Broad Street Pookies

this is a hockey fanfiction + headcanon blog

requests: open Masterlist content: fluff, angst, smut, au, blurbs, imagines

feel free to send asks, prompts, or brainrot anon is always on

Hey y'all,

So I have been going through life hard af rn and I kinda stopped posting.... BUT I have some things in the works that I think are gonna make this disappearing act worth it!

Can't wait to share these things with you I'm so excited!

xo

Watching your brother at the rink is one of your favorite pastimes, from the ponds in Serov, the KHL rinks, even now to the NHL, watching your brother do what he does best has been the highlight for you. Being the oldest is hard, especially when you're the oldest girl. Nikita loves to act like a big brother to you, which technically is correct as he stands at 6 ‘2 and you’re lucky to be 5 ‘1 on a good day. He’s always monitoring you and keeping a close eye to who you talk to no matter where you are, he knows you can handle yourself, he just doesn’t ever want to see you get hurt.

You don’t mind, you think it’s sweet, you keep to yourself mainly anyway as talking to his teammates in english has never been your strong suit. Always self conscious of your accent and the way you unintentionally say something wrong that makes native speakers laugh. Which is why you typically just cock your head to the side and smile politely at his teammates when they try to speak with you, even though that feels unnatural as well.

Today was different though, you’d been in a funk all January and now February was settling in and the feeling was getting worse. So when you were sitting in the stands waiting for Nikita to come out after practice, you saw an opportunity you couldn’t pass up. You noticed your brother's team mate Noah Cates looking between you and his phone for the last few minutes, gear bag slung on his shoulder as he just stood there, seemingly at war with himself. You’re just reading your book on the stands waiting for something interesting to happen, then it does, Noah begins to approach you. 

Mumbling something to himself, he takes a deep breath, stopping in front of you and finally looking up from his phone you hear him ask “Kak Dela?”

You bite the inside of your bottom lip trying to stifle a laugh, now you understand how native English speakers feel, he butchered the pronunciation. Still you smile gently and respond “Ной, ты первый в команде, кто попытался заговорить со мной по-русски.” (You're the first person on the team to try to speak to me in Russian, Noah)

He looks up at you eyes wide and confused, like a cat who escaped outdoors for the first time “I think I heard my name in there, I didn’t know that you knew it.” he replied.

“Я стараюсь запомнить имена товарищей Никиты по команде.” (I try to remember the names of Nikita's teammates.) You reply with a hint of a smile playing on your lips.

You watch Noah fumble with his phone for a second trying to open an app “Can you repeat that?” You realize what he’s trying to do, live translate your conversation so he can be an active participant. You just shake your head and let out a small laugh. 

“Моему брату не понравится, если ты со мной будешь разговаривать.” (My brother won't like it if you talk to me.) You say, as your eyes spot Nikita coming out of the locker room and over your way in lock step with Matvei Michkov.

Noah’s eyes frantically read the translation that comes up on the screen “Your brother, why would I have to be worried about what he likes?” He says as Nikita and Matvei come to a stop behind him, Nikita looks up at you inquisitively and Matvei is holding in a laugh.

“You have to worry about what I like since I like what is good for her.” Nikita says from behind Noah, causing him to jump out of his skin and turn around in horror.

“No that’s not– I didn’t mean it like that, I asked her what’s up– I think, and then she said something back in Russian, I thought she spoke English too but– I’m sorry dude.” Noah says nervously, not wanting to upset Nikita in any way. You, however, are loving every moment of this giggle to yourself on the bench. Your brother shoots you a look over Noah’s shoulder that roughly translates to “Can you leave the poor guy alone?” You shrug and throw your hands up in surrender with a playful smirk.

“Ника, пожалуйста, веди себя так, будто я делаю что-то не так. В этом нет ничего плохого.” (Nika, please you act like I'm doing something wrong. There's nothing wrong with it.)

“Когда ты заденешь его чувства, тебе останется винить только себя.” (When you hurt his feelings, you only have yourself to blame.)  he says back to you.

You turn your attention to Michkov, eyes pleading “Он прав, Яна, на этот раз я тебя спасти не смогу.” (He's right Yana, I can't save you this time)

Noah is looking back and forth between the three of you trying to keep up, you can tell his head is spinning.

You roll your eyes and hop up from the stands joining your brother “It was nice seeing you try to talk to my sister Cates, but we do have dinner plans unfortunately” your brother says apologetically to his team mate.

“Oh no problem dude, I’ll see you tomorrow at morning skate before the game.” he replies.

Nikita gives a nod and you give Noah a very heavily accented “goodbye” with a wave and follow your brother out of the arena and into the cold February air.

“Whatever it is that you’re planning Yana, it’s not going to work.” He says without even looking back at you.

“Nika, I am not planning anything, I was simply talking to one of your teammates. Not my fault he doesn’t speak Russian.” you say defensively while trying to keep up with his long strides.

“Catesy is a good guy, he was really trying with you, can you please be nice to him and speak to him in English?”

You scoff “Right, and embarrass myself like I did in Toronto with Domi. I’ve never had someone laugh at me so hard for a mispronunciation before. I’d like him to hear me speak in Russian, you know how smart I am in our native language.”

The memory even now brings slight stinging tears to your eyes, finding out that a video of you mispronouncing basic english foods on a date with Domi was being sent around the locker room in Toronto was not the best experience. It’s not your fault that the English language is so confusing.

“Yana, you know it’s not like that and even if it was, I would protect you better this time.” Nikita says. You know he beats himself up from not learning about Domi’s plan to embarrass you and your accent and he wishes that he could go back in time and do a better job to find out and put a stop to it before it happened.

“I don’t need you to protect me Nika, besides I don’t think I’ll be going on a date with any of your teammates for the foreseeable future.” You say nudging his elbow with your shoulder.

— — — — — —

You didn’t know it then but you were more wrong than you could ever imagine. Practice after practice you found yourself in the company of one Noah Cates, and his trusty translator app. He really was making an effort to get to know you and you stopped giving him such a hard time with the app. Today was no different, the beginning of March made you feel like a new person, your birthday coming up in a few short weeks had you giddy in a way you thought you would never feel again in February.

Noah drops his gear bag on the bench near you and takes his usual place on the bench below you in the stands so he’s looking up at you. “Hey Yana, did you see my impressive work on those breakout drills today?” he says almost like an excited puppy

You close the book you were reading and without looking up reply “Ты неплохо справилась, хотя, думаю, наша одноногая бабушка могла бы справиться лучше.” (You were okay, I think our one legged grandma could do better though.)

