First of all, thank you so much for all the love you’ve shown my writing. It honestly means the world to me. Since the last request week received so many submissions, I’ve made a few changes to help keep everything organized and make the process a little easier.
Here’s how it works:
♡ Choose a player from either of the two player lists.
♡ Choose a prompt from one of the seven prompt lists (A–G).
♡ Fill out the Google Form and submit your request.
I’ve added prompt lists because many of the previous requests were incredibly detailed—some were practically entire fanfics written in the request itself. This format lets everyone mix and match ideas while keeping requests manageable.
A few things to keep in mind:
♡ Requests submitted through the Google Form will follow the player + prompt format.
♡ My Tumblr ask box will remain open, so you’re still welcome your request through there if it is more comfortable for you.
♡ Requests may take 1–3 days to be posted, though the wait may be longer or shorter depending on the number of submissions.
♡ Players marked with an (*) are limited to 3 completed requests during this event.
♡ Please submit one request// player per form, you can send as many forms as you want
Player list:
A quick note about sending requests through my inbox! 🤍
If you’d rather send your request through my Tumblr ask box instead of using the Google Form, please use the following format:
Player [number + list letter] + Prompt [number + list letter]
For example:
Player 28C + Prompt 2C
This makes it much easier for me to keep track of requests and ensures I know exactly which player and prompt you chose.
Please don’t send the full prompt in the ask—the player code and prompt code are all I need.
PLAYERS THAT ARE NOT IN THE LIST:
you can request if the player is not on the list, you have to to it through my inbox, just have to send the name of the player +prompt number
For Example:
Adriam Kempe + prompt 10G
I’m really excited to see all the combinations you come up with. Thank you again for all the support, and happy requesting! 🤍
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SUMMARY: After a cruel social media rumor claims that Josh is unhappy in their marriage and that having three children has “aged” YN, her confidence begins to crumble. Things become worse when six-year-old Miles sees one of the videos and starts questioning whether his father plans to leave.
WC: 6.1k
WARNINGS: Age-gap mentions, social media harassment, body-image insecurities, postpartum body discussion, motherhood struggles, cruel comments about aging and appearance, marital insecurity, child overhearing upsetting rumors, crying, emotional distress, and hurt/comfort.
Requested: Josh Manson + Social media starts a rumor that destroys your confidence.
The rumor started with a photograph taken on your twenty-eighth birthday.
Not during the small breakfast Josh and the boys had attempted to make for you that morning, when Miles proudly carried a plate of slightly burned pancakes into the bedroom while Noah dragged a balloon behind him and Jude sat on Josh’s hip, clapping because everyone else was excited.
Not when Josh handed you a thin gold necklace with four tiny charms—an initial for each of your boys, including his—and watched nervously as you opened it.
Not when he kissed you in the kitchen while Miles complained loudly that birthdays were supposed to involve cake, not “gross married stuff.”
The picture appeared later that night.
Josh had planned a dinner for the two of you at one of your favorite restaurants in Denver. It was the first proper date you had managed in weeks. Between Josh’s schedule, Miles’s school, Noah’s determination to climb every piece of furniture in the house, and Jude still waking during the night, time alone had become increasingly rare.
Your mother had offered to watch the children, but Jude had cried as soon as you placed him in her arms. You had nearly canceled. Josh had stood by the front door in his dress shirt, patiently waiting while you walked Jude around the living room and tried to calm him.
“We can stay home,” you had said.
Josh had shaken his head “You’ve been looking forward to this all week.”
“He’s upset.”
“He’ll be okay.”
“What if he isn’t?”
“Then your mom will call us, and we’ll come back.”
You had looked down at Jude, who was clutching the neckline of your dress with one tiny fist. Josh moved closer and rubbed a hand over Jude’s back “Buddy, I already made reservations. You can’t ruin my marriage like this.”
Your mother laughed from the couch, You gave Josh an unimpressed look “He’s one.”
“He knows exactly what he’s doing.” Eventually, Jude settled enough for you to leave.
Dinner had been wonderful.
Josh made you put your phone away so you couldn’t check the baby monitor application every three minutes. He ordered dessert without asking because he knew which one you wanted. He listened while you talked about Miles struggling with reading aloud in class and Noah refusing to use any cup that wasn’t blue.
There had been no argument.
No tension.
No sign that your marriage was falling apart.
But when you left the restaurant, your mother called to tell you Jude had woken up and wouldn’t settle. You were already worried as you stepped onto the sidewalk.
Josh took your hand while answering your mother’s questions through the car’s speaker. He walked slightly ahead because a photographer had appeared near the curb, and he was trying to guide you around him without causing a scene.
The photograph captured only one second, Josh was looking forward with a tense expression. You were behind him, your hand still in his, looking down at your phone.
By the following morning, the image had been reposted by several hockey gossip accounts.
The first caption was relatively harmless.
Trouble in paradise? Josh Manson and his wife look tense after her birthday dinner.
You rolled your eyes when your friend sent it to you. Apparently we’re getting divorced because Jude woke up, you replied.
She responded with three laughing emojis and told you to ignore it.
You intended to.
Then another account reposted the photo beside an older one from the beginning of your relationship.
You were twenty-one in that picture, standing beside Josh at an offseason event. Your face was rounder, your hair was longer, and you were wearing a fitted dress you hadn’t seen in years. The newer photograph showed you at twenty-eight after three pregnancies and countless sleepless nights.
The caption read:
Seven years younger and somehow she’s the one who looks exhausted. Three kids before thirty will do that. Josh already seems checked out.
That one spread quickly. People began arguing about the age difference between you and Josh, some insisted that you had been too young when you started dating him, despite the fact that you had been an adult and neither of you had hidden the timeline.
Others accused you of intentionally becoming pregnant quickly to “secure” the relationship.
Someone claimed Josh had only married you because Miles had been conceived.
That wasn’t true.
You and Josh had already been engaged when you discovered you were pregnant with Miles. The wedding had been postponed because you wanted to wait until after he was born, not arranged because of him.
The facts didn’t matter. Within hours, strangers had constructed an entire version of your life, according to social media, you had sacrificed your twenties to raise Josh’s children while he continued living freely.
You were isolated, he was controlling. You looked miserable, he looked bored. You had aged badly, he would eventually leave you for someone younger, even though you were already seven years younger than him.
At first, the comments almost seemed absurd enough to be funny.
You sent Josh one while he was at practice.
Someone thinks you forced me to have three children.
He responded a few minutes later.
I can barely force Noah to wear pants.
You laughed. Then you made the mistake of continuing to read, someone posted a close-up of your face from the restaurant picture and pointed out the shadows beneath your eyes. Another compared your body before Miles to your body after Jude.
A popular account created a poll asking whether Josh would still be married to you by his thirty-fifth birthday.
The options were:
No
and
Absolutely not
You stared at the poll much longer than you should have, Josh was thirty-four and would turn thirty-five in a few months. You had just turned twenty-eight. The age difference had never felt significant inside your home.
Josh never treated you as though you were younger or less capable. You made decisions together. You argued like equals, you divided responsibilities as fairly as his career allowed.
But strangers reduced you to the younger wife who had spent her best years having children. That phrasing lodged itself in your mind.
Your best years. As though they were already over.
You looked around the living room, there were toys beneath the coffee table, a basket of unfolded laundry beside the couch, and a faint stain on your shirt from where Jude had spit up after breakfast.
You hadn’t washed your hair in three days, your body no longer looked like it had when you met Josh. Your stomach a bit softer. Your hips were wider. Fine lines had appeared around your eyes from exhaustion and laughter. There were pale stretch marks across your skin and a small scar low on your abdomen from Jude’s emergency delivery.
You had never hated those things before.
Some days, you struggled with them, especially when getting dressed for team events surrounded by women who seemed impossibly polished. But Josh had always made you feel wanted.
He kissed your stretch marks, he rested his hand over your stomach when you slept, he still looked at you across crowded rooms in a way that made you feel twenty-one again. But after reading hundreds of strangers say he was only pretending, you started wondering whether you had misread him.
The rumor followed you for the rest of the week, Josh attended a team dinner alone because Noah had a fever. A photograph of him laughing with teammates appeared online.
He looks happier without her.
You skipped a home game because Jude had been awake all night with teething pain and Miles was sad because he lost his drawing, when he was the one who throw it in the trash when he spilled his water on it.
She never supports him anymore.
Josh failed to like the birthday post you uploaded until several hours later because he had been at practice.
He couldn’t even pretend to care on her birthday.
You knew there were explanations, you knew the accounts were manipulating ordinary moments. But knowing something logically didn’t stop it from hurting emotionally.
You began checking your reflection more often.
Every time Josh looked at his phone, you wondered whether he had seen the posts. Whenever he seemed quiet after practice, you wondered whether he was thinking about the poll.
You started changing clothes before he came into the bedroom.
When he walked into the bathroom while you were getting ready, you immediately pulled your robe closed. Josh paused in the doorway “Sorry my love”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“You covered yourself like I caught you committing a crime.”
“I’m cold.”
He glanced toward the shower, which was still filling the room with steam “Right.”
You avoided his eyes.
That night, he tried to pull you closer in bed, you pretended to be asleep. His arm remained around your waist for several minutes before slowly withdrawing.
You felt him roll onto his back. The disappointment in that small movement nearly made you turn around and tell him everything. Instead, you closed your eyes more tightly.
The worst moment happened three days later.
You were in the kitchen packing Miles’s lunch when you heard Noah’s tablet playing a video from the living room. You had restricted most applications, but sometimes clips slipped through the child settings, especially when they included hockey footage.
A woman’s voice came through the speaker “Fans are convinced there could be trouble in Josh Manson’s marriage after recent photos—”
You dropped the sandwich bag onto the counter “Noah.”
He didn’t respond.
You rushed into the living room and found the tablet propped against the couch. Noah was sitting on the floor with toy cars, barely paying attention.
Miles was standing behind him, unlike Noah, he was listening. On the screen, the host showed the birthday photograph.
Then the older picture, your stomach dropped.
“Mommy?” Miles asked. You grabbed the tablet and stopped the video “Where did you find this?”
“Noah pressed it.”
“I didn’t,” Noah protested immediately.
“It was on the hockey video.”
You looked at Miles, his expression was troubled in a way no six-year-old’s face should have been “What did you hear?” He shrugged, but his eyes stayed on the dark screen “Miles.”
He hesitated “The lady said Dad doesn’t want to be married anymore.”
Your chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt “That isn’t true.”
“She said people think he’s going to leave before his birthday.”
“No.” You crouched in front of him. “Dad is not leaving.”
“Because you got old?” The question broke something inside you, you stared at your son. Miles shifted anxiously “They said you look old now because you had us.”
You could barely breathe “No, sweetheart.”
“Did we make you old?”
“No.”
“Did Jude?”
“No.” Your voice cracked. “None of you did anything.”
Miles’s lower lip trembled “Dad still likes you?”
You pulled him into your arms “Dad loves me.”
“Then why did the lady say that?”
You closed your eyes. Because cruelty earned attention, because strangers forgot there were real families behind photographs, because people who had never met you believed they were entitled to explain your marriage to your children.
You couldn’t tell him any of that “Sometimes people on the internet say things that aren’t true,” you whispered. “They see one picture and make up a story.”
Miles leaned back “So Dad isn’t leaving?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
You forced yourself to answer immediately “Promise.”
But after sending him to school, you went upstairs and cried in the bathroom. Not because you truly believed Josh was going to leave.
Not entirely.
You cried because the rumor had reached your child, Miles was six years old, and someone had made him wonder whether he and his brothers had ruined their mother. You sat on the floor between the bathtub and vanity, pressing your sleeve against your mouth so Noah wouldn’t hear you.
That was where Josh found you.
Practice had ended early, but you hadn’t heard him come home. He appeared in the doorway still wearing his team sweats, his hair damp from the shower at the arena.
His face changed instantly “What happened?”
You wiped your cheeks “Nothing.” Josh stepped inside and closed the door behind him “You’re sitting on the bathroom floor crying.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I just had a bad morning.”
He crouched in front of you “Did something happen with the boys?” Your silence made his expression sharpen “Are they okay?”
“They’re fine.”
“Then what happened?”
You looked down at your hands, Josh reached for you, but you shifted away before he could touch your face. His hand stopped in midair, the hurt in his expression made you feel worse “You’ve been doing that all week,” he said quietly.
“Doing what?”
“Moving away from me.”
“I haven’t.”
“You have.”
He sat on the floor across from you “You won’t change in front of me. You pretend to sleep when I touch you. You barely spoke to me at breakfast yesterday.” His voice softened. “Now I come home and find you crying. Tell me what’s going on.”
You wanted to, instead, embarrassment rose in your throat “It’s stupid.”
“Let me decide that.”
You shook your head.
Josh watched you for a moment “Did I do something?”
“No.”
“Are you unhappy?”
The fear behind the question made you look at him “What?”
“Are you unhappy with me?”
“No.”
“Then help me understand.”
You drew a shaky breath “Miles saw one of the videos.”
Josh frowned “What video?”
You told him.
You explained the post, the comments, the poll, and the way the rumor had spread. You told him how Miles had asked whether his father still liked you, you did not intend to tell Josh the rest.
But once you started speaking, everything came out “They keep saying I wasted my twenties,” you whispered. “That I had three kids too young and now I look older than you.”
Josh’s jaw tightened “They’re idiots.”
“But I do look different.”
“Of course you look different. It’s been seven years" You flinched, he noticed immediately “That didn’t come out right.”
“It came out honestly.”
“No, it came out badly.”
You stood from the floor, Josh rose with you.
“I know I don’t look the same,” you said. “I don’t need you to pretend.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“You don’t have to protect my feelings.”
“I’m not protecting your feelings. I’m telling you the truth.”
You turned toward the mirror. Your eyes were swollen from crying. Your hair was twisted into a loose bun. There was a small stain on the shoulder of your shirt “I look exhausted.”
“You are exhausted.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m saying you’re exhausted because Jude still wakes twice a night and you refuse to wake me when I have practice.”
“You need to sleep.”
“So do you.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“Then tell me what the point is.”
You looked at him through the mirror “The point is that I don’t feel like the woman you married anymore.”
Josh went quiet,you folded your arms over your stomach “She was fun. She traveled with you. She wore dresses without worrying whether anything showed. She didn’t spend every conversation talking about school schedules and pediatric appointments.”
“She also couldn’t cook.”
You turned sharply “Josh.”
“I’m trying to lighten the mood.”
“This isn’t funny.”
His expression softened “I know.”
You looked down “People keep saying you’ll leave me for someone younger.”
“You are younger.”
“That isn’t what they mean.”
“I know.”
“What happens when you turn thirty-five and realize you’re married to someone who already feels fifty?”
Josh stared at you, then he walked forward and gently took your wrists, uncrossing your arms from your stomach “Look at me.” You resisted for a moment before raising your eyes “I am turning thirty-five,” he said. “Not losing my mind.”
You said nothing.
“I’m not waiting for my birthday to suddenly discover I have a wife and three children.”
“They think you look miserable.”
“I was miserable in that picture.” Your throat tightened, Josh squeezed your hands before you could pull away “Because your mom called to say Jude had been crying for forty minutes, the photographer was blocking the car, and I knew you were blaming yourself for leaving the house.”
“Oh.”
“I wasn’t miserable because of you.” You looked away, Josh stepped closer “And I didn’t marry the twenty-one-year-old version of you because I wanted her to stay exactly the same forever.”
His thumbs brushed over your wrists “I married you because I wanted to change with you.”
Your eyes burned.
“The woman I met at twenty-one didn’t know how to calm a newborn while half asleep. She didn’t know every dinosaur Miles has ever mentioned. She hadn’t learned that Noah will eat carrots if you call them orange fries.”
A tear slipped down your cheek, Josh released one of your hands to wipe it away “She hadn’t held my hand in a hospital room while doctors rushed Jude into surgery.”
Your breath caught.
“She hadn’t built this home. She hadn’t made me a dad.”
“You did part of that.”
“A very small part.”
Despite yourself, a weak laugh escaped.
Josh’s mouth lifted slightly “There you are .”
You shook your head, he cupped your face “You didn’t waste your twenties.” His voice was firm now “You lived them. You loved me through surgeries, trades, road trips, losses, and every mood I’ve ever brought home after a bad game. You had three beautiful boys because we both wanted them. You built a career around our family. You made friends in every city hockey dragged us through.”
His forehead touched yours “And you’re twenty-eight. You have plenty of twenties left.”
“I only have two years.”
“Then we’ll make them irresponsible.” You laughed through your tears “I’m serious. We’ll stay out past ten.”
“That is irresponsible for us.”
“We might even order dessert.”
“We always order dessert.”
“Exactly. Wild.”
Your smile faded again “But Miles heard it.”
Josh’s expression hardened “I know.”
“He asked whether they made me old.”
The anger in Josh’s eyes became unmistakable “They?”
“The boys.”
He stepped back and dragged a hand over his jaw “He thinks this is his fault?”
“I told him it wasn’t.”
“But he heard it.”
“Yes.”
Josh paced once across the bathroom, you had seen him angry many times. On the ice, his anger was immediate and physical, at home, it was quieter. More controlled and somehow, that was more intimidating “Where’s the video?”
“I deleted it from the tablet.”
“Find it.”
“Josh.”
“Find it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“That usually means something terrible.”
“I’m not going to fight someone.”
“You sound disappointed about that.”
“I am.” You found the clip through your own phone and handed it to him, he watched the entire thing.
His face remained expressionless until the host repeated the claim that having three children had “aged” you and suggested Josh might be reconsidering the marriage as he approached thirty-five.
Then his jaw flexed. At the end of the video, he handed the phone back “Who is she?”
“A reporter for one of those entertainment channels.”
“Does she come to games?”
“Sometimes.”
Josh nodded once, you knew that look “No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re going to.”
“She talked about our marriage like it was entertainment.”
“That’s what those channels do.”
“She involved our kids.”
“She probably didn’t know Miles would see it.”
“She put it online.”
You reached for his arm “Please don’t make this bigger.”
Josh looked at you “It’s already big enough that our six-year-old thinks I’m leaving.”
You had no response.
That evening, Josh sat with Miles in his bedroom, you remained in the hallway at first, listening while pretending to fold laundry. Miles was sitting beneath his Avalanche blanket, holding one of his stuffed animals.
