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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
will smith x reader where she needs him after an argument and he doesn’t answer and she thinks he doesn’t love her anymore?
𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭
pairing: will x reader
wc: 2k
note: i wrote this super late at night so i barely had time to edit it so please let me know if i have any typos !
it’s been five days since the argument between you and will had taken place and all you’ve gotten from his end is radio silence. it wasn’t that you didn’t try because god, you really did.
you tried so hard.
every text left on read, every call going to voicemail, completely avoiding you at the group hangouts. at first you thought that he may have needed some space, that he was angry and needed some time to cool down but then your mind starts to wonder that maybe he just didn’t care enough to come back to you.
and that thought hurt like a bitch.
because on your end, despite how mad or upset you’ve ever been with him, if he called you’d still answer his calls or text so quick.
you’ve spent most of your days in bed, not even wanting to head down for hangouts with the group anymore knowing that will would be there and completely ignore you the entire night. being in the same room while he acted as if you never existed hurt more than not seeing him at all.
class then back home, work and then back home and that was how your last few days have been looking.
it wasn’t until your friend had finally had enough of your depressive state that you finally leave your house by using her birthday as an opportunity.
all you wanted to do was stay in bed and mope around with a tub of ice cream and a romcom movie in the back to give you some comfort of a relationship when yours with will felt like it was hanging by a thread.
“i hate seeing you this way y/n, come out tonight. for me please?”
and with that you knew you had no choice. you will be leaving and staying out late tonight, no exceptions which leaves you standing in a overcrowded bar wishing you were anywhere but here.
the music was blasting, people all around you having such a good time with their people but you on the other hand feeling the most miserable you’ve ever felt.
the drink in your hand barely sipped at as your friends around you joked around about who knows what. you couldn’t bother to pay attention even if you tried because your mind was currently elsewhere. you glance down at your phone, your last text sent to will stared right back at you.
you: please just talk to me will
read eight hours ago but no response.
you could feel your throat tighten up as you blink back the tears, locking your phone.
you can’t cry; not right now especially when you’re here to celebrate your friends birthday. the group spreads around, some of your friends grabbing another drink, some on the dance floor but you stayed in the booth still working on your first drink of the night.
“hey.”
you look up from your drink, your eyes locking on the man in front of you definitely older and standing a bit too close to your liking.
“hi?”
you look back down at your phone, clearly hoping he’d get the clue and walk away but of course not. your luck always terrible in these situations and now all you wished is that you didn’t respond in the first place.
“you here with somebody?”
“yep.”
“gotta boyfriend orrr?”
your heart feels like it could collapse any moment.
“yeah.”
he laughs, shaking his head. “that’s unfortunate, where is he though?”
you stay quiet, not knowing what else to say but the heaviness in your chest now doubled up more than it was before you came to the bar.
“must not be around if you’re sitting here alone.”
you stand up, trying to excuse yourself from the situation because staying quiet and dry clearly hasn’t worked in your favour so far.
“i’m good, please leave me alone.”
“oh come on now, let’s not be so hasty.”
he follows behind; trying to catch up to you.
“i’m not interested.”
he scoffs, “you didn’t even try and get to know me.”
“i don’t want to.”
you turn to leave but before you could take another step his fingers wrap tightly around your wrist hard stopping you in your tracks.
you freeze.
“i’m just trying to talk.”
his grip tightens slightly and you hiss at the pressure around your wrist.
“let go of me, what the fuck?”
“relax.”
“i said let go!”
you yank your arm harder, managing you get out of his hold stumbling back. your breathing begins to falter and all you know in the moment is that you need to leave.
you turn around and bolt towards the doors, clutching your wrist tightly to yourself. you can hear your friends calling for you but you don’t seem to care, all you need in that moment is to get out of the club.
the second you step outside of the bar, the tears begin streaming down your face. you take a deep breath, trying to regulate your breathing but it wasn’t working and it all just hits you at once.
the fight.
the silence.
the guy grabbing you.
you just needed will, you just want your boyfriend.
with shaky hands, you pull out your phone finding wills contact and hitting the call button.
its rings a couple of times before going to voicemail.
your stomach drops as you try ringing him again.
please answer.
straight back to voicemail, you bite back a sob that ripples through your body now. hands shaking you try one last time. straight to voicemail this time.
and that unanswered call hurt the most because that means he was ignoring you. your legs begin to shake underneath you as you take a seat against the curb, wrapping your arms around yourself as you break into sobs.
then another name crosses your mind.
macklin.
you find his contact and hit call not expecting him to answer so quick.
“hey y/n, what’s up?”
the second you hear his voice, you break down in sobs again.
“mack.”
“hey— hey woah. what’s going on?”
you felt like you couldn’t breathe, everything just becoming too much for you to handle.
“mack.”
“hey— i’m here. slow down for me.”
you try your best to calm yourself down, trying to get the words out as quick as you could without sobs tearing through you.
“some guy— some guy grabbed me.”
the line goes dead quiet.
“what?”
you could hear muffled movement in the back, “what do you mean grabbed you?”
“he wouldn’t leave me alone mack, he grabbed my arm and i told him to stop.”
you let out another shaky sob.
“where are you?”
“i’m outside.”
“okay— okay good. stay where you are.”
the calmness in his voice makes you want to cry more and before you could think the words came slipping out.
“i called will.”
“yeah?”
“i called him mack, i called him three times.”
your voice breaks as you continue, choking back a sob. “and he didn’t answer.”
what you didn’t know is that will is sitting with macklin, listening to every single word over the phone standing up so quickly the second he hears your sobs on the other end. that every word was hitting him like a bus.
“i needed him. i needed him and he didn’t answer.”
will felt as if he could throw up. every bit of anger he felt about the argument had completely vanished. all he knew was that you were crying and that you needed him and he didn’t fucking answer.
“where are you?” macklin asks and you give him the name of the bar you were at.
“does he hate me?”
will freezes as he hears those words.
“y/n—”
“because i don’t know why else he won’t talk to me.”
will felt like his heart has been ripped out of his chest as macklin looks at him with a look he can’t exactly read.
“he doesn’t hate you y/n, i promise.”
his voice is firm, like he’s trying to get it through to you.
wills already moving beside him unbeknownst to you, grabbing his keys but he doesn’t miss the last part of the phone call.
“mack.. i just want him.”
“i know, i know y/n. just stay where you are.”
-
you stayed sitting on the curb, not trusting your legs one bit to be standing. you wrap your arms around yourself, face buried in your knees that you barely hear your name being called.
“baby?”
your head snaps up once you hear his voice. the second you see him and how concerned he looked you can’t help but sob, getting up as quickly as you could with your shaking legs into his arms.
wills arms wrap around you without a second thought, pulling you tightly against him. “i’ve got you.”
“will.”
you can’t make out anything else, sobs taking over your body. you don’t even know what you’re crying about more. whether that will finally came or just everything finally catching up to you.
you cling to him tightly, afraid he’s going to disappear if you let go.
“i know, i know. i’m so fucking sorry.”
“i called you will.”
“i know baby.”
“you didn’t answer.”
will can physically hear his heart crack at how broken you sounded because he didn’t have an excuse. he was angry and immature when all you needed was him.
“i’m so sorry.”
you buried your face deeper in his chest and for the first time in days will lets himself hold you as tight as he possibly could.
-
the entire drive wills hand never left your leg; every few seconds he glanced over to make sure you were okay.
once you both finally get inside the apartment, you’re out of it. will follows behind you to the bedroom, grabbing one of his team issued shirts standing in front of you.
“arms up.”
you do as he says, too tired to even argue against anything. his hands slowly pull the dress off your body; wills eyes landing on the bruise that’s littered around your wrist.
“fuck.” his hands gently brush over the bruise, his heart breaking at the sight of you. the bruise on your arm making the whole thing finally sink in.
someone put their hands on you.
you needed him and he wasn’t there.
“will.”
“i was so angry about the stupid fight. so fucking petty and you needed me and i should’ve answered.”
you blink back tears, looking down at your fingers.
“i thought you didn’t love me anymore.”
will kneels in front of you leaning down to eye level, hands resting on your thighs.
“what?”
“i thought maybe you were done with me.”
“baby-”
“you wouldn’t talk to me, you wouldn’t answer. i thought you stopped loving me will.”
wills hands come up to cup your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. his eyes teary as they lock with yours.
“don’t ever think that.”
“will—”
“i was angry, and i acted like an idiot but i never stopped loving you. not for one second, i don’t even think im capable enough to ever do that.”
your lips wobble, “really?”
he lets out a watery laugh, “i’m so in love with you y/n and i’m so sorry that i ever made you doubt that.”
the tears you’ve been holding back finally start streaming down your cheeks and this time for a whole different reason. tears of relief after five days of thinking you lost your boyfriend.
will wraps his arms around you, pulling you down into his lap placing kisses against your forehead. “i’m so sorry.”
“i’m sorry too will.”
he shakes his head, pulling you back from his chest locking his eyes with yours.
“hey no, don’t apologize for any of this.”
“but i—”
“no.”
his hands come up to caress your face, resting his forehead against yours as he lets out a shaky breath.
“i love you, i love you so fucking much okay?”
you nod but will shakes his head.
“no baby- i need you to use your words. i love you, do you understand that?”
“yeah, i love you too will.”
he leans closer, his lips pressing against yours. you melt into the kiss immediately, hands coming around his neck to pull him closer to you. he pulls back a bit, resting his forehead against yours.
“never am i ever giving you a chance to have to call macklin because of me again.”
A/N: i haven’t written in such a hot minute, this may be actual garbage. will probably be a part 2, based on the olivia rodrigo song i love to cry to. typos are probable, i’m trying lol.
summary: in which you are in love with your best friend, John Logan. but he’s got feelings for Hannah, your competition in the pop showcase. feelings may arise.
pairing: john logan x bestfriend!reader
wc: ~1.7k
tw: angsty, feelings of doubt, discussions of insecurity
Part 2 Part 3
—————
You were incredibly, 100% without a doubt, obvious to everyone but him, in love with your best friend John Logan.
Problem was, your best friend, John Logan, was 100% without a doubt, obvious to everyone including yourself, in love with someone else.
Your friend from class, Hannah.
And you’re competing against her in the pop showcase for a scholarship you both really, really needed.
You couldn’t even blame Logan, not really. Every time you looked at Hannah, you saw everything that in your mind you weren’t. Flaws and insecurities came to the surface and picked at the front of your mind until your conscious echoed the harshest criticisms. Things you could never say about someone else, but so frequently iterated inside your own mind. You couldn’t help but draw comparisons to her.
She’s prettier.
More talented.
Smarter.
Kinder.
She seemed to float on air, her energy absolutely magnetic.
Who wouldn’t be drawn to her?
Hell, you could be in love with her from the way he talked about her. His eyes lit up every time he saw her, lingering every time she crossed his path until she was out of sight. When Logan saw Hannah he stood straighter, he was easygoing, he was being a gentleman every chance he got all while hoping she would notice him just once.