He lets out a laugh reading the translation of what you just said, his big lopsided grin looking up at you. You finally meet his eyes and your breath catches slightly in your chest, feeling like you were seeing him for the first time while also feeling seen for the first time. You push the feeling down; you only feel like this because your birthday is coming up you try to convince yourself.

You let your eyes roam over his face, drinking him in, dark stubble on his jaw, dark messy hair still wet from a combination of practice sweat and post practice shower. Imagining that face, and that smile, waking you up in the morning, while you tussle his hair and make him laugh with some secret joke.

“Are you okay, Yana?” His voice snaps you from whatever trance his face had held you in.

“Yeah, what do you mean, do I not look well?” You say in English, hands rushing to your face to cool your cheeks from all the blushing you’re undoubtedly doing, not even realizing you answered him in English at first.

“You.. you speak English, I thought you only knew russian?” Noah says with a very confused look on his face.

“Noah, I’m so sorry, yes I’ve spoken english this whole time.” you say, feeling your stomach drop, you suddenly can’t stop talking in english “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, I’ve been made fun of for my accent before, I didn’t want the same thing to happen again I’m so sorry. If you don't want to try to be my friend anymore I understand.”

“I’m not hurt, I'm just confused.” He stays sitting there, elbows on his knees, phone forgotten in his hands for once. The translator app times out and the screen goes dark between you.

“I just… thought you were more comfortable in Russian,” he says carefully. “So I was trying to meet you there.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your throat tighten.

“I am more comfortable in Russian,” you admit. “It feels like home in my mouth. English feels like I am walking in someone else’s shoes.” You give a small, embarrassed shrug. “Too big. Too loud.”

He smiles at that, softer now. “Your English doesn’t sound loud.”

“You didn’t hear it in Toronto,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

Noah’s expression shifts immediately. “Was that the thing with Domi?” he asks gently. He doesn’t say the first name, but you know who he means. The date. The video. The humiliation that followed you like a shadow for months.

You nod once, staring down at your hands. “He thought it was funny. I did not.”

Noah’s jaw ticks. “That’s not funny.”

“Well,” you try to brush it off, forcing a small laugh, “apparently it was.”

He shakes his head. “Yana, listen to me.” His voice loses that playful edge you’ve grown used to. It’s steady. Grounded. “Having an accent just means you speak more than one language. That’s impressive. I can barely order food in Russian without offending somebody’s grandmother.”

You huff out a reluctant laugh.

“I butchered ‘kak dela’ so bad you almost fell off the bench,” he adds.

“You did,” you say, a smile finally tugging at your lips. “It was terrible.”

“See? And you didn’t record me and send it around the locker room.”

The simplicity of that statement hits harder than anything else he’s said.

“I would never,” you say quietly.

“I know.” He tilts his head, studying you the way you had studied him minutes before. “And I would never laugh at you for trying. Not like that. If I laugh, it’ll be because you call me a one-legged grandma again.”

You groan, covering your face. “You were not supposed to understand that.”

“I have technology,” he says, wiggling his phone. “And now apparently I have you in full English mode.”

Heat creeps back into your cheeks, but this time it’s different. Lighter.

“I don’t want to hide,” you admit. “I just… didn’t want to be the joke again.”

“You’re not a joke,” he says immediately. “You’re—” He cuts himself off, like he almost said too much. “You’re Yana.”

The way he says your name—careful, like it matters—makes your heart do something inconvenient. There’s a sudden commotion near the tunnel. You don’t need to look to know your brother is somewhere within ten feet of you.

“Catesy,” Nikita’s voice calls out, suspicious in the way only an overprotective older brother can manage.

Noah doesn’t even flinch this time. He just looks up past you and says, “Relax, Nik. We’re discussing linguistics.”

“Linguistics,” Matvei repeats from somewhere behind him, clearly trying not to laugh.

You stand, leaning over the railing so you can see them. “Он не делает ничего плохого,” you call down. (He’s not doing anything wrong.)

Nikita narrows his eyes at Noah anyway. “She speaks English,” he says flatly.

Noah grins. “Yeah. Found that out.”

“And?” your brother presses.

“And I think she sounds great.”

You freeze.

Nikita looks between the two of you, clearly trying to decide if this is a problem he needs to solve. Finally, he sighs dramatically. “Yana,” he warns in Russian, “when you break his heart, I will not be responsible.”

“Who says I will break his heart?” you shoot back.

Matvei lets out a full laugh at that and physically drags your brother toward the exit before he can escalate further. When they’re finally gone, the arena feels quieter. Smaller. Noah stands up so he’s only one step below you now. Close enough that you can see the faint scar on his chin, the one you’ve always wanted to ask about.

“So,” he says. “Since we’re being honest. Are you planning anything?”

You tilt your head. “Planning what?”

“With me.”

Your pulse jumps. “I thought my brother already interrogated you about this.”

“He did,” Noah says. “But I’m asking you.”

You consider lying. Deflecting. Retreating back into Russian where everything feels safer. Instead, you take a breath.

“I was not planning anything,” you say slowly. “But I also was not expecting you.”

His brows lift slightly. “Is that good or bad?”

“I have not decided yet.”

He smiles, that crooked, unfair smile that makes you imagine mornings and messy hair and private jokes. “Well,” he says, “your birthday’s coming up, right?”

Your eyes widen. “How do you—”

“Nikita talks,” he says simply. “And I listen.”

“That is dangerous.”

“For him or for me?”

“For you,” you reply, and this time you don’t hide the warmth in your voice.

He takes one more step up so you’re standing on the same level. Not towering over you like your brother. Not looking up at you from the bench. Just… even.

“Let me take you out,” he says. “Not as Nikita’s teammate. Not as the guy with the translator app. Just me.”

Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“In English?” you ask.

“In whatever language you want,” he says. “We can mix them. You can teach me. I’ll embarrass myself first.”

You study him for a long moment, searching for any hint of mockery, of hidden laughter.

There is none.

“Okay,” you say finally.

“Okay?” he repeats, like he’s afraid he misheard.

“Yes. But if you laugh at my accent—”

“I won’t.”

“You will be dead,” you finish sweetly.

He laughs at that, but it’s the right kind of laugh. The kind that wraps around you instead of cutting.

“Deal,” he says, holding out his hand.

You look at it for a second before slipping your much smaller one into his.