Josh sat on the edge of the bed “Mom said you saw something online today.”
Miles looked nervous “It came on Noah’s video.”
“You’re not in trouble.”
“I didn’t look for it.”
“I know.”
Miles picked at the stuffed animal’s ear “Are you leaving?”
Josh’s shoulders dropped “No.”
“Even when you’re thirty-five?”
“Especially then.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll need Mom to remind me where I put everything.”
Miles smiled slightly, Josh leaned forward “I’m not leaving mommy buddy, I love her.”
“The lady said you don’t.”
“The lady doesn’t know me.”
“She said Mom looks old because of us.”
Josh’s face tightened “Your mom doesn’t look old.”
“She said—”
“I know what she said.” Josh’s voice softened. “She was wrong.”
Miles watched him carefully “Did we make Mom tired?”
“Yes.” Your mouth fell open in the hallway, Josh continued before you could interrupt “You made both of us tired. You used to wake up every two hours and scream.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.” Miles smiled.
“But being tired isn’t bad,” Josh explained. “Sometimes it means you worked hard at something important.”
“Like hockey?”
“Exactly. Or being a mom.”
Miles considered this “So Mom isn’t sad she had us?”
“No.” Josh glanced toward the doorway, clearly aware you were there. “Mom would choose all three of you again.”
“Even Noah?”
“Probably.”
“Daddy.”
“I’m kidding.”
Miles giggled.
Josh tucked the blanket around him “And nobody gets to tell you things about our family that Mommy and I haven’t told you ourselves. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“If you see another video like that, you bring it to us.”
“Are you going to yell at the lady?”
Josh paused “No.” You released a relieved breath “I’m going to speak very calmly and make her wish I had yelled.” You closed your eyes, Miles grinned.
The opportunity came sooner than you expected.
Two nights later, you attended a home game with the boys, you considered staying home.
The idea of cameras made your stomach twist, but Miles had been asking to watch Josh play all week. Noah wanted popcorn, and Jude had recently become fascinated with the arena lights.
You refused to let the rumor take those moments away from them, you wore jeans, boots, and one of the play-offs jacket. Before leaving, you stood in front of the bedroom mirror and nearly changed three times.
Josh came up behind you “You look good.”
“You have to say that.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You do if you want somewhere to sleep tonight.”
Josh placed both hands on your hips “I’m serious.” You looked at him through the mirror, His gaze didn’t move away “You look like my wife.”
You swallowed “Is that supposed to be romantic?”
“To me it is.” He kissed the side of your head before heading downstairs to help Miles find his gloves.
The game went well.
The avalanche won, Miles cheered until his voice became hoarse, Noah spilled half a bucket of popcorn onto the floor, and Jude fell asleep against your chest halfway through the third period.
For several hours, you forgot about the internet.
After the game, you waited with the boys near the family area while Josh finished media availability. Miles and Noah were playing with Gabe’s kids. Jude remained asleep in your arms.
A reporter approached you, you recognized her immediately. She was the woman from the video.
Your entire body went tense.
She smiled as though she hadn’t publicly speculated about the end of your marriage two days earlier “YN, could I ask you a quick question?”
“No.”
Her smile faltered.
“It will only take a second.”
“I’m here with my children.”
“It’s actually about the recent conversation online.”
You adjusted Jude against your chest “I’m sorry but i'm not interested.”
She stepped closer “Would you at least like to address the rumors that you and Josh are experiencing marital problems?”
Miles stopped playing, your eyes moved toward him. The reporter followed your gaze but continued anyway “Some fans have expressed concern after recent photographs—”
“Concern?” Josh’s voice came from behind her, the reporter turned. He was still wearing part of his suit from the game, his tie loosened and his hair damp. His expression was calm, far too calm “Josh,” she said brightly. “I was hoping to ask you—”
“No.” She blinked, he moved to stand beside you and placed one hand against the back of your neck “You don’t get to ask my wife anything.”
“I was only giving her an opportunity to respond.”
“To something you created.”
The reporter’s smile became strained “We reported on public speculation.”
“You started the speculation.”
“The photograph raised questions.”
“It was a picture of us leaving dinner.”
“You appeared unhappy.”
“My one-year-old was crying at home.” She hesitated, Josh continued “You took a picture of my wife on her birthday, compared her body to what she looked like seven years ago, and invited strangers to vote on whether I would leave her.”
“I didn’t personally create the poll.”
“You shared it.”
The reporter glanced toward the other people beginning to watch “This may not be the right setting—”
“You approached her while she was holding our son.” Your hand tightened around Jude, Josh’s voice never rose. That made every word land harder “Our six-year-old saw your video.”
The reporter’s expression changed
“He asked whether his brothers made his mom old. Then he asked whether I was leaving them.”
“I’m sorry he saw it, but content online—”
“No.” Josh stepped slightly closer “You don’t get to apologize that he saw it. You apologize for making it.”
She stared at him “I understand you’re upset.”
“I’m not upset because someone criticized me. That comes with my job. I’m upset because you decided my wife’s face, body, age, and motherhood were appropriate entertainment.”
You felt tears threatening again.
Josh’s hand remained steady against your neck “You don’t know her,” he continued. “You don’t know what she has sacrificed for this family. You don’t know what she survived bringing our youngest into the world. And you definitely don’t know anything about my marriage.”
The reporter looked toward her camera operator, clearly wanting the exchange to end.
Josh didn’t give her the chance to redirect it “You wanted an answer to the rumor?” He looked directly at the camera “Here it is. I love my wife. I’m not leaving her at thirty-five, forty-five, or any other age. The only people who damaged anything were the adults who made my six-year-old question whether his family was safe.”
Silence settled around the hallway.
Josh looked back at the reporter “Don’t approach my wife or children again.” then he took Jude from your arms, called Miles and Noah over, and led all of you away.
You remained silent until you reached the parking garage.
Noah was talking excitedly about the popcorn, Miles kept looking at Josh with obvious admiration. Jude slept through everything. Once the boys were buckled into the car, you stood beside the passenger door and stared at Josh.
“What?”
“You confronted her.”
“She confronted you.”
“You knew cameras were recording.”
“Good.”
“Josh.”
He stepped closer “What?”
“That clip is going to be everywhere.”
“Then maybe people will finally repeat something true.”
You looked at him for a long moment “You said you weren’t going to yell.”
“I didn’t.”
“You were terrifying.”
“I was polite.”
“You told her she damaged our child.”
“She did.” His expression softened when he saw yours “Are you angry?”
“No.”
“Embarrassed?”
“A little.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re not.”
“Not even slightly.” You laughed quietly, Josh placed both hands around your waist. The parking garage was cold, and you could hear the boys arguing inside the car over who had cheered louder.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you said.
“Yes, I did.”
“You could have ignored it.”
“I tried ignoring it, then it reached our house.” He looked down at you “I can take people talking about me. I’m used to it. But I’m not going to stand there while someone makes you feel ashamed of the life we built.”
Your eyes burned “I do feel ashamed sometimes.”
Josh’s brow furrowed “Of us?”
“Of myself.”
His hands tightened slightly.
You looked away “I know you tell me I’m beautiful. I know you love me. But sometimes I look at old pictures and miss her.”
“The old you?”
You nodded.
“She looked rested.”
“She didn’t have Jude.”
“She was smaller.”
“She didn’t have Jude.”
“She went out.”
“She didn’t have Jude.”
You gave him an annoyed look “Are you blaming everything on the baby?”
“I love him, but yes.” A laugh escaped you, Josh smiled, then became serious again “You’re allowed to miss parts of your old life.”
“I am?”
“Yes.”
“But I chose this.”
“You can choose something and still find it hard.”
You stared at him “Being their mom doesn’t mean you stop being a person,” he said. “And being my wife doesn’t mean you have to be grateful every second or never struggle with what changed.” His thumb brushed against your side “But you need to tell me when you feel like this.”
“I didn’t want you to think I regretted the boys.”
“I would never think that.”
“What if I regret things sometimes?”
“Like what?”
“My body. How tired I am. Not having more time for myself.”
Josh nodded “Then we work on those things.”
“You can’t fix everything.”
“No. But I can wake up with Jude. I can take the boys out so you get time alone. We can find someone to help more when I’m traveling.”
You started to protest, He gave you a look “You don’t get a medal for doing everything until you fall apart.”
“I wasn’t falling apart.”
“You were crying between the toilet and bathtub.”
“That was one time.”
“That I know about.” You looked down, Josh tilted your chin upward “I should’ve noticed sooner.”
“You were working.”
“I’m still your husband.” His expression carried guilt now “You stopped letting me touch you, and I let myself believe you were just tired.”
“I was tired.”
“You were also hurting.”
You leaned into him “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Believing them.”
Josh wrapped his arms around you “You don’t owe me an apology for getting hurt.”
“I knew it wasn’t true.”
“Knowing doesn’t make you bulletproof.” You rested your cheek against his chest, Inside the car, Noah pressed his face to the window “Daddy!”
Josh didn’t release you “What?”
“Are we going home?”
“Eventually.”
“I’m hungry.”
“You ate enough popcorn to feed the team buddy.”
“I need dinner.”
Josh sighed against your hair “This is what aged us.” You laughed so loudly Miles joined in without knowing why.
The confrontation clip spread online before you arrived home, this time, the response was overwhelmingly supportive.
People criticized the reporter. Fans shared photographs of Josh looking at you during games and family events. Other mothers wrote about feeling unrecognizable after having children.
Women you had never met sent messages saying they had also struggled when motherhood changed their bodies and identities.
But you didn’t read much of it, Josh took your phone when he noticed you opening the applications “Positive comments are still comments,” he said.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does to me.” He turned off your notifications and placed the phone on top of the refrigerator
“You know I can reach that.”
“I know. But it makes my point dramatic.”
The next morning, he posted a photograph, it wasn’t from your birthday dinner or the game. It was a picture that your mom had taken several weeks earlier.
You were sitting on the kitchen floor in an oversized sweatshirt, your hair in a messy bun. Jude was asleep against your chest. Noah was stretched across your lap, attempting to reach a bowl of strawberries, while Miles stood beside you wearing Josh’s helmet backward.
You had no makeup on. There were toys everywhere, you looked tired but you also looked happy.
The caption read:
My wife turned twenty-eight last week. We met seven years ago, and she doesn’t look exactly the same now. Neither do I.
Since then, she has moved cities, built a home with me, supported my career, survived three pregnancies, and raised three boys who think she is the center of the world. She has changed because our life changed.
She didn’t lose herself by becoming a mother, and our children didn’t take anything away from her. They added to who she already was.
I loved her at twenty-one. I love her at twenty-eight. I’ll love the woman she becomes at thirty-five, fifty, and every age after that.
The internet saw one photograph. I get the whole life. I know which one I’d choose.
Comments were disabled. When you found the post, Josh was in the kitchen making breakfast “You posted me in my worst sweatshirt.”
He glanced over his shoulder “You love that sweatshirt.”
“It has bleach stains.”
“It has character.”
“My hair looks terrible.”
“You look beautiful.”
“You always say that.”
“Because you keep being beautiful.” You walked toward him, he set down the spatula and opened his arms before you reached him. You tucked yourself against his chest “What are you making?”
“Pancakes.”
You looked into the pan “They’re burning.”
“They’re caramelizing.”
“Josh.”
“I’m defending my family and making breakfast. I can’t do everything.” Miles came running into the kitchen “Dad, Noah took my dinosaur!”
“I didn’t take it!” Noah shouted from the hallway.
“You’re holding it!”
“It likes me!”
Jude began crying through the baby monitor, Josh closed his eyes. You started laughing, He looked down at you “What?”
“Nothing.”
You shook your head and reached for the monitor, Josh caught your wrist “I’ll get him.”
“You’re cooking.”
“I’m burning things. There’s a difference.” He kissed you and headed toward the stairs. At the bottom step, he turned back “And for the record?”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Twenty-eight looks really good on you.”
You smiled “Thirty-five might look good on you too.”
“Might?”
“We’ll see.” Josh placed a hand over his heart as though wounded, then went upstairs to get Jude.
The rumor did not disappear immediately, the internet rarely admitted when it was wrong. But it stopped controlling the way you saw yourself.
You still had difficult days.
Days when nothing in your closet fit the way you wanted, days when motherhood felt less like a gift and more like an endless list of people who needed something from you. Days when you missed the freedom you had at twenty-one.
But when those thoughts became too loud, you told Josh.
Sometimes he reassured you, sometimes he took all three boys out for several hours and returned looking as though he had personally survived a natural disaster, sometimes he simply sat beside you without trying to fix anything.
A week after the confrontation, you found Miles drawing at the kitchen table.
There were five stick figures, one tall figure holding a hockey stick, one figure with long hair. Three smaller figures between them “Is that us?” you asked.
Miles nodded, he pointed toward the figure representing you “That’s you.”
“I guessed.”
“You’re not old.”
You smiled “Thank you baby”
“You’re twenty-eight.”
“I am.”
“That’s kind of old.”
Your mouth fell open, Miles grinned “But Dad is older.”
“Much older.”
Josh walked into the room carrying Jude “I heard that.” Miles laughed and ran away, Josh looked at the drawing “What’s this?”
“Our family.”
He shifted Jude higher on his hip “Why am I so much taller than everyone?”
“Your ego.” He gave you an unimpressed look.
You took the drawing from the table and examined it again, the figure representing you had an enormous smile. There were three children around your legs and Josh beside you.
Josh came to stand behind you, wrapping his free arm around your waist “You okay?” he asked. You leaned back against him, for the first time in days, the answer felt completely true “Yeah.”
He kissed your temple.
“You sure?” You looked at the uneven stick figures, the baby on Josh’s hip, and the three bowls still sitting in the sink from breakfast.
You were not the same woman you had been at twenty-one. You were tired, changed. Softer in places and stronger in others.
You were twenty-eight years old, married to a man approaching thirty-five, with three loud little boys who had transformed every part of your life and none of that made you less worthy of being loved. It only meant you had lived.
I’m going to say this once because I think it’s important.
What I genuinely can’t understand is the double standard from some people. I’ve seen some of you like posts condemning plagiarism, supporting writers who have had their work stolen, and speaking out against this person’s behavior… while also liking and engaging with the content they’re posting.
Those two things don’t go together.
If you believe plagiarism is wrong, then please stand by that belief consistently. Supporting someone publicly while simultaneously boosting the account of the person responsible sends a completely different message.
Yes, I notice. I know who’s doing it. I’m not saying this to start drama or tell anyone who they can or can’t support, but I do hope people choose to be consistent with the values they claim to have.
As writers, all we really have is our work. Supporting the people who steal it while saying you support the victims is a contradiction I simply can’t understand.
I hope people choose one side and stick to it.
and I actually don’t care if I lose followers because of this, I prefer to keep people who stick to my and their values instead of supporting this persone who is stealing and harassing.
the writer louisaaawrites is Kathie’s new one she is copying linaaawrites and has stolen other peoples work. She changed her name and age though but it is her
I actually saw her page because it was sent to me but now I’m blocked by her so I’m not even surprised she’s doing this again.
I don’t even know how many personalities out there she has because she’s been kathie, 26 years old and now she’s Louisa and somehow 6 years younger.
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SUMMARY: After disappearing for five days because she believes she’s impossible to love, YN is finally found by Amanda—giving Nico the chance to reassure her that she never had to earn his love.
WC: 5.2k
WARNINGS: Emotional and verbal parental abuse, toxic family relationships, low self-worth, fear of abandonment, self-isolation, disappearance/missing person situation, mentions of police involvement, anxiety, crying, emotional distress, and hurt/comfort.
Requested: Nico Hischier + You finally admit the reason you’ve been pushing everyone away.
Nico noticed something was wrong long before you disappeared.
At first, it was in the little things.
You stopped staying in the kitchen while he made breakfast, choosing instead to take your coffee into the living room and sit alone. You began declining invitations to dinners with the team, claiming you were tired even when you had barely left the apartment all day.
When Nicole or Amanda texted the group chat, you would read their messages without responding. When Jack sent you a ridiculous video or Luke asked whether you wanted to come over, you left them unanswered too.
Even Arseny’s frequent, slightly confusing messages had gone unopened.
Usually, you always answered him.
Sometimes it took a few minutes to understand what he was trying to say through his broken English and thick Russian accent—even over text—but you never made him feel embarrassed about it.
Now, nothing.
Nico tried not to push at first.
He knew you had difficult days. He knew there were parts of your childhood you didn’t like talking about and memories you kept hidden behind carefully constructed smiles. You had told him enough for him to understand that your relationship with your parents was complicated.
Complicated had been the word you used.
It was easier than saying cruel. Easier than saying they had spent years convincing you that you were difficult to love.
That you were too emotional, too needy, too sensitive. That every mistake you made was evidence that something was fundamentally wrong with you. They never needed to hit you to make you afraid of them. Their words had done enough damage.
Still, Nico had never seen you retreat this far into yourself.
He found you sitting on the edge of the bed one night, staring down at your phone as it vibrated in your hand. The name on the screen made his chest tighten.
Mom.
You declined the call. A second later, it rang again, you turned the phone face down. Nico stood in the doorway, watching the way your shoulders had gone rigid “Are you okay?”
You flinched as though you hadn’t realized he was there “Fine.” It came too quickly. Nico stepped into the room. “You don’t look fine.”
“I’m just tired.”
“You’ve been tired for two weeks.”
Your expression changed immediately, the walls went up “I said I’m fine, Nico.”
He stopped a few feet away from you.
There had been a time when you would have reached for him. When you would have tucked yourself beneath his arm and let him hold you until the tension left your body.
Now, you shifted farther away, it hurt more than Nico wanted to admit “Did something happen?” he asked carefully.
“No.”
“Did your parents call before today?”
Your jaw tightened “Nico.”
“I’m not trying to upset you.”
“Then stop asking.” The words came out sharper than you intended. Nico went quiet, guilt flickered through you, but you buried it beneath the panic crawling up your throat.
Because your mother had called. Your father had called.
They had returned to New Jersey after months away, and somehow, just knowing they were close again had made you feel seventeen years old. Small, powerless, unlovable.
Your mother’s first message had been almost pleasant.
