cellysbookshelf

The harsh lighting in the bathroom made the flush across Maddie’s face more prominent than ever as Harper, who was standing behind her clipped the 15 dollar veil they’d bought on the way into her hair. Maddie half turned, examining her short white dress and heels before turning to her sister. They’d bought the dress in a rush at a boutique down the street, and a woman with blue glittery eyeshadow said it was “to die for” and she was right. It was perfect for the occasion.

Harper was smiling widely at her, her own drunken flush across her cheeks. Her eyeliner was slightly smudged from crying, both from the cup win and Seth’s random proposal in the hallway of the arena “This shit is so crazy.” She said clasping her hands under her chin excitedly “Your sure right?”

“Hell yeah.” Maddie said with a wink.

In the other room, the entirety of the Carolina Hurricanes, staff, coaches, family, the Stanley cup and its keeper was crammed into the small chapel area. There wasn’t a single hand that wasn’t holding a drink and the vibes were so high the roof could have been blown right off. These was a buzz in the air that would never be able to be replicated for a normal wedding. And today seemed as good a reason as any.

The organ was playing lowly in the background as Seth made his way out of the men’s room followed by his brother and then Andrei. He was wearing the suit he’d worn to the game, minus the tie which had been lost an hour ago. A loud round of applause went up as he came down the aisle, high fived Elvis and found his spot at the front by the altar. It was then that he noticed Svech was wearing a jacket with no shirt underneath and PK had no shoes on. This was the absolute best time of his life.

To his left, the Stanley cup gleamed in the first row, seated on two chairs pushed together. The neon from the flashing sign in the lobby twisted into two hearts and an arrow reflected off the names engraved on the cup from the last 50 years. A cup that his name would soon be on.

The chapel director appeared at the end of the aisle and clapped her hands.

“Ahem!” She yelled. All eyes turned towards her and the noise died down. She grinned “The bride is ready. Places people!”

Everyone rushed to a seat, some having to stand, some sharing one chair. A nervous jolt of energy went from his head to his toes as the organ started again, louder this time. Harper came around the corner, holding a bouquet of bright pink flowers tied with a shiny black ribbon. She was wearing a short black dress with black heels that strapped at the ankle. Her hair was half up, and she wore hooped earrings. Svech leaned into the aisle and his mouth fell open slightly as he watched her make her way down the aisle towards them. She winked at him when she reached the end and came forward to give Seth a hug and a kiss on the cheek before taking her place across from him.

As “here comes the bride” came over the organ a loud drunken cheer went up from the audience as Maddie materialized behind a sheer white curtain that had been blocking the entrance to the chapel. She came slowly up the aisle, heels clicking across the floor as until she was standing across from him grinning.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Elvis said from his spot between them, pushing hair off his forehead and lowering his glasses down his nose slightly. His white suit glittered under the lights as he pulled the microphone closer to his mouth “We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of these two beautiful souls. If anyone can see a reasons why these two shouldn’t be wed today speak now. If not, sit down and enjoy the show.” The crowd laughed and cheered and Elvis pulled out a leather clad, bedazzled Bible from the pocket of his suit.

On the outside this whole thing looked ridiculous. But a big stuffy church wedding wasn’t who Seth and Maddie were. And they didn’t need a priest to tell them anything about love. They knew enough about that.

He turned to Maddie first “Madison Alexander do you take Seth Jarvis to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, to love, honor, and cherish?" He asked surveying her over his glasses.

Maddie grinned at him “I do Elvis.”

“Thank you very much.” He said quickly turning to Seth and doing a little shimmy as he did somewhere behind Maddie Harper snorted out a laugh and cleared her throat to cover it up “Seth Jarvis do you take Madison Alexander to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, to love, honor, and cherish?"

“Hell yeah I do Elvis!” He said amidst the cheers and whistles.

The rings, which Harper handed to Maddie weren’t their actual rings, but a placeholder till they got back home to Carolina. They were fake and gaudy looking, but considering the venue they fit in perfectly. Harper handed Seth’s to his brother, and the scooted back behind Madison as Elvis continued.

“Like a fountain of love, flowing endlessly, these rings and the love they represent will nourish you, in this life and the next. The ring is only a symbol. It shows the world that you belong to someone, just as they belong to your heart. But remember as you wear them, that your care, devotion, and concern for one another are the true signs of your love.”

He smiled at Madison “Repeat after me darlin, I give you this ring as a token of my love. You are the only one for me."

Madison did so and slid the ring up Seth’s finger. And then it was his turn to say the words and put hers on.

Elvis spoke a little about love, with heartfelt music playing in the background as he did. At one point he even pulled out a ukulele and sang a tune. Even though it was silly, the words he said we all true. As they moved to their vows, he handed Seth a small laminated card to read from.

Seth cleared his throat and blinked “I promise to always love you tender, and never leave you at Heartbreak Hotel. I promise to never step on your blue suede shoes, or treat you like a fool. I will never have a suspicious mind. And from this day forward, I promise to be your hunka hunka burning love." Seth’s teammates were making noises somewhere between laughing and yelling as Elvis turned to Madison and handed her, her own card to read from, which was more or less the same.

“I promise to never leave you in Heartbreak Hotel, or have a suspicious mind. I promise to love you tender, and love you sweet, and never let you go. You have made my life complete, and I promise to always love you so. Because your kisses lift me higher, like the sweet song of a choir. You light my morning sky, with burning love.” She said giggling out the last part.

“WOOOOOO!” Someone screamed from the audience as Maddie finished speaking. Harper was in stitches behind her, tears leaking from her eyes as the applause rose up again.

Maddie was shaking in anticipation as Elvis finally closed his bible, cleared his throat and a spotlight shone down on them "By the power vested in me, and on behalf of the King of Rock 'n' Roll and the great state of Las Vegas , I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss the bride!”

The room erupted as Seth pulled Maddie forward and kissed her like never before. In the background someone popped a champagne bottle, and gold confetti exploded from the corners and ceiling and rained down on them.

Amongst the screaming Viva Las Vegas played loudly from the band and Elvis grabbed mic and started to sing.

When they broke apart Maddie was laughing and crying “This is so tacky. But it’s the best day of my life.”

“Mine too. I love you Mrs. Jarvis.”

“I love you too Mr. Jarvis.”

The darkness outside was deep and quiet, only the lights around the pool were on, and glowing softly through the curtains hanging over the sliding glass door. The couch was so comfortable and she snuggled in deeper as she listened to Ella, the newest member of the family breathing softly. She had been born after the high of the Olympics had faded a bit, and came quickly and quietly into the world.