As you walk out into the cold March air together, you realize something quietly, almost shyly. Maybe English does not feel like someone else’s shoes anymore. Maybe, with the right person walking beside you, it can start to feel like your own.

The entire week leading up to the date, you pretend you are calm.

You are not calm.

You change your outfit three times the night before and twice the morning of. You text your best friend back home in Serov blurry mirror pictures and receive voice messages filled with dramatic gasps and very strong opinions. You almost ask Nikita for advice, then remember that would require admitting you are going on a date with his teammate.

Absolutely not.

Noah had insisted on planning everything. “I’ve got it,” he’d said, that quiet confidence in his voice again. “You just show up.”

Which is how you find yourself standing outside a small Italian restaurant a few blocks from the arena, staring at your reflection in the dark window and debating whether you can still fake a stomach flu.

“Yana.”

You turn at the sound of your name.

Noah is walking toward you, hands shoved into the pockets of a navy coat, hair actually styled for once instead of damp and chaotic. He slows when he sees you fully, and for a second he just… looks.

And looks.

Your heartbeat stumbles.

“What?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he says softly. “You just look… wow.”

You roll your eyes automatically, but your cheeks betray you. “You clean up well too, Cates.”

He grins. “I showered twice.”

“I can tell.”

He steps closer, awkward for just a second, like he’s debating whether he’s allowed to hug you. You solve it for him, leaning in briefly. His arms wrap around you carefully, like he’s afraid you might break. He smells like cologne and something familiar underneath—soap, maybe, or just him.

Okay. Breathe.

Inside, the restaurant is warm and softly lit. Not fancy enough to make you nervous, not loud enough to hide behind. He pulls out your chair without making a big show of it. You notice.

“So,” he says once you’re seated. “I was going to take you somewhere super high-end, but then I thought maybe we save that for when I’m not terrified.”

“You’re terrified?” you ask, delighted.

“Completely.”

You tilt your head. “Good.”

He laughs. “You are enjoying this way too much.”

A waiter approaches, launching into a fast explanation of specials. You understand most of it, but when he starts listing cheeses, you freeze.

Cheese names in English are a trap.

Noah notices immediately.

“Hey,” he says gently once the waiter leaves to give you a minute. “We can take our time.”

“I just don’t want to pronounce something wrong,” you admit quietly. “Last time I tried to order… ricotta… it did not go well.”

“Ricotta,” he repeats carefully. “You said it fine just now.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re lying.”

“I swear I’m not.” He leans forward slightly. “And even if you did say it wrong, who cares? We’ll still get fed.”

You study his face, searching again for that edge of teasing.

There isn’t one.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “Then I will order.”

When the waiter returns, you force yourself not to overthink it. You speak clearly, accent and all. The word ricotta leaves your mouth and lands on the table between you.

Nothing explodes.

The waiter nods and writes it down like it is the most normal thing in the world.

Noah beams at you like you just scored a hat trick.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, but you can’t stop smiling.

Dinner unfolds easily after that. You slip between English and Russian without noticing. When you can’t find a word, he waits. When he doesn’t understand, he asks.

At one point, he attempts an entire sentence in Russian.

“Ты… очень… красивая сегодня,” he says slowly, clearly concentrating.

You blink.

“You just called me beautiful.”

His ears turn red. “Did I say it right?”

Your chest feels too small for your heart. “Yes,” you say softly. “You did.”

“Good,” he replies, looking relieved. “Because I meant it.”

You look down at your hands, suddenly shy. “Thank you.”

There’s a comfortable pause. Not awkward. Just full.

“Can I ask you something?” he says after a moment.

“You already are.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Why did you really keep speaking Russian with me?”

You trace the rim of your water glass. “Because in Russian, I am confident. I am funny. I am smart without translating myself first.” You glance up at him. “In English, I have to think about every word before I let it go.”

He nods slowly, absorbing that.

“Well,” he says, “for what it’s worth, I like both versions. But the one who’s thinking carefully before she speaks?” His eyes soften. “She’s kind of my favorite.”

Your breath catches.

“You are very smooth tonight,” you accuse.

“I practiced,” he admits. “Matvei graded me.”

You burst out laughing. “That explains nothing.”

When the food arrives, conversation shifts to lighter things—childhood stories, disastrous peewee hockey haircuts, your birthday coming up.

“I was thinking,” he says casually, stabbing a piece of pasta. “Maybe I could steal you for your birthday. Just for a few hours.”

“Steal me?” you echo.

“I’ll return you. Probably.”

“You would have to get through my brother.”

“I’m aware,” he says grimly. “I’ve accepted that risk.”

You shake your head, smiling. “We will see.”

By the time dinner ends, you don’t feel like you’re walking in someone else’s shoes anymore. You’re not counting syllables. You’re not bracing for laughter.

Outside, the March air is crisp, the sky dark and clear. He walks you toward your building, close but not crowding.

When you stop at the entrance, the moment hangs between you.

“I had a really good time,” he says.

“So did I.”

“I wasn’t sure if you would.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” you admit.

He steps a little closer. “Can I—”

“Yes,” you say before he can finish, then immediately flush. “I mean. I think so.”

His smile is soft this time. No teasing. No nerves. Just him.

He leans down slowly, giving you time to change your mind. You don’t.

The kiss is gentle, warm, not rushed. His hand comes up to cup your cheek like it’s something precious. For a second, the world narrows to just that feeling.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours.

“Still terrified,” he murmurs.

You smile. “Good.”

He laughs quietly, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “I’ll text you when I get home?”

“You better,” you reply.

As you slip inside your building, heart racing and lips still tingling, your phone buzzes almost immediately.

Noah: Did I pass?

You grin at the screen before typing back.

Yana: You were okay. Yana: I think our one-legged grandma could do better though.

Three dots appear instantly.

And for the first time in a long time, February feels very, very far away.

March fifteenth arrives loud.

Not just because it’s your birthday—but because apparently half of the Philadelphia locker room has decided it is their personal mission to make sure you cannot experience a single quiet moment.

You should have known.

When you walk into Nikita’s place that evening, Noah’s hand warm at the small of your back, the first person you see is Travis Konecny already halfway through a drink and grinning like he’s been waiting for this.

“There she is!” he shouts. “The birthday girl! Twenty-four, huh? We’re getting old, Michkov!”

Matvei, who is balancing a plate of something fried and suspicious, gasps dramatically. “Do not group me with her ancient age.”

You roll your eyes. “You are literally younger than me by months.”

“Exactly,” he says smugly.