We’re back. Your father would like to see you.
The second had been colder.
Ignoring us is childish.
The third had sounded exactly like every conversation from your childhood.
You always do this. You hurt people, then pretend you’re the victim.
You had stared at that sentence until the letters blurred, because some part of you believed her, some part of you always would. That was the worst thing about it.
They didn’t even have to be in the room to control you anymore.
You did it for them, you repeated their words inside your own head, you pulled away before people could reject you. You ruined good things before they had the chance to prove they were temporary.
Nico sat beside you, leaving space between your bodies “I’m here,” he said quietly. You hated how gentle he sounded, it made something ache inside you “You shouldn’t be.”
His eyebrows pulled together. “What?”
You stood abruptly “I need some air.”
“It’s almost midnight.”
“I know.”
“Then I’ll come with you.”
“No.”
Nico stood too. “YN—”
“I said no.” Your voice cracked, for one second, you saw the hurt on his face. Then fear overtook everything else. You grabbed a sweater and left before he could stop you. You returned an hour later, but whatever fragile thread had been holding you together was already breaking.
Over the next several days, you became a ghost inside the apartment.
You slept when Nico was awake and stayed awake when he was asleep. You avoided looking at him because every time you did, you saw concern in his eyes.
Concern became pity in your mind. Pity became obligation. Obligation became proof that he didn’t really love you.
He only felt responsible for you, that was what your mother would have said. He’ll get tired of you eventually. Your father had said something similar years ago after your first serious relationship ended. People always leave once they know the real you.
The words returned now with cruel precision.
Nico loved the version of you who laughed with his teammates and cooked with Nicole and teased Jesper. He loved the version who waited after games and kissed him no matter whether the team won or lost.
He didn’t know this version, the frightened one, the bitter one. The one who could barely breathe when her mother’s name appeared on a screen. He would see it eventually and then he would leave.
So you decided to leave first.
Nico came home from practice on a Tuesday afternoon to an apartment that felt wrong. Too quiet. Your shoes were missing from beside the door, the blanket you always kept on the couch was folded neatly over the armrest. Your charger was gone from the bedroom.
At first, he called your name, then he checked every room, then he called you. Your phone rang once before going directly to voicemail.
He tried again. Nothing.
On the kitchen counter, beneath the spare key, was a note, it contained only six words. I’m sorry. Please don’t look for me.
Nico stared at it until his hands began to shake so he called Jack.
Within an hour, almost everyone knew. Amanda and Jacob checked the places you usually visited together. Nicole and Jesper drove past your favorite coffee shops, restaurants and bookstores. Jack and Luke split up across the city, calling anyone who might have heard from you.
Timo checked near the arena and the park where you sometimes walked after difficult games. Jonas contacted mutual friends.
Arseny sent message after message.
Where you?
Nico very worry.
We not angry. Please answer.
You family. Come home.
Nico barely slept. He sat at the kitchen table with your note in front of him, phone clutched in his hand, waiting for any update. Every time someone called, he answered before the first ring finished. Every time, it was the same.
Nothing.
By the second day, panic had settled into his bones. By the third, the team had quietly involved security and local authorities. Nico gave them your photo with trembling hands and tried to answer questions about places you might go.
He hated that he didn’t know. He hated that you had been hurting badly enough to disappear and he hadn’t understood how close you were to breaking.
“You couldn’t have known,” Jesper told him late that night.
They were sitting in Nico’s living room. Nicole was asleep on the couch, her head resting against Amanda’s shoulder. Jack paced near the windows while Luke refreshed his phone repeatedly.
Nico rubbed both hands over his face “I knew something was wrong.”
“That’s not the same as knowing she would leave.”
“I should’ve done more.”
Jesper leaned forward. “You tried to talk to her.”
“Not enough.”
“Nico—”
“I let her walk out that night.”
“You didn’t let her do anything.”
Nico looked toward your empty place on the couch “She thinks she has to handle everything alone.” His voice broke slightly. “And I don’t know how to convince her she doesn’t.”
On the fourth day, Arseny showed up at the apartment.His hair was disheveled, and there were dark circles under his eyes “Any news?” he asked.
Nico shook his head.
Arseny muttered something in Russian and began pacing. He had grown close to you quickly after arriving. You never laughed when he pronounced something incorrectly. You helped him order food when he became frustrated. You sat beside him at team dinners when the conversations moved too fast and quietly explained the jokes he had missed.
Once, after he thanked you, you had smiled and said, “Nobody deserves to feel alone in a crowded room.” Arseny had remembered that. Now, you were alone somewhere and he hated it.
On the fifth morning, Amanda nearly canceled Clark’s doctor’s appointment.
She had barely slept. None of them had.
Jacob had spent most of the night driving through different neighborhoods with Timo, while Amanda sat in their living room refreshing her phone and attempting to soothe Clark whenever he woke.
But Clark had been complaining about pain in his ear since the previous afternoon, and his pediatrician had managed to fit him into an appointment that morning.
Amanda couldn’t ignore it.
She dressed him, packed a small bag of snacks and toys, and drove to the medical center with exhaustion weighing heavily behind her eyes.
Clark sat quietly against her chest as they entered the waiting area, one hand curled into the collar of her sweater. Amanda approached the reception desk and gave the woman Clark’s information.
Then she turned around.
At first, she didn’t see you.
You were sitting in the farthest corner of the waiting room, partially hidden behind a large plant. An oversized coat swallowed your body, and the hood had been pulled over your head. Your arms were folded tightly across your stomach while you stared at the tiled floor.
You looked smaller than Amanda had ever seen you. Smaller and completely alone, Amanda’s breath caught. For a moment, she was convinced exhaustion was making her imagine things.
Then you shifted slightly, she recognized the sweater beneath your coat. It was one Nico had given you after you stole it so often that he finally told you to keep it “YN?”
Your head snapped up. The moment your eyes met hers, every trace of color disappeared from your face.
Amanda’s grip around Clark tightened “Oh my God.”
You stood abruptly “Amanda—”
She crossed the waiting room before you could move “What are you doing here?” Her voice was quiet because of the other patients around them, but it trembled with five days of fear, exhaustion and anger.
You looked toward the exit “Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t call anyone.”
Amanda stared at you, Clark shifted in her arms, looking curiously between both of you “Everyone has been looking for you.”
“I know.”
“Nico hasn’t slept.”
Your mouth trembled “I know.”
“The police are looking for you. The team is looking for you. We’ve been driving around every day trying to find you.”
“I’m sorry.”
Amanda’s eyes filled with tears “You left us a note telling us not to look for you. What did you think we were going to do?”
“I didn’t want anyone to worry.”
“Well, we did.” The sharpness in Amanda’s voice made Clark stir, she closed her eyes briefly and took a breath, forcing herself to calm down for her son. When she opened them again, her expression had softened.
“Are you hurt?” You shook your head.
“Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“Where have you been staying?”
“A hotel.”
“Why are you here?”
Your gaze moved toward the hallway leading deeper into the medical center “My father is in the hospital.”
Amanda’s anger faded into confusion “Your father?”
You nodded “He’s been here for three days. I’ve been coming to visit him.”
“Does your mother know where you’ve been?”
“She knows I’ve been visiting. She doesn’t know where I’m staying.”
Amanda moved closer, lowering her voice “YN, why didn’t you tell any of us?”
“Because no one would understand.”
“Try me.” You glanced at Clark, Amanda followed your gaze. He was resting against her shoulder, his eyes heavy and one hand pressed against his sore ear. She walked over to the seats beside you and sat down, adjusting Clark on her lap. You remained standing “Sit,” she said gently.
You hesitated before lowering yourself into the chair beside her, for several moments, neither of you spoke. Then Amanda looked at you “Tell me what happened.”
You twisted your hands together “My parents are horrible to me.” the words sounded childish once they were spoken aloud. Too simple for years of damage.
“They’ve always made me feel like everything is my fault. Like I’m selfish and dramatic and impossible to love.” Your voice shook. “Then they came back, and my father got sick, and my mother said it was cruel of me not to visit him.”
Amanda listened silently.
“I didn’t want to go,” you whispered. “But then I felt like a terrible person. And I started thinking that maybe she was right about everything.”
“She isn’t.”
“You don’t know them.”
“No, but I know you.”
You gave her a broken laugh “You don’t really.” Amanda’s eyebrows pulled together “You know the version of me that tries to make everyone happy. The person who listens and helps and smiles because she’s afraid that if she stops being useful, no one will want her around anymore.”
Amanda looked down at Clark for a moment before meeting your gaze again “Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I know.”
“No, YN. It’s what they taught you.”
The distinction made your chest ache, you wiped at your face harshly “That’s why I left. Because everyone got too close.”
Amanda stared at you in disbelief “You left because we love you?”
Hearing the word made you recoil “You don’t.”
“Yes, we do.”
“You can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because people don’t love me like that.”
Amanda’s eyes softened “You think Nico doesn’t love you?”
“He thinks he does.”
“He knows he does.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand that Nico has spent five days looking like someone ripped his heart out of his chest.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks “I never wanted to hurt him.”
“I know.”
“He deserves someone better.”
“No.” Amanda shifted Clark carefully before reaching for your hand. “He deserves the woman he loves. That’s you.” You shook your head “He only loves me because he doesn’t know what I’m actually like.”
“He knows you.”
“He knows the easy parts.”
Amanda’s fingers tightened around yours “You think the rest of us have only ever seen you happy? You think we haven’t seen you exhausted, irritated, overwhelmed or upset?”
“That’s different.”
“It isn’t.”
“I’m not good like you think I am.”
Amanda released a shaky breath “YN, you don’t have to be good every second for us to care about you. You don’t have to earn your place.”
You covered your mouth as a sob escaped, Amanda immediately opened her free arm. You leaned into her carefully, mindful of Clark between you, she held you against her shoulder while Clark looked up at you with sleepy confusion “Why is Auntie crying?” he murmured.
The innocent concern in his voice broke something inside you “I’m okay, sweetheart,” you whispered. Clark reached out and placed his small hand against your cheek “Don’t cry.”
You closed your eyes, Amanda kissed the side of his head before looking at you “I have to call Nico.”
Your body stiffened “Don´t.”
“He needs to know you’re okay.”
“Tell him that, then. Tell him I’m okay.”
“He needs to see you.”
“I’m not ready.”
Amanda’s expression turned firm “You don’t have to explain everything to him right now. You don’t even have to speak. But I am not letting you leave this building without someone knowing where you are.”
“I trusted you.”
“And I love you enough to risk you being angry with me.” You stared at her, she carefully reached into her bag and pulled out her phone “Please don’t run.”
“I can’t talk to him.”
“Then I’ll talk.”
Amanda called Nico, he answered before the first ring had fully finished “Amanda?”
“I found her.” Silence filled the line. Then Nico’s breath caught so sharply that Amanda pulled the phone slightly away from her ear. For a moment, he didn’t say anything.
Amanda could hear movement on the other end, something falling, followed by Jack asking Nico what had happened “Where?” Nico finally managed. His voice sounded broken.
“At the medical center. She’s safe.”
“Is she hurt?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m looking at her.”
Another unsteady breath “Put her on the phone.” Your eyes widened, Amanda looked at you “She doesn’t feel ready to talk.”
“Please.” Nico’s voice cracked over the speaker “Please, Amanda. I just need to hear her.”
Your lower lip trembled, Amanda slowly held the phone toward you. You stared at it “Nico,” she said gently, “she’s here.”
There was silence. You could hear him breathing, you reached for the phone with shaking fingers “Nico?” on the other end, a sound escaped him—half exhale, half sob “Baby.”
Your eyes closed, you hadn’t realized how badly you had needed to hear him call you that until it shattered you “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t hang up.”
“I’m not.”
“Please don’t hang up.”
“I won’t.”
He was silent again, you could hear him moving, keys jingling in his hand “Are you really okay?”
“I’m not hurt.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Your throat tightened “No.” Nico inhaled shakily “Okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m coming to you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Nico—”
“I have spent five days not knowing whether you were alive.” His voice broke completely. “Please don’t tell me I don’t have to come.”
Tears began falling faster “I didn’t want you to worry.”
“I thought I lost you.”
The words left you unable to breathe “I’m sorry.”
“I’m coming.” He ended the call before his voice could break again, you lowered the phone slowly. Amanda took it from you and slipped it back into her bag “I have to go,” you whispered.
“No.”
“I can’t see him like this.”
“Like what?”
“Broken because of me.”
Amanda stared at you “You didn’t break him by needing help.”
“I disappeared.”
“Yes, and he’s hurt. But that doesn’t mean he stopped loving you.”
“I can’t watch him look at me.”
“You can.”
“No, Amanda.”
“Yes.” She reached for your hand “You’re going to stay, and when he gets here, you’re going to let him decide what he feels instead of deciding for him.”
Clark’s name was called before Nico arrived, Amanda looked between you and the nurse standing in the doorway “I can wait here,” you said quietly.
Amanda hesitated “YN—”
“I won’t leave.”
She studied your face, searching for any sign that you were lying “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Amanda reluctantly followed the nurse with Clark, looking back over her shoulder twice before disappearing down the hallway. You sat alone in the waiting room again, every instinct told you to leave.
The exit was less than twenty feet away.
You could walk out, disappear into the parking lot and be gone before Amanda returned or Nico arrived, you even stood once. Then Nico’s voice came back to you. I thought I lost you.
You sank into the chair.
Less than ten minutes later, the waiting-room doors opened so hard that they slammed against the wall. Several people looked up, Nico stood in the entrance.
For one terrible second, he couldn’t find you. His eyes moved frantically across the room, wide and red-rimmed, his chest rising too quickly. Then his gaze landed on you, he stopped. You had imagined this moment countless times over the past five days.
You had imagined anger, disappointment, maybe even disgust. You hadn’t imagined the way his entire face crumpled with relief.
“Nico…”
His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He crossed the waiting room so quickly that he nearly stumbled over one of the chairs, you barely had time to stand before he reached you. His hands caught your face first, they were shaking.
He stared at you as if he couldn’t trust his own eyes, his thumbs moving over your cheeks, your eyebrows, your temples, checking for injuries that Amanda might have missed “You’re here.”
His voice was barely more than a breath, you nodded. Nico’s eyes filled immediately “You’re really here.”
“I’m sorry.” He pulled you against him, not carefully. Desperately. One arm locked around your waist while the other cradled the back of your head, pressing your face into his neck as though he needed to hide you there.
The force of his embrace knocked the air from your lungs, you felt his entire body trembling “Nico—”
He made a broken sound against your hair “I couldn’t find you.”
Your hands gripped the back of his jacket “I know.”
“I looked everywhere.”
“I know.”
“I called every hospital.” His voice cracked harder with every sentence “I called every person you’ve ever mentioned. I drove around all night because I thought maybe you were somewhere alone and hurt and waiting for me.”
You began sobbing “I’m sorry.”
“You left your key.” Nico’s fingers tightened against the back of your head “You left your key and that note, and I thought—” He stopped, he couldn’t say it.
You pulled back just enough to see his face, tears had slipped down his cheeks. Nico quickly looked away, ashamed of them, but you caught his jaw and turned him back toward you.
“What did you think?”
His lips trembled “I thought maybe you didn’t want to be found.”
The words hollowed you out “Nico…”
“I thought maybe I would never get to hold you again.” He pulled you back into his chest before you could answer. For several moments, neither of you spoke.
You stood in the middle of the waiting room clinging to one another while strangers pretended not to stare. Nico buried his face against your neck and breathed you in like he needed proof that you were real.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered again.
“I’m angry with you.”
You nodded against him “You should be.”
“I’m so angry.” His voice shook “But I’m more scared.”
Your arms tightened around him “I never wanted to do that to you.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
You pulled away again, tears running freely down your face “I thought you would be better without me.”
Nico stared at you.
“I thought if I left now, before you saw everything wrong with me, it would hurt less when you eventually realized you didn’t want me.”
His expression twisted with pain “Is that what you think this is?”
“I don’t know what else it could be.”
“Love.” The word came out harshly, almost angrily “This is love.”
You flinched, Nico immediately softened, he cupped your cheeks again “I love you.”
“You think you do.”
“No.”
His voice was firmer now “I know I do.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know that you leave mugs everywhere except the kitchen. I know you can’t sleep if the closet door is open. I know you act like you hate romantic movies and then cry harder than Nicole.” A broken laugh escaped you.
Nico’s thumbs wiped beneath your eyes “I know you call Amanda when you’re overwhelmed because she never pressures you. I know you always sit beside Arseny when he looks lost. I know you cut the crusts off Clark’s sandwiches even though he never asks you to.”
Your face crumpled “And I know you go quiet when you’re hurting because someone taught you that pain makes you difficult.”
Nico rested his forehead against yours “I know you.”
“You know the good parts.”
“I know you left me.” You pulled back slightly, the pain in his eyes made you stop “I know you scared me more than anyone ever has. I know I’m hurt. I know this will take time to fix.” His voice softened “And I still love you.”
You shook your head “My parents—”
“Are wrong.”
“You don’t know what they said.”
“Then tell me.”
“They said I ruin everything.”
“You don’t.”
“They said I’m manipulative when I cry.”
“You’re not.”
“They said anyone who loves me eventually realizes it was a mistake.”
Nico went completely still, then he pressed a kiss to your forehead “They don’t get to decide what I feel.”
“You’ll get tired.”
“Then I’ll rest.” Despite everything, a sobbing laugh broke from your chest, Nico kissed your forehead again “And then I’ll keep loving you.”
“You can’t promise forever.”
“I’m not asking you to believe forever today.” His hands slid down to hold yours “I’m asking you to believe the next five minutes.” You looked at him. “Can you stay with me for five minutes?”
Your throat tightened “Yes.”
“And after that, can you stay for five more?” You nodded, Nico squeezed your hands “That’s all we have to do.”
The door to the hallway opened.
Amanda stepped out carrying Clark, who now had a sticker on his sweater and a prescription for an ear infection. She froze when she saw you and Nico standing together.
Nico’s eyes were still wet, one of his hands remained locked around yours as though he was afraid even loosening his grip might make you disappear again. Amanda’s face crumpled with relief.
Nico looked at her “Thank you.”
Amanda’s lips trembled “Don’t thank me.” She shifted Clark higher against her shoulder “Just don’t let her leave alone.”