Hannah couldn’t harm a fly but she could probably make friends with a fence post. She was everything you weren’t. And you were abundantly aware of it every day.
Today was no exception.
You were sat across from Logan at Malone’s in the afternoon, eating loose fries and trying to come up with a song for the showcase. Trying and failing to get Logan’s attention or opinion.
“I just don’t know that I like this melody, it doesn’t feel like it has anywhere to go until the bridge.”
“Yeah, no for sure.”
Logan wasn’t paying attention. You looked up, eyes darting to your oblivious best friend and his googly eyes that never saw you. Your gaze softened, heart in vice grip as you realized what—or rather who—had caught his attention.
He was staring at Hannah, whose section you were seated in.
You remained silent for a few moments, collecting your thoughts and trying to rein in your emotions as you desperately attempted to swallow the lump that threatened to stop your ability to breathe completely.
Inhaling deeply, you focus on Logan’s hands sitting on the table in front of you to try and refocus before the storm brewing beneath the surface took over. You had memorized every freckle and scar, every callus from the years of playing hockey, and how he had a nervous habit of biting his nails when he was extremely stressed, something he was extraordinarily good at hiding. It was one of the only tells you had to when things were really starting to weigh him down and that he was moments away from going ghost mode until he figured his shit out. He was tapping his thumb on the table top, a soft rhythm thumping away, pulling you back into the moment and out of your reverie.
“Earth to Logan, hello,” you said, waving a hand in front of his eyes.
“Sorry, what?” Logan’s eyes shot back to you, looking at you for the first time since you had sat down in the booth.
“You didn’t listen to a word I said in the last 15 minutes did you?” you asked.
“I was listening, I promise,” Logan argued back.
“You were drooling, more like,” you teased. The smile you hoped was convincing didn’t quite meet your eyes.
“Y/N,” Logan drew out your name as he winced at being caught in the moment.
“Logan.”
“To be fair, it took you 15 minutes to notice I wasn’t listening,” Logan joked, laughing airily as he threw his hands up in mock-surrender.
“You’re such an ass, John Logan” you tossed a fry at his face, forcing a laugh.
“No I’m kidding, I was listening. I promise I was.”
You tilted your head towards him to ask, “Really?”
“Well, mostly,” he smiled sheepishly.
You rolled your eyes and lowered your gaze to stare at the pages on the table filled with scratched out lyrics and ideas for different chord progressions, rhythmically tapping your pencil to match Logan’s beat from earlier.
“You’re stressed about your song, you don’t like the melody. You can’t decide how full of a production to make it or at what point is too much too much, and you wrote the last lyrics of the song but now you feel like you have to back track to the beginning because you don’t like any of the original lyrics you wrote a few days ago.”
You leaned back against the booth, cool vinyl pressing into your skin as warmth crawled up the back of your neck.
“Wow, so he can listen while he gawks. Who knew a man could be capable of multitasking like that,” you tease, a genuine laugh escaping despite the pangs you feel in your heart every time Logan steals a glance back at the counter.
It was Logan’s turn to throw a fry at your face, laughing lightly with a lopsided grin.
“I listen to you, dork. But I don’t know how much help I could be to you unfortunately.”
“That’s okay, I’ll make something work. I didn’t expect you to have the answer to all my problems.”
Logan went silent again for a brief moment, glancing back at the counter and contemplating his next thoughts. He was tapping his thumb along to your pencil, pausing as suddenly an idea sprang into his mind.
“Hey why don’t you ask Hannah, she’s doing the showcase too right? Maybe she can help you and give you some ideas,” Logan suggested, his eyes flickering to you.
Right. There it was.
Hannah, Hannah, Hannah.
Everything she was, everything you weren’t.
His grand idea felt like a stab to the heart and an echo of the evil voice inside your conscious. A reminder of how you felt about yourself, and how Logan felt about Hannah.
Silence passed between you and Logan, for one beat. Then two.
“I’m not sure how that would go over, asking her to help me compete against her,” you drew out your words slowly, trying not to dwell on the underlying feelings.
Logan was quiet for a minute, and then he nodded as he considered your words.
“Fair enough, I suppose that’s true. I look forward to hearing your song though, once you figure it out,” Logan said.
You put your best smile on, albeit a small one.
“I’ll do my best,” you offered limply.
“That’s my girl.”
Your heart involuntarily fluttered.
My girl, he had said.
If only.
Logan stood up abruptly from the table, “Hey, I gotta get going. I’ve got practice so I’ll text you later. We good for our movie night Friday?” Logan hovered nearby as he asked.
“Of course, I’ll see you then,”
“Great, see you later.”
Logan was gone before you could say your farewell, you stared at his retreating figure as he paused at the counter and talked to Hannah. He was smiling at something she said, eyes crinkling as she giggled in return.
It felt as though someone had carved the heart out of your chest, stomped on it, and tossed it around the ice like a hockey puck.
Logan’s specialty, you supposed.
You looked down at your notes as corners of your vision blurred with tears threatening to escape. You had been best friends with Logan since your freshman year at Briar University. You sat next to each other in your English Literature general elective class and became fast friends as you poked fun at that professor’s drawling monologues about Shakespearean love and tragedies. Rather ironic, you couldn’t help but think, looking back at the memories now.
A voice interrupted your daydreaming.
“Hey, were you still doing okay or did you need anything?”
Hannah was staring at you now, her question hanging over as you startled out of your reminiscing.
“Yeah sorry, I was spacing out for a second. I’m all good, Hannah. Thanks for checking. How much was the bill?” You asked, reaching to grab your wallet from your bag.
“Oh no worries, Logan paid already at the counter. You’re all good,” Hannah said with her usual radiant smile.
“Ugh he did? Damn, it was my turn to pay,” you groaned.
“He’s really sweet, you guys would be pretty cute together,” Hannah winked at you, letting out a small giggle.
The grip around your heart squeezed impossibly tighter.
“I’m just saying, Y/N. You’re so stunning and smart, you could pull any guy. You’re a total catch! Besides, I think he’s a little bit into you,” Hannah wiggled her eyebrows at you.
She meant well, you knew she did. But Hannah’s compliments feel more like bullets pointed at your deepest hurt.
“Yeah, I don’t see that happening,” you couldn’t help but scoff.
You were trying to be as nonchalant as possible. It did absolutely nothing to help the war happening in your mind and the pain in your heart.
“Well, if you change your mind I will happily stand up as a day one supporter. I gotta go seat a couple people, let me know if you need anything,” Hannah beamed as she fluttered away to the counter.
You could only stare as she floated away, taking in everything about Hannah. You could smell the faint scent of her perfume in her wake, her hair bouncing as she strode along with a twinkle in her eye and an infectious smile that lit up the room.
A literal angel.
Maybe you weren’t what Logan wanted, that you could begrudgingly accept. You never expected him to return your feelings or to hold a candle for you when he was constantly surrounded by the most gorgeous girls to walk around Briar.
And you could see why he liked Hannah.
But that never softened the hurt or the pangs of longing.
You started tapping your pencil again, glancing over at Hannah once more as inspiration slowly crept into your mind, a melody forming for the first time in days. You put your pencil to the paper and began to write. You couldn’t tell Logan how you felt, but maybe you could put your feelings into this song.
Maybe that would be enough.
Maybe that could help tame the hurt.
Maybe.
————
A/N: if this is garbage pls close ur eyes. hope y’all like my late night inspo
summary: you talk with the guys while waiting around at the house and dean accidentally let's it slip that garrett is in love with you.
warnings: nothing specific.
frat houses were an unclean place full of boisterous men and they were a place no one with any self respect would be seen dead, and yet here you were.
in your defence, you were only here to see garrett. everyone else was a package deal apparently.
garrett graham was the star athlete at briar u, known for his supposed ice hockey skills. you say supposed because he's never actually invited you to a game, and you weren't about to show up all "go team" if he didn't want you there.
the two of you had been hooking up for a while now, but it was . . . casual. he was too busy for a girlfriend and you were too busy to try and change his mind.
sighing, you drummed your fingers against your thighs impatiently, waiting for garrett to come downstairs.
"is he even here?" you ask tucker, settling on talking to the most "normal" one out of all of them.
you had plans to meet garrett at his house today, but he wasn't exactly known for his top notch timekeeping skills.
he nodded, slapping deans hand away when he tried to reach for the spread of food that was being arranged on the table.
"dude, why do you keep making food if we're not even allowed to eat the damn stuff" dean huffed, throwing himself down on the couch next to you in defeat.
the blonde haired trouble causer turned to you with a big grin on his face, "so, what's the deal with you and graham? that boy doesn't tell us anything"
"i find that hard to believe. you're all his bro's or whatever aren't you?" you say, using your fingers to put air quotes around the word "bro's".
instead of answering, dean went on to pepper you with more invasive questions.
you huffed out a laugh despite yourself, "you're awfully nosey, you know that?"
dean's hand slapped against his chest in mock disbelief, "you're lucky that graham loves you because otherwise i would be-"
"he what?" you cut him off, not sure if you just heard him correctly.
"ohhh, shit" dean says.
the whole room went silent. tucker stopped chopping vegetables, logan paused his video game, and dean stared at you with wide eyes like a child that had just been caught sneaking candy.
a creak on the stairs broke the painful silence and you glanced up to see garrett stood there, his arms folded across his chest.
"what the actual fuck is going on down here?" garrett says, not moving from his spot on the stairs.
dean pursed his lips in thought, "i just told y/n that you love her"
okay, maybe it wasn't in thought at all. jesus christ this guy had no filter.
not knowing what to say, you chuckled awkwardly and pointed towards towards the door, "sooo, i'm just going to go"
you scooped up your bag and dashed out of the door before anyone could try to stop you, shutting it tightly behind.
even through the heavy wooden door you could hear the sudden arguments.
"jesus christ, dean. you're with a new girl every day and suddenly you can't have a normal conversation with one just because she doesn't want to fuck you?" garrett yelled.
the rest of the conversation became incoherent but you were sure you heard dean say, "how do you know she doesn't want to fuck me?"
your head was a mess as deans accidental confession actually started to sink in.
you didn't have a chance to make it off the porch before the door swung open again, revealing garrett stood on the other side.
dean popped his blonde head around the frame, "he has plans to kill me later so if you-"
someone decided to have mercy on you and dragged him back inside the house, the door slamming shut behind them.
here he was in all his glory. he had messy hair from the nap he clearly took not long ago and basketball shorts low his hips, toned abs on full display.
"see something you like?" he smirked, leaning back against the wall, the tension melting with every word he spoke.
you shrugged indifferently, "do you mean like or do you mean love? because who knows the difference these days"
he let out a long sigh of frustration, dragging a hand down his face, "listen, take no notice of that idiot. i never do"
"how come you don't invite me to your games? i mean, we've been seeing each other for months now and i haven't been to a single one" you say, frustration bubbling in your gut as words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them.