From the kitchen, Travis Sanheim calls out, “Who let TK near the decorations? The ‘2’ is upside down.”

“I did that on purpose!” Konecny protests. “It’s abstract.”

You step further inside and take it all in. Streamers—orange and black—are strung across the ceiling. A massive gold 24 balloon is tied to a chair that looks seconds away from tipping over. On the coffee table sits an enormous cake with аккуратная icing in Russian that reads: С ДНЁМ РОЖДЕНИЯ, ЯНА.

Your heart squeezes.

“Who wrote that?” you ask.

Jamie Drysdale raises his hand cautiously. “I copied it from Google. If it says something weird, that’s on the internet.”

You laugh. “It says happy birthday. You did well.”

From the corner, Cam York and Tyson Foerster are arguing about the playlist. Owen Tippett is taste-testing frosting. Denver Barkey is pretending to help Nikita with food but mostly stealing pieces when he thinks no one sees.

Chaos.

Warm, ridiculous chaos.

You barely have time to set your purse down before someone yells, “Gifts! Open gifts!”

You groan. “Can I breathe first?”

“No,” Konecny says. “Absolutely not.”

Before you can protest further, Noah appears in front of you, holding a small navy-wrapped box with tiny silver stars.

The room doesn’t go quiet, but it shifts. People notice.

“This one’s just from me,” he says, a little softer than everything else happening around you.

Your stomach flips.

As if summoned, Konecny drapes an arm over your shoulder. “So, Yana, tell us—did Catesy do a good job on his gift?”

Noah, who is standing just behind you, chokes. “Travis.”

“What?” TK shrugs. “He’s been stressed all week.”

You turn slowly to look at Noah. “You were stressed?”

“I just wanted it to be good,” he mutters, ears already pink.

Sanheim leans against the wall, smirking. “He made us vote on three different options.”

“You voted?” you gasp.

“Unanimously,” Tippett confirms.

You look back at Noah, eyes wide. “You crowdsourced my birthday present?”

He winces. “In my defense, they have surprisingly decent taste.”

“I do not,” Konecny says proudly.

You take the box carefully. The paper crinkles loudly in your hands, suddenly amplified in your ears. You peel it back slowly, aware of how close he’s standing.

Inside is a thin rectangular case.

You open it.

A delicate gold necklace rests against the velvet lining. Two small interlocking rings—one slightly smaller, one slightly larger—looped together.

You look up at him, confused and already overwhelmed.

“One’s for English,” he says quietly. “One’s for Russian.”

The room feels smaller somehow.

“They overlap,” he continues, voice steady despite the fact that Konecny is very obviously trying not to comment. “Because you don’t have to choose one. You don’t have to be one or the other.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

For a split second you’re back in Toronto, laughing too loud, speaking too carefully, wishing you could disappear into your own accent.

And then you’re here. Twenty-four. Surrounded by people who waited for you to finish your sentences instead of laughing through them.

“You’re going to ruin my makeup,” you whisper, blinking fast.

“Worth it,” he murmurs.

You step closer without thinking. “It’s beautiful,” you say softly. “Really.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

You turn slightly, lifting your hair off your neck. His fingers brush your skin as he fastens it, careful and warm. The clasp clicks into place.

When you turn back around, the rings rest perfectly at your collarbone.

Konecny squints dramatically. “Okay, that’s actually good.”

“Thank you,” Noah says dryly.

Tippett nods in approval. “Solid move.”

Matvei leans over your shoulder to inspect it. “This is acceptable.”

You laugh through the last of your tears. “High praise.”

Before the moment can get too intimate, Barkey yells, “Cake before Nikita eats it all!”

“I would never,” your brother says, already holding a fork.

The lights dim. Foerster starts the birthday song in English. Matvei loudly begins the Russian version at the same time. It dissolves into chaos within seconds.

You stand in front of the cake, fingers brushing the new necklace unconsciously.

Twenty-four.

You close your eyes.

You don’t wish for your accent to disappear. You don’t wish to be less noticeable. You don’t wish to shrink.

You just wish to stay this brave.

You blow out the candles.

Cheers erupt. Someone pops something that absolutely was not approved by Nikita. Frosting nearly ends up in York’s hair.

Later, after cake and an aggressive dance-off between Tippett and Foerster, you slip toward the kitchen for air. Noah follows quietly.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod, touching the necklace again. “No one has ever given me something like this before.”

He leans back against the counter. “You deserve something that reminds you who you are.”

“And who is that?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Someone who doesn’t have to translate herself to be understood.”

Your heart stumbles.

Across the room, Nikita notices your proximity and narrows his eyes. You raise your brows in challenge.

He sighs and looks away.

Noah glances over. “Is he going to murder me?”

“Not tonight,” you reply. “It is my birthday. He will wait.”

“That’s comforting.”

You smile, stepping just a little closer. The noise of the party hums behind you—York arguing about music, Konecny yelling about a rematch, Matvei switching between Russian and English so fast it gives Barkey a headache.

And for once, you don’t feel like you’re standing outside of it.

You’re in it.

Both languages. Both worlds. Both rings resting against your skin.

Noah squeezes your hand gently.

“Happy birthday, Yana,” he says.

And when you kiss him this time, you don’t worry about who’s watching.

You’re twenty-four.

You’re not hiding.

I loved this request so much! He is my brother's favorite flyer so I am always on the lookout for him on the ice at games. I wasn't sure if you wanted it to be 18+ or not so I kept it on the tamer side but I can definitely add a part two if you want!! I also made the reader v masc! because I think he'd look so good with another super masc bf!!

Sub!Hathaway x Masc!Reader - The Softest Place to Fall

Being an Ice Girl for the New Jersey Devils wasn’t as effortless as people liked to think. From the stands it looked fun and polished — red jacket, sleek ponytail, perfect smile, skating out during timeouts like it was part of the show. The music is loud, the crowd is louder, and you’re just this blur clearing snow with a shovel before cameras swing away again.

But that’s not really what it feels like.

Game days start early. Earlier than most people realize. You’re at the Prudential Center when it’s quiet and kind of echo-y, when the ice still looks untouched and perfect. You test your edges in slow arcs, feeling for soft spots, noticing where the Zamboni overlapped a little too heavy. You pay attention to the corners. You always pay attention to the corners.

During warmups you’re not watching the plays like a fan. You’re studying patterns. Who stops hardest along the half wall. Who digs their edges deep in the circle. Where snow piles up near the crease after repeated battles. You build a mental map without even thinking about it.