Nico’s fingers tightened around yours “I won’t.”
The outside doors opened again.
Jack entered first, with Luke directly behind him. Jesper and Nicole followed, then Jacob, Timo, Jonas and Arseny. Jack stopped so abruptly that Luke nearly walked into his back.
Neither of them said anything at first, they just stared at you, Jack’s face had gone pale. Luke looked as though he had forgotten how to breathe. You had never seen either of them so quiet
“They came?” you whispered. Nico looked toward them “Of course they came.”
Jack reached you first.He stopped a few feet away, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides, for once, he had no joke, no sarcastic comment, nothing “You’re alive,” he said as his voice broke on the last word.
Your eyes filled again “I’m sorry.”
Jack shook his head sharply, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you. The hug was almost as desperate as Nico’s had been. Jack buried his face against your shoulder, holding you so tightly that you felt his uneven breathing “You’re such an idiot,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t hate you.” His voice cracked.
“I know.”
Luke joined before Jack let go, wrapping both arms around the two of you, for a moment, you were trapped between them. Luke’s hand gripped the back of your coat “You could’ve called,” he murmured.
“I couldn’t.”
“You could’ve sent one word.”
“I’m sorry.”
Luke pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes were red “Next time, send a period. Send anything. Just let us know you’re there.”
Your mouth trembled “Okay.”
Nicole was crying openly by the time she reached you. Amanda carefully passed Clark to Jacob before pulling you against her chest again and kissing the side of your head. Jesper squeezed your shoulder. Timo looked at you for several seconds, then nodded as though reassuring himself you were truly there.
Jonas released a deep breath “You scared us.”
“I’m sorry.”
Arseny stood slightly apart from the group. His eyes were red, and his hands were pushed deep into the pockets of his jacket. You looked at him “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your messages.”
He frowned “You see messages?”
You nodded “All of them.”
“And no answer?”
“I didn’t know what to say.”
Arseny stepped closer “You say i'm alive.”
Your face crumpled “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head and wrapped his arms around you with such suddenness that you almost lost your balance.
“You family,” he said firmly against your hair. “Family answer.”
A wet laugh escaped you.
“I’ll answer next time.”
“No next time.” His broken English made several people laugh through their tears. You held him tighter for a moment “Okay. No next time.” When Arseny released you, Nico immediately reached for your hand again.
You glanced toward the hallway “My father is still inside.”
“Do you want to go back in?” Nico asked, you swallowed “I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.”
“My mother will be there.”
“You don’t have to see her.”
“She’ll say I’m cruel.”
Nico squeezed your hand “She can say whatever she wants. That doesn’t make it true.” Amanda stepped closer “And you’re not going in there alone.”
You looked around at everyone who had spent five days searching for you. At Nicole’s tear-streaked face. At Jack and Luke hovering close, both of them still watching you as though they were afraid to blink.
At Clark resting sleepily in Jacob’s arms. At Arseny watching you carefully from beside Timo. At Amanda, who had refused to let you run even when you begged her not to call. At Nico, whose hand had not left yours since he arrived.
For the first time, you let yourself consider that perhaps love did not have to feel like fear. Maybe love could look like people searching every street they knew. Maybe it could look like a mother balancing her sick child on her hip while refusing to let you disappear again.
Maybe it could sound like broken English saying, You family. Maybe it could look like Jack Hughes with tears in his eyes and no joke left to hide behind. Maybe it could be Nico holding your face with shaking hands because he had spent five days believing he might never touch you again.
“I want to go home,” you whispered, Nico’s shoulders dropped with relief “Okay.”
“But I need help.” The admission frightened you almost as much as returning, Nico nodded immediately “We’ll find help.”
“I don’t want to keep doing this.”
“You don’t have to do it alone.”
You looked at him carefully “Are you sure?” Nico lifted your hand and pressed his lips against your knuckles “Five minutes at a time,” he whispered.
Your eyes filled again “Five minutes at a time.”
You still didn’t know how to believe that so many people could love you, Not yet.
The voices your parents had placed inside your head were loud, deeply rooted and cruel. But as Nico led you toward the exit, surrounded by the people who had refused to stop looking for you, another voice began to emerge beneath them.
Quieter, kinder, persistent.
Maybe they loved you because you were useful. Maybe they loved you because you were always smiling. Maybe they loved you because you made their lives easier.
SUMMARY: After breaking up in secret, you and Luke are forced to pretend you’re still together while spending Christmas with your family. Between sharing a bed, fake affection that feels painfully real, and a grandmother who sees through everything, the holiday forces you both to confront why the relationship ended—and whether it’s truly over.
WC: 7.1k
WARNINGS: Angst with a happy ending, secret breakup, relationship problems, emotional neglect, arguments, crying, kissing while crying, miscommunication, reconciliation, mentions of couples counseling.
Requested: Luke Hughes + They break up but neither of them tells their families, so they have to pretend they’re still together during Christmas.
By the time Luke pulled into your parents’ driveway, the snow had started falling harder.
Large, soft flakes drifted against the windshield and melted beneath the wipers, while the ones that landed on the hood began forming a thin white layer over the dark paint.
The entire street looked peaceful.
Warm Christmas lights glowed from every porch. Wreaths hung from nearly every front door. Somewhere nearby, children were laughing as they dragged a sled along the sidewalk.
It looked like the kind of Christmas evening people wrote songs about.
Inside the car, neither of you had spoken for the last twenty minutes, Luke kept both hands wrapped around the steering wheel even though the engine had been turned off. His shoulders were tense beneath his sweatshirt, and his eyes remained fixed on the house in front of you.
Your childhood home, your entire family was inside waiting for you. Waiting for both of you.
They thought you and Luke were arriving after spending the first half of the holidays with his family in Michigan. They thought you had spent the drive arguing over music, stopping for coffee and sharing snacks the way you always did.
They thought Luke would carry your suitcase upstairs while you complained that he had packed too many clothes, they thought he would sleep beside you in your childhood bedroom, they thought you were still together.
No one knew that two weeks earlier, you had stood in the kitchen of the apartment you shared in New Jersey and ended your relationship. No one knew that Luke had slept on Jack’s couch afterward because neither of you could bear being in the same apartment.
No one knew you had cried into one of his old Michigan sweatshirts until the fabric was damp.
The breakup had not been loud, there had been no betrayal. No other person, no single unforgivable moment that made it easier to walk away.
That almost made it worse.
You had simply spent months slowly losing each other, Luke was always tired. Always preparing for a game, recovering from one, watching film, answering calls, leaving for road trips or trying to mentally return from them.
You had tried to understand, at first, you told yourself it was only the beginning of the season. Then you told yourself things would calm down after the holidays. Then after a difficult stretch of games. Then after the next road trip.
Eventually, you realized you had built an entire relationship around waiting for Luke to have time for you. And Luke, without meaning to, had started treating your patience as something permanent.
Something he didn’t have to protect. You had been the one to finally say the words "Maybe we shouldn’t be together anymore" Luke had stared at you for several seconds then he had quietly asked if that was really what you wanted.
You had waited for him to fight, to tell you that you were wrong, to ask you to stay. Instead, he had nodded “Okay.” That single word had destroyed you more than any argument could have.
You had agreed to tell your families after Christmas, individually. Calmly.
You had told yourselves there was no reason to ruin anyone’s holiday, especially when both families already had plans built around the two of you attending together.
At the time, it had seemed mature. Reasonable.
Now, sitting beside Luke in the dark car while your grandmother watched from the living-room window, it felt like the stupidest decision either of you had ever made. Luke finally exhaled “We can still tell them.”
You turned toward him “Right now?”
His jaw tightened, through the windows, you could see your mother moving around the living room, adjusting the gifts beneath the tree. Your father passed through the hallway carrying extra folding chairs.
Your cousins ran behind him wearing matching Christmas pajamas.
And sitting in her usual armchair near the window was your grandmother, watching the driveway. She lifted one hand, slowly.
Then waved directly at the two of you, you ducked beneath the dashboard. Luke turned his head “Did you seriously just hide from your grandma?”
“She knows things.”
“She’s eighty-three.”
“She knew my cousin was pregnant before my cousin did.” Luke glanced through the windshield again, your grandmother had not moved. She was still watching the car with narrowed eyes “She might be looking at something behind us.”
“There’s nothing behind us.”
“A tree.”
“She planted that tree. She knows what it looks like.”
Luke swallowed “Okay.” You lifted your head cautiously “She’s going to know the second we walk inside.”
“Then we act normal.”
You gave him a flat look “We haven’t acted normal around each other in months.” Luke’s expression shifted, only slightly. But you saw it. You always saw it. The smallest tightening around his eyes, the subtle way he pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek when something hurt him.
Even after ending your relationship, you could still read him more easily than anyone else, Luke looked back toward the house “We only have to make it through four days.”
“Four days,” you repeated.
“Four days is nothing.”
“Four days, three family dinners, one Christmas party and church with my grandma.”
“Easy.”
“We also have to share my room.” His hand froze against the steering wheel, that was the one detail neither of you had properly discussed.
Your childhood bedroom only had one bed, the guest room had been turned into a temporary playroom for your cousins, your aunt and uncle were staying in the basement, and every couch had already been claimed.
Luke turned slowly “You said there was a couch.”
“There is.”
“Where?”
“In the basement.”
“That’s fine.”
“My uncle sleeps down there.” Luke frowned “He stays awake until three in the morning watching war documentaries, and he snores during the parts he finds boring.” Luke leaned his head back against the seat.
You stared forward “The bed isn’t that small.” He turned toward you again “It’s a full.”
“You’ve slept in it before.”
“When we were together.” The words landed heavily between you, you looked down at your hands. Luke closed his eyes for a moment “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
Neither of you moved, then the porch light flickered twice. Your father’s usual signal that he could see you sitting outside. Luke rubbed both hands over his face “Four days.”
“Four days,” you agreed, then you both stepped out of the car and began pretending, your mother opened the door before you had even reached the porch “There they are!”
She pulled you into a hug first, squeezing you tightly enough that your cheek pressed against her shoulder “You’re freezing.”
“We just got out of the car.”
“You should’ve worn a warmer coat.”
“I’m wearing a coat.”
“It’s decorative.” Before you could argue, she released you and immediately wrapped her arms around Luke “My favorite hockey player.”
Luke laughed, it was soft and easy, familiar. The sound caught you off guard, you had not heard him laugh like that around you in a long time.
Not fully, not without exhaustion sitting beneath it “Don’t let Dad hear you say that,” you warned.
Your father appeared behind her “Too late.” Luke smiled and shook his hand, but your father ignored it and pulled him into a hug “Good to see you, kid.”
“You too.”
“You hungry?”
“Always.”
“Good. Your mother made enough food for your entire team.”
“That’s because you keep inviting people,” your mother argued. Your youngest cousin came charging down the hallway “Luke!”
He collided with Luke’s legs at full speed, Luke reacted without hesitation, bending down and lifting him into his arms “Hey, buddy.”
“I got a hockey stick.”
“You did?”
“It’s red.”
“That sounds fast.”
“It is fast.” Your cousin immediately launched into a long explanation about the stick, a goal he had scored in the driveway and why he was certain he would be drafted before he turned twelve.
Luke listened seriously, he asked questions, he nodded at the right moments, he looked exactly as he always had inside your parents’ house. Comfortable, loved, part of everything. For one dangerous second, you forgot that he wasn’t yours anymore.
Then your grandmother spoke from the living room “Come here, sweetheart.”
You knew immediately she wasn’t talking to you, Luke’s eyes flicked toward yours before he walked into the living room. Your grandmother held both of his hands between hers and studied him. Not subtly, her eyes moved over his face, his shoulders, the dark circles beneath his eyes “You’re thinner.”
Luke smiled politely “I don’t think so.”
“You look tired.”
“Busy season.”
“You look sad.” the room went quiet Your mother sighed “Mom.”
“What?” your grandmother asked. “He does.”
Luke glanced at you, you looked away too late. Your grandmother noticed, of course she noticed, then her attention moved toward you “And you look miserable.”
“Grandma.”
“It’s Christmas. People are supposed to look happy.”
“We were in the car for hours,” you said quickly. “I’m tired.” Luke stepped toward you, his hand settled against the small of your back.
The touch was careful, deliberate. Entirely for your grandmother’s benefit but your body reacted anyway. The warmth of his palm spread through your coat. Your shoulders automatically softened before you remembered that you weren’t supposed to lean into him anymore “Long drive,” Luke agreed. “She slept through most of it.”
That part was technically true. You had pretended to sleep for almost two hours because silence felt less painful than trying to speak to him.
Your grandmother looked down at Luke’s hand against your back, then she looked at your face “Hm.” That single sound frightened you more than an accusation would have.
Your mother clapped her hands “Come on. Get your bags upstairs before dinner.”
Luke reached for both suitcases automatically “I can carry mine,” you said.
“I know.” He picked it up anyway, you followed him upstairs. Every step felt painfully familiar. Luke knew exactly which floorboard creaked near the bathroom. He knew your father kept the hallway too cold during winter. He knew your bedroom door had to be lifted slightly before it would close properly.
He knew your home almost as well as his own.
Once you were inside the bedroom, Luke set your suitcase near the closet, then he closed the door. The moment the latch clicked, you stepped away from him. His hand fell from your back, the loss of contact was immediate. Your room looked almost the same as it had when you were seventeen.
Fairy lights were wrapped around the headboard. Old photographs lined the mirror. Books you no longer read were stacked along the shelves.
The stuffed bear Luke had won for you at a summer fair two years ago sat on the window seat. His eyes landed on it, you noticed. He noticed you noticing, neither of you said anything. Luke placed his bag near the desk, then both of you looked at the bed, it felt smaller than you remembered.
“We can put pillows between us,” you said.
Luke nodded “Sure.”
“And no touching.”
“Obviously.”
“You take the side near the wall.”
“You always sleep near the wall.”
“We’re not together anymore. You don’t have to remember things like that.”
The words came out sharper than you intended, Luke’s face fell. Only for a second “Right.” You turned away and began opening your suitcase even though you had no intention of unpacking, behind you, Luke cleared his throat “Your grandma knows.”
“She suspects.”
“She looked at me like she was trying to identify a body.”
You almost smiled “She’ll watch us the entire time.”
“So we need rules.” You turned back toward him, Luke leaned against the desk and crossed his arms “We act like we’re still together around everyone,” he said. “Nothing ridiculous. Just normal.”
“What does normal mean?”
“Holding hands.” Your stomach tightened.
“Sitting together.” You said nothing.
“Maybe hugging.”
“Maybe?”
Luke exhaled “You know what I mean.”
“And kissing?” His eyes lifted to yours, the room felt too warm “We can avoid it.”
“My family hangs mistletoe.”
“Then we avoid the mistletoe.”
“My uncle hangs it everywhere after he’s had a few drinks.”
“Then we avoid your uncle.”
“He’ll chase us.”
“I’m faster than him.”
“Not indoors.” Luke almost smiled, you hated how badly you wanted to see it fully “We don’t talk about the breakup while we’re here,” you said.
“Fine.”
“We don’t argue.”
“Fine.”
“We don’t sleep together.” His eyebrows lifted “In the same bed,” you corrected quickly.
“I knew what you meant.”
“You made a face.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.” Luke shook his head “And we don’t let Grandma get either of us alone,” you continued.
“Definitely.” A knock sounded against the door, both of you jumped apart despite already standing several feet away. Your grandmother’s voice came through the wood “Dinner in five minutes.”
You looked at Luke, he looked at you, neither of you answered. After several seconds, your grandmother added, “I know you’re both in there.”
“We’ll be down,” you called, her footsteps moved away. Luke stared at the door “We’re not making it four days.”
“No.”
Dinner was worse than either of you expected, your family seated Luke beside you, naturally. Your mother kept adding food to his plate. Your father asked about the season. Your cousins wanted stories about Jack and Quinn.
Luke answered every question patiently, he told them about Jack stealing his phone on the plane. He explained why Quinn was worse at responding to messages than anyone else in the family.
He laughed when your uncle claimed he could still skate faster than Luke if given enough time to stretch. Meanwhile, your grandmother watched both of you from across the table.
You tried to ignore her, halfway through dinner, your aunt turned toward Luke “So, are you two spending New Year’s together?” Your fork paused halfway to your mouth, Luke answered first. “Yeah.”
The word came out too quickly, your grandmother’s eyes narrowed “Where?”
Luke’s hand disappeared beneath the table, then his palm settled over your knee. You inhaled sharply, he glanced at you, silently asking if it was okay. You forced yourself to relax “We haven’t decided,” Luke said. “Maybe New Jersey. Maybe Michigan.”
“You should go to Michigan,” your mother said. “Ellen would love having everyone home.”
“I’m sure she would,” you murmured. Luke’s thumb moved over your knee, once, then again. A small, absentminded stroke, exactly the way he used to touch you during dinners when he knew you were overwhelmed.
The familiarity of it made your chest ache, you looked at him, Luke seemed to realize what he was doing at the same time, his hand went still. Across the table, your grandmother raised one eyebrow, you quickly placed your hand over Luke’s.
His fingers turned upward and intertwined with yours, you continued holding hands beneath the table long after your grandmother looked away. After dinner, everyone moved into the living room for drinks and Christmas movies.
You sat beside Luke on the couch because sitting anywhere else would have looked suspicious, he stretched one arm along the back cushions behind you.
You left a careful space between your bodies. Your youngest cousin noticed immediately “Why aren’t you cuddling?”
You nearly choked on your drink, Luke stared at him “What?”
“You always cuddle.”
“I’m sitting right beside her.”
“That’s not cuddling.” Your cousin looked personally offended, Then your grandmother spoke from her chair “He’s right.”
You turned toward her, She continued knitting as if she had not said anything, Luke shifted closer, His thigh pressed against yours. Then his arm moved from the back of the couch and settled around your shoulders, He pulled you gently into his side “There,” he said to your cousin. “Better?”
Your cousin nodded “Yeah.”
Your grandmother did not say anything, You remained tucked against Luke for the rest of the movie. At first, your entire body felt rigid, you were painfully aware of every place you touched. His arm around you, his thigh against yours. Your cheek near his chest, his fingers resting over your shoulder.