"i'm going to kill that little bastard- fine. i don't invite you to my games because you distract me. i can't focus on anything else when you're in the room and i can't risk being distracted out on the rink"
was that a compliment? it sort of sounded like one.
you nodded slowly, "so why couldn't you have just said that? why does everything have to be a mystery with you garrett"
"this was meant to be a casual one time thing, and suddenly you're in my house and you're talking to my friends" he says.
scoffing, you jabbed a finger against his bare chest, "you're the one who asked me to come over garrett and despite what you're clearly used to, i didn't beg to see you"
the audacity of men would never fail to amaze you. they ask you to come over and then wonder why you're suddenly in their house.
"can i finish my sentence?" he says, raising his eyebrows in amusement at your persistent rebuttals.
you shrug and gesture for him to continue, "if you must"
"jesus, what i'm trying to say is that it doesn't feel casual anymore. i see you more than i see those fuckers in there and i live with em'" he says.
"i'm not saying i'm in love with you ─ because shit, we've never even been on a date. unless fucking in a frat house full of other guys counts as a date to women"
"it does not" you add.
"i don't do girlfriends. you know this as much as every other girl knows this" he says.
the words taste bitter in his mouth. it wasn't a lie, he doesn't do girlfriends, but everything was telling him to break his own rules.
"wow, garrett, does this type of flattery usually work on these lucky girls?"
he grinned smugly, hands in the pockets of his shorts, "damn straight it does, baby"
your phone buzzed in your pocket and you internally groaned when you glanced at the time. you were only meant to be staying for an hour because you promised allie you would help her study for midterms.
"look, i've gotta go. i promised allie i would help her with the upcoming exams. we're all good, graham. casual it is!" you say brightly, jogging down the steps before he can respond.
garrett watches on until you disappear around the corner before going back inside to be met by the disappointed stares of his three friends.
"dude, really? i don't do girlfriends?" logan says, repeating garrett's earlier words.
dean sighed dramatically and shook his head, "yeah, you really fucked that one up"
garrett points a finger at dean accusatorially, "it's your fucking fault, dipshit. this is the last time i ever tell you anything" he says, breezing past everyone as he grabbed a beer from the fridge.
"practice is tomorrow" tucker says in concern, nodding towards the beer in garrett's hand.
"lay off, tuck" he says, jaw tense as he sat in his usual spot on the couch.
logan being the more empathetic one of the group, decided to take over the conversation before it got out of hand.
"so, you do love her then?" he says carefully, not wanting to end up on garrett's shit list along with dean.
garrett cursed and leaned back against the couch, "yeah? no? how am i meant to know if i love someone or not"
"the fact that you're instrested in more than just sleeping with her is answer enough" logan says, knowing garrett hasn't given this much time or thought to one person before.
"fuck this ─ someone pass me another beer" garrett muttered, needing a way to turn his mind off for a couple of hours.
summary - you’re the most hated girl on campus because you broke garrett graham’s heart, but no one actually knows the truth.
pairing - garrett graham x ex!girlfriend reader
word count - 3.9k
a/n - this does touch on non consensual kissing, so please beware of that before you dive in
Before
Tell him the truth. You’ve just got to tell him the truth.
You walked into the brownstone off-campus house with a pit of anxiety in your stomach and repeating those words over and over again to yourself.
It’s not your fault. Tell him the truth.
The boys - Dean, Logan and Tucker - were sat on the leather sofas, bottles of beers in hand. You gave them your best smile as you shut the door behind you.
“Hey guys.”
They all looked at each other, like there something that they were trying to psychopathically figure out before replying to you. It was Logan who broke first.
“Hey, Y/N.” Logan almost sounded guilty for answering you.
You let out a nervous smile. The anxiety in your stomach increasing tenfold.
They couldn’t possibly know, could they?
“I-is Garrett here?” You asked, looking between then and upstairs.
Dean scoffed and Tucker nudged him with his elbow, as if to tell him to shut up. “Dean.” Tucker shook his head.
“What?” He furrowed his eyebrows.
“Don’t, man.”
“This is fucking ridiculous.” Dean laughed, but it was more malicious than friendly, “You’re actually serious? You want to speak to Garrett right now?”
Dean’s question was directed at you. Your cheeks flushed and your heart began to race, trying to figure out what this awful atmosphere was about.
“Y-yeah. I just have to tell him something.”
“Yeah you fucking do.” Dean spat out, leaning back on the sofa and looking away from you entirely.
“Sorry, did I do something?” You stepped forwards.
The boys looked at each other again.
Logan was the one to nod his head to Tucker, who was the closest to you. He sighed and shook his head as he pulled out his phone to bring something up for you.
You fiddled with a loose thread on your jumper as you waited in the uncomfortable silence.
You looked towards the top of the stairs.
Just tell him the truth. It’s not your fault.
“Here.” Tucker said, drawing your attention back to him and his phone he was now holding out for you. “Just hit play.”
You looked from the phone to the guys - Dean raising his eyebrows expectantly.
You swallowed your nerves as you prepared for whatever you were about to see.
The video was posted on the Fifth Line Instagram account, with over 4,000 views and 150 comments.
The video started with a girl vlogging her way through the belly of the ice-hockey arena. You didn’t recognise her, but you quickly realised it wasn’t her that you were going to be focusing on.
“What’s going on in there? Music is loud as fuck.” She laughed, walking over to a door and flipping the camera around to peer through the glass window.
You breath hitched as you realised what had been filmed.
“Oh shit.” The girl in the video swore.
The video panned to you being walked back against a wall, being kissed aggressively. Being kissed by someone who wasn’t your boyfriend Garrett.
Your eyes welled with tears as you realised how compromising this clip looked. It only captured maybe three seconds of you being kissed and pushed back, but it was enough to have done the damage.
You looked up from the video to the guys. Logan and Tucker held the heads low, looking at you like they’d never really known you. Dean looked like he never wanted to see you again.
“It’s…”
“Let me guess… Not what it looks like?” Dean questioned.
“Yeah.” Your voice was so quiet.
It had felt like your entire world had stopped rotating. Like gravity itself wasn’t enough to hold you down any more.
You felt like you were going to be sick.
“Has Garrett seen this?” You asked, palms clammy and shaking now.
“What do you think?” Dean said.
It was at that moment the door loudly banged open, making you swivel around to spot Garrett walking in.
He froze in the doorway.
You felt the guys stand up from the couch behind you.
A tear fell from your eye as you made eye contact with him.
Just tell him the truth.
You watched as his jaw clenched and looked away from you momentarily - as if looking at you for too long was too painful.
“Garrett.” You said softly, stepping forwards to him.
Your heart cracked in two when he stepped back though.
“Please go.” He said, his voice cracking.
Any moment now you were going to collapse to the floor, you were sure of it. Your legs had started feeling like jelly and your anxiety was causing your whole body to feel alien.
You shook your head in pleading, more tears falling now.
“Ga…”
“Just go.”
“Please.” You whispered.
“We’re done, Y/N!” Garrett put firmly, “So go.”
After
It had been 4 months since you’d broken up with Garrett. 4 of the worst months of your life.
It had been summer break for a good chunk of that time, but now it was time to go back to college and you were dreading it. The pit of anxiety in your stomach had been a constant ever since that awful day.
You held onto your textbooks like were a lifeline, as you walked into the library.
You kept your head down but you could hear people whispering and laughing at you as you walked past.
You were the most hated girl on campus.
The girl who broke Garrett Graham’s heart.
You’d been called a lot worse too; whore and slut were to name but just a few.
Finding a quiet table at the back of the library, you took off your rucksack and set your textbooks down in front of you.
You briefly looked around the library and noticed a few people looking your way.
After pulling back the chair and sitting down, you tried your hardest to stuff your head in the textbook and work. Nothing was quite ingesting into your brain though, because you were so aware of the people around you looking and quietly gossiping.
You pulled the sleeve of your jumper down over your hand, so you could dig your nails into the back of it like an anchor.
As you tried to focus on the words in your textbook, your mind became focused on the surrounding chatter instead.
“I heard she’d been cheating on Garrett for weeks.”
“She’s such a slut, my God.”
“She fumbled so bad it’s embarrassing.”
“So much nerve to even show her face in public.”
Your leg started bouncing up and down underneath the table. A nervous tick that you couldn’t control.
You flinched when someone walked behind you, worried that they would do something to you.
You gasped when someone roughly pulled out the chair opposite you, causing your fists to curl inwards and your knee hit the underside of the table in surprise.
“Oh shit,” The guy laughed, “She’s actually scared.”
It felt as though your heart was beating too fast.
You were too aware of your surroundings now - the people looking, laughing and someone was even filming.
“Don’t worry sweetheart, I thought you liked the attention.” The guy snickered.
“Shut the fuck up.”
The words were said in your head, but were actually voiced by your ex boyfriend.
It sounded as though he was right behind you. But surely not.
Surely…
“Jesus, dude.” The guy who had been cruel to you rolled his eyes and wandered off. Other people started dispersing then too, keeping their eyes down as though someone was staring them down.
Was Garrett really here?
Had he really just defended you like that?
You got your answer when he came and stood next to your table, holding out your pen you seemingly had dropped on the floor.
He towered over you. Well, of course he did because you were sat down - but he also towered over you when you were stood up too.
His height only added to how small you felt in the moment.
You risked looking up at his face, instantly feeling the rush of warmth through your chest at how beautiful he still was. His soft, kind, eyes and his untamed fury of curly locks.
His eyes kept on yours, his eyes darkening slightly and jaw clenching when he no doubt noticed your pale skin and tired eyes. It was taking everything in your strength to not cry.
“You okay?” He asked, handing you your pen.
You took it without thinking about the abundance of scratches on the back of your hand.
Once you realised your mistake you covered your hand back up with the sleeve of your jumper, and turned away from him and back to your book.
“Garrett, c’mon!” Sounded like Dean calling him.
“Yeah, in a minute.”
“No, now. Coach will run our assess to the ground if we’re late.”
You didn’t need to see him visibly leave to know that he’d gone. The lack of his presence was extremely noticeable and you were once again reminded of how empty you feel without him.
“Dude, what is wrong with you? You’ve been sulking all day.” Logan asked as he plated more of Tucker’s salmon pasta into a bowl.
Garrett looked up from his phone - away from the photo album of you and him that he hadn’t told anyone he still had.
“Nothing.” Garrett said, pocketing his phone and picking up a bowl to plate himself.
“Well you’ve convinced me.” Dean snorted.
Garrett kept quiet, not knowing how to broach the subject of you without pissing of the guys.
After dinner, the guys - along with Allie and Hannah - were all playing ice-hockey video games. It was when Garrett lost for the third time in a row that the guys knew something was truly up.
It was Tucker who paused the game.
“Okay enough. Talk to us, G.” He said.