She was perfect.

Hallie ran a finger over the ridge of her upper lip and smiled. She had abnormally long lashes, and her hair already had some wispy curls in it. Lilly and Joshua had both been born bald, with curly hair coming in before they turned 1. Thomas had been born with a full head and this little one was somewhere in between. Her eyes were blue like all the kids, but darker like Hallie’s. She looks just like Lilly as a baby, who was Hallie’s twin.

She’d woken up crying at 11 pm. Hallie had plucked her from the crib and hobbled downstairs with her slowly, fed her, changed her and wrapped her up before settling under a blanket herself.

She had drifted off shortly after, only waking when she heard someone coming down the stairs. She listened closely.

Thomas

She heard the sound of his bare feet against the tile of the kitchen floor and the fridge door open, water being poured and then a cup being placed quietly in the sink.

Then she heard the hall closet open and he appeared a moment later dragging a blanket and extra couch pillow. He smiled sleepily at her, rubbing one eye.

“Hi mommy.” He said with a yawn. His shirt was twisted from sleep and his shorts looked like they were on backwards, and his curls were everywhere but he was still her perfect boy, and the best big brother.

“Hi. What are you doing up?” She said leaning over so he could kiss her on the cheek.

He yawned again and leaned over to look at Ella and smiled “I got thirsty.”

He made his way around the arm of the sofa and climbed up next to her situating a pillow against her hip and spreading the blanket over himself. Then he looked up at her “I think I’ll stay here a while. So you don’t have to be alone.” She heard the pitter patter of smaller feet and the jingle of a bell and Bennett the cat, named after Sam of course, came from downstairs and made his way leisurely up on the couch, stretching and yawning before curling up at Hallie’s feet.

Jenny, the newest member of the animal family, a jet black kitten with white feet, had been laying quietly on the cat tree in the corner and hopped down jumping up and laying on the top part of the couch next to Thomas’s head. He smiled at her, snuggled in and the promptly fell asleep. Hallie leaned her head back eyes swiveling to the tv. She too yawned and sank into the sofa, eyes closing. She had been asleep only a little while when she heard more movement from the house.

The wall clock said 1 am. She opened her eyes and saw Lilly making her way down the steps one at a time, clutching her favorite blanket and her pink dolphin, Penny the Dalmatian behind her. She surveyed the scene on the sofa and she too climbed up next to Thomas, who woke with a start and the lifted the blanket so she could climb up next to him. He threw an arm over her and Lilly reached up and gave Hallie a small pat on the leg and a smile and then closed her eyes. Penny curled in up at the kids feet, eyes closing.

At 3 am Matthew came down quietly, holding Joshua.

“Hi.” Hallie said smiling.

He surveyed the scene and chuckled quietly “Having a sleepover without us I see.”

She glanced at Thomas, who was only visible from the shoulders up asleep next to Lilly who was clutching her pink dolphin “They all made their way down here. Except him.”

“He climbed into bed asking for you.” He shuffled across the living room to the empty spot on the opposite side of the couch and carefully laid down without disturbing a sleeping Joshua. Penny woke and wagged her tail, before stretching out and yawning. Matthew pulled a blanket up over them and sighed before looking over at her and giving Penny a pat on the side.

“Do you think we have too many kids?” He asked looking at them as they slept.

She shook her head “No. But I do think we should decide when to stop. What are your thoughts?”

“Hmmmmm.” He blew out a breath eyes moving to the big family portrait they’d taken after Ella came home in front of the house. It was hung next to the one they’d taken with Joshua after the first cup win. Next to that was with Lilly in front of the house right after it had been purchased, and then finally the one with Thomas on the couch in his parents house. It was just the three of them then. They’d been so young, and so not ready to be parents but here they were years later with a house full of kids doing just fine. His eyes moved over and each until it rested on it rested on the last one. He was quiet a moment before he said “One more maybe? 5 sounds nice.”

Hallie smiled thoughtfully “It does, doesn’t it?”

He nodded and brushed a lock of curly hair from Joshua’s forehead and nodded “I thought so. I’ll miss having babies though. Whatever we have next will be our last one.”

“Me too.” The thought made Hallie’s eyes water a little but she blinked them away. Pregnancy was hard on her body, but the more kids she had the more she felt her heart grow. She’d never thought she would be here, but now she never wanted to leave.

“We’re doing alright aren’t we? You and me?” He said looking at her dreamily, like he always did. He loved her so much. The best father to her children she could ever ask for. And the man who gave her the life she had always wanted.

She nodded and yawned, eyes sliding closed “We’re doing great. Did you think we wouldn’t be?”

“I didn’t think we’d ever be anything. I was prepared to take what I could get. But I wouldn’t wanna do life with anyone but you.”

She turned a little on her side to face him and closed her eyes “I kind of love you Matthew Tkachuk.”

He grinned “I kind of love you too Hal.”

“Goodnight.” She whispered.

“I’m fine.”

She wasn’t fine. She was actually far from fine. She was in deep denial that she was in labor but she knew. The contractions had started around 10 am that day. Nothing alarming, just a quick random one here and there. Could have even been Braxton hicks. She wasn’t concerned. Around 4 pm they still came at random but they were enough to stop her in her tracks. She’d ignored them as best she could for the next few hours, and watching the game had helped. But it was over now, and the pain that had been creeping in was hard to ignore.

She could NOT be laboring now. Not when Matthew wasn’t here and not when the panthers had just had a crushing 5-1 loss in a game 6, and definitely not two weeks early.

But like all the Tkachuk’s, this baby clearly had a mind of his own because now at 10:45, they were getting more painful and more consistent.

She felt a hand on her forehead and looked up to see Chantal.

“Honey your so sweaty. Your not in labor are you?”

“No I cannot be in labor because Matthew’s not here and this baby isn’t due for 2 more weeks.” Hallie said, eyes closing as another one hit her. She sat up and winced a little as it passed through her upper abdomen, down her stomach and out through her lower back. When it was over she let out a huff of air and felt her body deflate and relax.

She stood slowly from the sofa and stretched gingerly “I’m going to take a warm shower. Can someone listen in case one of the kids wakes up please?”

No one said anything as they watched her shuffle from the room but as she made her way up the stairs she heard some hurried whispering between them, and a door open and close.

Halfway to the bathroom she was hit with another one that made her double over with a hand braced on the wall. She let out a small noise of discomfort as she straightened up and continued her walk to the shower breathing deeply. Anxiety had set in long ago and her stomach felt jumpy and she had the shakes. Labor was scary and she hadn’t had to go through it alone yet. She closed the bathroom door and turned on the water, undressing and clipping her hair up.