That’s when Nico Hischer really started noticing you.

It wasn’t some dramatic slow motion moment. It was during a regular first period TV timeout. Whistle blows, music hits, you’re already skating. You drop to one knee in front of the defensive zone crease, shoveling thick snow that built up from three consecutive hard stops.

You stand, brush stray ice off your glove, and feel eyes on you.

He’s leaning over the bench boards, helmet tilted back slightly, watching like he’s analyzing tape.

When you skate past the bench he says, kind of casually, “That spot gets bad.”

You don’t look at him. “Your left defenseman pivots heavy there.”

There’s a pause.

“You study us?” he asks.

You glance up finally. “I study the ice. You just happen to be on it.”

Behind him, Jack Hughes instantly loses it. “Ohhhh, Cap just got humbled.”

Nico throws him a look. “Play hockey, Jack.”

Jack leans over the boards toward you. “Hey, if he ruins your perfect ice again, you tell me. I’ll bench him.”

“You don’t have that authority,” Jesper Bratt mutters dryly from beside him.

You push off backward, smirking a little. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

After that, it becomes a thing.

Jesper starts calling you “Ice Inspector” whenever you clear near the bench. Timo Meier once taps the boards and says, “Captain getting VIP treatment again?” loud enough for you to hear. You straighten up, rest your hands on the shovel and say, “Performance based system.” And the whole bench erupts.

Nico pretends to be annoyed but he’s smiling. He can’t really hide it.

Off the ice is different. You switch gears fast. One minute you’re scraping snow with thirty seconds on the clock, the next you’re hyping up section 122 for a t-shirt toss. You pose for pictures, you laugh, you answer the same five questions from kids over and over again. At youth clinics you kneel on pavement to show little kids how to hold a stick properly.

“Top hand firm,” you tell a tiny defenseman seriously. “Bottom hand relaxed.”

“Like Jack?” the kid asks.

Jack whips around from ten feet away. “Hey!”

You grin. “Exactly like Jack.”

Jesper laughs under his breath. Timo shakes his head. Nico just watches you, arms loosely crossed, that quiet expression he gets when he’s thinking too much.

Later, when the kids run off to drills, he steps closer. “You’re good at that.”

“At roasting your teammates?” you say.

“At everything,” he replies, softer than before.

Your stomach does a weird little flip. You hate that it does that.

Timo yells from across the rink, “Nico stop flirting and help me!”

“I’m not flirting,” Nico says automatically.

“You are,” Jesper and Jack both say at the same time.

You pretend not to be blushing. You are.

The moment that really messed with you though wasn’t funny at all. It was a rough March game. Physical. Chippy. The kind where every shift feels like it might explode into something worse.

Nico takes a hard hit into the boards in the second period. It’s loud. The sound of it kind of echoes. He goes down awkward and your chest just drops. You hate that you react like that. You’re supposed to be professional. Composed.

Whistle blows. You’re out there immediately. You kneel near that same corner and scrape snow harder than you need to. Your movements are tight, almost aggressive. You’re aware of him on the bench.

As you skate past, he leans forward slightly. “I’m okay.”

“I know,” you say, but your jaw is clenched.

Jack notices. Of course he does. “She just murdered that snow pile,” he mutters to Nico.

Nico doesn’t laugh.

In the third period he scores. Clean wrist shot from the slot. Arena goes insane. During the next line change he skates past the tunnel and taps his chest twice with his glove.

You pretend not to understand what that means.

After the game, when most of the building has emptied and you’re finishing up near center ice, you find him waiting.

“What was that?” you ask.

“What?”

“The chest tap.”

He hesitates, then shrugs lightly. “You looked scared.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were,” he says gently. “That was to tell you I’m fine.”

You don’t know what to do with that. It’s not his job to reassure you. And it definitely isn’t your job to care that much. But you do.

From somewhere near the bench Jack’s voice echoes, “Are we interrupting a rom-com?”

You both jump apart like you’re in high school.

Jesper walks by with a smirk. “We give you five minutes.”

“Go home,” Nico mutters.

Eventually he asks you to dinner. It’s not dramatic. No big speech. Just you leaning on your shovel near the Zamboni entrance.

“Are you free tomorrow?” he asks.

“Depends. Is this Captain Nico asking?”

He shakes his head. “Just Nico.”

You study him for a second. He looks nervous. Actually nervous. It’s kind of adorable.

“Okay,” you say. “But if you’re late because of practice, I’m charging you.”

“Fair.”

From across the rink Timo yells, “He’s smiling like an idiot by the way!”

“Why are you still here?” Nico calls back.

“Because this is better than Netflix,” Jack replies.

Dating him isn’t loud. There’s no big public reveal. It’s small things. He makes sure not to spray snow toward you during warmups. You clear his usual faceoff dot just a little extra carefully. At charity events he somehow always ends up standing next to you.

The team notices everything.

One night, long after everyone leaves, you’re both still there. The ice has just been resurfaced. It’s smooth and quiet and almost glowing under dim arena lights.

“You ever skate without the shovel?” he asks.

You step onto the ice without answering, gliding in slow arcs. No rush. No music. Just the sound of blades cutting clean lines. You feel lighter without the headset, without the pressure.

“You look different,” he says.

“How?”

“Free.”

He steps onto the ice too. No puck. No stick. His edges are powerful, not graceful, but when he reaches you it feels right anyway. Strong meeting steady.

He reaches for your hand carefully, like he’s not totally sure he should.

“You take care of my ice every night,” he murmurs.

“And you make it worth maintaining,” you say quietly.

For a second it’s just the two of you. No crowd. No teasing.

Then from the dark bench area—

“Oh my God, are they holding hands?”

You both freeze.

Jack is standing there with Jesper and Timo behind him, grinning like they just won the lottery.

“We forgot our gear,” Jesper says innocently.

“This is so wholesome,” Timo adds.

Nico closes his eyes. “Why.”

You start laughing. You can’t help it.

Jack points dramatically. “Captain confirmed whipped.”

You squeeze Nico’s hand once before letting go. “Don’t worry,” you say. “Premium ice still costs extra.”

He shakes his head but he’s smiling, soft and real.

And standing there, under dim lights with his teammates chirping relentlessly, it doesn’t feel like a performance anymore.

Hi hi!

So I am only going to address this once because I had an anon ask accusing me of using AI. I do not and will never use AI to do anything, let alone write my fics for me. I have had a lot of these saved and written from my free time at work and I decided to post them recently and start a blog again.