Then, slowly, your body betrayed you, you relaxed. Luke’s breathing was steady beneath your ear, every time someone laughed, you felt the movement through his chest. His thumb occasionally brushed against your upper arm, you remembered countless nights spent exactly like this in New Jersey, Luke arriving home after a game and collapsing beside you, his head in your lap while you ran your fingers through his hair. Falling asleep against him halfway through a movie and waking when he carried you toward the bedroom.
You missed him, the realization made your eyes sting. You had spent the last two weeks trying to convince yourself you only missed the routine. The apartment, the companionship. But sitting beside him made the truth impossible to ignore.
You missed Luke, you missed his warmth, his laugh, the way he always handed you the first sip of his coffee even though you ordered your own, the way he called for you when he couldn’t find something that was directly in front of him.
Breaking up had not made the love disappear, it had only left nowhere for it to go. When the movie ended, you stood too quickly, Luke’s arm slipped from your shoulders.
“I’m going to bed.”
Your mother frowned “Already?”
“Long drive.”
Luke stood too. Your grandmother looked up from her knitting “You’re both going?”
You forced a smile “That’s usually how couples work, Grandma.” Her eyes narrowed at the word couples, Luke placed his hand against your back “Goodnight.”
Upstairs, you brushed your teeth while Luke changed in the bedroom. Then he took his turn in the bathroom while you changed into an oversized T-shirt and shorts. By the time he returned, you had arranged three large pillows down the center of the bed, Luke stopped in the doorway “That seems dramatic.”
“You agreed.”
“I didn’t realize you were building a border.”
“It’s an emotional support wall.”
His mouth twitched. Luke pulled off his sweatshirt, leaving him in a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants. Your gaze dropped to his chest before you could stop yourself, you looked away.
Too late, Luke noticed, neither of you mentioned it. He switched off the overhead light, leaving only the fairy lights glowing around the headboard. Then he climbed into the side near the wall, you slipped beneath the blankets on the opposite side.
For several minutes, neither of you moved, the bed felt crowded despite the space between you. Then Luke shifted, one pillow fell onto the floor. You immediately grabbed another and pushed it into the gap “This bed got smaller,” he muttered.
“You got bigger.”
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.” A quiet laugh escaped him, you stared toward the ceiling, your chest tightened “I missed that.”
Luke became still “Missed what?”
“You laughing.”
Silence stretched between you.
“I still laugh,” he said softly.
“Not around me.”
“You haven’t exactly given me much to laugh about lately.” The warmth disappeared, you turned your head toward him “We said we weren’t going to talk about it.”
“You brought it up.”
“I said I missed your laugh.”
“And I said—”
“Forget it.” You rolled onto your side, facing away from him. For several minutes, the only sound was the radiator clicking beneath the window. Then Luke spoke “I missed you too.”
Your eyes closed “That isn’t what I said.”
“I know.” You tightened your grip around the blanket “Goodnight, Luke.”
“Goodnight.”
You woke sometime after midnight with your face pressed against Luke’s chest. The pillow barrier had collapsed completely, one pillow was on the floor. Another was crushed near the foot of the bed. The last one had somehow ended up behind Luke’s back.
Your arm was wrapped around his waist, one of his hands rested beneath the hem of your shirt, warm against your lower back. Your legs were tangled together beneath the blankets, for one drowsy second, you forgot. You forgot the breakup, forgot the rules, forgot the distance that had grown between you.
Then Luke shifted in his sleep, his fingers spreading against your skin, and everything returned at once. You tried to pull away without waking him. Luke’s arm tightened automatically “Stop moving,” he mumbled.
“Luke.” His eyes slowly opened, he looked down at you, then at the position you were in. Neither of you moved “I didn’t do this on purpose,” you whispered.
“Neither did I.” his voice was rough with sleep, his hand remained beneath your shirt.
“You’re still holding me.”
“So are you.” You quickly removed your arm from around his waist, Luke pulled his hand away. Cold air replaced his warmth immediately, you rolled toward the far edge of the bed.
This time, neither of you slept much. The next morning, your grandmother caught you alone in the kitchen, you had woken before everyone else and gone downstairs in search of coffee. You were standing at the counter when she entered without making a sound.
You nearly dropped your mug “Grandma.”
“You’re jumpy.”
“You sneak around.”
“I walk.”
“You walk like a ghost.”
She ignored you and sat at the kitchen table “Make me tea.” You prepared it exactly the way she liked and placed the cup in front of her. Then you sat across from her, she studied your face “Luke loves you.”
Your stomach twisted “I know.”
“You love him.”
You looked down at your coffee “Grandma—”
“Did he cheat?”
Your head snapped up “No.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Did he do something cruel?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
“I don’t think so.”
She took a sip of tea “Then why did you break up?”
The kitchen seemed to tilt, you stared at her. Her expression remained calm “How did you know?”
“You haven’t looked at him once when you thought someone was watching.” You swallowed “And he looks at you constantly when he thinks nobody is.”
Tears burned behind your eyes “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
Relief rushed through you, your grandmother placed her cup down “But pretending for everyone else is foolish.”
“We didn’t want to ruin Christmas.”
“Christmas has survived worse things than a breakup.”
“Mom would be devastated.”
“Your mother survived raising you. She’ll survive this too.”
You wiped quickly beneath one eye “We’re telling everyone after the holidays.”
Your grandmother watched you carefully “Are you certain there will still be a breakup after the holidays?”
You looked away “It wasn’t working.”
“That wasn’t my question.” Footsteps sounded in the hallway, Luke entered wearing yesterday’s sweatpants and a wrinkled T-shirt. His hair was messy from sleep. He stopped when he saw you sitting across from your grandmother, his eyes immediately moved to your face “Everything okay?” Your grandmother smiled “Perfectly.”
Luke clearly did not believe her, he walked behind your chair and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. The gesture was quick, instinctive. Your heart clenched.
“I’m making breakfast,” he said. “You hungry?”
You nodded because you did not trust your voice, your grandmother watched everything “Hm.”
The rest of the day was spent preparing for the Christmas Eve party.
Luke helped your father shovel the driveway, he carried boxes down from the attic for your mother. He let your cousins cover him in tinsel while he attempted to hang garland around the staircase. You tried to avoid being alone with him. That became harder once the relatives began arriving, everyone greeted Luke like he belonged there.
Your aunt handed him a wine bottle she could not open, your uncle dragged him into a debate about hockey, your cousins begged him to go outside and play in the snow. No one treated him like your boyfriend anymore, they treated him like family. And Luke looked completely at home among them.
You found him in the kitchen later, helping your mother make cookies.
Flour was smeared across one cheek “You’re doing it wrong,” you said automatically. Luke glanced up “I’m following your mother’s instructions.”
“My mother thinks measuring is optional.”
“Your mother is standing right here,” she called from inside the pantry.
You reached for the bowl “You’re overmixing.” Luke lifted it out of reach “I’ve got it.”
“You’re ruining the dough.”
“It’s cookies.”
“That doesn’t mean they deserve less respect.”
Luke smiled down at you, a real smile. Soft and fond, for one second, you forgot you were supposed to be guarded. Then your mother came back carrying a bag of sugar, she stopped in the doorway and looked between you.
Her expression softened “You two are going to be exactly like this when you’re eighty.”
The smile disappeared from your face, Luke lowered the bowl, your mother did not notice. She set the sugar on the counter and walked away again.
Luke stared down at the dough “I used to think so,” he said quietly.
Your throat tightened “Luke.”
“I know. We’re not talking about it.” He placed the bowl on the counter, when he tried to walk away, you caught his wrist, Luke stopped, his eyes moved toward your hand wrapped around him.
You released him quickly “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For everything.”
His eyes lifted to yours. There was too much history in the room, too many unspoken apologies “You don’t have to apologize,” he said. “We both let it happen.”
“I should’ve tried harder.”
“So should I.” You looked down, Luke’s voice softened “I didn’t stop loving you.” Your breath caught, he stepped closer. Before either of you could say anything else, your uncle appeared in the doorway.
“Mistletoe!” You jumped apart, your uncle stood behind you holding a sprig over both of your heads with a wide grin. Several family members began gathering in the hallway “I told you,” you muttered to Luke.
Luke looked upward, then at you “We don’t have to,” he whispered.
Everyone was watching, you could have laughed, you could have kissed his cheek. Instead, you placed one hand against his chest and leaned up.
Your lips met his.
Luke went completely still, for one painful second, he did not respond. Then his hand cupped your jaw, his other arm wrapped around your waist. The kiss deepened before either of you remembered it was supposed to be pretend.
Your family cheered, your uncle whistled, but the sound became distant. All you could feel was Luke, the familiar pressure of his mouth, the warmth of his hand against your face, the way his thumb brushed beneath your cheekbone.
It was not careful anymore, it was desperate. Like he had been trying not to kiss you since the moment you got into his car. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt and then, without warning, tears filled your eyes. One escaped first, then another. Luke felt it, he pulled back only far enough to look at you. His forehead remained pressed against yours.
Your family was still laughing and talking around you, unaware that anything had changed. Luke’s expression immediately softened “Hey,” he whispered.
You tried to turn your face away, Luke kept his hand gently against your cheek “Don’t.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.”
“I know.”
His thumb wiped beneath your eye. The tenderness of it only made more tears fall, you hated that you were crying in front of him. Hated that you could not stop “I’m sorry,” you whispered.
Luke shook his head “No. Don’t apologize.” you closed your eyes, he kissed you again.
This time, softly, not for the mistletoe, not for your family. His lips moved against yours with painful gentleness, as though he knew you might fall apart if he kissed you any harder.
You did anyway.
A quiet, broken sound escaped your throat, Luke pulled you closer, one hand sliding to the back of your head. Your tears dampened his fingers, he continued kissing you through them, each kiss slower than the last.
Your cheek, the corner of your mouth, your lips again. You could feel him breathing unevenly. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were shining too.
The hallway around you had gone strangely quiet, your grandmother stood at the back of the group. Her expression was not amused anymore, your mother looked confused “Sweetheart?”
You quickly wiped your face “I’m okay.” Luke kept his hand around your waist, you could feel the tension in his body “I just—” You forced a laugh. “I’m tired.”
Your uncle slowly lowered the mistletoe, no one seemed convinced. Your grandmother stepped forward “Give them some space.” your mother opened her mouth, but your grandmother gave her a look.
Slowly, everyone began moving away.
Luke did not release you, the second the hallway cleared, you stepped away from him “I need a minute.”
You turned before he could respond and went upstairs. You barely reached your bedroom before the tears returned, you sat on the edge of the bed and pressed both hands over your face. The door opened behind you, Luke stepped inside and closed it.
You did not look up “You shouldn’t have followed me.”
“I wasn’t going to leave you crying alone.”
“That’s ironic.”
Luke froze, you regretted the words immediately but you were too tired to take them back. He remained near the door “I deserve that.”
You wiped your cheeks angrily “No. I don’t want to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Fight.”
“We’re already fighting.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Then talk to me.” You looked at him, Luke’s face was pale, his eyes were red around the edges “You shouldn’t have kissed me like that,” he said.
Your chest tightened “Everyone was watching.”
“You could’ve kissed my cheek.”
“You kissed me back.”
“Because I’m still in love with you.” His voice cracked on the final word, you stared at him. Luke dragged one hand through his hair “This whole weekend is messing with my head. Sharing a bed with you. Touching you. Your family acting like I’m still part of everything.”
“You are part of everything.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You broke up with me.”
“You agreed!”
“Because you told me you weren’t happy anymore!” Luke’s voice rose for the first time. “What was I supposed to do? Tell you that you weren’t allowed to leave?”
“Maybe you could’ve asked me to stay!”
The words tore out of you, Luke fell silent. Your chest rose and fell quickly “I wanted you to fight for us,” you whispered.
“You were the one leaving.”
“Because I thought you didn’t care.”
“I didn’t care?” His voice broke. “I could barely breathe after you said it.”
“Then why did you let me go?”
“Because you looked exhausted.”
“So?”
“Because I thought loving you meant letting you leave if being with me was hurting you.”
Tears filled your eyes again “I wanted you to choose me.”
“I thought I was.”
“No, Luke. You thought being in the same apartment meant you were choosing me.” He looked down.
“You stopped seeing me.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
“I saw you.”
“You saw that dinner was in the fridge. You saw my shoes by the door. You saw me sleeping when you got home.” Your voice shook. “But you didn’t see me.” Luke’s face crumpled slightly, you continued before you lost the courage “I knew your schedule better than my own. I knew when you needed silence after a bad game. I knew when not to ask questions. I knew when you needed food, sleep or space.”
Luke’s eyes filled.
“And I kept telling myself that understanding you was how I loved you. But eventually, understanding you meant there wasn’t any room left for me.”
He looked away “I was trying.”
“I know.”
“I thought I was doing everything I could.”
“I know.”
“I paid attention.”
“You remembered my coffee.”
“I remembered everything.”
“Except when I told you I was lonely.”
Luke went quiet, your tears spilled over again “Every time I tried to talk to you, you said later. After the game. After film. After the road trip.” You pressed your lips together. “Later never came.”
Luke sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped “I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“That was the problem.”
“I thought you understood.”
“I did understand. Until understanding you meant disappearing.” For several seconds, neither of you spoke, the sounds of the party continued downstairs. Music, laughter, glasses clinking together.
It felt impossibly distant, Luke stared at the floor “I was scared.”
You frowned “Of what?”
“Everything.”
He rubbed both hands over his face “Hockey felt hard. I felt like I was disappointing everyone. Coaches. Teammates. My family. Myself.” He swallowed. “And you were the only part of my life that felt safe.”
Your anger softened despite yourself.
“So I assumed you’d always be there,” he continued. “I came home and shut down because I thought I didn’t have to perform around you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I know. But I stopped giving you anything.” His voice dropped “I treated you like you were permanent instead of treating you like someone I needed to keep choosing.” You sat beside him, leaving a small gap between you, Luke’s hands were clasped tightly between his knees “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
You looked down “I’m sorry too.”
“For what?”
“I should’ve told you sooner.”
“You tried.”
“I should’ve made you listen.”
“You shouldn’t have had to.”
Your tears fell silently, Luke looked at them, then at you “I don’t know how to fix this.”
Your chest ached “Neither do I.”
“But I want to.”
You closed your eyes “Luke.”
“I mean it.”
“You miss me.”
“Yes.”
“You’re emotional because we’re here.”
“No.”
“It’s Christmas. Our families are downstairs. We’re sleeping in the same room. Of course this feels different.”
“It felt wrong before Christmas too.”
You looked at him.
Luke shifted closer “Every morning, I woke up expecting you beside me. Every time something happened, you were the first person I wanted to tell.” His voice trembled “I kept reaching for my phone to text you. I went home once and stood in the kitchen for ten minutes because your mug was still in the sink.”
You wiped beneath your eyes.
“Jack told me to throw it in the dishwasher. I almost punched him.”
A wet laugh escaped you, Luke smiled faintly, then his expression became serious again “I don’t want to pretend we’re together anymore.” Your heart dropped, Luke reached for your hand “I want us to actually be together.”
You stared at him.
“I want to start over,” he continued. “Not go back to how things were. I don’t want that either.”
“You can’t promise everything will change because you feel guilty.”
“I know.”
“You’ll get busy again.”
“I know.”
“You’ll have bad games.”
“I know.”
“You’ll be tired.”
“I know.” His fingers tightened around yours “But I can learn how to be tired without shutting you out. I can learn how to have a bad game without making you feel like you’re bothering me.” Your lips trembled “I’ll go to counseling with you.”
You looked at him.
“I’ll turn my phone off when we’re having dinner. I’ll stop saying later when you’re telling me something matters.”
“Luke—”
“I’ll show you.” His voice broke “I know saying it isn’t enough. So let me show you.”
You looked down at your joined hands “And I’ll tell you when I’m hurting,” you whispered. “Before I convince myself leaving is the only option.”
Luke nodded.
“I don’t want you to have to chase me.”
“I would.”
“You didn’t.”
“I thought you wanted me to let you go.”
You looked at him “I didn’t.”
Luke’s face twisted with emotion “I’m sorry.” You moved closer without thinking, his hand rose to your cheek “Can I kiss you?” The question nearly broke your heart. Luke had kissed you hundreds of times before, sleepy kisses in the morning, quick kisses before games, laughing kisses in the kitchen.
He had never needed to ask but now he waited. His thumb trembled slightly against your cheek.
You nodded.
Luke leaned in slowly. His lips touched yours with impossible gentleness, you tried to hold yourself together. You lasted only a few seconds. The moment his other arm wrapped around your waist, a sob caught in your throat.
Luke stopped, you shook your head quickly and pulled him back “Don’t stop.”
His forehead pressed against yours “You’re crying.”
“I know.”
“Are you sure?” You nodded, tears slipping between your closed lashes “I missed you.”
Luke’s breath shook “I missed you too.”
Then he kissed you again, you cried against his mouth. Quietly at first then harder. Your hands clutched the front of his shirt while tears ran down your cheeks and dampened his skin.
Luke kissed you through every one of them again, he brushed his lips over yours, then your cheek, then back to your mouth. His thumb wiped beneath your eye, but the tears kept coming faster than he could catch them.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered between kisses.
“No.” He kissed you again “Don’t apologize.”
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate that we got here.”
“I know.” Luke pulled you onto his lap, holding you carefully, your arms wrapped around his neck. You buried your face against his shoulder and cried.
Luke pressed kisses into your hair “I’m here.”
“You weren’t.”
The words came out muffled against his shirt, his arms tightened “I know.”
“You left me alone even when you were beside me.”
“I know.”
“I needed you.”
Luke’s breathing broke “I know.” You lifted your face, tears were running down his cheeks now too “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry I made you feel like you didn’t matter.”
You touched his face, Luke turned and kissed your palm “You matter more than anything.”
“Then don’t forget again.”
“I won’t.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“You’re right.” He pressed his forehead against yours “But I can promise that when I mess up, I won’t hide from it. I’ll listen. I’ll fix it. I’ll do the work.”
You searched his face, Luke kissed you again. You were still crying, but the kiss felt different now. Less desperate, more certain. His hand remained against your cheek while your fingers tangled in his hair.
When you finally pulled away, neither of you moved far, Luke’s nose brushed yours “Are we still broken up?” he asked quietly.