The warm water felt cool on her hot skin as she let it run down her back and shoulders. She stomach looked huge and swollen, and her feet or what she could see of them looked red and purple, large around the ankles. The pressure in her lower half was enormous and her skin felt hot. This was the most inconvenient time for this to happen. He wasn’t supposed to come till after the cup was won and the season was over. The doctors had just told her he wasn’t low, no dilation, no effacement, no indication he was coming early.

Goddamnit.

She turned off the water and stepped out,

Pulling her hair from the clip and ran a brush through it eyes closed, breathing deeply through her nose. Her phone lit up, Matthew’s name and face on the screen and she answered.

“Hello?” Her voice cracked and she realized she was crying. She wiped at a tear that had run down her cheek and into her neck.

“Hey are you okay? My mom called.”

“I’m okay. But I think I’m in labor.” She squinted and bit down hard on her lip when another contraction hit her. She gripped the counter as she nearly tipped sideways.

“Fuck!” He swore on the other end of the phone “Okay uh. I’m getting on the plane now I’ll be there as soon as I can. Try and stay calm and take deep breaths. Go to the hospital if you have to. I’ll be there. I promise you I’ll be there. I love you.”

He hung up before she could answer him and she pulled shorts and a loose fitting long sleeve shirt, and made her way back downstairs. Brady and Keith who had been both been outside were now seated on the sofa, looking at her with concern.

“You don’t look so good.” Brady said.

“I don’t feel so good.” She said quietly “Matthew just called me. He’s getting on the plane. He said he’d meet me at the hospital. But I’m not ready yet.” She winced and doubled over, hand on her pelvis. They all stood tentatively in case she might fall, but she took several deep breaths and slowly straightened back up.

“How far apart are they?” Chantal asked rubbing her back.

“About 10 minutes.” She rubbed a hand over her stomach and looked at Brady “Can you stay with the kids please? There’s clothing set out for each of them for the morning, breakfast-“

“Don’t worry about that stuff. I got it. You worry about you. Well stay the night with the kids and bring them over tomorrow when your ready.”

Keith looked at Brady mildly surprised “That sounded so responsible Brady I’m impressed.”

Hallie managed a laugh and gripped the arm of the sofa “I need to sit for a while and grab my things. I’ll be ready to go soon.”

She made her way back upstairs slowly to their room and set her pre-packed hospital bag on the bed. She picked through it double checking she had everything and threw a few last minute items in it she would need.

Phone charger

Wallet

Hairbrush

Slippers

Face lotion

She tossed all of it in and zipped it before she sat down heavily on the bench at the door of their bed, body feeling hot and tired.

And that’s when she felt it.

A large gush of fluid that came rushing out and pooled between her feet.

“Oh no no no no.” She groaned, tears leaking from her eyes.

She grabbed her towel from the bathroom door and mopped it up using her feet. She felt another stronger contraction hit her then and it was so painful she didn’t hear the approaching footsteps. She let out a audible cry as more tear spilled over her cheeks..

“Hallie are you okay-uh oh.”

Hallie glanced up with two eyes full of tears to find Chantal in the doorway staring at the puddle.

“I think I’m ready to go now.”

Things were a blur from that point on. She had been rushed to the car, Keith behind the wheel, and he’d dropped her, Chantal and Taryn off at the front of the hospital with a “goodluck” and a wave. She was now teetering on the brink of sleep at 2 am. The epidural was at its peak and she was exhausted. The doctor had just left and turned the lights down, and told her to get some rest because in a few hours she would need it.

Chantal was in the chair next to her bed, and Taryn was next to her. They both had their eyes closed, hospital blankets pulled over them. Brady had texted her at 1 and assured her that all was quiet at home, and they’d be by sometime tomorrow with the kids.

Hallie adjusted herself and closed her eyes, sleep coming instantly.

The next thing she knew a cool hand was stroking her forehead.

She opened her eyes, confused and then smiled “You made it.” She whispered a tear rolling out of her eye and down her cheek. She was so glad to see him there at her bedside. He looked tired but he was staring at her, eyes sparkling and she finally felt ready and okay.

“Of course I did. I wouldn’t miss it.” He smiled at her and kissed her forehead “I got here 45 minutes ago. The doctor said you’d been asleep since 2? Feel any better?”

“Your still in your suit.” She said tugging playfully at his tie “I’m okay. Just feel like my epidural might be starting to wear off.”

He nodded “It is. My mom and my sister ran home to get me a change of clothing. I came straight from the airport. They should be back soon.”

“I’m sorry.”

He frowned and sat on the bed “For?”

She sniffled “For him coming early.”

He looked dumbfounded and then pulled a face at her like she was crazy “Hallie. Don’t apologize. This is the best gift I could ask for. A baby and Stanley cup!” He clapped his hands together just as the doctor came in.

“Ah. You made it. We were hoping you would. How are you feeling?”

Hallie and the doctor spoke at length about how she was feeling and what would be coming next.

At this hour she was 9 cm dilated and fully effaced. The baby was head down, exactly where he should be and the doctor advised her that her labor would most likely progress rapidly from that point on, and then left the room to prepare for delivery.

After she left, Chantal and Taryn returned with clothing for Matthew and big smiles.

“It’s go time!” He said gleefully grabbing the clothes and hurrying into the bathroom.

“It is?!” Chantal asked excitedly.

“9 cm and fully effaced.” Hallie said eyes closed. She’d been so comfortable just hours ago, and now the contractions were back and painful, but she felt almost like she was ready to push.

She frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Matthew asked catching her expression. A look of worry crossed his face as she let out a breath and then pushed herself upwards by her feet.

She looked up confused and winced “Something’s off, I think-“ her eyes flew open and she screamed so loud Taryn dropped her phone. Matthew looked alarmed, mouth hanging open, sputtering as he watched, frozen.

The nurse threw the door open in alarm, the gust of wind from it knocking several hanging papers off the door and table. She squeezed between Matthew and the bed and pulled blanket across Hallie’s legs up and gasped.

“Doctor!” She screamed and then suddenly there seemed to be 1,000 people in the room.

And then she heard it.

The telltale sound of a baby crying.

As the nurse lifted him up, the doctor hurried into the room only wearing 1 glove, glasses still hanging off the chain around her neck

Hallie’s head fell against the pillow and she let out a long breath. The nurse plucked her brand new baby right on her chest.