Second Shift

You told yourself you were getting used to it.

The locker room didn’t hit like an assault anymore—didn’t make your senses recoil or your stomach tighten on entry. It felt more like stepping into a storm you’d started to understand. Still loud, still humid with trapped heat and the dense smell of damp gear and adhesive, but predictable now. Familiar. The kind of chaos with a rhythm you could move through without thinking.

Music thumped somewhere near the showers. A stick clattered against tile. Someone laughed too loud at a joke you didn’t catch. Tape ripped in short, sharp bursts. The air carried that layered scent of sweat, rubber, detergent, and liniment that no amount of ventilation ever really erased.

Controlled chaos.

Work.

You slipped past the benches with your treatment bag slung across your body, fingers brushing stall edges automatically to steady your path. Your eyes moved before your feet—cataloguing movement patterns, guarded joints, asymmetry. A limp near the far row. Fresh wrap on a knee. Shoulder elevation on someone reaching overhead.

It took less than three seconds to find him.

It started with a knock.

You were fumbling with your grocery bags, juggling a carton of eggs and a bag of cereal, when the sound echoed through your apartment door. You nearly dropped everything trying to reach it.

Standing there was Jake Oettinger, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair messy in that perfectly effortless way, and a grin that immediately made your knees go weak.

“Hey,” he said casually, one eyebrow raised. “Need some help with those?”

You blinked, juggling the eggs with a squeak. “Uh… sure? I think I might drop everything otherwise.”

“Thought so,” he said, stepping in before you could protest, grabbing a couple of your heavier bags. “I’m Jake—your neighbor, by the way. Floor below. I’ve been meaning to say hi properly, but, well…” He shrugged like he hadn’t just made your heart skip a beat.

“I’m Y/N,” you said, still fumbling with the cereal. “Nice to officially meet you… neighbor.”

He grinned, handing over the bags. “Nice to meet you too. And don’t worry, I’m friendly. Just… occasionally heroic with groceries.”

You laughed, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’ll remember that next time I need a hero.”

That was two days ago. Since then, Jake had become the best accidental part of your mornings. You never saw him deliberately, but he had a way of popping up at exactly the right moment: holding a coffee for you when you ran into him in the hallway, teasing you about how loud you were playing music through the thin walls, or waving from his balcony when you left for work in your mismatched socks and messy hair.

And somewhere along the way, he started texting.

“Hey, Y/N. Did you survive the cereal incident?”

“You’re not going to believe this, but I just managed to drop an entire salad on the floor. Send help.”

“On my way. With mop and hero vibes. Also, coffee?”

You laughed, replying: “Stop being so helpful and annoying at the same time.”

“No promises. I’ve perfected the balance.”

A week later, Jake showed up at your door unannounced again—but this time, not with groceries. He was holding a small box of pastries, grinning like a kid who had just pulled off the perfect prank.

“For you,” he said, extending it toward you. “Neighborhood perks. Also, apology for laughing at your salad disaster.”

You took it, laughing. “You didn’t have to bring me pastries for a silly mess.”

“But I wanted to,” he replied, leaning casually against your doorframe. “And maybe… I wanted an excuse to hang out for a minute. Just… us, no chaos, no spilled food. I like seeing you.”

Your chest tightened. “You’re… really smooth, you know that?”

“I prefer the term charming,” he said, grinning, brushing a stray hair from your face. “But sure, we can go with smooth.”

It became a routine. Random texts, coffee on your balcony together, grocery runs that turned into long conversations, and little playful competitions over everything from who made the better scrambled eggs to who could carry more bags at once.

One evening, you found yourself on your balcony again, watching the city lights glow over the rooftops. Jake leaned casually against the railing beside you, hands in his pockets, eyes catching the glow of street lamps.

“You really do live up here in the clouds, huh?” he said, smiling at you.

“I try,” you replied, brushing your hair out of your face. “But you’re lucky I let anyone see me like this.”

“I wouldn’t call it luck,” he murmured, voice soft, almost hesitant. “I’d call it… privilege.”

You laughed, heart warming, leaning back slightly. “You’re going to make me blush, neighbor.”

“Maybe I want to,” he said, nudging your shoulder with his. “Maybe I like seeing you like this—messy hair, relaxed, laughing. It’s… nice. And I don’t usually say that kind of stuff.”

Your pulse quickened. “You’re usually very smooth, and now you’re saying vulnerable things? Dangerous combo.”

“Not dangerous,” he said softly, turning toward you, eyes locking on yours. “Perfectly human. And I want more of it. More of you.”

That night, you both sat on your balcony, pastries in hand, laughing about the weirdest things. He leaned a little closer, brushing your hand lightly. “You know,” he said, voice soft, teasing, “I think living next to you is the best accident of my life.”

“Accident?” you echoed, heart hammering.

“Yeah,” he admitted, inching closer. “I didn’t plan to like you this much, but… I do. And I want to be around you. All the messy, human, chaotic… everything.”

Your chest tightened, and you laughed softly, letting your head brush against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” he whispered, voice low.

“I… might,” you admitted, laughing again, heart swelling.

He turned just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. “Then it’s settled,” he said, grinning. “Neighbors? Friends? Or maybe… a little more?”

You smiled, leaning into him, letting the city lights and night air wrap around you both. “A little more sounds perfect.”

You were sitting side by side on the bench, jerseys still damp, watching the ice staff clean the rink. Nikita nudged your shoulder and spoke quietly in Russian.

“Ты думаешь обо мне?” (Do you think about me?)

You laughed softly, leaning closer. “Всегда.” (Always.)

He smirked, eyes sparkling. “Вот это хорошо.” (That’s good.)

First Shift

The locker room hit you like a body check the moment you stepped through the door.

Heat. Noise. Smell.

It all came at once—thick air saturated with sweat and damp gear, the rubbery tang of skate mats, sharp adhesive tape, muscle liniment, and something faintly metallic that you didn’t want to think too hard about. Sticks clattered against tile. Someone’s speaker blasted bass-heavy music that echoed off concrete. Laughter cut through it, loud and unfiltered.

You stalled just inside the doorway, fingers tightening around the strap of your treatment bag.

“Okay,” you muttered under your breath, “wow. That is… intense.”

A laugh rolled across the room—low, rough, unmistakably amused.

You looked up too fast and nearly walked straight into a bench.

And him.