A shaky laugh escaped you “I don’t know.”
“That’s not very romantic.”
“This isn’t a proposal.”
“Good. I don’t have a ring.” You hit his shoulder lightly, Luke smiled through the tears. The bedroom door creaked open, both of you turned.
Your grandmother stood in the hallway. She looked completely unapologetic “How long have you been standing there?” you asked.
“Long enough.”
“Grandma!”
Luke wiped quickly beneath his eyes, your grandmother walked into the room and closed the door. She pointed at Luke “Do you love her?”
“Yes.” He answered immediately.
She pointed at you “Do you love him?”
“This isn’t your business.”
“That means yes.”
She folded her arms “Good. Then stop behaving like two tragic characters in a Christmas movie and have a proper conversation.” Luke blinked “I think we just did,” you said.
“Parts of one.”
Your grandmother looked at Luke “You neglected her.”
His expression fell “I know.”
“You cannot fix that by crying prettily in her childhood bedroom.”
Luke nodded “I know.”
“You will have to change.”
“I will.”
Then she turned toward you “And you cannot leave someone just to find out whether they’ll follow.”
You stared at her “That feels unnecessarily direct.”
“I’m old. I don’t have time to be subtle.” Luke almost laughed, Your grandmother’s expression softened “Love is not enough by itself. But it is a reason to do the work.” She walked toward the door, before leaving, she looked over her shoulder “And put the pillows back on the bed before your mother comes upstairs. They’re all over the floor.”
Your face burned “Nothing happened.”
“I didn’t ask.”
The door closed, Luke covered his mouth, you stared at him, then he laughed. The sound grew until his shoulders shook, a laugh escaped you too “She’s terrifying,” he said.
“I warned you.”
Luke’s laughter slowly faded, he looked at you “I mean it.”
“So do I.”
“I want to try again.”
You swallowed “Slowly.”
“As slowly as you want.”
“No pretending everything’s fixed.”
“It isn’t.”
“And counseling.”
“I’ll book it.”
“You don’t even know who to call.”
“I’ll find someone.” you smiled faintly, Luke reached for your hand “I’m choosing you.”
Your eyes filled again, he immediately leaned closer “Oh, no.”
“What?”
“You’re crying again.”
“You keep saying things.”
“I’ll stop.”
“Don’t.”
Luke smiled softly and kissed your forehead. That night, you removed the pillow barrier, neither of you mentioned it. Luke lay on his side facing you, one hand rested cautiously on the mattress between you.
You watched it for a moment.
Then you moved closer and placed his arm around your waist, Luke held you immediately. Not tightly enough to trap you, just enough to remind you he was there “Are you okay?” he whispered.
You nodded against his chest “I think so.”
“You can wake me up if you’re not.”
“You’re impossible to wake.”
“I’ll try harder.” You smiled into his shirt, Luke pressed a kiss into your hair “I love you.”
Your throat tightened “I love you too.”
He held you for the rest of the night.
On Christmas morning, your family gathered around the tree in matching pajamas, Luke sat beside you on the floor while your cousins passed out presents. His knee pressed against yours, your hands were linked between you.
Your grandmother watched from her chair, when no one else was looking, she raised her eyebrows. You rolled your eyes, Luke leaned closer “What was that?”
“She wants to know if we fixed it.”
“Did we?”
You looked at him. His hair was messy. His cheeks were pink from the warmth inside the room, and he was wearing the ridiculous Christmas sweater your mother had bought him the year before.
You squeezed his hand “We’re trying.” Luke smiled, he lifted your joined hands and kissed your knuckles. Across the room, your grandmother nodded once.
Your mother noticed “What are you three doing?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly. Your grandmother lifted her coffee “They’re still together.” your mother laughed “Obviously.”
Luke looked at you, this time, neither of you had to pretend.
i thought this kat person stopped after getting exposed a few times in the f1 fanfic tags (she even changed her account just for that) turns she only moved fandom and is still doing the same thing. so ewww
she´s just constantly changing fandoms, she's in the harry potter fandom but she's stealing fics from the hockey fandom.
she also is harassing people so it doesnt surprised me that a person like her would keep doing stuff like this, its basically a circle
SUMMARY: When Julian’s classmates refuse to believe Leon Draisaitl is his dad, a trip to an Oilers morning skate finally proves he was telling the truth.
WC: 5.4k
WARNINGS: Childhood bullying, speech difficulties/stuttering, insecurity, brief mentions of special education support, emotional comfort, protective dad Leon
Requested: Leon Draisailtl + one of the kids tells their kindergarten class that their dad is famous and nobody believes them
Julian had practiced his introduction the entire drive to school.
He had whispered it while sitting at the kitchen table that morning, his spoon moving through a bowl of cereal he was far too nervous to eat. He had repeated it while you fixed the collar of his new shirt and again while Leon crouched beside the front door to tie the laces of his sneakers.
“My name is Julian YLN,” he had said carefully.
Leon looked up from the knot he was finishing “What happened to Draisaitl?”
Julian’s little nose immediately scrunched “it's too hard daddy.”
“It is not too hard buddy,” Leon protested, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “It is a beautiful name.”
“You say it wrong too.”
You quickly turned away so Julian wouldn’t see you laughing. Leon stared at his six-year-old in complete disbelief “I absolutely do not pronounce my own name incorrectly.”
Julian shrugged as though the conversation had already been settled “Mommy says people say it differently.”
“That does not mean I say it wrong.”
“You say it German.”
“Because it is German.”
“And I say it its difficult daddy.” Leon opened his mouth, paused, and then looked toward you for assistance.
You only held up both hands “I’m staying out of this.”
Julian could pronounce his first name perfectly. He could say Edmonton, kindergarten, Deutschland, and even Saskatchewan after hearing it enough times. But Draisaitl still became tangled around his tongue whenever he was nervous.
It wasn’t because he hadn’t practiced.
During kindergarten, Julian had spent part of every school day in a special needs classroom where he received additional speech support. His stutter had been much more prominent then. Some mornings, words seemed to flow easily, and other days, he struggled to get through a single sentence without becoming frustrated.
You could still remember him coming home and crying because he had known the answer to a question but hadn’t been able to say it quickly enough.
Leon had sat on the floor with him that night, his long legs stretched across the living room carpet, and reminded Julian that taking longer to speak didn’t mean his words mattered any less.
Neither of you had ever rushed him, neither had his speech therapist or his kindergarten teachers.
By the end of the year, Julian’s stutter was almost completely controlled. Most people who met him now wouldn’t notice it at all. However, certain sounds and longer words remained difficult, especially when he was tired, overwhelmed, or surrounded by people he didn’t know.
His own surname was one of those words.
Starting first grade at a new school was already intimidating enough, Julian didn’t want his first memory there to be twenty children watching him struggle to pronounce his own name.
So, when his teacher asked everyone to introduce themselves and share one fun fact, Julian stood in front of the classroom with his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
His teacher had allowed him to go near the end after noticing how nervous he looked. By then, he had heard children talk about their pets, their siblings, their favorite sports, and vacations they had taken during the summer.
When his name was called, Julian slowly walked to the front “My name is Julian YLN,” he said. His voice was soft, but clear, the teacher smiled encouragingly “Welcome, Julian. What’s one fun fact you’d like your classmates to know about you?”
Julian looked around the room.He had considered telling them that he spoke a little German or that he had once lost two teeth on the same day.
Instead, he chose the fact that always made him proudest “My daddy is German,” he announced. “And he plays hockey.” Several children immediately became interested.
“What position does he play?”
“Does he play for a real team?”
“Does he play in the NHL?”
Julian nodded “He plays for the Oilers.” The classroom filled with excited whispers. A boy sitting close to the front narrowed his eyes suspiciously “What’s his name?”
Julian hesitated “Leon.”
“Leon what?”
Julian looked toward his teacher before returning his attention to the boy “Drai—” The word caught, he swallowed and tried again “D-Drai…”
His fingers tightened together behind his back, yhe boy’s eyes widened “Leon Draisaitl?”
Julian’s face brightened with relief “Yes. That’s my daddy.”
The boy stared at him for a moment before laughing "No, he’s not.”
Julian’s smile slowly disappeared “Yes, he is.”
“That’s fake,” another child said from the other side of the room. “Leon Draisaitl is famous.”
“My daddy is famous,” Julian insisted.
“Then why is your name Julian YLN?” the first boy demanded.
“Because I…” Julian stopped, every child was looking at him now. He knew exactly what he wanted to explain. His full name included both of his parents’ surnames, but he usually introduced himself using yours because it was easier to pronounce.
The explanation was simple inside his head, it refused to come out that way.
“Because I can’t say Dra—Drai—” A few children giggled, the sound wasn’t particularly loud, but it was enough. Julian’s cheeks burned “I can say it,” he whispered.
“Then say it,” the boy challenged.
Julian tried one more time “D-D-Drai…” His throat tightened, the room suddenly felt too warm. His teacher stepped in before he could become more distressed “That’s enough,” she said firmly. “Families can have different surnames, and nobody is required to prove anything about their family to the class.”
She then reminded everyone that laughing when someone had difficulty saying a word was unkind and unacceptable.
Julian barely heard her, he returned to his seat with his head down and remained quiet for the rest of the morning.
During lunch, he sat beside two boys who spent the entire meal discussing the Oilers. Julian knew the answers to nearly everything they wondered about.
He knew which teammate always stole Leon’s tape. He knew who was most likely to play music too loudly after a win. He knew Leon complained about Connor’s boring taste in snacks and that Stuart Skinner sometimes made funny faces at him through the glass during warmups.
But Julian didn’t say any of it. He ate his lunch silently and hoped nobody would ask him another question.
When you picked him up that afternoon, you noticed something was wrong before he even reached the car, normally, Julian came running through the school doors with his backpack bouncing wildly against him, already shouting about everything that had happened.
That afternoon, he walked slowly.
He gripped both backpack straps against his chest and stared down at the pavement “Hi, baby.” You opened the car door for him. “How was your first day?”
“Good.”
It was the kind of answer that immediately told you it had not been good. You waited until he had climbed into his booster seat before crouching beside the open door
“Did you like your teacher?” Julian nodded.
“Did you make any friends?” Another small nod.
“What did you do during class?”
“Stuff.”
You rested one hand on the edge of his seat “Jules.”
His bottom lip trembled “Nothing happened mommy.”
“Something happened.” he turned his face toward the window, you gently touched his knee “You don’t have to tell me until you’re ready, but I’m here.”
That was all it took, his eyes filled with tears “Nobody believed me.”
Your expression softened immediately “Believed you about what?”
“That Daddy plays hockey.” Julian wiped his cheek angrily with the sleeve of his sweater “They said I was lying because Daddy is famous. And because I said my name was Julian YLN.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“I tried to say Daddy’s name, but I couldn’t.” His voice cracked. “And they laughed at me.”
Your heart broke. You unbuckled him and pulled him into your arms despite the awkward position inside the car. Julian buried his face against your shoulder, his small body shaking as he finally allowed himself to cry “You didn’t do anything wrong,” you whispered, rubbing his back. “You know that, right?”
“But they think I’m a liar.”
“They don’t know you yet. That doesn’t make you a liar.”
“I told the truth.”
“I know you did.”
Julian sniffled “I’m Daddy’s real son.”
“Of course you are.”
“Even if I can’t say our name?”
You pulled back enough to cup his face“Especially then. Your last name doesn’t decide whether you belong to Daddy. He loves you because you’re his little boy, not because you can pronounce every letter.”
Julian looked unconvinced “Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t tell Daddy.”
You hesitated “Why not?”
“Because he’ll be sad.”
“He won’t be sad with you.”
“But I still can’t say his name right.”
“Your daddy does not care whether you can pronounce Draisaitl perfectly. He cares that you are kind, that you try your best, and that you know how loved you are.”
Julian lowered his gaze “And he might get mad at the kids.”
You almost smiled “He isn’t going to fight a group of first graders.”
“He fights hockey players.”
“That is very different.”
“Promise you won’t tell him?”
You didn’t like keeping things from Leon, especially when they involved Julian, but you understood that your son needed to feel some control over the situation “I won’t tell him today,” you promised. “But if it keeps bothering you, we should talk to him together.”
Julian nodded before holding up his pinky, you linked yours with his. When Leon came home that evening, Julian behaved almost normally.
He ran to the front door when he heard it open and threw himself into Leon’s arms. Leon lifted him easily, kissing his cheek while Julian complained about the cold air coming in from outside.
“How was the first day?” Leon asked, Julian’s arms tightened around his neck “Good.” Leon glanced toward you, you busied yourself with the food on the stove “Only good?” Leon asked. “Not incredible? Not life-changing?”
“We did math.”
“That sounds life-changing.”
“It wasn’t.”
Leon carried him into the kitchen “Did everyone like your introduction?” Julian immediately went still, You looked over your shoulder.
“I forgot what I said.”
Leon raised an eyebrow “You practiced it all morning.”
Julian slid down from his arms “I’m hungry.” Before Leon could ask another question, Julian hurried toward the table, Leon watched him go before looking at you again. You gave him a small shake of your head, silently asking him not to push.
He didn’t.
For the next few weeks, Julian barely mentioned his father at school.
Whenever the children talked about hockey, he listened silently. When someone wore an Oilers jersey, he stared at the familiar logo but never said anything.
One Friday, the teacher asked the students to draw a picture of their families. Julian drew you holding his hand. He drew himself in the middle and Leon on the other side, much taller than everyone else.
He even added an Oilers jersey with Leon’s number. When the boy beside him asked whether that was supposed to be Leon Draisaitl, Julian quickly covered the jersey with his arm “No.”
At home, however, he remained Leon’s shadow.
He sat beside him while Leon stretched after practice. He stole fruit from Leon’s plate and climbed into his lap during movie nights. He wore one of Leon’s old jerseys around the house even though it almost reached his ankles.
Leon noticed that something had changed, but he couldn’t understand what.
Julian no longer asked to wear his Draisaitl jersey to school. He didn’t bring Leon’s hockey cards for show-and-tell. Whenever Leon offered to drop him off in the morning, Julian suddenly preferred going with you.
One morning, Leon appeared downstairs dressed and ready to leave with them “I can take him today,” he offered. “Practice starts later.”
Julian froze with one arm inside his jacket “No.”
Leon blinked “No?”
“Mommy takes me.”
“Mommy can have a morning off.”
“No.” The answer came out much louder than Julian intended, Leon’s face changed, Julian’s eyes widened, and he immediately looked down “Sorry.”
Leon crouched in front of him “You do not need to apologize. But can you tell me why you don’t want me to take you?”
Julian tugged nervously at his zipper “I just want Mommy.”
Leon glanced at you. You could see that he was hurt, even though he tried to hide it “All right,” he said gently. “Mommy will take you.”
Julian hugged him tightly before leaving, but Leon remained unusually quiet after the door closed.
That evening, he found Julian sitting on his bedroom floor with a miniature Oilers jersey spread across his lap.
His finger slowly traced each letter printed across the back, Leon leaned against the doorway “D-R-A-I-S-A-I-T-L,” he read aloud. “That is an excellent name.”
Julian frowned “It has too many letters.”
“I did not choose it.”
“Can we take some out?”
Leon walked into the room and sat beside him “Which ones?” Julian pointed randomly “Those.”
“That would make my name Dristl.”
“That’s easier.”
Leon considered it “Leon Dristl does sound intimidating.”
Julian giggled “Maybe we should change it.”
“I will ask your Oma whether she approves.” The smile remained on Julian’s face for only a second, Leon studied him carefully “You know you never have to say it perfectly, right?”
Julian’s fingers went still against the fabric “Mommy told you.”
“No.” Leon’s voice became softer. “But I know you.”
Julian stared down at the jersey “Some kids laughed when I couldn’t say it.” Leon’s expression changed immediately, not into anger—not in front of Julian—but into something wounded and protective “When?”
“At school.”
“On your first day?” Julian nodded “And they didn’t believe you were my son?” Another nod
“They said you were too famous.”
Leon exhaled slowly, he reached over and lifted Julian onto his lap “Look at me, Schatzi.” Julian reluctantly raised his eyes “Being my son has nothing to do with whether you can pronounce our last name.”
“But they said—”
“I do not care what they said.” Leon placed one hand against the back of Julian’s head and pressed a kiss to his forehead“You are Julian YLN. You are Julian Draisaitl. You are Jules. You are my boy. You can use whichever name feels comfortable to you.”
Julian leaned into his chest “I don’t want you to be sad.”
“I am not sad because you cannot say a word.” Leon tightened his arms around him. “I am sad that you thought you had to hide this from me.”
“I didn’t want you to fight them.”
Leon’s mouth twitched “I was not planning to fight six-year-olds.”
“You fight hockey players.”
“That is part of my job.”
“Mommy says fighting isn’t part of hockey.”
Leon glanced toward the doorway, where you stood with your arms crossed “Mommy says many things.” You raised an eyebrow, Leon quickly turned his attention back to Julian “The important thing is that you never have to prove who you are to anyone,” he continued. “You know who your family is. We know who you are. That is enough.”
Julian rested his head against Leon’s shoulder “Are you mad at Mommy?”
“No.”
“She promised not to tell you.”
“And she kept her promise.” Leon looked at you again, and this time his expression held no teasing, only understanding “I’m glad you told me yourself.”
For a while, it seemed like the issue was beginning to fade.
Then Julian’s teacher announced that the class would be visiting an Oilers morning skate, the children spent the entire week talking about it.
They discussed which players they hoped to meet, whether Connor McDavid would be there, and how many goals Leon Draisaitl might score that season. Julian said nothing, he brought the permission form home folded into the smallest square possible and left it at the bottom of his backpack.
You only found it because you were searching for his missing library book “Jules?” you called, he appeared in the kitchen doorway “What’s this?”
His eyes dropped to the form in your hand “We’re going to Daddy’s work.”
“That sounds exciting.”
Julian shrugged “The other kids don’t know it’s Daddy’s work.”
“Do you want them to know?”
“I don’t know.”
You placed the form on the counter and crouched in front of him “You don’t have to make a big announcement. You don’t have to prove anything. You can just enjoy the trip.”
“What if they laugh again?”
“They won’t.”
“You don’t know.”