He was beautiful.

“Girl!” The doctor said laughing as she slid in between Hallie’s legs on her stool “You were supposed to wait for me!”

Hallie managed a small smile and a laugh as she peered down at the baby. A full head of curly hair, just like Thomas when he was born. His eyes were closed but Hallie knew they were blue like the others.

“Hey buddy.” Matthew said leaning down and smiling at him “Welcome to the world.”

Hallie watched as the nurse pulled him from her chest and placed him on the scale, cleaning him off before wrapping him back up while the doctors worked on Hallie.

“You look great.” The doctor was saying as she did her last checks and stood “Congratulations. Now you take that beautiful baby and go win us a Stanley Cup.” She said pointing at Matthew with a big smile as she left the room.

Shortly after the nurses left, Brady and Keith showed up with Thomas, who was elated to have a baby brother to play with some day, and Lilly who was still a baby herself. She stood on tip toe by Joshua’s bassinet to look in at him in her pink “Big sister” shirt and then looked at Thomas, who was wiping his eyes and smiling.

“Mommy. What’s his name?” He asked with a toothless grin.

“Joshua. What do you think?” She asked peering down at them from her spot on the bed.

“Baby Joshua!” Lilly said with a big smile “I love him.”

Hallie closed her eyes and then found Matthew’s in the room. While everyone cooed and examined over the baby, he was staring at Hallie. With a wink and a smile he squeezed her hand and then kissed her on the head.

“Hey Kate, your brother is calling.” Becca calls across the barn.

“Say what now.” She called back. “Hold on, I'll be there in a minute.” As she starts walking over, a lamb with black sock follows her over.

As she grabs the phone from her, she answers. “Hello?”

“Mom says you need to come babysit me.”

“What? Why?”

“Have you not been on the group chat for the past 20 minutes?”

“No, one of the lambs got out and I had to spend a half hour chasing it because it wouldn’t come to a bucket of grain.”

“Mom says you need to come babysit me.”

“I ask again why?”

“Did you not see the game last night?”

“No, I did not. I haven't watched one of your games since you were drafted.” Kate started rolling her eyes “I went to enough of your games growing up.”

“Rude, I was checked into the boards last night and I broke two ribs.”

“You’re a grown adult, why do I need to come babysit you?”

“Mom said you need to come babysit me, cause I apparently can’t take care of myself.”

“Any idea how long I’ll be there?”

“I don’t know, till I’m better.”

“Good lord, fine I’ll be there in two days, but you’re paying for my show fees for the next year.”

“Ok see you in two days.”

After Seth hangs up Kate turns to Becca. “Hey, can you finish feeding and watering everyone?”

“Sure, you good?”

“Yeah, I’m going down to Carolina. Seth broke two of his ribs and mom wants me to take care of him.”

“Isn’t he like 21?”

“Yes but for some reason he can’t be a grown adult and take care of himself.”

————————————————————————

“Hey, just got off the plane. Where are you at and where do I need to meet you?”

“Hello to you too, I’m sitting at the arrivals gate. I'll meet you there and then we’ll go down to baggage claim.”

“Ok I’ll meet you there.”

As she starts walking to arrivals, she pulls out her phone to text her favorite Great Dane.

“Hey Frederik.”

“What’s with the full name?”

“Wanted to get your attention.”

“Ahh, why?”

“Want to get lunch soon? I’m down here for a while taking care of Seth.”

“Sure, just let me know when.”

Once Kate gets to the arrival gate she not only sees her brother but another person with him.

“Seth!” As he turns around to see who called him the other person turns to, she recognizes him but cannot place his name. Kate turns to the player next to him. “Remind me of your name?”

“Teuvo.”

“Thank you.” Turning back to Seth. “Why could Teuvo take care of you? And doesn’t he live with you?”

“He’s still playing and traveling with the team. And yes.”

“Ahh. So where did you park?”

————————————————————————

“Have you gotten any snow yet?” Kate pipes up from the backseat.

“No.” Teuvo answers back quietly.

“That sucks, we’ve gotten 30 cm a couple times already.”

“Damn it's not very festive in here.” She states after Seth unlocks the door and lets her in first.

“We’ve been on the road for the past two weeks so we haven’t had time to decorate.”

“First order of business is to liven this place up. Can we go get a Christmas tree this weekend?”

————————————————————————

“You ready to pick out a tree?”

“Yes, let me put my shoes on first.” Seth calls out. “Turbo, you ready?”

“Yeah.” He calls coming out of his room.

“What do you think of this one?” Kate asks as they peruse the lines of trees to find the best one.

“Oo this one looks nice.” Seth says as he turns around to see the one his sister is holding up. “What do you think, Turbo?”

“I like that one.”

“Then let’s get this one.” She says, “Seth, can you carry it?”

“Can’t, broken ribs remember.” He looks over at her with a deadpan look.

“Fine, Teuvo will you help me carry it to the front?”

“Sure, do you want the front or the back?”

“I’ll take the front.”

As the three of them head back to the apartment. Kate pipes up. “So do you have any sentimental ornaments here or do we need to run to Target?”

“Let’s make a quick run to Target, we don't have any tree decorating supplies.” Seth says getting in the other lane to turn into Target.

“So we need a stand, lights, some ornaments and a star.” Kate says, pushing the cart down the different aisles. “What do we think of these lights?” She asks the boys turning around to show them the multicolored lights, but they were nowhere to be found. As she walks down the aisles trying to find them as she turns down the last one she sees them playing with two hockey stick ornaments. “What are you two doing?” As the two of them look up sheepishly. “I think we have found our first two ornaments, put them in the cart. Any more ornaments while we’re down here in this aisle?”

“How about this one?” Teuvo asks, holding up a small canes logo.

“That one looks perfect.”

“Alright, are we ready to start decorating?” Kate asks as she starts to unpack the bags they got at the store. As Seth makes the hot chocolate and starts the Christmas music. “Teuvo will you help me untangle the lights?”

“Sure.” He says taking them gently from her hands and handing her back one end.

————————————————————————

“Where are you going, that you are getting this dressed up for?” Seth asks from the doorways as Kate puts the finishing touches of her makeup on and fluffs her brown hair up one last time.

“I’m going out with Freddie.”

“How do you know Freddie?”

“I’ve met him before at a game in Winnipeg. I bumped into him going to get coffee before one of the games and I recognized him.”

“You do know Freddie has a girlfriend right.”

“Yeah we’re just friends.”