Garnet Hathaway leaned against his stall like he’d always existed there, one boot planted on the floor, forearms resting casually on his thighs. A towel hung loose around his neck, hair still damp from the showers, the dark strands curling slightly at the ends. He watched you with open interest, eyes bright in a way that said he’d already clocked your reaction and filed it away for later.

“First day?” he asked.

Your spine straightened automatically. Professional posture snapping on. “First day with this team,” you said. “Not first day in a locker room.”

He tipped his head, considering you like a puzzle. “Yeah,” he said. “But ours is special.”

You exhaled once through your nose. “I can see that.”

His mouth curved. “You made a face.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“It was a controlled sensory response,” you said.

He barked a laugh, loud enough that two nearby players glanced over. “That might be the fanciest way I’ve ever heard someone say ‘this place smells.’”

You set your jaw and stepped fully into the room, refusing to hover by the door. “I’ll acclimate.”

“Big word,” he said. “You a doctor?”

“Physical therapist,” you said, already scanning automatically—wrapped knees, taped wrists, guarded posture. Habit was comfort. Assessment steadied you.

“Ah,” he said. “So you’re the one who ruins my fun.”

You glanced at him. “Only if your definition of fun includes preventable injury.”

“It does,” he said easily.

“That tracks,” you muttered.

His grin widened. “Oh yeah. I like you already.”

You stopped organizing your supplies and looked at him flatly. “You don’t know me.”

“Sure I do,” he said. “You walked into a pro hockey locker room, almost gagged, but didn’t run. That tells me plenty.”

Your cheeks warmed despite yourself. “I did not gag.”

“You flinched.”

“It was involuntary.”

“Adorable.”

You stared at him. “Please do not call the medical staff adorable.”

“Can’t promise,” he said.

You turned away before the corner of your mouth betrayed you and began unpacking your bag onto the central treatment table—tape rolls, scissors, wipes, wraps—lining them in clean, practiced rows. Familiar motion. Grounding.

You could still feel it though: his attention. Not crude. Not invasive. Just… steady. Like he’d decided you were interesting and was going to watch until he figured out why.

“You always this comfortable staring at coworkers?” you asked without looking.

“Depends,” he said.

“On what?”

“If they’re interesting.”

You snorted. “I’m taping ankles.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But you’re doing it like you’re about to defuse a bomb.”

You glanced up despite yourself. “Precision matters.”

His eyes flicked to your hands, then back to your face. “You look like you care more than the guys you’re taping.”

“I care about preventing surgeries,” you said. “It’s a hobby.”

He laughed again—deeper this time. “You’re intense.”

“You play professional hockey,” you said. “You don’t get to call anyone else intense.”

“Fair,” he said.

A beat passed. You went back to your setup. The room buzzed around you—gear rustling, someone shouting for tape, the sharp scent of ammonia caps cracking open—but his presence still cut clean through it.

“So,” he said after a moment.

You looked up. “So?”

He rolled his right shoulder once, expression casual. “Since you’re here.”

You followed the movement instantly. Subtle restriction. Protective pattern. “What did you do.”

“Blocked a shot yesterday,” he said.

“And didn’t report it,” you said.

He shrugged. “Didn’t want the lecture.”

“You’re getting one anyway,” you said.

“Worth it,” he said.

You gestured to the table. “Sit.”

He did. Immediately. No argument, no bravado. The big, stubborn enforcer just planted himself where you pointed. That part surprised you more than you let show.

You stepped in close, hands finding his shoulder through the thin compression fabric. Heat radiated under your palms. Dense muscle. Familiar territory—and yet not, because you were suddenly very aware of proximity in a way you usually weren’t.

“Where,” you said.

He tapped just behind the joint. “There.”

You pressed along the line. He sucked a quiet breath through his teeth.

“Yeah,” you said. “You strained this.”

“Bad?”

“Manageable,” you said. “If you don’t ignore it.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching your face instead of your hands. “You’re strong.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Your hands,” he said. “Didn’t expect that.”

You snorted. “I move two-hundred-pound athletes for a living.”

“Not complaining,” he said. “Just surprised.”

You continued the assessment, deliberately neutral. “You guard pain.”

“Comes with the job.”

“Not with me,” you said.

His gaze sharpened. “No?”

“No,” you said simply. “You lie to coaches. Teammates. Media. Not medical.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Bossy.”

“Professional,” you corrected.

“I like it,” he said.

You ignored that, sliding your fingers down to check surrounding tension. “You’ll need heat tonight. Mobility work. I’ll send protocol.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You sighed. “Do not call me that.”

“Can’t promise,” he repeated.

You stepped back finally. “You’re cleared for practice today. But if this worsens—”

“I come to you,” he said.

The certainty in it made you pause. “Yes,” you said. “You come to me.”

He hopped down from the table, rolling his shoulder experimentally. Then he looked at you—not at your hands, not at your notes. You.

“You always this serious?” he asked.

“At work?” you said. “Yes.”

He studied you a second longer than necessary. “Bet you’re not off the clock.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Feels like you’ve got some chaos in you,” he said lightly.

You huffed a laugh. “You met me three minutes ago.”

“Doesn’t take long,” he said.

You shook your head, grabbing your tablet. “You’re very confident for someone whose shoulder I can bench tomorrow.”

He stepped closer as he passed—close enough you felt the heat of him before the brush of air. His voice dropped just enough to skim your ear.

“You’d enjoy that.”

Heat shot up your neck instantly. “Hathaway.”

He grinned, already backing away. “See you around, doc.”

You stood there a moment longer than necessary, pulse not quite steady, palms still remembering the solid warmth of his shoulder under your hands.

You’d expected this job to be hard because of the pace. The injuries. The pressure.

You hadn’t expected it to be hard because one player looked at you like he’d already decided you were interesting.

And somehow, on your very first shift, you already knew something with dangerous clarity:

Garnet Hathaway was going to be trouble.

Not on the ice.

You shivered as you walked into the Wells Fargo Center, the cold Philly air still clinging to your scarf. The crowd was loud, orange and black everywhere, and you could already hear the echoes of chants from fans who clearly came early. You slid into your glass-side seats behind the Flyers’ bench, knees bouncing from nerves and excitement.

“Hey, you made it!” Trevor’s voice came from the ice before you even spotted him. He skated over during warmups, grinning like a fool, and waved. “I thought you were gonna bail on me and eat a cheesesteak instead.”

“Pfft. Me? Bail on you?” You laughed. “You know I’m the only person crazy enough to scream at the top of my lungs for you in every game.”

He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Screaming, huh? Is that what counts as motivation now? I was thinking hot chocolate, but screaming works too, I guess.”