“No,” you admitted. “But I know you won’t be alone.”
The teacher needed parent volunteers to help transport the students and manage twenty excited children around the arena, You immediately offered, Leon knew the class was coming, but the two of you agreed not to arrange any dramatic reveal.
Julian deserved to decide how much attention he wanted.
The morning of the trip, he was quieter than usual, he sat in the back seat of your car with two of his classmates, listening to them argue about whether Connor or Leon was the best player on the team.
Julian stared out of the window, one of the boys turned toward him “Who do you think is better?”
Julian picked at the strap of his backpack “They’re both good.”
“You have to choose.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t know hockey?”
Julian’s shoulders curled inward, You glanced at him through the rearview mirror but resisted the urge to intervene immediately “I know hockey,” he said quietly.
“Then who’s your favorite player?”
Julian hesitated “My dad.” The children laughed, but this time it wasn’t cruel. They assumed he was joking.
Julian didn’t correct them.
When they arrived at the arena, the children pressed their faces against the windows, the teacher counted everyone repeatedly while you and the other parents helped guide them through Rogers Place.
Julian remained close to your side.
The class was taken to the lower bowl to watch the final portion of practice. The children shouted every time a player skated near the glass. Julian sat quietly beside you, Leon noticed him almost immediately.
Even from across the rink, you saw the moment his entire face changed, his serious practice expression disappeared, replaced by a wide smile.
He tapped Ryan on the arm and nodded toward the stands, Ryan looked up, spotted Julian, and raised his stick in greeting. Several children gasped “He waved at us!”
“He waved at me!”
Julian’s lips twitched, Ryan skated past again and pointed directly at him, this time, a girl sitting behind Julian noticed “He’s pointing at Julian.”
“No, he isn’t,” the boy from the first day argued.
Julian lowered his gaze. On the ice, Leon watched the exchange, he couldn’t hear what had been said, but he recognized the way Julian’s shoulders folded inward.
Leon skated closer to the glass, Julian finally looked up, Leon tapped his own chest before pointing at him, then he held his glove against the glass.
Julian hesitated before standing and placing his small hand against the other side, the class became unusually quiet, Leon smiled at him before skating back toward the team.
After practice, the students were led toward the changing area, where skates and helmets had been prepared for them. The Oilers were going to help the children onto the ice for a short skating session.
The moment Julian entered the room, Leon walked directly toward him “There is my boy.” The entire class fell silent, Julian looked up at him, suddenly shy “Hi, Daddy.” Leon crouched and wrapped both arms around his waist “Hi, Jules.”
He kissed Julian’s cheek without caring about the children watching “Did you enjoy practice?” Julian nodded.
“You saw me?”
“I always see you.” Leon glanced up at you over Julian’s shoulder, his expression warm, before reaching for his son’s skates “Sit down buddy, I will help you.”
One of Julian’s classmates whispered loudly, “That’s actually Leon Draisaitl.”
The boy who had accused Julian of lying stood frozen near the doorway.
Leon knelt on the floor and carefully removed Julian’s shoes. He slid the skates onto his feet, tightening each lace with the same concentration he used when preparing his own equipment “Too tight?” Leon asked.
Julian shook his head.
“Stand up for me.” Julian stood, holding Leon’s shoulders while he tested the fit. Leon pressed his thumb near the front of the skate “Comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Before Leon could reach for his helmet, Ryan appeared beside them “Little Jules!” Julian smiled as Ryan ruffled his hair “You’ve gotten taller since the last time I saw you.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“You definitely have. Soon you’ll be taller than your dad.”
Leon scoffed “Impossible.” Ryan leaned closer to Julian “Don’t listen to him. It’s happening.”
“He says that every time he sees me.”
“Because it’s true every time.”
A few children had started whispering again, then Connor entered the room, He took one look at Julian and immediately changed direction “There he is.”
Julian barely had time to react before Connor picked him up and lifted him into the air “Uncle Connor!”
Connor grinned “You didn’t tell me your class was coming today.”
“I didn’t know you wanted to know.”
“Of course I wanted to know.”
Leon stood and picked up Julian’s helmet “Do not drop my child.”
“I’m not going to drop him.”
“You nearly dropped him at the barbecue.”
“He jumped.”
“I was reaching for a cupcake,” Julian explained.
Connor nodded “Exactly. Not my fault.”
“You were holding him with one arm,” Leon said.
“I needed the other one for my plate.”
The teacher looked as though she couldn’t decide whether to intervene or allow the captain of the Edmonton Oilers to continue holding one of her students.
Connor eventually placed Julian back on the bench so Leon could secure his helmet. Before they could head toward the ice, Stuart Skinner appeared carrying his goalie mask under one arm.
He looked around the room until he spotted Julian “There you are.”
Julian brightened “Hi, Stu.” Stuart approached with one hand hidden behind his back “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Why?”
“I have something for you.”
He brought his hand forward, revealing a puck, it was marked along the edge in silver ink, with the date of the Oilers’ previous game written carefully beneath it, Julian looked at it but didn’t immediately take it “What is it?”
“A puck from our last game,” Stuart explained. “I saved it for you.”
Leon looked at him in surprise “You saved him a puck?”
Stuart shrugged “I told him I would.”
Julian stared up at him “You remembered?”
“Of course I remembered.”
Stuart placed the puck in Julian’s hands, it looked enormous between his small fingers “This one hit my blocker during the second period. Your dad picked it up after the whistle and tried to throw it into the crowd, but I told him it was already taken.”
Leon frowned “I do not remember this.”
“You were busy complaining to the referee.”
“I had a valid complaint.”
Stuart leaned closer to Julian “He always thinks that.”
Julian giggled “Did you win?”
“We did.”
“Did Daddy score?”
“Twice,” Stuart answered. “He made sure everyone knew.”
Leon shook his head “I did not.”
“You celebrated directly in front of my crease.”
“That is where I scored.”
Stuart smiled before pointing at the puck “So you have to keep it somewhere safe. It’s lucky.” Julian ran his thumb over the writing “Can I bring it to school?”
Leon’s expression softened because he understood what Julian was really asking “You can,” he said. “But only if you want to. You do not need to bring anything to prove who your father is.”
Julian thought about it “I want to show them because Stu saved it for me.”
Stuart placed a hand over his chest “That is an excellent reason.”
“Can you write your name too?”
“Absolutely.” Stuart took the puck back long enough to sign it beneath the date. He then drew a small smiley face beside his signature, making Julian laugh “Now it’s worth millions,” Connor said.
Stuart handed it back “Do not sell it.”
“I won’t.”
“Not even if your dad tells you to.”
Leon narrowed his eyes “Why would I sell my son’s puck?”
“You’re German. You’re practical.”
“That is not how being German works.” The children were openly staring now, Some were looking at Leon. Others were more fascinated by the fact that Julian casually called Stuart Skinner “Stu” and Connor McDavid “Uncle Connor.”
Julian held the puck against his chest while Leon secured his helmet.
Leon tapped the top of it once “Ready?” Julian nodded, when the class stepped onto the ice, Leon stayed beside his son.
Julian already knew how to skate. Leon had first put him in skates when he was barely old enough to balance, although you had forced him to wait until Julian had a proper helmet and enough padding to resemble a small marshmallow.
Even so, Julian held his father’s hand.
You watched from the bench with the other parents as the players guided the children around the rink, some clung to skating aids, others held tightly to the players’ gloves.
Julian moved easily beside Leon “Show me how fast you are,” Leon encouraged.Julian pushed away and skated several feet before turning around, Leon applauded loudly “That is my boy!”
The praise made Julian beam, Connor skated past and gently bumped Julian with his hip, Julian stumbled but remained upright “Uncle Connor!”
“What?” Connor asked innocently.
“You pushed me.”
“Hockey is a contact sport.”
“He is six,” Leon called after him.
“Then he needs to start training.”
Ryan invited Julian into a passing drill with several classmates. Leon remained close enough to help but allowed Julian to demonstrate on his own.
One of the children struggled to move the puck, Julian skated beside him “You have to keep your bottom hand lower,” he explained, he demonstrated slowly, waiting until the boy managed a short pass“That was good,” Julian encouraged.
The child smiled.
Leon watched the interaction with quiet pride, every player who knew Julian greeted him naturally. They called him Jules, asked about school, and teased him about inheriting Leon’s stubbornness.
Stuart skated out wearing his goalie equipment and allowed the children to take easy shots on him. He dramatically fell backward whenever someone scored, making the class dissolve into laughter.
When Julian’s turn came, Stuart pointed his stick at him “No special treatment.”
Julian set the puck down “Daddy says you’re bad at breakaways.”
Stuart slowly turned his mask toward Leon, Leon immediately looked away “Your father talks too much.”
Julian skated forward and shot, the puck slipped between Stuart’s pads an Stuart collapsed onto the ice “No!”
Julian threw both arms into the air “I scored!” Leon lifted him around the waist before his skates could leave the ice “You did!”
“Against an NHL goalie!”
Stuart remained lying on his back “I have been betrayed by a child.”
By the end of the skating session, nobody doubted Julian anymore, but more importantly, Julian had stopped watching his classmates to see whether they believed him.
He was too busy laughing with his father.
Back in the changing area, Leon helped him remove his skates while Julian kept Stuart’s puck safely inside one of your gloves. The boy who had called him a liar on the first day approached hesitantly “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, Julian looked up.
“I thought you were making it up.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I know.”
The boy glanced toward Leon, who was speaking to the teacher “Your dad is really Leon Draisaitl.” Julian nodded.
“And Connor McDavid picked you up.”
“He always does that.”
“And Stuart Skinner gave you a game puck.”
Julian carefully pulled it out of the glove “He saved it for me.” the boy stared at the signature “That’s so cool.”
Julian looked at the puck, then back at him “You can hold it, but don’t drop it.”
The boy accepted it with both hands.
Instead of appearing smug or reminding him that he had been wrong, Julian patiently explained when the puck had been used and showed him the smiley face Stuart had drawn.
Leon overheard the conversation, he didn’t interrupt. He simply looked toward you, his expression filled with pride.
On the drive home, Julian sat in the back seat wearing an Oilers beanie Ryan had given him and holding the puck in both hands. He talked excitedly about every moment as though you and Leon hadn’t witnessed it yourselves “And then Uncle Connor picked me up, and everyone was looking, and Ryan said I was taller, but I’m not taller because we measured me last week—”
“You could have grown since last week,” Leon said from the driver’s seat.
“I didn’t.”
“You do eat a lot.”
“So do you.” You laughed from the passenger seat.
“And Stu saved me the puck,” Julian continued. “He remembered even though the game was days ago.”
“He likes you,” Leon said.
“More than he likes you?”
“Everyone likes you more than they like me.”
“That’s true,” you added, Leon looked offended “You are supposed to support me.”
“I support the truth.”
Julian giggled from the back seat, when you arrived home, Leon helped Julian out of the car.
Julian still held the puck tightly “Can we put it in my room?”
“We can get a case for it,” Leon suggested. “That way it does not roll under your bed with all the other things you lose.”
“I don’t lose things.”
“You lost your library book.”
“It was in my backpack.”
“You lost it inside your own backpack.”
“That doesn’t count.” Leon closed the car door, Julian hesitated before taking his hand “Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Can you help me practice again?”
Leon looked down at him “Practice what buddy ?” Julian took a careful breath “D-Drai…saitl.”
Leon immediately crouched in front of him “You do not have to.”
Together, they repeated it in pieces, there were pauses. There were a few tangled sounds. Leon never corrected him impatiently or asked him to hurry. Finally, Julian took another deep breath “Julian D-Draisaitl.”
It wasn’t completely smooth but it was clear. Leon’s face lit up as though Julian had scored an overtime winner “Perfect.”
Julian smiled proudly “I said it.”
“You did.”
“And if I can’t say it tomorrow?”
“Then you can say Julian YLN.”
“And you won’t care?”
Leon pulled him into his arms “I could not care less what name you introduce yourself with.” He kissed the side of Julian’s head. “I will always know you are mine.”
Julian wrapped his arms around Leon’s neck, still clutching the puck Stuart had saved for him “My daddy really plays hockey.”
Leon smiled against his hair “And my son its the most beautiful kid.”
The following Monday, Julian took the puck to school inside a small protective case Leon had bought for him. He didn’t bring it because he needed his classmates to believe him. He brought it because it was special.
During show-and-tell, he stood in front of the room and held it carefully against his chest “My friend Stuart gave me this puck,” he explained. “He’s the Oilers’ goalie. He saved it from the last game because he promised me one.”
The teacher smiled “And would you like to tell us who you saw during the visit at the rink?”
Julian glanced toward the children who had once laughed at him, for a moment, his fingers tightened around the case. Then he took a slow breath, just as his speech therapist had taught him “My daddy,” he said. “His name is Leon D-Draisaitl.”
The word caught slightly in the middle, Julian didn’t stop, he didn’t lower his head or apologize. He finished the name and smiled and this time, nobody laughed.
even if my account is going to be gone i will find another way babes xoxo
Girl stop, you’re being such a coward because you block me and now you’re hiding behind this anonymous things, be real and face it without hiding behind a mask!
(Also don’t send me xo, it’s disgusting when it’s from you)
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I’m genuinely angry and disappointed that I even have to make this post, and this will be the first and only time I address the situation publicly.
The fact that someone can so shamelessly steal another person’s writing, repost it, and act as though it belongs to them is absolutely insane to me. Writers spend hours developing ideas, writing, editing, and putting parts of themselves into their work. Copying that work and presenting it as your own is not “inspiration.” It is theft.
What makes even less sense is that Tumblr is not a source of income for me or for others writers. I write here because I enjoy it, because I care about my blog, and because I love sharing stories with the people who support my work. There is no prize to win and no money being made from stealing somebody else’s words. Taking another person’s work solely for attention and notes somehow makes this entire situation even more pathetic.
From now on, I’ll be much more careful about protecting my blog. I will block any accounts that seem suspicious or make me uncomfortable. That may sound harsh, but I’ve worked hard to build a space that I genuinely enjoy, and I’m not going to let somebody else’s complete lack of originality and respect ruin that for me.
I’m going to stand up for myself, and I’m also going to stand up for every other writer whose work has been stolen, copied, translated, reposted, or slightly altered without permission. Writers deserve recognition for their own words. We should not have to stay silent simply because confronting plagiarism makes other people uncomfortable.
And to the person who stole my work: since you clearly had enough audacity to take something that did not belong to you, you should have enough audacity to answer the message I sent you.
Ignoring me will not make what you did disappear. Remove my work and respond.
After this post, I will not be giving the situation any more public attention. I’ve said everything that needed to be said, and I’ll handle anything further privately.
PROOFS (because she says that she´s and angel and doesn´t steal)
in the 2 first screenshots you can see both works, the left is the original (mine) and the one that she stole and re-write (right) if you read you can quickly notice everything.
in the screenshots of my dms you can see that she said that she didnt steal or do anything wrong, but actually couldnt send proofs so i'm posting mines because if im going to expose someone i do it with proof
(im sorry for the language and for my grammar, english it isnt my first language (it isnt my second either🥲)
I’m genuinely angry and disappointed that I even have to make this post, and this will be the first and only time I address the situation publicly.
The fact that someone can so shamelessly steal another person’s writing, repost it, and act as though it belongs to them is absolutely insane to me. Writers spend hours developing ideas, writing, editing, and putting parts of themselves into their work. Copying that work and presenting it as your own is not “inspiration.” It is theft.
What makes even less sense is that Tumblr is not a source of income for me or for others writers. I write here because I enjoy it, because I care about my blog, and because I love sharing stories with the people who support my work. There is no prize to win and no money being made from stealing somebody else’s words. Taking another person’s work solely for attention and notes somehow makes this entire situation even more pathetic.
From now on, I’ll be much more careful about protecting my blog. I will block any accounts that seem suspicious or make me uncomfortable. That may sound harsh, but I’ve worked hard to build a space that I genuinely enjoy, and I’m not going to let somebody else’s complete lack of originality and respect ruin that for me.
I’m going to stand up for myself, and I’m also going to stand up for every other writer whose work has been stolen, copied, translated, reposted, or slightly altered without permission. Writers deserve recognition for their own words. We should not have to stay silent simply because confronting plagiarism makes other people uncomfortable.
And to the person who stole my work: since you clearly had enough audacity to take something that did not belong to you, you should have enough audacity to answer the message I sent you.
Ignoring me will not make what you did disappear. Remove my work and respond.
After this post, I will not be giving the situation any more public attention. I’ve said everything that needed to be said, and I’ll handle anything further privately.
for those of you who don’t know, there is an account on here that goes by the name of kittykat12writes. or whatever version she decides to go with next.
despite constantly being called out and their account being reported, they are constantly stealing other people’s works on here and claiming it as their own. the only difference they make is by changing whoever it is about.
they have created multiple accounts, and have taken no accountability or even thought that what they are doing is wrong. they just delete their account and go on to make another one, doing the same thing.
most recently, they have most recently taken a piece of work that was written by a close friend of mine and has posted it as their own, but instead with harry potter characters.
^ unfortunately, some harry potter fans may see it and think there is nothing wrong with it, as i’m sure some of them do not follow hockey or read fics about it.
but those of us who have seen them rip off other people’s works and claim them as their own time and time again, we know.
please report their account and their works. they have not written these pieces themselves and should not be allowed to post them so freely and take the credit for them when so many talented writers on this app have spent their time and creativity making these fics for other people to enjoy.
if you are someone who has had their work stolen, know that i’m here for you. i stand with you. what this person is doing is not at all okay and it needs to be stopped.
Am I going crazy or this is exactly my Fraser minten imagine but about Draco malfoy?
Some stuff where changed to not make it 100% obvious, but it has a lot of similarities that made me sure that this person stole my imagine and make it hers/hims
I hope that it’s just me overthinking the situation but it’s not cool having your work stolen like that.
Edited 1: @//kittykat12writes thank you so much for stealing my job, you’re such a bitch
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SUMMARY: Three-year-old Romeo comes down with a nasty fever while Frank is away on a road trip. Despite your best efforts, he refuses to sleep unless both of his parents are beside him.
WC: 1.6k
WARNINGS: sick child (fever, cough), emotional distress, parental guilt and feelings of helplessness, crying, mentions of disrupted sleep
Requested: Frank Nazar + their toddler refuses to sleep unless both parents are lying in bed
By the time midnight passed, you had tried everything.