“You look gorgeous.” Freddie spoke as he opened the door to his car as he met her up on the sidewalk.

“Thank you, so where are we going for dinner?”

“Sushi sound good?”

“Yes.”

————————————————————————

“And a goal for Teuvo Teravainen!” Yells Tripp Tracy though the TV screen as Seth turns on the TV.

“I told you that the game started 10 minutes ago, but no you wanted to go get ramen an half hour before puck drop.”

“Sorry I was hungry.” As Seth turns back to cheer on the boys in Ottawa. Kate looked down at her phone and started to text Teuvo. “Your goal looked awesome!! Congrats <3”

When the team got back from Ottawa, Seth was out grocery shopping and Kate stayed back at the apartment to reorganize the kitchen. She heard the front door open and called out. “I’m almost done here then you can bring the groceries in and put them away.”

“Was I supposed to bring home groceries?”

“No, I thought you were Seth.” Kate spoke standing up and walking towards him. “Can I give you a hug for your goals and winning the game?”

“Sure.” He spoke softly.

————————————————————————

“Are you sure you want to do this? You haven’t skated since you were in high school.”

“Yes, Seth I’m fine it’s not something you forget, and if I fall I have two big strong men to catch me.” She said, patting both of their chests while Seth shot her a displeased look.

“You ready?” Teuvo asks, grabbing the skates she was going to use off the table and handing them to her. “Do you need help tying them?”

“Yeah I feel pretty good, it’s been a little while since I’ve skated but I feel pretty good.” As Kate starts lacing up her skates, she looks up at Teuvo. “No, I’m good, that's one muscle memory that doesn't go away.”

————————————————————————

“So when do we want to eat Christmas dinner?” “Teuvo, in Finland they eat the main Christmas meal of the 24th correct?”

“Yes, they do.”

“That’s what we’ll do then.”

————————————————————————

“Hey Seth, will you set the table please?” Kate asks from the kitchen, stirring a pot that neither Seth or Teuvo knew what it contained. “Seth, can you please come pull the ham out of the oven?”

“Sure.” As soon as Kate put all the dishes and plates on the table the boys were surprised with the amount of food to feed an army. And all the different dishes, there was Ham, Mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, rosolli salad, Porkkanalaatiko, bread, and gravlax.

“Kate, this looks like the best meal I’ve seen outside of Finland.”

“What’s the fish stuff?” Seth asked, poking it with his fork.

“It's salmon, you like salmon, just try it.”

“I hope you saved room for dessert, I made gingerbread cookies.” Kate mentioned pulling the tray out from the oven.

“I’ll start the coffee machine and turn on the Christmas movies.” Seth looks over at him questioningly. “It’s tradition to eat gingerbread cookies and coffee on Christmas and watch Christmas movies.”

————————————————————————

As Seth emerged from his room on Christmas, the sight of his sister standing over the stove cooking something was foreign as on Christmas, their mom usually just pops a breakfast casserole in the oven and lets it cook while they open presents. As he walked over to the stove he asked. “What are you doing, and what have you done with my sister?”

“Haha, very funny. I was researching Finnish Christmas traditions and they normally have rice porridge with butter and cinnamon for breakfast. And I don’t want Teuvo to feel left out.”

“But what about our breakfast casserole?”

In response to him asking that question she opens up the oven and inside is a breakfast casserole bubbling away.

“Kate, you didn’t have to do this for me.” He says as he stirs the porridge before pouring three bowls.

“I didn’t want you to feel left out, in having your traditional Christmas breakfast, it was not super hard to make and I was in the kitchen anyway making the casserole.”

As the three of them start to eat their porridge and the casserole. Seth pipes up “Kate did something happen, there’s a nut in mine.”

“It is a traditional part of the rice porridge whoever gets the almond makes a wish.” Teuvo answers for him.

————————————————————————

“Are you sure you have to leave?” Teuvo asked from the doorway as he watched Kate pack her bags.

“Yeah, lambing starts in a week and I need to be there just in case anything happens. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” He whispers, pulling her close. “I’ll help you put your bags in the car.” He says sadly, grabbing her suitcase.

“Hey, cheer up I’ll be texting you basically 24/7 from now on you’ll get sick and tired of me, this time next week.” She says passing by as she stops in the doorway next to him she gets on her tippy toes a little and gives him a kiss on the check.

The move from Raleigh to Dallas isn’t as jarring as the move from Denver to Raleigh had been. To be fair, one move hadn’t been his choice while Mikko’d had some say in the second.

Still, when he gets off the plane in Dallas three days after the trade deadline, following a back-to-back in Edmonton and Vancouver with his new team, he can’t help but be discombobulated.

The weather is different, the energy is different. Mikko, himself, is different.

He’s upset over how his time in Colorado ended, frustrated by his time in Carolina, excited to start his tenure in Dallas. There’s also a chip on his shoulder that hadn’t existed three months ago, a desire to prove himself on his newest team, to show that he’s worth the contract he signed with Dallas.

The locker room, with its overabundance of Finns, was welcoming and warm and familiar.

The whirlwind of travel and games and travel makes it difficult for the reality of the situation to really sink in until the plane lands in Dallas and Mikko is faced with the realization that he has nowhere to live currently.

“Ah, you’re coming with me,” Roope laughs, swings an arm over Mikko’s shoulder. “Kristina insists you stay with us until you find a place, but make it quick. Don’t want your ass hanging around too long, yeah?”

Mikko rolls his eyes, a faint smile playing on his lips, and replies in Finnish, “trust me, I don’t want to be living in your basement for longer than I have to.”

It’s nice to be able to have conversations in his native language and when they’re back at Roope and Kristina’s place, the conversation flows easily. Kristina is a perfect hostess and Mikko doesn’t really mind living with the couple, especially since he’s in the guest room and not the basement.

Mikko manages to make it three days - thank god they’re wheels up for Winnipeg - before he accidentally catches the couple on the verge of having sex in the kitchen. Roope’s hands are up the back of Kristina’s shirt and the noises, fucking Christ the noises. He makes an obnoxious fake gagging noise and Kristina squeaks, darting away from her husband while Roope, the bastard, simply laughs.

“Wouldn’t happen if you had your own place, Moose,” the rapid fire Finnish makes Mikko curl his lip in a sneer.

“Thought the kitchen was a communal area?” He replies, avoiding looking at Kristina. She’s flattening her hair and pretending to be busy in the refrigerator.

Roope laughs again, “how can you blame me when my wife is the most beautiful woman in the world?” He winks at Kristina and smirks at Mikko’s eye roll.

