.”

“Not perfect,” he said. “But real.”

I tilted my head to look up at him. “That’s all that matters.”

We stayed like that for a long time, the outside world fading. Hockey schedules, media buzz, language barriers—they all felt distant, irrelevant.

Here, in this small apartment with takeout containers on the table and his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, nothing else mattered.

Finally, he whispered, “You know… maybe I learn French slow. But with you, I learned love fast.”

I laughed through a fresh wave of tears, kissing his jaw softly. “Cheesy.”

“True,” he countered, his smile crooked and sure.

When he eventually had to leave for the night, he kissed me at the door, lingering as though he didn’t want to let go.

“Merci,” he said softly.

“For what?” I asked.

“For… everything. For teaching me French. For cheering. For staying. For loving me.”

My throat tightened. “Always.”

He smiled, kissed me once more, and disappeared into the cold night.

As I locked the door behind him, I realized something.

When we’d started this, I thought I was teaching him how to conjugate verbs and roll his r’s. But somewhere along the way, he’d taught me something much bigger.

That love doesn’t need perfect grammar. That sometimes, the simplest words—Je t’aime—are the hardest to say, but the most worth learning.

And that no matter how clumsy, how broken, or how heavily accented… when love speaks, it’s always understood.