You had given Romeo another dose of medicine exactly when the pediatrician said you could. You had run a warm bath and sat beside the tub while the steam loosened some of the congestion in his tiny chest. You had made him toast, then soup, then cut strawberries into little hearts because they were usually his favorite.
He had refused all of it.
Now your three-year-old was curled against you in the middle of your bed, his cheeks flushed with fever and his small body trembling every few minutes despite the blankets tucked around him.
“Daddy,” Romeo whimpered, you pressed your lips to his damp curls. “Daddy’s coming home, baby.”
It was the same answer you had given him for the last four hours.
Frank was supposed to have landed before ten. The Blackhawks’ road trip had ended that afternoon, and when he called from the airport, he had promised Romeo that he would be home before bedtime.
Then the flight had been delayed, first by an hour, then two, then indefinitely.
Frank had called whenever he could, apologizing even though none of it was his fault. He had spoken to Romeo over FaceTime, telling him how brave he was and promising that he was trying his hardest to get home.
Romeo had only stared at the screen with watery eyes “I need you here,” he had whispered.
The expression on Frank’s face had broken your heart “I know, buddy,” Frank had said softly. “I’m coming. I promise.”
But Romeo did not understand delayed flights or bad weather. He only understood that his dad had said he would be home, and he wasn’t.
And now he refused to sleep.
You had carried him into his own room twice, but the moment his back touched the mattress, he cried for you. When you brought him into your bed, he cried for Frank “Both,” he kept saying between tired sobs. “I need mommy and daddy”
You rubbed slow circles over his back, feeling each congested breath beneath your palm “I’m right here.”
“And Daddy.”
“Daddy too.”
“No.” Romeo lifted his head from your chest, his bottom lip trembling. “Daddy here.”
Your eyes burned, you had been holding yourself together all day. Through the fever, the coughing, the medicine, the calls to the pediatrician and the airport updates. You had stayed calm because Romeo needed you to be calm.
But you were exhausted, and your little boy was hurting, and there was nothing you could do to make it stop “I’m sorry, baby,” you whispered.
Romeo’s tiny hand touched your cheek “Why sad, Mama?”
That was all it took.
You turned your face away, but the first tear had already escaped. Then another followed, and suddenly you were crying silently into Romeo’s hair while trying desperately not to scare him.
You felt guilty immediately, he was the one who was sick. He was the one who needed comfort and you were supposed to make everything better.
Instead, you couldn’t even get him to sleep “I’m okay,” you said quickly, wiping your cheeks. “Mama’s okay.”
Romeo frowned, unconvinced “Does your tummy hurt?”
A broken laugh left you “No, sweetheart.”
“Medicine?”
“I don’t need medicine.”
He studied you for another moment before settling against your chest again “I want Daddy.”
“I know.” You reached blindly for your phone on the nightstand. There was still no new message from Frank.
The last one had come twenty minutes ago.
We landed. Waiting for the gate. I’m coming straight home.
You had not replied.
You knew Frank was doing everything he could, but you did not have the energy to type another reassuring message when you felt anything but reassured.
Romeo coughed against you, the sound rough enough to make your chest ache. You tightened your arms around him “I’m sorry,” you whispered again, though you weren’t sure whether you were apologizing to Romeo, Frank or yourself.
You did not hear the front door open, you did not hear Frank drop his bag in the entryway or hurry down the hallway, still wearing the same suit he had traveled in.
You only noticed him when the bedroom door opened.
Frank froze.
His hair was messy from hours of travel, his tie was loose around his neck and exhaustion shadowed his face. But the moment he saw you sitting against the headboard with Romeo in your arms and tears running down your cheeks, everything else disappeared from his expression.
“Hey,” he breathed, Romeo lifted his head so quickly that he immediately started coughing “Daddy!”
Frank crossed the room in seconds, he climbed onto the bed without taking off his shoes, gathering Romeo carefully against his chest“I’m here, buddy.” Frank kissed his warm forehead again and again. “Daddy’s here.”
Romeo clung to him with both arms “You took too long.”
“I know.” Frank closed his eyes, guilt passing over his face. “I’m so sorry.”
“Plane was mean.”
“The plane was very mean.”
Romeo gave a weak little nod, apparently satisfied with that explanation, before burying his face in Frank’s neck.
Frank held him tightly, one hand supporting the back of Romeo’s head. His eyes found yours over your son’s shoulder “Come here.” You shook your head as you wiped beneath your eyes. “I’m fine.”
Frank’s expression tightened “YN.”
“I’m just tired.”
“Come here,” he repeated gently.
You moved closer, and Frank immediately wrapped his free arm around you, pulling you against his side, the second your forehead touched his shoulder, your composure disappeared again “I couldn’t make it better,” you cried quietly. “He’s been miserable all day, and he wouldn’t eat, and he wouldn’t sleep. I tried everything, Frank.”
“I know.”
“I couldn’t take the pain away.”
Frank pressed his lips against your temple “You’re not supposed to be able to take it away.”
“I’m his mom.”
“And you took care of him.” His hand moved slowly up and down your back. “You gave him medicine, you called the doctor, you held him all night. You made sure he wasn’t alone.”
“But he needed you.”
“He needed both of us,” Frank corrected softly. “That doesn’t mean you weren’t enough.”
Romeo shifted between you, his tired eyes moving from your face to Frank’s “Both,” he murmured.
Frank’s expression softened “Yeah, buddy. Both.”
Romeo pointed toward the pillows. “Bed.” Frank finally kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his suit jacket. He placed Romeo carefully between you before lying down on the other side.
Romeo immediately reached for both of you, one hand wrapped around your finger while the other rested against Frank’s chest.
Frank pulled the blankets over the three of you “Better?” he whispered.
Romeo nodded “You stay?”
“All night.”
“You too, Mama?”
You brushed the curls away from his forehead. “All night.”
Romeo’s eyes finally began to close, Frank reached across him and took your hand, weaving his fingers through yours over Romeo’s small stomach.
For several minutes, neither of you spoke. You listened to Romeo’s breathing slowly become more even as the tension finally left his little body. Then Frank looked at you “You should’ve called me.”
“You were stuck on a plane.”
“I still would’ve stayed on the phone.”
“You were already worried.”
“So were you.”
You looked down at Romeo “I didn’t want you to feel worse when there was nothing you could do.” Frank lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles “You don’t have to protect me from being his dad.”
Your throat tightened.
“And you don’t have to handle nights like this alone just because I’m away,” he continued. “You can call me. You can cry. You can tell me that it’s hard.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
You gave him a tired look, Frank smiled faintly before leaning across Romeo to kiss your forehead “You’re a good mom.”
You closed your eyes “I cried in front of him.”
“You’re still a good mom.”
“I lost my patience when he threw the soup.”
“You’re still a good mom.”
“I let him watch cartoons for almost six hours.”
“That might make you his favorite parent.” A quiet laugh escaped you, Frank smiled, relieved to hear it.
Between you, Romeo stirred “No talking,” he mumbled without opening his eyes. Frank immediately lowered his voice. “Sorry, boss.”
“Sleep.”
“Yes, sir.”
Romeo tightened his hold on both of your hands, within minutes, he was asleep, completely asleep. You stared at him in disbelief “That’s all it took?” you whispered.
Frank glanced down at the tiny boy sprawled between you “Apparently.”
“You owe me for the last five hours.”
“I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
“You can start by taking the next medicine shift.”
“Done.”
“And breakfast.”
“Absolutely.”
“And if he wakes up asking for water—”
“I’m on it.” You settled deeper into the pillow, finally allowing your body to relax, Frank kept one hand linked with yours while the other rested protectively over Romeo’s back “I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he whispered.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I still hated it.”
You squeezed his hand “You’re here now.” Frank looked at the two of you, his expression softening “I’m here now,” he agreed.
Romeo sighed in his sleep, pressing closer to both of you and with his parents finally beside him, he did not wake again until morning.
Requested: Juraj Slafkovski + You disappear from social media for months, then return with life-changing news.
Your disappearance from social media had not been planned.
At least, not at first.
You had always maintained a fairly active presence online. Nothing excessive, but enough that people had grown accustomed to seeing glimpses of your life: pictures from Montreal, dinners with friends, blurry photos of Juraj laughing when he thought you weren’t looking, and the occasional game-day outfit.
Your relationship with Juraj had never been a secret.
He had appeared on your page for the first time two years earlier, although fans had already figured everything out long before either of you confirmed it. Since then, people had watched you attend Canadiens games, spend summers in Slovakia, celebrate birthdays, and adopt a dog together.
Naturally, when you suddenly stopped posting, people noticed.
At first, nobody seemed particularly concerned. You occasionally took a week away from your phone, especially whenever you and Juraj traveled.
But one week became two, two became a month, then three months passed without a single photograph, story, comment, or like from your account.
The theories began almost immediately.
Some people thought you and Juraj had broken up. Others believed you were planning a wedding in secret. A few accounts claimed you had moved out of the Montreal apartment you shared, despite having absolutely no evidence.
Every time a camera caught Juraj leaving the Bell Centre alone, the speculation grew worse, He tried not to let it bother him “They think you dumped me again,” he announced one evening as he entered the bedroom.
You were already beneath the blankets, surrounded by pillows, with your laptop balanced against your thighs. Your dog was curled beside you, his head resting protectively near your bump.
You glanced away from the movie playing on the screen “Again?”
“Apparently, this is the third time this month.” Juraj removed his sweatshirt and dropped it over the back of a chair.
“Maybe you should stop looking at fan accounts.”
“I wasn’t looking.” You raised an eyebrow, he paused “Arber sent it to me.”
“That sounds more believable.” Juraj climbed onto the bed, careful not to disturb the dog as he settled beside you, His hand immediately found your bump.
It had become instinctive over the past few months.
Whether you were sitting together on the couch, standing in the kitchen, or sleeping beside each other, Juraj always seemed to have one palm resting over the small but increasingly noticeable curve beneath your clothes “How are my girls?” he asked.
You smiled softly “We’re okay.”
“Both of you?”
“Both of us.” He lowered his head, pressing a kiss against your stomach through your shirt.
It had taken nearly twenty weeks for you to learn that the baby was a girl. Juraj had claimed he would be happy either way, which you completely believed, but the moment the technician told you that you were having a daughter, his entire expression had changed.
He had stared at the ultrasound screen with tears gathering in his eyes.
A daughter.
His little girl, he had been completely enchanted from that moment forward. “You know,” you said, running your fingers through his hair, “you don’t have to ask me every ten minutes.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You asked me when you walked through the front door.”
“That was fifteen minutes ago.”
“Juraj.”
“A lot can happen in fifteen minutes.” You laughed, and he smiled against your bump before lifting his head. Behind his teasing, however, you could still see the concern in his eyes.
The first few months of your pregnancy had been difficult.
You had discovered you were pregnant shortly before the beginning of the season. You and Juraj had been trying for a year, but seeing the two lines had still left you sitting on the bathroom floor in stunned silence.
When Juraj came home from training, he found you there with tears streaming down your face and the test clutched in your hand. He had dropped to his knees so quickly that he almost slipped on the tile, the happiness had been immediate.
So had the fear.
You had barely made it to six weeks before the nausea became overwhelming. You struggled to keep food down, lost weight, and spent several afternoons receiving fluids at the hospital while Juraj sat beside you, still dressed in his Canadiens training gear.
Social media became the last thing on your mind. You stopped posting because you were too exhausted to pretend everything was normal. Then, when people began questioning your absence, the attention only made you retreat further.
You didn’t want strangers analyzing your face or your body, you didn’t want pregnancy rumors spreading before you had even heard your daughter’s heartbeat. Most importantly, you didn’t want to share her before you were ready.
Juraj understood.
He had supported every boundary you established, even when reporters began asking subtle questions about why you had stopped attending games “She’s good,” was all he ever said.
He never elaborated, he never gave them anything else.
Now, at twenty-four weeks, your sickness had finally eased. Your doctor was happy with both your health and the baby’s progress, and your stomach had rounded enough that hiding the pregnancy was becoming impossible.
Still, the thought of returning online made you nervous “You don’t have to post anything,” Juraj reminded you.
“I know.”
“We can wait until she is born.”
“I know.”
“We can wait until she graduates from university.”
You laughed. “That might be slightly suspicious.”
“They will think you are taking a very long social-media break.”
You closed your laptop and placed it on the nightstand “I miss it sometimes,” you admitted. “Not the comments or the speculation. I miss sharing things with people who have actually been kind to us.”
Juraj nodded thoughtfully.
There were fans who had supported you from the beginning. People who sent thoughtful messages, celebrated your anniversaries, and defended your privacy whenever others crossed boundaries.
You didn’t owe anyone an explanation, but a part of you wanted to share your happiness.
“I think I’m ready,” you said.
Juraj’s eyebrows lifted. “To announce?”
“I think so.”
His gaze immediately dropped toward your stomach before returning to your face “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” He studied you for a moment, making certain you weren’t agreeing because of the rumors or pressure surrounding your disappearance. When he appeared satisfied, his entire face brightened “Can we use the jersey?”
You groaned playfully. For weeks, Juraj had been planning the announcement as though it were a carefully organized team event.
He had already ordered a miniature Canadiens jersey with SLAFKOVSKÝ printed across the back. Besides a custom jersey for him with DAD on the back, while another custom jersey for you displayed MOM.
The baby’s jersey was so small that it could fit between both of his palms “You’ve been waiting to use that jersey since you ordered it,” you said.
“Because it is perfect.”
“She won’t be able to wear it for months.”
“She can wear it home from the hospital.”
“She’ll be swimming in it.”
“That is okay. She will grow.” Juraj moved from the bed before you could object, disappearing into the room you had slowly begun converting into a nursery.
He returned carrying all three jerseys, an ultrasound photograph, and a pair of tiny white skates someone from the organization had gifted you after learning about the pregnancy.
You stared at the skates “Absolutely not.”
“They will look cute in the picture.”
“She cannot even stand.”
“She will learn.”
“She hasn’t been born yet.”
“She is already very advanced.” You bit back another laugh as he began arranging everything across the bed. The final picture was simpler than either of you expected, your jersey, his jersey and the tiny one positioned between them.
An ultrasound photograph rested above it, accompanied by the little skates and a small wooden sign displaying the month your daughter was due.
Juraj stood on the mattress to take the photograph from above, nearly losing his balance twice “Careful,” you warned.
“I have excellent balance.”
“You just stepped on my pillow.”
“The pillow moved.”
“The pillow is an inanimate object.” He ignored you, taking several more photographs before dropping beside you to examine them. Together, you selected the clearest image, then came the caption.
You typed several versions before deleting each one.
Nothing seemed capable of explaining the past few months properly. You didn’t want to share the frightening moments or the hospital visits. Those experiences still felt too private.
Eventually, you chose something simple.
You stared at the screen with your thumb hovering over the button, Juraj’s hand rested on your thigh “We don’t have to,” he said quietly.
You turned toward him, there was excitement in his eyes, but no expectation. He would have happily kept your daughter protected from the world forever if that was what you asked “I want to.”
Juraj leaned over and kissed your temple, you pressed the button and for the first time in nearly five months, a new photograph appeared on your account.
Life has looked a little different lately. We stepped away to protect something precious while we adjusted to our newest adventure. Baby Slafkovský arriving this winter. We already love you more than words can explain. 🤍
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then your phone began vibrating, the notifications appeared so quickly that the screen seemed frozen. Comments, messages, likes. You had barely processed the first wave before the Canadiens’ official account commented beneath the post.
Our youngest draft pick yet. ❤️
Arber followed almost immediately.
I’m buying her skates.
Cole responded beneath him.
She already has skates. Stop trying to take credit.
Nick posted several red hearts, while Juraj’s teammates continued filling the comments with jokes about who would be the baby’s favorite uncle. You were smiling as you scrolled until another notification appeared. Juraj had shared the post to his own account, You looked beside you “Did you add something?”
“No.”
“Juraj.”
His expression was far too innocent, you opened his story. Your photograph filled the screen, accompanied by the words:
My two girls. My whole world. See you soon, little one. Dad is waiting for you. ❤️
Emotion tightened your throat “You weren’t supposed to make me cry.”
“I only told the truth.”
You placed your phone aside, wiping beneath your eyes, Juraj immediately pulled you onto his lap, one arm around your waist and the other protecting your stomach “You okay?”
“Yes.” You rested your forehead against his. “Just emotional.”
“Our daughter makes you emotional.”
“Your story made me emotional.”
“So I make you emotional.”
“You’ve always made me emotional.”
He smiled proudly, as though you had paid him the highest possible compliment, your phone continued vibrating on the mattress, but neither of you reached for it.
For months, strangers had wondered where you had gone.
They had created theories, searched for clues, and attempted to fill the silence with their own explanations, the truth was far simpler. You had been at home with Juraj, learning how to become parents.
You had spent mornings sitting on the bathroom floor while he held your hair. Afternoons listening to a tiny heartbeat. Evenings discussing names, nursery colors, and whether your daughter would learn Slovak or English first.
You had disappeared from the world because your own world had changed entirely “I hope she looks like you,” Juraj murmured.
You shook your head. “I hope she gets your eyes.”
“My height.”
“Maybe not all of it. I’d prefer not to give birth to a six-foot baby.”
Juraj laughed, his hand spreading gently over the curve of your stomach, at that exact moment, your daughter kicked beneath his palm.
His laughter stopped, even though he had felt her move before, every kick still left him completely amazed “There,” he whispered. “She agrees with me.”
“She probably wants you to stop talking.”
“No. She knows my voice.”
“She hears your voice constantly.”
“Exactly. She loves it.”
He lowered his face toward your stomach “Hi, princess. Everyone knows about you now.” another small movement pressed against his hand. Juraj looked up at you, his expression softening “They love her already"
“They do.”
“But not as much as us.”
“Not even close.”
He kissed your stomach before lifting you carefully from his lap and settling you back against the pillows. Your phone continued lighting up beside you, you glanced at it once more before switching it to silent.
The world had waited months for your return, it could wait a little longer, because Juraj was lying beside you with his palm over your daughter, whispering promises to a baby he hadn’t met yet.