“You are trouble,” Kristina murmurs to her husband, swatting at his hip with her hand. To Mikko, she says, “don’t let him get to you. You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

The thing is, Mikko doesn’t really want to hang around the happy couple too much longer. It’s been at least a year since his last serious relationship ended and the last time he hooked up with a woman was when he was still wearing the red and black colors of the Hurricanes - a nightmare of a night with a woman he picked up in a Raleigh bar because she seemed to not know who he was and all the press coverage of his trade and his game play was getting to him. In the end, she’d asked if he had Andrei Svechnikov’s phone number and if she could have it.

It’s been just his hand ever since.

And frankly, it’s starting to get a little old.

Lonely is the adjective he might use if he examined his feelings a little bit.

A new eight year deal, a new home city, and no one to share it with.

He shoves a hand roughly through his curls, damp from his pre-flight shower, and his face must fall into a scowl because Kristina cocks her head at him and asks, “are you okay?”

He offers her a tight smile and a nod. “Just thinking about next steps,” he shrugs. “Going to have to find a realtor, get going on the house hunt.”

“Oh, well I can help with that,” she says brightly. “I’ll reach out to the agency that we used to buy this place. They were helpful and found a bunch of places really fast.”

Mikko shrugs. It’s not like he has many other options.

“Thanks,” he says warmly, kissing Kristina’s cheek. “I appreciate that.”

Kristina winks at him, giving him a smirk that he’s seen too often on Roope’s face. “It’s not totally selfless,” she laughs. “It’s tiring making sure Roope remembers we have a guest.”

“Ugh,” Mikko rolls his eyes again, laughing with the gesture. “Once I’m gone, you two can get back to whatever you want.”

“Off we go, Moose,” Roope shouts, returning with his carry-on. “Winnipeg is waiting!”

He loops an arm around Mikko’s neck and practically drags him to the door, laughter echoing around the house. Kristina promises to set up a meeting with the realtor for him and ushers them both out the door with a kiss for Roope and a hug for Mikko.

Next stop: Winnipeg.

———-

Lorraine Lewis hates her life.

Well, okay, no. She doesn’t hate hate her life. Not usually.

But she definitely hates it right now.

As in, this very second, she hates her life.

The office phones are ringing off the hook, her uncle Mike has fucked off to tropical parts unknown, her iPhone is vibrating with incessant and unending texts in her family group chat (“the insane asylum 🤪” as named by her youngest sister and hated by her mother. Rainey’s lost track of how many times Corrine Lewis has asked Willa to change the name of the group chat, it has to be in the thousands by now.), and - “Oh my god! Nash, do not -“

The long-haired dachshund puppy that Rainey unfortunately loves more than life itself gags and then vomits right on the carpet of her office.

Rainey groans and drops her head to her desktop with a thunk that she feels reverberate in her skull.

There’s a brief moment of silence and then Nash vomits again. Rainey lifts her head and glares at the puppy, who’s looking between her and the pile of vomit with his head cocked as if to say “are you going to do something about that, Mom?”

“You’re a terror and a menace and I should’ve never brought you home,” Rainey points her finger at the dog, shaking her head, no real heat in her tone. Nash barks once and prances off, disappearing out of the door to her office and likely making his way to Uncle Mike’s office where a second bed had been set up for the puppy. For all of his faults, and there are so many, Rainey’s uncle does love the puppy.

She allows herself one frustrated groan before twisting her hair up into a knot on top of her head and pushing out of her desk chair to retrieve the cleaning supplies from the office kitchen. This is not the first time Nash has vomited in her office and it’s probably not going to be the last.

She’s going to have to talk to the interns about giving him too many treats.

Again.

Sounding like a Boomer, even in her own mind, Rainey complains about the youths - entertaining herself by using Schmidt from New Girl’s inflection on the word.

“Hey, Rainey?” Layla’s voice, hesitant and thickly Dallas-accented, startles Rainey from her position on hands and knees cleaning, making her stomach lurch from the surprise and sends her falling to her side when her wrist gives out and she loses her balance.

“Fuuuuuck,” she drags out the curse, splayed flat on her back and staring up at the ceiling.

Layla’s face appears in her line of sight, forehead crinkled in concern, lips turned down in a frown. “Are you okay? I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you, but there’s someone on the phone for you?” Layla’s sentences always tick up into a question at the end and Rainey’s learned to live with it. Even though it does drive her a little crazy.

“Who is it?” Rainey’s still flat on her back, making no effort to get up. Why should she? She’s just going to have to get back down on the floor to finish cleaning Nash’s mess.

“Well, he said his name was Kevin, but he kind of sounded like Brian?”

Rainey’s temple throbs and her eyes bulge out in surprise. Shooting up into a sitting position so fast she gets dizzy, she yelps, “my ex, Brian? Brian Thompson? The dick bag that left me stranded in the Cayman Islands because he quote-unquote didn’t realize he took my passport too? THAT Brian?”

“Um, yes?” Layla’s eyes are wide and she twists her fingers together anxiously. Rainey realizes that she might have been shouting, so she makes an effort to tone down the volume.

“I need you to get back on the line,” she says slowly, almost robotically with her effort not to shout, “and tell him to go fuck himself.”

“I’m not going to do that?” Layla holds out a hand to pull Rainey to her feet. “But I can just take a message?”

Rainey dusts off her pant legs, wincing when her wrist twinges a little, and nods. “I didn’t really think you’d tell him to go fuck himself. A message is good, thanks, Layla.”

The twenty-two year old receptionist nods and gives you a little salute, grinning now. She tips her chin down at the floor, “Nash’s handiwork?”

Rainey nods. “No more treats for the little guy,” she huffs a sigh. “I feel like I’m going to have to tattoo that to the interns’ foreheads.”

“It wasn’t the interns,” Layla says. “It was Ricky. In payroll? He says Nash keeps looking at him with beggar eyes?”

“Fucking Ricky,” Rainey mutters. Her cousin graduated with a degree in accounting and promptly hustled his ass to the family business so he could do the bare minimum of work and collect his nice paycheck and vacation days. Sometimes Rainey wishes she got the Type B Lewis genes instead of her grandmother’s Type A perfectionist genes.

Nana always said that Pop and the boys - Rainey’s father and his four brothers - would lose their heads if they weren’t attached to their bodies.

It may have been cute when they were younger, but now they’re all middle aged men and Rainey is stuck running the business day to day, cleaning dog puke off the floor because her idiot cousin doesn’t listen, and trying to keep the family from imploding at all times.