Garrett chucked the video game controller on the table in front of him and sighed heavily. He leant back on the sofa and rubbed his hands over his eyes.
“Is this about Y/N?”
“Of course it’s about Y/N.”
“Well he can speak for himself.”
“The guy can’t even…”
“Okay enough!” Garrett sat forwards after hearing his friends speak for him.
He clenched his fists in front of him, suddenly thrown back to a memory of you and him in his room.
“What if I become like him?” Garrett asked, the soft glow from his bedroom lamp coating you both in a golden hue.
You had your head laid on his chest, your fingers splayed out around his ribs as you kept each other pulled close.
“You’re not your dad, Garrett.” You told him firmly.
“My fists beg to differ.” He sarcastically joked.
You lifted your head at that, trying to ignore how insanely attractive it was that he had one arm bent behind his head. His other arm ended in a tight fist which he was studying intensely.
You cupped his hand in yours, working your fingers through his tightly closed ones.
Garrett watched on with an intensity in his eyes that you knew to be love.
Once your hand was perfectly intertwined with his, you gave him a soft squeeze. You smiled at him and Garrett felt complete.
“Anytime you make a fist, whether that’s because you’re angry or upset, just remember what it feels like to hold my hand tight, know that you’re not alone, and understand that you’ll never be your dad because you have people around you who love and support you.”
Garrett’s fist unclenched at the memory.
“I’m worried… a-about Y/N.” Garrett started.
The others stopped to actually listen.
Once Garrett realised he had the full attention of his friends - their full support - he realised that no matter what he said or how he felt, his buds would be there for him.
“Worried about her how?” Logan asked.
“I don’t know okay, I just—.” Garrett sighed. “Hannah said she’s barely attending classes.”
Hannah shifted on the sofa, tucking her knees in close to her chin. “It’s true. She only goes to her 9AMs because she knows barely anyone attends them.”
“And today in the library. She looked terrified and flinched at everything. A-and…” Garrett draws in a couple of short breaths as he tries to get out his words, “Her hands.”
“What about her hands?” Dean asked softly.
“They were all scratched. Like a nervous tick or something.”
The guys blew out deep breaths, trying to come to terms with this new information that only Garrett had been too aware to see.
“Shit.” Tucker swore, thinking back on events and realising what his friends were putting down.
“Yeah, shit.” Dean said.
Hannah shifted in her position, turning towards Garrett.
“Garrett… when she came here that night… she was crying, wasn’t she?” She asked.
“Yeah.” Garrett’s gaze remained focused on keeping his fists open.
“And she tried talking to you then?”
Garrett nodded. “But I told her to leave.”
The room went quiet. No one wanted to say what everyone else was thinking. Otherwise, all these months of hate and hurt would have been for nothing - and worse than that, directed at the wrong person.
Allie shifted into Dean’s side. “I never thought she looked guilty.”
Garrett’s gaze flicked to Allie, who was awaiting his gaze with regretful eyes.
“Fuck.” He dropped his head and clenched his fists.
You’re aggressively crossing out another unsuccessful paragraph when there’s a knock at your dorm door.
The fear inside you elevates - worried it’s another puck bunny or worse coming to scare you off campus.
You leave it and return to pen and paper.
The knock at the door disturbs you before you can write anything.
Breathing out carefully, you leave your desk chair, pulling the sleeves of your hoodie down over your hands, before making your way to the door.
Whoever this was you would politely listen to whatever horrible things they had to say and then hopefully they’d leave peacefully.
Your hand shook as you turned the knob - not expecting Garrett with his hand raised to knock on your door again.
“Garrett…” You breathed out in slight relief. He wasn’t as scary as some of the people who had been at your door, albeit you were still concerned he might still have a few choice words left in him.
He takes note of presumably how rough you look, if it’s anything to go by how rough you feel.
Your room is darkly lit and carries a slightly stale smell with how often you hole yourself up in it.
“Can we talk?” He asked.
You don’t say anything, but Garrett takes your gesture of opening the door wider for him to walk through as a yes.
He walked in slowly, assessing a room that he’s been in so many times. Practically all of it is the same - even the trinkets that you’d bought together or photos from trips together on your adventure wall.
You shut your door closed and take a brief moment to collect yourself. You can’t imagine this conversation ending well for you.
What you don’t expect when you turn around is to find Garrett standing over your abandoned desk, reading the words on the page of your journal that he was never supposed to see.
“Oh, let me just…” You rushed over and closed the journal shut tightly. “Please don’t read that.”
Garrett watched you fumble around, trying to rid his gaze of your journal.
“Was…Was that a letter to me?” He asked.
“It’s nothing.” You kept your hand flat on the top of the journal to keep is shut - the pressure of keeping it closed grounding you.
“Y/N.” Garrett softly spoke from beside you, bringing a hand up and over yours.
You watched his fingers dance over yours carefully, like he was assessing where he should carefully place himself. The familiarity of the shape of his hands made you well up, and you had to bite your lip to keep the emotions at bay.
His fingers made the hold on your journal less tense, even though he was only barely hovering.
You got dizzy at the thought of him opening your journal to find the hundreds of lettered entries, addressed to him, apologising for everything.
Your fist curled in on itself at the thought of him seeing that part of yourself.
“Hey.” He said.
He was a solid wall of muscle beside you - one that you couldn’t dare glance at for risk of completely falling apart.
His fingers moved with less care then, weaving forcefully through yours.
“Remember what it feels like to hold my hand tight. You’re not alone. I’m right here.” Garrett repeated the words you had once whispered to him.
He squeezed your hand tight.
And that’s what finally made your legs give out beneath you.
“Hey, woah. Woah, okay.” Garrett caught you before you could fall completely. “I’ve got you.”
His hands wrapped around your waist and held onto you tight.
“I’m so sorry.” You sobbed, your body caving in on itself, “I n-never wanted to hurt you. I’m s-so sorry.”
Your cries were ugly. The kind that shattered Garrett’s heart to listen to.
“No. C’mere.” He brought you over to your armchair, sitting on it with wide legs so he could place you to sit across him. “It’s okay.”
Garrett’s body was a lifeline.
If he weren’t here in this moment, you’re not sure you’d ever come back from it.
The cries echoed around the room, but you were too in your own head to even notice, and Garrett’s grey knitted sweater was becoming wet with tears and snot.
His hand was still squeezed tightly against yours.
“I’m s-so sorry.” You hiccuped out.
“No.” He repeated the word you thought you had misheard before, “No baby, don’t apologise.”
Your head titled up to him, eyes wet and cheeks flushed. You didn’t miss the sparkle in Garrett’s eyes as yours focused to his, but there was no smile.
He shook his head slightly.
“Please don’t apologise.” He spoke so quietly, as though the conversation didn’t need to be heard from across the room.
It was your turn to shake your head.
You inhaled quickly, stuttering over your own breath as you tried to hold back the next sob.
You felt Garrett’s free hand on the curve of your hip, rubbing soothing circles around and around and around.
“Y/N, look at me.” Garrett said, which made you think that whatever he had to say was important.
His gaze looked over your face, bringing your joined hands up so he could wipe a rogue tear off your cheek. You could have sworn that his gaze wandered from your eyes down to your lips, but maybe you were just projecting.
“I know it wasn’t consensual.” Garrett said. You held eye contact with him as his words sunk in. His eyes wouldn’t let you abandon his - holding you strong. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Your breath hitched, but Garrett was ahead already and reminding you to breathe.
After all these months of being so alone and so isolated, hearing someone for the first time tell you that it wasn’t your fault has you falling to pieces.
You’d completely convinced yourself that you were at fault and that you’d done something so unforgivable, yet here Garrett was telling you the complete opposite.
Garrett held you close as you fell apart against him.
So many tears shed for all the moments you’d spent alone fearing that you’d never feel whole again. Tears shed for the relationship that had once been the best thing to ever happen to you. Tears shed for one person to finally believe you - perhaps the most important person.
It was a little while later and you were laid against Garret’s body as he laid on your bed.
You laughed obnoxiously at something he’d just said.
Your eyes still felt a little red-raw from all the crying, but Garrett had held you through every sob and coached you slowly through it.
He made you feel so safe.
You looked up at his face from where your head had been laying on his chest, noticing he was smiling down at you adoringly. “What?” You asked.
“I’m just happy to see you smiling.”
“Well, thanks for making me smile.” You patted his chest.
Your phone beeped on the nightstand before Garrett got a chance to respond. You groaned as you got up off of him and sat at the edge of your bed to check your phone.
The Instagram notification was bold in front of you.
Hannah: Hey! I know Garrett said he was going to stop by and see you this evening. Here if you need anything <3 xx
“Who is it?” Garrett asked, rolling his body onto his side to be close behind you.
“Hannah.” You showed him your phone. He smiled with a nod. “She seems lovely.”
You put your phone back onto the table.
“Yeah, she is.” You nodded carefully, trying to keep the jealousy dead inside of you. You had no right to be jealous if Garrett had moved on after everything. Especially not jealous over someone as wonderful as Hannah. “She’s been good to me these last few months.”
“Mhm.” You nodded, subconsciously driving your nails into the back of your hand and moving them back and forth.
Your mind went to all the places where you wished to never go. The idea of Garrett being comforted by another girl, let alone possibly have kissed or held hands with, was soul crushing.
“But she’s not you.” Garrett’s hand cupped itself over yours to stop the scratching. “No one is.”
You turned your head to face him and noticed he’d sat up behind you now. His body so close to yours and face (lips) closer than it had been in a very long time.
“If you like her…”
“I do. As a friend.”
“But…”
“I’m trying to be all romantic here and let you know that it’s always been you, so shush.” He joked, leaning into more. His gaze kept dropping to your lips.
“It’s okay though, if you have been with someone else. I… I would understand.” You self deprecatingly smiled.
“Mm mmm.” Garrett shook his head, his nose nudging against yours he was so close. “No. It’s only ever been you.”
“Gar…”
“Y/N, this is the part where I kiss you now. Okay?”
Before, he would never have been so polite to ask you for your consent before kissing you, but now - after - it made you only fall for him so much more. Consent is sexy after-all.
“Okay.”
His hand brushed up the back of your neck and pulled your head to close the last inch between your lips and his.
The kiss was like coming home.
He was so familiar in his pillowy, soft, touch, as well as his taste.
You closed your eyes to savour the moment mentally, only hoping that this was only the start of something new.
His lips moved against yours like they knew exactly what they were doing. His kissed you with confidence, which was ridiculously hot. He tilted your head so he could gain the slightest bit more access to your lips, causing you to let out the softest of moans.
Garrett pulled back when he heard the noise, “You okay?” His lips looked pink and fucked, his eyes wild as he waited for you to answer.
“Shut up and kiss me.”
He fell back onto your bed with a laugh, bringing you down with him. “Anything for you, baby.”