“Hot chocolate? Are you kidding me? It’s February, dude. You’re on ice, not in some cozy cafe. I’d freeze before you even touched a puck.”

He shook his head, laughing, then skated off to warm up. You watched him weave through the ice like he was born there, passing and pivoting with the kind of grace that made you sigh quietly to yourself. You always got a little caught up in him—always had—but tonight it felt… different. There was a pulse in the air, in him, that made your stomach twist in a familiar way.

The first period passed in a blur. Midway through the second, Trevor snatched the puck in the neutral zone and zipped past two defenders. You jumped out of your seat, hands thrown in the air, when he made a perfect pass that set up a goal.

He skated past the bench and winked at you. You groaned, laughing and clutching the glass. “Ugh, stop doing that!”

“Doing what?” he called over his shoulder, grinning. “Winking at my biggest fan?”

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, rolling your eyes, but the blush creeping up your neck betrayed you.

After the Flyers’ win, the crowd still buzzing, you stayed near the glass, waiting for Trevor to come off. He jogged over, helmet in hand, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead.

“You… were nuts tonight,” you said, tossing him a bottle of water. “Seriously, that third goal—insane.”

“Yeah, well, don’t act like you didn’t cheer me on like a maniac.” He leaned on the glass, still catching his breath. “You know, I can hear you from here, right?”

You snorted. “Good. Consider it motivation. Or harassment. Whichever works for you.”

He laughed, but then his grin softened. “Hey… can I be honest for a sec?”

“Uh-oh,” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “I should run?”

“No, seriously,” he said, scratching the back of his neck like he always does when he’s nervous. “I’ve been… thinking about stuff. You know… us.”

Your stomach did a little flip. “Us?”

“Yeah,” he said, finally meeting your eyes. “I mean, you’ve always been there—at every practice, every game, yelling at me, embarrassing me in front of everyone—and… I don’t know. I kinda like you. More than… friends like.”

You blinked. “Wait. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Probably. Yeah.” He shrugged awkwardly. “I’m terrible at this.”

You laughed, half in disbelief, half from relief. “Oh my god, you’re the worst… and also the best.”

He smiled, leaning a little closer. “So… you feel the same?”

“I think… yeah,” you admitted, biting your lip. “I’ve been trying not to, but… yeah.”

Trevor’s grin turned triumphant, and he shook his head like he couldn’t believe it was real. “About time,” he muttered. Then he leaned over the glass and gently pressed a quick, nervous kiss to your cheek, just to see your reaction.

You rolled your eyes and laughed, heart pounding. “You’re ridiculous,” you said, but your voice was soft, and your hand brushed his.

He caught it. “Yeah, but apparently it works,” he said, winking again, and you groaned, because you knew he was right.

Life had been monotonous for months. Work, sleep, gym, eat, repeat. You loved your job at the domestic violence shelter, loved helping people rebuild pieces of themselves that had been broken. But it didn’t change the fact that your life outside those walls felt empty. Nights alone on the couch with a half-eaten takeout container and a streaming service queued up didn’t exactly scream excitement.

So when Macklin Celebrini’s name popped up in your messages one Tuesday evening, you couldn’t help the small thrill that snuck into your chest.

"You free tonight?"

The club was alive, and so were you. Bass thrummed through the floor, lights flickered in chaotic patterns, and the air smelled faintly of alcohol, perfume, and sweat. You laughed too loudly at something someone said, tossing back another drink, feeling untouchable and unstoppable. Your heels were killing you, but you didn’t care—you thrived in this mess, in the blur of lights and movement, in the chaos that made your heart beat fast and your skin tingle.

Then you noticed him.

Nikita Grebenkin. Dark eyes that scanned the crowd like he was looking for something specific, broad shoulders moving with the ease of someone who didn’t have to fight for attention. He wasn’t loud, didn’t shove anyone aside, didn’t grin at the wrong people. He was deliberate. And somehow, when his gaze met yours, the rest of the club—loud music, flashing lights, screaming strangers—seemed to fade.

“Impossible,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself.

You blinked, smirk tugging at your lips. “Excuse me?”

He noticed you. Perfectly chaotic, messy hair, eyeliner slightly smudged, laughing too loud, moving too freely. “You,” he said, voice low but carrying over the music. “You’re impossible. And I want to know you.”

You were leaning against the lockers, scarf tangled around your neck, watching Nikita sling his bag over his shoulder.

“You always wait around after practice?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You shrugged, trying to act casual. “Maybe I like the view.”

This was inspired by the song Brag by The Home Team

You’d been his secret for months. Not because he didn’t want to tell anyone, but because Luke Hughes was… complicated. High-profile, always busy, always aware of who was watching. And somehow, you fit into his life perfectly, quietly, like you’d always belonged there—but only when no one else was looking.

Tonight, though, felt different.

He showed up at your door just as the city lights began to flicker on, the streets glowing with a soft, golden hum. His hair was tousled, sleeves rolled up, eyes dark and intense. There was a look in them that made your stomach twist—a mixture of nerves, determination, and something unspoken.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” you murmured, stepping aside. Your heart was thudding so loud you were sure he could hear it.

He closed the door behind him, lingering near the threshold. Hands in his pockets, jaw tight, he just… looked at you. And in that look, you could feel the weight of every moment he had kept you hidden, every touch and whisper you’d shared in private, every night spent curled together while the world outside remained oblivious.

Rain hammered against the windows, and the arena was quiet except for the hum of the lights. Nikita draped a towel over your shoulders after you laughed at him sliding across the ice.

“You know,” he said, grinning, “I think I like practicing just to see you smile like that.”

You leaned into the warmth, heart fluttering. “You’re lucky I don’t make you pay for it.”

The city had that soft, electric glow that made everything feel a little surreal. Neon signs reflected in puddles from a brief rain, the hum of traffic mingling with distant laughter from a late-night bar. You leaned against the wall of your apartment building, arms crossed, trying not to think about him too much. But you knew exactly what you were thinking about. Tyler Seguin. His smirk, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, that slow, teasing confidence that made your pulse do things you weren’t proud of.

When his car pulled up, low and rumbling, your stomach did a little flip. He didn’t honk, didn’t wave—he just stepped out, hands in his pockets, giving you a look that made your knees weak.

“Hey,” he said, casual but heavy with that kind of energy that made the air feel thicker.

“Hey,” you replied, heart hammering in a way that made you sound too breathless. “You’re… early.”