So yeah, Lorraine Lewis hates her life.

And maybe it’s not just a today thing.

She drops back into her chair and scrubs a hand over her face, remembering too late that she’s got a full face of make up on.

“Fuck,” she whines, pulling her hand away from her face and inspecting the colorful smears of eyeshadow and eyeliner on her palm. She rubs at the smudges with her other hand, until the color is gone and her palm is red.

The phone on her desk rings and it’s her direct line, a Dallas area code, so Rainey exhales harshly and picks up, letting out a chirpy, “this is Lorraine Lewis.”

———-

Mikko is uncharacteristically nervous, stomach twisted in a knot.

Then again, he’s never been in this position before - returning to his old city with a new team. Ball Arena is as familiar to him as his own home, but the path to the visitors’ locker room is different.

It’s not as nice as the home players’ locker room and Mikko notices the subtle differences, the way everything just feels off even though it’s laid out the same way.

The guys get their pre-game routines going and Mikko does the same, changing out of his suit and into his athletic gear. He chews on a piece of Dentyne Ice, the minty zing clearing his head. He lets himself zone out as he tapes his stick, ignoring the warring emotions about his return to Colorado.

There’s a video tribute for him, cheers and boos intermingling, a secondary assist on Robo’s goal, and an overtime loss for Dallas that Mikko knows means he’ll see the hot takes on social media and ESPN and when he gets back into the locker room, he smashes his stick against the wall of his stall.

The guys give him space and he appreciates it, silently getting himself ready for the trip back home.

He wishes he’d been more productive on ice, more of a difference maker…just more.

A hot flush of embarrassment makes Mikko’s chest itch, the feeling that his return to Colorado just proves the point of his detractors. All the Tweets that he shouldn’t be reading that say he was a Nathan MacKinnon merchant, that his productivity dropping off in Carolina was him returning to the mean. Never mind the fact that the Carolina system stifled him, that he was traded when he wanted to be an Av for years to come.

Losing in his homecoming - no not a homecoming, Colorado is no longer his home - losing in his return is not how he wanted this to go.

Roope and Esa jostle him, bouncing off his side to try and work him out of the mood that’s clouding him after the loss. It doesn’t really work, but it’s nice to have friends around him.

They fly home late and Mikko crashes on the guest bed when he and Roope get home, barely changing into his sweats before he’s asleep.

The next morning, the loss still stings, but it’s lessened. Mikko’s focus is on the next game, home against Anaheim, and figuring out his next moves. Over breakfast, he’ll talk to Kristina about getting in touch with the realtor.

Or, he notices a new email on his phone, the realtor will get in touch with him.

The email is short and sweet and it’s addressed to “Mr. Rantanen” which makes Mikko laugh. It’s been a while since anyone addressed him with such formality.

The body of the email is perfunctory, explaining that Kristina reached out and if he has a moment to hop on a call or come into the office for a meeting, that would be great. It’s signed Lorraine Lewis and Mikko imagines a high powered, older woman in a severe pantsuit and tight slicked back bun. He’s not sure why, but the image won’t disappear no matter what.

He supposes that a seasoned realtor will be able to find him a house quickly, so what does he have to lose?

He types back a quick message and forgets about it, off to another practice.

———

“Sounds good. Can be there at 3:45 if that works? MR”

Rainey’s not sure why she expected anything more verbose from a hockey player, but the short email does make her laugh a little.

A quick scan of her calendar informs her that 3:45 does, in fact, work and she shoots Mikko another email back to confirm.

She hopes he’s as nice at the Hintzes. They’d been easy to find a house for and she’d gotten a fantastic commission from the sale. Part of which she’d used to pay for the ill-fated Cayman Islands trip.

Allowing herself an eye roll at the memory of Brian’s dopey face, playing innocent when he knew exactly what he had done, when she FaceTimed him about the missing passport, Rainey pushes that to the side and gets back to work. She’s showing a handful of houses before lunch, which means she needs to make sure her route is perfectly mapped and she has the keys for each place.

The morning goes smoothly, thanks to Rainey’s preplanning, but of course there’s a hiccup when she tries to run out and get lunch - at 3 in the afternoon of course, because she can’t drag herself away from paperwork.

“Do you know what your brother did now?” Rainey’s mother’s voice is sharp and shrill through her car’s Bluetooth.

“What?” Rainey pinches the skin on the bridge of her nose. It could literally be anything. Ford is nineteen going on nine, a spoiled brat with impulse control issues. He’s seven years younger than Rainey and some days that gap feels like decades.

“Dropped out! He dropped out right in the middle of the semester,” Corrine shrieks and Rainey winces, smashing the volume button on her steering wheel.

“Jesus, Mom,” she sighs. “You don’t have to shout.”

The sigh that comes through the speakers is long suffering. “Lorraine, this is precisely the moment for shouting! After all that effort to get Ford into Baylor and this is what he does? I need you to talk to him.” It’s an order, not a request.

Rainey’s stomach knots up, anxiety tightening her chest.

“Ford doesn’t listen to me,” she says flatly.

“Ford doesn’t listen to anyone,” her mother snaps.

“Then why should I talk to him?” Rainey’s fingers tap against the leather of her steering wheel. She knows what her mother’s response will be and she mouths it along with Corrine.

“Because you’re the oldest! You’re responsible for your siblings.”

Rainey’s temple throbs and her eye twitches. Her parents never bothered to parent Ford and as a result, he’s flightly and commitment-phobic, unconcerned with consequences because he knows their dad will just bail him out.

“I will try and talk to him,” she hedges and hangs up with a quick, “loveyoubye.”

She lets out a brief scream and feels better, some of the pressure released from her shoulders. It’s still a nightmare and her phone is blowing up with texts as it sits in her cup holder, but she has approximately thirty minutes to eat and get herself settled before her 3:45 with Mikko Rantanen.

No matter what drama her family throws at her, she is a professional and she has a business to keep running.

She’s got this.

———

“I don’t understand!”

Mikko’s eyebrows lift at the shout. He steps off the elevator and into the reception area of the realtor. It’s buzzing with an anxious energy that even he can feel.

And the receptionist is in a shouting match with a man and a woman that both look like they’re in their late twenties. The receptionist looks younger than both of them, but Mikko gets the sense that she can handle herself.

“How fucking difficult is it for you to make sure the paychecks go out on time? And where’s Tony, because the computers are going crazy and it’s like you’re all trying to make my job harder,” the older woman’s face is pink, her hair falling out of a ponytail.