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Summary: you’re an Olympic figure skater who’s never understood the appeal of hockey players — all brute force, no artistry, completely your opposite in every way. Then you trip over a rug and fall directly into the arms of a defenseman with quiet eyes and messy hair, and the entire internet watches it happen in real time. (Turns out, falling in love is a lot like landing a quad Axel: terrifying, impossible, and somehow you’re doing it anyway.)
Divided into two parts because this is long and tumblr hates me: read part II here 💜
The ice feels different here.
You’ve been skating since you were five years old, stepped onto the same rinks as Ilia more times than you can count, but this is Olympic ice. The kind of ice that either makes legends or breaks hearts, and you’re trying very hard not to think about which one you’re about to become.
“Stop fidgeting,” your father says, his hand warm on your shoulder. Roman Skorniakov has been coaching you and Ilia for as long as you can remember, and he can read your nervous energy like it’s written in the blade marks on the ice.
“I’m not fidgeting,” you lie, adjusting your costume for the third time in as many minutes.
“You are.” He squeezes your shoulder gently. “But you’re ready. You know you’re ready.”
The thing is, you do know. You’ve landed the triple Axel in practice so many times it’s muscle memory. The triple Lutz-triple toe combination feels as natural as breathing. You’ve skated this program to “Another Love” until you could do it in your sleep, until the music became part of your bloodstream.
But knowing and feeling are two different things entirely.
“Team USA, women’s short program, representing the United States of America,” the announcement echoes through the arena, and your heart kicks up several notches. “Y/N Malinina.”
Ilia appears beside you, seemingly out of nowhere. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” You turn to face your twin, and something in your chest settles. It always does when he’s near.
“Remember what we used to say?” He asks, and he’s smiling that soft smile that’s only for you, the one that doesn’t have anything to do with quads or competitions.
“’One for both, both for one,’“ you recite the silly phrase you’d made up as kids, when you were just two scrawny children who loved going fast on ice.
“Exactly.” He pulls you into a quick hug. “Go show them what Malinins do.”
You step onto the ice, and the roar of the crowd fades into white noise. This is where you live. This is where everything makes sense.
The opening notes of Tom Odell’s voice fill the arena, melancholic and yearning, and you push off into your opening sequence. The triple Axel comes first — you’ve chosen to front-load the program, get the hardest jump out while your legs are fresh. You see the takeoff edge, feel the snap of the pick into the ice, and then you’re rotating — one, two, three — and the landing is clean and solid and perfect.
The crowd erupts, but you’re already moving into the step sequence, letting the music guide your edges, your body telling the story of love and loss and longing. This is the part where skating stops being technical and becomes art, where you’re not just performing elements but bearing your heart for thousands of strangers.
Your triple Lutz-triple toe combination flows out of the choreography like it was inevitable, both landings secure, and you can feel it — that rare thing when everything aligns, when your body does exactly what your mind asks of it.
The flying camel spin, the layback spin, the combination spin with a change of foot — each one hits every level, every position exactly where it needs to be. You’re not thinking anymore, just feeling, just being.
When you hit your final pose, arm extended toward the ceiling as the last note fades, the arena explodes.
You can barely breathe as you wave to the crowd, grabbing the stuffed animals and flowers that rain onto the ice. A volunteer helps you collect them, and then you’re skating toward the exit, toward where you can see your father waiting.
The moment you step off the ice, your father pulls you into his arms.
“Papa,” you gasp, half-laughing, half-crying.
“Perfect,” he says into your hair, his accent thick with emotion. “That was perfect, ptichka.”
Rafael Arutyunyan appears as you’re walking toward the kiss and cry, his expression carefully neutral in that way that means he’s actually very pleased. “Good,” he says simply, which from Rafael is basically a standing ovation. “Very good.”
You sit between them, your father on one side and Rafael on the other, these two men who have shaped your skating since before you can remember. Your scores feel like they take a lifetime to appear.
When they do, you have to blink several times to make sure you’re reading them correctly.
“Oh my god,” you whisper.
The technical score is massive — your base value plus all those level fours and positive grades of execution adding up to something beautiful. The program components are even better. And the total-
“First place,” Rafael says, and there’s definitely satisfaction in his voice now. “Season’s best. Ten points for the team.”
“Ten points,” you repeat, stunned. The best possible contribution you could have made.
Your father kisses the top of your head, and you can feel him shaking slightly. He never cries at competitions, but he comes close sometimes. This might be one of those times.
The walk from the kiss and cry back to the locker area feels surreal, like you’re floating several inches above the ground. You’re barely through the door when a solid weight barrels into you, lifting you clear off your feet.
“THAT’S MY SISTER!” Ilia is shouting, spinning you around, and you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe. “That’s my freaking sister! First place! Season’s best! Did you see that triple Axel?”
“I was there for it,” you manage, still laughing. “I was the one skating.”
“I know, I was there too, I saw the whole thing, it was perfect.” He sets you down but doesn’t let go, just holds you at arm’s length, beaming. “You’re an Olympic athlete who just got first place in her first Olympic skate. How does that feel?”
“Unreal,” you admit. “Like maybe I’m dreaming?”
“You’re not dreaming. I already pinched myself to check.”
“That’s not how that works, Ilia.”
“Sure it is. Twin magic.” He pulls you in for another hug, gentler this time. “I’m so proud of you,” he says, quieter, just for you.
“You’re skating tomorrow,” you remind him, your voice muffled against his Team USA jacket. “You’re going to be incredible.”
“We’ll see,” he says, but he’s smiling. “Right now is about you.”
The rest of Team USA finds you after you’ve changed out of your costume — Madison and Evan are grinning like proud parents, Ellie and Danny are offering enthusiastic congratulations, and Amber pulls you into a hug that smells like hairspray and determination.
“Dinner,” Madison announces. “We’re celebrating. The cafeteria has pizza tonight, and we are going to carb-load like the champions we are.”
The Olympic Village dining hall is exactly as chaotic as you remember from the orientation tour — athletes from every sport and country packed into one massive space, the noise level somewhere between rock concert and natural disaster. But the Italian food station does look incredible, and you’re starving now that the adrenaline is wearing off.
You end up at a round table with your team, a plate of pasta that could feed a small army in front of you. Evan is telling some elaborate story about their practice session that morning, using his fork as a prop, and Madison keeps interrupting to correct the details.
“I did not almost fall,” she insists.
“You stumbled!”
“That was choreography!”
“That was not choreography, and you know it.”
You’re laughing, twirling pasta around your fork, feeling the pleasant exhaustion that comes after a good skate, when the energy in the room shifts slightly. A group of guys in Team USA gear has walked in, loud and boisterous in that particular way that screams one specific sport.
You groan before you can stop yourself. “Hockey players.”
“What’s wrong with hockey players?” Danny asks, looking genuinely curious.
“Nothing’s wrong with them,” you say, stabbing a piece of penne. “They’re just … hockey players.”
Ilia snorts into his water. “Y/N has strong opinions about hockey.”
“I don’t have strong opinions about hockey. I have a mild preference for athletes who know what a toe pick is actually for.”
“That’s a strong opinion,” Ellie points out, grinning.
“It’s a practical opinion,” you correct. “I prefer my athletes with a little more artistry, a little less … hitting people into walls.”
Madison, who’s been watching the hockey players make their way through the buffet line, suddenly elbows you. Hard.
“Ow! What?”
“Don’t look now,” she says, which of course means you immediately look, “but I think one of them is making eyes at you.”
You follow her gaze to the group of hockey players. There are several of them, all tall and built in that way hockey players are, and you have absolutely no idea which one is supposedly looking at you because you’re not exactly a hockey expert.
“I sincerely doubt that,” you say, turning back to your pasta.
“I’m serious! The one with the dark hair, kind of floppy in the front? He’s been looking over here since they walked in.”
“Madi.” You set down your fork and give her your most serious look. “I prefer my men to know what to do with a toe pick, not skate around chasing pieces of vulcanized rubber.”
Evan chokes on his drink. Ilia is full-on laughing now.
“I’m just saying,” Madison continues, undeterred, “you never know where you might find love. I mean, look at me and Evan. We started as ice dance partners, and now-”
“You’re married,” you finish. “I know. You’ve mentioned it once or twice.”
“Once or two hundred times,” Evan adds, but he’s looking at Madison with so much affection that it makes your chest ache in a good way.
“I think it’s romantic,” Ellie says. “Finding love where you least expect it.”
You laugh, and it comes out more cynical than you intend. “Right now, the only thing I feel romantic about is skating for gold. Sorry to disappoint the narrative.”
“You say that now,” Madison says, in that knowing voice that suggests she thinks she’s figured out something about your future that you haven’t.
“I say that now, and I’ll say it tomorrow, and the day after that.” You scoop up another forkful of pasta. “I’m here to skate. That’s it. That’s the entire plan.”
“Plans change,” Madison sing-songs.
“Not this one,” you say firmly.
Ilia reaches over and steals a piece of garlic bread from your plate. You smack his hand, but he’s already eaten it, grinning unrepentantly.
“What?” He says. “Twin tax.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It’s definitely a thing. Has been since we were three.”
“You’re the worst,” you tell him, but you’re smiling.
“You’re stuck with me,” he shoots back. “One for both, both for one, remember?”
“Unfortunately, I do remember.”
The conversation shifts to tomorrow’s schedule — Ilia’s short program, the pairs free skate, the rhythm dance. You let the talk wash over you, comfortable and warm, surrounded by your team. Your people.
You catch Madison’s eye across the table, and she’s still got that knowing look, but you just shake your head at her. Romance is for people who have time for it. Romance is for people who aren’t trying to land a clean triple Axel on Olympic ice.
You’re here to skate. Everything else is just noise.
(You don’t notice the hockey player with the dark hair looking over one more time before his teammates pull him toward a different table. You’re too busy arguing with Ilia about who gets the last piece of garlic bread.
It’s probably better that way.)
***
The charter flight from New York to Milan is cramped, loud, and smells like a combination of muscle rub and the protein bars that seem to be the official currency of professional hockey players. Quinn sits with his headphones on, staring out the window at the Atlantic Ocean somewhere below, trying to ignore the chaos around him.
His Jack is three rows back, probably causing half the noise. Quinn can hear his laugh even over the music.
“You good?” Charlie McAvoy drops into the empty seat next to him, because apparently personal space isn’t a thing on Team USA hockey charters.
“Fine,” Quinn says.
“You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you’re thinking too hard about something.” Charlie steals one of Quinn’s earbuds. “Dude, you’re listening to ocean sounds? What are you, forty?”
“Give it back.”
“I’m just saying, we’re going to the Olympics. You could be a little more excited.”
Quinn takes his earbud back. “I am excited.”
“You look like you’re going to a funeral.”
“That’s just my face.”
Charlie laughs and gets up, ruffling Quinn’s hair as he goes. Quinn tries to smooth it back down and fails. He gave up on his hair looking decent approximately three years ago.
The thing is, he is excited. He’s thrilled, honored, all those words that sound hollow when you say them out loud but feel real when you’re alone with them. Representing his country at the Olympics is everything he’s worked for.
It’s just that the weight of it sits heavy in his chest, and he’s never been good at showing what’s inside. That’s more Jack’s territory. Quinn’s always been the quiet one, the one who does his talking on the ice.
Milan is cold and beautiful and overwhelming. They land, get shuffled through customs with the kind of efficiency that only happens when you’re traveling with a pack of NHL players, and then immediately get herded onto buses.
“Where are we going?” Someone asks.
“Team USA headquarters,” one of the staff members says. “You’ve got fittings.”
A collective groan goes up. Quinn settles in for what he knows is going to be a long afternoon.
The Ralph Lauren fitting takes three hours. Three hours of standing with his arms out while someone pins fabric and takes measurements and asks him to turn this way, now that way, now hold still please.
“This is worse than a bag skate,” Jack mutters from the platform next to him.
“At least we’re standing still,” Quinn points out.
“I’d rather be moving. This is torture.”
They get fitted for everything — the iconic white toggle coats, the more casual Village wear, the sweaters and jackets and polos, even specific outfits for different types of media appearances. Quinn loses track of how many times he has to change clothes.
Then come the photos.
“Okay, guys, we need you looking patriotic but approachable,” the photographer says, which is possibly the most contradictory direction Quinn’s ever received. “Think … Olympic heroes, but like, ones you’d want to grab a beer with.”
“They definitely do,” Matthew Tkachuk counters. “I’ve seen the videos.”
The photoshoot somehow takes even longer than the fitting. They have to do individual shots, group shots, candid shots that are very carefully staged to look candid, and something the social media team calls “content” which seems to involve a lot of pointing at things while smiling.
“Point at the logo! No, more enthusiastic! Like you’re really excited about the logo!”
Quinn points at the logo. He tries to look excited about it.
“Perfect! That’s the one!”
Quinn has no idea what he did differently, but he’s not about to argue.
By the time they’re released, it’s early evening, and Quinn’s face hurts from smiling. They get shuttled to the Olympic Village, go through another round of orientation and credential distribution, and finally they’re set loose in their apartments.
Quinn shares with Jack, which was probably inevitable. They dump their bags in the small bedroom, and Jack immediately sprawls across his bed.
“I’m starving,” he announces to the ceiling.
“You’re always starving.”
“Yeah, but this time it’s Olympic starving. It hits different.”
There’s a knock on the door, and Auston Matthews pokes his head in. “Food run. You guys coming?”
“Obviously,” Jack says, already pulling himself up.
Quinn follows because he is actually hungry, and because sitting alone in the apartment thinking about the weight of expectation isn’t going to help anyone. The ghosts in his head — the what-ifs and the pressure and the constant analysis of every play he’s ever made — are quieter when he’s moving, when he’s with the team.
They collect a small army of players on the way to the cafeteria — Charlie, Auston, Brock, Jake Oettinger, Tage Thompson, and half a dozen others whose faces Quinn’s brain is too jet-lagged to process right now.
The Olympic Village cafeteria is massive, and it’s packed. Athletes from every country and every sport crowd around tables, and the noise is almost overwhelming. Quinn spots snow boarders, speed skaters, what might be curlers — he’s not entirely sure — and the whole thing feels surreal.
“Italian station,” Jack says, pointing. “I’m getting pasta. When in Rome, right?”
“We’re in Milan,” Quinn corrects.
“Close enough. It’s all Italy.”
They load up their plates — Quinn gets some kind of pasta with red sauce that looks relatively safe — and start scanning for empty tables.
That’s when he sees you.
You’re sitting at a round table with a group of other people in Team USA gear, laughing at something someone just said. Your hair catches the fluorescent light, and when you smile, it’s like every sound in the cafeteria goes muted for just a second.
Quinn stops walking.
“Dude,” Auston says, nearly running into him from behind. “Traffic jam.”
But Quinn barely hears him. You’re gesturing with your fork, telling some story, and the people around you are leaning in like you’re the most interesting person in the room. Maybe you are. Quinn wouldn’t know. He just knows he can’t look away.
The noise in his head — the constant analysis, the pressure, the endless loop of things he should have done better — goes quiet. Just for a moment. Just long enough for him to take a breath that doesn’t feel weighted down.
“Oh no,” Jack says, and Quinn can hear the grin in his voice. “Oh, this is good.”
“Shut up,” Quinn mutters, forcing himself to keep walking toward an empty table.
“You were staring,” Jack says, delighted.
“I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were. You got the look.”
“What look?” Brock asks, sliding into a chair.
“Nothing,” Quinn says firmly. “No look.”
But Charlie is following Quinn’s previous line of sight, and when he spots your table, something clicks. “Oh! Those are the figure skaters. Team USA figure skaters.”
The entire group turns to stare at Charlie.
“What?” Quinn says. “How do you know that?”
Charlie shrugs, looking a little sheepish. “I did my homework before we came. Plus, they’re cool! That’s Ilia Malinin — he’s the one who landed the quad Axel in competition. First person ever to do it. And his twin sister, Y/N — she just skated in the team event today. Got first place, season’s best. The couple next to them are Madison Chock and Evan Bates, they’re ice dancers, married, been skating together forever. And-”
“Okay,” Tage interrupts, grinning. “We get it. You’re a figure skating encyclopedia now.”
“They’re athletes,” Charlie says defensively. “It’s interesting! Do you know how much strength it takes to land a quad? Or how fast they’re spinning in those spins? It’s insane.”
“It is pretty cool,” Jake agrees. “I watched some clips of the team event earlier. They make it look easy.”
Quinn is trying very hard to focus on his pasta and not on the fact that Jack is still grinning at him like Christmas came early.
“So,” Jack says, way too casually. “Which one were you staring at, Quinn?”
“I wasn’t staring.”
“You were definitely staring. I’m your brother. I know your staring face.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It’s absolutely a thing.” Jack leans forward conspiratorially, and several of their teammates lean in too, because apparently Quinn’s personal life is now a team sport. “The twin, right? Y/N?”
Quinn’s silence is apparently answer enough, because Jack sits back looking triumphant.
“Dude,” Charlie says. “You should go talk to her.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re here for hockey,” Quinn says, finally looking up from his pasta. “That’s it. That’s why we’re here.”
“We don’t play for almost a week,” Jack points out. “We’ve got time.”
“We have practice. Media responsibilities.”
“And also time,” Jack insists. “Come on, Quinn. When’s the last time you just talked to someone? Someone who’s not a hockey player or a reporter?”
“I talk to people.”
“Your teammates don’t count.”
“Why not?”
“Because they just don’t, man. I don’t make the rules.”
Quinn shakes his head, stabbing at his pasta with more force than necessary. “I’m here to focus on the Olympics. That’s it.”
“Sure,” Jack says, and his tone is so knowing that Quinn wants to throw a bread roll at him. “That’s what everyone says.”
“Because it’s true.”
“And yet,” Jack continues, grinning wider, “somehow the Olympic Village still goes through an ungodly amount of condoms. They had to restock the dispensers twice in Paris. I read an article about it.”
“Oh my god,” Quinn mutters, feeling his face heat up. “Can you not?”
“I’m just stating facts!”
“Those are not facts relevant to this conversation.”
“I think they’re very relevant,” Charlie chimes in, because of course he does. “The Olympics are a breeding ground for romance. It’s science.”
“It’s not science,” Quinn says.
“It’s basically science,” Brock says. “Bunch of peak-condition athletes all in one place, high emotions, international bonding — it’s like a rom-com waiting to happen.”
“I’m not interested in a rom-com,” Quinn says firmly. “I’m interested in winning gold.”
“You can do both,” Jack says. “Multitasking. You’re good at multitasking.”
“Not with this.”
Quinn can feel more of his teammates tuning into the conversation now. Auston is grinning, and even Brock — who’s usually on Quinn’s side about things — looks amused.
“Just go say hi,” Jack presses. “Introduce yourself. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“She could think I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot. You’re one of the best defensemen in the league.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not an idiot.”
“Okay, fair point,” Jack concedes. “But you’re a successful idiot. That counts for something.”
“This is why I should’ve roomed with literally anyone else,” Quinn says.
“You love me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“Same thing.” Jack steals a noodle from Quinn’s plate. “Seriously though. You got that look in your eyes when you saw her. The one where everything got quiet for a second.”
Quinn freezes. He didn’t think anyone would notice that. He barely noticed it himself.
“I’m fine,” he says, but it comes out less convincing than he’d like.
Jack’s expression softens slightly, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter, meant just for Quinn. “I know what it’s like in your head. I know it’s loud. If something makes it quiet, even for a second — that’s not nothing.”
Quinn looks down at his plate. His brother knows him too well. Knows about the constant replay of every mistake, every missed opportunity, every way he could have been better. Knows that expectations are an honor and a weight and sometimes Quinn doesn’t know which one is heavier.
“We’re here for hockey,” Quinn repeats, but it sounds hollow even to him.
“We are,” Jack agrees. “But we’re also here to live a little. You’re allowed to do both, Quinn. You’re allowed to be human.”
“Wow,” Charlie says. “That was actually profound, Jack.”
“I have my moments.”
“Very rare moments,” Tage adds.
“Shut up, all of you.”
The conversation shifts to practice schedules and game strategies, and Quinn is grateful for the reprieve. He finishes his pasta without tasting it, watching the cafeteria’s controlled chaos while carefully not looking at your table.
Except he does look. Once. Just once.
You’re leaning back in your chair, saying something that makes the guy next to you — your twin brother, Ilia, if Charlie’s information is correct — laugh so hard he nearly falls over. Your whole face lights up when you smile like that, unguarded and genuine, and Quinn feels that quiet settle over him again.
Then Jack kicks him under the table, and the moment breaks.
“Caught you,” Jack mouths.
Quinn rolls his eyes in the way that only older brothers can, perfected over years of dealing with Jack’s particular brand of chaos.
“Leave it alone,” he mouths back.
Jack just grins and takes another bite of his pasta, but Quinn can see the wheels turning in his brother’s head. This isn’t over. With Jack, it’s never over.
They finish dinner, and the team decides to walk around the Village a bit, exploring the layout before things get too hectic. Quinn follows along, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to appreciate the moment. He’s at the Olympics. He’s representing his country. This is everything he’s worked for.
But when they pass the skating venue on their way back to the apartments, all lit up against the night sky, Quinn thinks about a girl with a bright smile at a cafeteria table, and how for just one second, everything in his head went quiet.
He tells himself it doesn’t matter. He tells himself he’s here for hockey, and that’s all.
He almost believes it.
***
The gold medal around your neck is heavier than you expected. Not in a bad way, but in the way that important things always weigh more than they should, like they’re carrying the gravity of the moment with them.
Team USA won. You won. Olympic gold medal in the team event, and you got to stand on that podium with Ilia, with Madison and Evan, with Ellie and Danny and Amber, and watch the flag rise while the anthem played, and you definitely cried but so did everyone else so it’s fine.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” you say for probably the fifteenth time as your team makes its way toward Team USA’s Winter House — the hospitality area they’ve set up for athletes and national personnel.
“Believe it,” Ilia says, slinging an arm around your shoulders. His medal clinks against yours. “We’re Olympic gold medalists.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s facts.”
The Winter House is decorated in red, white, and blue, because of course it is, with huge screens showing highlights from various events, comfortable seating areas, and — most importantly — a spread of food that makes the cafeteria look quaint.
“Oh thank god,” Amber says, making a beeline for the appetizers. “I’m starving. Why am I always starving after competitions?”
“Adrenaline crash,” Madison says knowledgeably. “Plus you burned like a thousand calories out there. Your free skate was incredible.”
You’re still floating, everything feeling soft and unreal around the edges. Gold medal. Olympic gold medal. The words don’t quite compute yet.
Your father and Rafael are talking to some Team USA officials in the corner, probably about practice schedules for the individual event that starts in a few days. You should probably join them, be responsible, but right now you just want to exist in this moment where everything worked out and nothing hurts yet.
NBC has cameras set up throughout the space, doing what they do best. You’ve already been interviewed twice, said some variation of “it’s an honor” and “the team was incredible” until the words started to blur together.
“Photo!” Someone calls, and suddenly you’re being herded toward a backdrop with the rest of Team USA figure skating, everyone holding your medals, everyone grinning like idiots.
The camera flashes, and you blink away spots, and someone hands you a glass of champagne even though you’re not much of a drinker.
“To Team USA!” Evan raises his glass.
“To gold!” Danny adds.
“To not falling on our asses!” You contribute, which gets a laugh.
You all clink glasses, careful not to hit the medals, and take sips. The champagne is good — better than the cheap stuff you and Ilia split after you both made the Olympic team, sitting on the floor of your apartment, still not quite believing it was real.
“I need to sit down,” you announce. “My feet hurt.”
“Your feet always hurt,” Ilia points out.
“Yes, but today they hurt in an Olympic gold medal way, which is different.”
You navigate through the growing crowd — more Team USA athletes are arriving, along with families and coaches and what looks like some NBC executives. The space is getting packed, voices overlapping, and you’re aiming for an empty couch near the back when it happens.
The rug.
Later, you’ll find out it’s a decorative rug, probably expensive, definitely a tripping hazard. In the moment, all you know is that your toe catches on the edge, your weight is already shifting forward, and you’re about to eat floor in front of approximately a hundred people and at least three NBC cameras.
Your brain has time to think very clearly. Fuck, you don’t think even your heavy-duty concealer is going to cover up the bruise you’re about to get, and you have to skate again for the individual event in less than ten days.
Then there are hands — surprisingly strong hands — catching you under your arms, hauling you back upright before you can test the structural integrity of your nose against the floor.
“Whoa, I got you,” a voice says, and you look up into the face of the hockey player from the cafeteria.
Up close, he’s even more attractive, which seems unfair. He’s got these incredibly expressive eyes, and his hair is doing that effortlessly messy thing that you’ve never been able to achieve even when you try, and he’s looking at you with what might be concern or might be amusement or might be both.
“Oh,” you say, very intelligently. “Um. Hi.”
“Hi,” he says back. His hands are still on your arms, steadying you. “You good?”
“Yeah. Yes. Good. Very good. Excellent, even.” Stop talking, your brain supplies helpfully. “Thanks for the … catch. Save. Thanks for the save.”
“No problem.” He’s definitely amused now, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Nice reflexes out there today, by the way. The skating, I mean. Not the … rug thing.”
“The rug thing is not representative of my usual athletic ability,” you say, very seriously.
“Noted.”
You should probably step back. His hands are still on your arms, and you’re standing very close, and there are definitely people watching. You can hear Ilia’s laugh from somewhere behind you, which is never a good sign.
“I’m Y/N,” you say, because apparently you’re committed to this conversation now.
“Quinn.” He does step back then, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that seems unconscious. “Quinn Hughes.”
“Hockey, right?”
“Yeah. Defense. You’re, uh, you’re figure skating. Obviously. I mean—I saw videos. From earlier. The team event. You were really good.”
“Thanks.” You’re both being supremely awkward, and some part of you appreciates that it’s not just you. “You guys play soon?”
“Few days. Still practicing.”
“Cool. That’s cool. Hockey. On ice. With the puck and the … sticks.”
Oh god, someone needs to stop you from talking.
Quinn’s smile widens. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the concept.”
“I’m going to stop talking now,” you say.
“You don’t have to.”
“I think I do. For everyone’s safety.”
He laughs, and it’s a nice sound, genuine and warm. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t face-plant. That would’ve been a bad end to a gold medal day.”
“The worst,” you agree emphatically. “Can you imagine? ‘Olympic athlete forgets how to walk, more at eleven.’”
“‘Figure skater discovers hidden talent for floor routine.’”
You laugh, surprised. “Okay, that was good.”
“I have my moments.”
There’s a beat of silence that’s not quite awkward but also not quite comfortable, and you become very aware that there are a lot of people watching this interaction. Including, you notice with horror, an NBC camera that’s definitely pointed in your direction.
“I should probably-” you start.
“Yeah, no, definitely-” Quinn says at the same time.
You both stop. Both smile. Both look anywhere but directly at each other.
“Congratulations,” Quinn says finally. “On the gold. Really.”
“Thanks. Good luck with your games.”
“Thanks.”
He nods, gives you one more small smile, and then walks back toward a group of guys in Team USA hockey gear who are all very obviously staring.
You turn back toward your team and nearly run directly into Ilia, who is grinning so wide his face might actually split in half.
“Don’t,” you warn.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You’re thinking it very loudly.”
“I’m just thinking that was very interesting,” Ilia says innocently. “Very … smooth.”
“I almost fell on my face.”
“But you didn’t, because Hockey Boy caught you. Very heroic. Very romantic.”
“It was not romantic. It was embarrassing.”
“It was romantically embarrassing,” Madison says, appearing on your other side like an ice dancing fairy godmother of meddling. “I filmed the whole thing.”
“You what?”
She holds up her phone, where a video is very clearly playing of your near-fall and Quinn’s save and the subsequent incredibly awkward conversation.
“Madi, no.”
“Madi yes. This is gold. Well, you already have gold, so this is like … platinum. This is platinum content.”
“Please don’t post that.”
“Oh honey,” Madison says, her expression shifting to something between amused and apologetic. “I don’t have to post it. NBC was live the whole time.”
Your blood runs cold. “What?”
“Live stream,” Evan confirms, looking at his own phone. “Team USA Winter House celebration, streaming on NBC Olympics digital platforms. And … yeah, you guys are already trending on Twitter.”
“No.”
“‘Quinn Hughes’ is trending,” Evan continues, scrolling. “‘Y/N Malinina’ is trending. ‘Figure skater and hockey player’ is trending. Oh, and ‘Olympic meet cute’ is-”
“Stop reading!” You yelp, lunging for his phone.
He holds it out of reach, still scrolling. “The tweets are very supportive. Lots of heart emojis. Someone made a gif already—wow, that was fast.”
Across the room, you can see the hockey players surrounding Quinn, and they appear to be giving him an equal amount of grief based on the shoving and the laughter and the way Quinn has his face in his hands.
“This is a nightmare,” you mutter.
“This is amazing,” Ilia corrects. “My sister has an Olympic meet cute that went viral in real time. Do you know how many people can say that?”
“Hopefully zero, because it sounds awful.”
“It’s kind of cute,” Ellie offers. “In like, a totally mortifying way.”
“That’s not helpful.”
Your phone starts buzzing in your pocket. Then it doesn’t stop. You pull it out to find approximately a million notifications — Twitter, Instagram, texts from friends, texts from people you haven’t talked to since high school.
“Oh no,” you whisper.
“Oh yes,” Madison counters, delighted.
One of the NBC producers approaches, looking thrilled. “Y/N! Quick question — would you and Quinn be willing to do a joint interview about your, uh, moment?”
“No,” you say immediately.
“It would be great content-”
“Absolutely not.”
“We could frame it as-”
“I’m going to frame myself into a witness protection program if you don’t stop talking,” you say pleasantly.
The producer laughs like you’re joking. You are not joking.
Ilia is still watching the hockey players across the room. “His teammates are definitely making fun of him.”
“Good. Solidarity in suffering.”
“You could go over there,” Madison suggests. “Continue the conversation. Exchange numbers, maybe.”
“Or,” you counter, “I could do literally anything else.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m plenty of fun. I’m just not ‘let’s extend my viral embarrassment’ fun.”
Ilia bumps your shoulder. “But now you see? Hockey players aren’t so bad.”
“One hockey player saved me from death by rug. That’s not a representative sample size.”
“It’s a start though.”
You look down at your medal, then back up at the party, at your team, at the hockey players still giving Quinn grief across the room. When you catch his eye accidentally, he gives you a small, apologetic shrug, and you shrug back like what can you do?
Your phone buzzes one more time. This time it’s a screenshot of a tweet with several thousand likes. BREAKING: Olympic figure skater Y/N Malinina and hockey player Quinn Hughes give us the meet cute we didn’t know we needed. Someone write the fanfic immediately #MilanoCortina2026
“I hate the internet,” you announce.
“The internet loves you,” Madison counters.
“That’s not comforting.”
But when you look at the video Madison took, watching Quinn catch you and the way you both stumbled through that conversation like awkward teenagers, you can’t help but think it’s kind of … sweet. In a mortifying, going-to-be-on-SportsCenter-forever kind of way.
Your dad appears, blessedly unaware of the social media chaos. “We should talk about practice schedule for individual event.”
“Yes,” you say gratefully. “Let’s do that. Let’s talk about skating. My favorite subject that doesn’t involve viral videos.”
“Viral videos?” He asks, confused.
“Nothing, Papa. Let’s just go plan world domination.”
As you follow him toward a quieter corner, you glance back one more time. Quinn is looking at his phone, then at you, then quickly away when he realizes you caught him.
You bite back a smile.
But you do bookmark the tweets.
Just in case.
***
The arena is electric with anticipation. You’re sitting in the Team USA section, squeezed between Alysa and Amber, your hands clasped so tightly together your knuckles have gone white.
Ilia is skating last, in first place after the short program, five points ahead, and everyone knows what happens when Ilia Malinin skates last. He wins. He always wins.
Except your stomach has been in knots since this morning.
“He’s got this,” Alysa says, squeezing your shoulder. “He always has this.”
“I know,” you say, but your voice sounds hollow even to your ears.
The thing about being twins is that sometimes you just know. You feel things in your bones, in the space between your heartbeats. And right now, something feels off.
The ice has been terrible all day. You watched skater after skater struggle, blades catching on rough patches, visible puddles forming under the lights. Only one skater — Mikhail Shaidorov from Kazakhstan — managed a completely clean program, and he’s currently sitting in first place with a score that seemed impossible an hour ago.
“Representing the United States of America,” the announcer’s voice booms through the arena. “Ilia Malinin.”
The crowd roars. Your heart hammers against your ribs.
Ilia skates to center ice, and even from here you can see the set of his shoulders, the way he’s holding himself. You know that posture. That’s his trying-to-convince-himself-he’s-fine posture.
The music for “The Voice” starts, dramatic and soaring and perfect for him, and Ilia launches into his opening footwork.
“Come on,” you whisper. “Come on, come on, come on.”
The quad flip comes first. It’s massive, his usual height and rotation, and he lands it mostly clean. A tiny bobble on the landing, nothing major, but you saw it. So did he.
“Good,” Evan murmurs from behind you. “That’s good.”
Then comes the moment everyone’s been waiting for. The quad Axel. The jump that only Ilia can do, the jump that made him famous, the jump that turned him from a skater into a legend.
You watch him set up, see the entry edge, and then-
He launches.
One rotation.
That’s it.
Just one.
He crashes to the ice, and the arena gasps collectively, and you feel something crack in your chest.
“No,” you breathe. “No, no, no.”
Ilia gets up immediately, the way he’s trained to do, the way you’ve both been trained to do since you were kids. Keep skating. Don’t let them see it hurt. The music doesn’t stop for your mistakes.
He goes into the quad Lutz and nails it, perfect height, perfect rotation, perfect landing. See? Your brain tries to tell you. He’s fine. He’s got this.
But you know better. You know what missing the quad Axel does to him mentally. You know how much he puts on that jump, how much of his identity is wrapped up in being the only one who can do it.
The next quad Lutz is planned, choreographed, supposed to be the exclamation point before the step sequence.
It comes out as a double.
A double Lutz. The kind of jump you were both landing when you were twelve.
“Oh god,” you whisper.
The camel spin is fine. The step sequence is fine. Ilia performs them with the artistry and speed that made him a world champion, but you can see it — the way he’s already in his head, already spiraling.
The quad Lutz after the step sequence should be automatic. You’ve watched him land it thousands of times.
He falls.
Hard.
You watch him hit the ice and feel it in your own bones, phantom pain in your hip where you know his is going to bruise.
“Come on, Ilia,” Amber is saying. “Come back. You can come back.”
He gets up. He always gets up. The music keeps playing, and Ilia keeps skating, because that’s what you do. That’s what you’ve both always done.
The quad toe-triple toe combination is clean. Perfect, even. For a second, you think maybe he can pull this together, maybe the damage isn’t as bad as it feels.
Then comes the final jumping pass. The quad Salchow that’s supposed to be the victory lap, the cherry on top of a gold medal performance.
Ilia eases off mid-rotation.
You can see it happen, see the moment he doesn’t commit, see him pull out and turn it into a double. And then his blade catches — one of those rough patches, one of those holes in the ice that have been plaguing skaters all day — and he’s falling again.
His second fall.
The crowd groans, sympathetic and horrified, and you feel tears burning in your eyes.
“Get up,” you whisper. “Please get up.”
He does. Because he’s Ilia, and he doesn’t know how to quit.
The backflip at the end is perfect — newly legal in competition and signature Ilia, crowd-pleasing and defiant. But it lands different after a performance like this. It doesn’t feel victorious. It feels desperate.
The choreographic sequence ends, and Ilia hits his final pose, and the arena applauds because that’s what you do for Olympians, but it’s not the roar it would have been.
Ilia puts his hands to his face immediately.
You can see it even from here, the way his shoulders curl in, the way he knows. He knows he didn’t do enough. Knows that Shaidorov’s lead — thirty-seven points, you heard someone calculating — is insurmountable.
“Oh, Ilia,” Amber says softly.
You’re already moving.
“Y/N-” Alysa starts, but you’re pushing past her, past the other Team USA athletes, past the volunteers trying to direct you back to your seat.
You need to get to your brother.
The mixed zone is chaos — reporters everywhere, cameras, microphones, everyone trying to get a statement from the fallen favorite. Ilia is walking toward the kiss and cry with your father and Rafael, and his face is doing that thing where he’s trying to hold it together, trying to be professional, but you can see the cracks forming.
The scores come up. You can see them on the monitor as you push through the crowd.
Fifteenth place. In the free skate.
Which puts him … you do the math quickly, factoring in his short program placement …
Eighth overall.
Off the podium entirely.
The man who hasn’t lost to anyone in more than two years just lost to seven people in one competition. The gold medal favorite. The Quad God. The one everyone expected to dominate.
Gone.
Ilia stands up from the kiss and cry, and you can see your father saying something to him, see Rafael’s hand on his shoulder, but Ilia is already moving, already trying to escape to somewhere private.
That’s when you break through the final barrier of reporters.
“Ilyusha!”
He turns, and when he sees you, something in his expression crumbles just slightly.
You don’t care that there are cameras. You don’t care that you’re probably making a scene. You don’t care about anything except getting to your twin.
You pull him into your arms, and for a second, he’s stiff, still trying to hold it together. But then he folds into you, and you feel him shaking.
“Come on,” you murmur into his shoulder. “Not here. Come with me.”
You steer him away from the cameras, from the reporters shouting questions, from Rafael trying to organize the post-skate interviews. Your father catches your eye, and you shake your head. Not now. Later. Right now, Ilia needs you.
You find a hallway backstage that’s mercifully empty, and Ilia slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, his head in his hands.
You sit down right next to him, your shoulder pressed against his, your gold medal from the team event clinking softly as you settle.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. You just sit there, twins the way you’ve always been, breathing in sync.
“I choked,” Ilia finally says, his voice raw. “I fucking choked.”
“The ice was horrible today,” you say immediately. “Only one skater managed a clean program-”
“Shaidorov managed it.”
“He’s the only one! Everyone else struggled. There were puddles out there, Ilia. Holes in the ice. I saw at least three skaters catch edges on rough patches-”
“I’m not everyone else,” Ilia cuts you off. “I’m supposed to be better than that. I’m supposed to be able to skate through anything.”
“You’re human,” you say firmly. “You’re allowed to have a bad skate.”
“Not at the Olympics.” He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Not when everyone expects me to win. Not when I told everyone I could win.”
“Expectations aren’t contracts.”
“Maybe they should be.” He drops his hands, staring at the wall across from you. “Do you know what they’re going to say? The commentators, the media, everyone? They’re going to say the Quad God fell from grace. They’re going to analyze every mistake, every rotation I missed. They’re going to ask what happened to the Ilia Malinin who landed a quad Axel like it was nothing.”
“So let them talk,” you say. “You’re still the only one who can do the impossible. Just because you missed it today doesn’t mean anything-”
“It means I got in my own head,” Ilia interrupts. “It means I let the pressure get to me. It means I failed.”
“One skate,” you say, grabbing his hand and squeezing hard. “This was one skate, Ilyusha. The next time you go out on the ice, you’ll be back to skating like the Ilia everyone knows. The Ilia I know.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Yes, you can. You’ve done it before. Remember junior nationals when you were fifteen and fell on your quad toe in the short program? You came back in the free skate and landed everything. You won.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“The stakes weren’t this high. The whole world wasn’t watching.”
You turn to face him fully, forcing him to look at you. “The whole world watching doesn’t change who you are. You’re Ilia Malinin. You’re my twin. You’re the most talented skater I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been watching you skate since we were five years old. One bad performance doesn’t erase everything you’ve accomplished.”
“It wasn’t fair,” he says quietly. “The pressure. The expectations. Everyone calling me the gold medal favorite before I even landed in Italy.”
“No,” you agree. “It wasn’t fair. But you know what else isn’t fair? You tearing yourself down when you gave everything you had out there. The ice was terrible. The pressure was insane. And you still got up after every fall and kept skating, because that’s what champions do.”
“Champions don’t fall in the first place.”
“Bullshit,” you say, and your vehemence surprises both of you. “Champions fall all the time. They just get back up. Which you did. Every time.”
Ilia is quiet for a moment, and you can see him trying to process, trying to find a way to make this okay in his head. But you know your twin. You know how hard he is on himself, how much he internalizes every mistake.
“I have no one to blame but myself,” he finally says. “I’m the one who started calling myself the Quad God. I’m the one who gave myself this reputation, these expectations. I did this.”
“No,” you say firmly. “You earned your reputation by being incredible. By pushing the boundaries of the sport. By doing things no one else can do. That’s not arrogance, Ilyusha. That’s fact. You are the Quad God. One bad skate doesn’t change that.”
“Seven people beat me today.”
“And how many people have you beaten in the last two years? How many competitions have you won? How many records have you broken?” You squeeze his hand harder. “You’re allowed to be human. You’re allowed to have a day where things don’t go right. That doesn’t erase everything else.”
“It feels like it does,” he whispers, and he sounds so young, so much like the little boy who used to cry when he fell in practice because he thought it meant he wasn’t good enough.
“I know,” you say, softer now. “I know it feels like that. But it’s not true. You’re still you. Still the best skater I’ve ever seen. Still my twin, who I love more than anyone in the entire world.”
That gets a ghost of a smile. “More than anyone?”
“More than anyone,” you confirm. “There’s literally no one I love more than you, you idiot. Which is why I’m not going to let you sit here and tear yourself apart over one skate.”
“Even if I deserve it?”
“You’ve never deserved anything less.” You lean your head on his shoulder. “You’re going to go back to training. You’re going to land the quad Axel again, probably tomorrow knowing you. You’re going to win more competitions. And in four years, you’re going to come back to the Olympics and show everyone exactly who Ilia Malinin is.”
“You sound very sure of that.”
“I am sure of that. Because I know you. And I know that this-” you gesture vaguely at the hallway, at the arena beyond, at the catastrophe of today, “-this is just a chapter. It’s not the whole story.”
Ilia is quiet for a long time, just breathing, his shoulder warm against yours. You can hear the muffled sounds of the arena beyond, the footsteps of spectators filing out, the world moving on because it always does.
“Thank you,” he finally says. “For coming to get me. For sitting here.”
“Always,” you say simply. “One for both, both for one. Remember?”
“I remember.” He squeezes your hand back, finally. “I’m still going to beat myself up about this later.”
“I know. But not right now. Right now, you’re just going to sit here with me and breathe.”
“Okay,” he agrees. “I can do that.”
You sit in silence for a while longer, twins the way you’ve always been, connected in a way that doesn’t need words. His pain is your pain. His heartbreak is your heartbreak.
But his strength is your strength too. And yours is his.
Eventually, you’ll both have to get up. Face the reporters, the media, the post-skate analysis. Eventually, Ilia will have to watch the replays, sit through the debriefs, figure out what went wrong and how to fix it.
But not yet.
Right now, you just sit on the floor together, Olympic athletes and siblings and best friends, and you hold each other up the way you always have.
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