She’s cute, Mikko can’t help but notice. Dressed a little like a librarian in a tight pencil skirt and one of those fancy, silky looking tank tops. Her eyes flash a little and she opens her mouth to, presumably, shout again, but the receptionist catches sight of him out of the corner of her eye and nudges the other woman, hisses under her breath, “your three forty five!”

Mikko watches in real time as the woman - who he’s realizing now is Lorraine Lewis, decidedly not a forty-five year old like he had imagined - transforms in real time. She straightens her spine and lifts her chin, her face falling into a practiced and polite expression.

Her left hand smooths down the side of her thigh while her right is extended for a handshake as she walks towards him.

Mikko finds his lips curling up in an irrepressible smile, she’s really cute.

“Mr. Rantanen,” she greets him and Mikko has to press his lips together to muffle the laughter that wants to slip out.

She’s so fucking cute.

“Mikko,” he corrects her, shaking her hand. It’s warm and dry in his, the slight press of her long nails against his palm when he tightens his fingers around hers. There’s a zip of something sparking up his arm, his fingertips tingling.

He watches her eyes widen briefly, the edges of her smile wavering before solidifying again.

“Rainey…Lorraine,” she corrects herself quickly, hand still tucked nicely in his. She’s staring at him, blinking slowly, her lower lip finding a place wedged between her teeth. Mikko’s cock twitches in his pants.

His fingers brush lightly against her pulse and Mikko sees her physically jolt back into the moment, her hand dropping his like a hot potato. It does nothing to wipe the smile off his face.

“Nice to meet you, Lorraine,” he says, grinning. “You’re not what I pictured.”

“You pictured me?” Her head cocks to the side and behind her the receptionist whistles lowly.

“Couldn’t help it,” he shrugs loosely. Then, leaning in, he adds quietly, “I thought you would be a forty-five year old badass.”

Lorraine’s cheeks flush pink and she snorts a laugh, looking horrified as soon as the noise leaves her body. Mikko’s whole body lights up with delight and the sudden, unexplainable desire to get her to make that noise again.

“I…ah, no,” she manages to say, running her palms over the front of her thighs, drawing Mikko’s attention to the way she fills out her skirt. “Not a forty-five year old badass.”

“Even better,” Mikko smiles at her and watches her nose go pink. His cock twitches again and he thinks he’s in trouble.

Lorraine shakes her head a little and blinks and she’s back, spine straight and business woman smile plastered on her face, a little warmer at the edges this time. She sweeps her arm behind her, “should we get started? In my office?”

“Looking forward to it,” Mikko replies, gesturing her to go first and he’ll follow. And if he glances down at the sway of her ass as she walks, who can blame him?

——-

Rainey doesn’t think she’s ever been this flustered in her entire life.

She considers herself levelheaded and practical, responsible to a fault. Several exes have referred to her as closed off and bitchy.

But Mikko Rantanen, all curly blonde hair and piercing blue eyes and a lower lip so full it should be illegal, has her flustered.

Her fingers are still tingling from their handshake, the phantom press of his fingertips against her wrist is distracting her.

He fills her office, broad and tall - taller than Rainey, who’s six feet in her favorite heels - and with this energy that just draws Rainey’s attention like a moth to a flame. It’s scaring her a little, how difficult she’s finding it to collect a coherent thought with him looking at her like she’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve.

She feels exposed and she hates it.

“So,” she starts, clearing her throat. Mikko’s eyes snap up to her face and that’s almost worse. “I know your schedule is, um, unconventional. So I thought I could send you listings and you can give me a top five that we can tour in person when you’re here.”

“Sure,” Mikko replies easily, relaxing back into the chair and making it look small. “Spending time with you isn’t going to be a hardship.”

Normally a client saying that would come across creepy and unwanted, but in Mikko’s low, accented voice, all Rainey feels is excitement and the bubbling nervous energy that something is changing and shifting.

“Well,” Rainey coughs lightly, managing a smile, “I hope not. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your price range and what you’re looking for in a house?”

Without any sort of brag in his tone, Mikko says, “price range is whatever. I’m good for it. But I’d like something with room for you know, friends and family to stay. Kids, one day.”

Rainey nods, picking up a pen off her desk and scribbling a note. “Great start, something like four or more bedrooms? A pool? It’s Texas so you’ll want that in the summer,” she smiles.

“I’ll probably go back to Finland for summers,” Mikko replies. “But a pool will be nice anyway. And a sauna, if we can. Or enough space to build one.”

“Sauna?” Rainey lifts an eyebrow. It’s an unusual request.

Mikko eyes her with amusement dancing in too blue eyes and he says, dryly, “sauna is the national pastime of the Finns, Lorraine. I will shrivel up and die if I don’t go at least once a week.”

A laugh bubbles out of Rainey’s mouth at his deadpan response, even as her entire core clenches at the way her name sounds in his voice. The syllables sound loaded with something that sparks an emotion in her that she’s too nervous to explore.

Yet.

Maybe.

Fuck. She’s got a crush on her client.

She can’t afford distractions, can’t afford anything that will throw her off her game. And indulging in a crush on a hockey player is probably the worst thing she could add to her life right now.

Sell him a house and move on, that’s the plan.

Mikko smiles at her, clearly delighted that she laughed at his joke, and oh fuck, that’s going to be easier said than done.

———

RL: I emailed you a few listings. Please take a look and let me know if you’d like to see any of them. Thanks!

MR: I like when you text, less formal than your emails

RL: I can still call you Mr. Rantanen over text if you want.

MR: I wouldn’t mind it, Ms. Lewis

RL: Do you have any availability to view these properties?

MR: Off days this wk are WFSun. Any of those good for you?

RL: Friday is clear on my schedule. Let me know which houses you’d like to see and I’ll plan the most efficient viewing order.

MR: How do you take your coffee?

RL: Irrelevant to the task at hand.

MR: Indulge me

MR: Please?

RL: Iced, skim milk and a pump of cinnamon syrup

MR: Noted, thanks!

MR: See you Friday 😁

———-

Mikko rejects every house Rainey shows him, vague excuses of not liking the location or the layout being weird.

She sucks aggressively at the straw in her coffee - made exactly how she likes it, delicious even though she’d protested when he handed it over at the first house - the plastic creasing and bending under her teeth. Her phone vibrates nonstop in her pocket and it’s getting hot.

“What’s wrong with this one?” She tries to keep the aggression out of her tone, landing on something syrupy sweet and emphasizing her drawl.

Mikko’s lips twitch to the side, his eyes shaded by a pair of sunglasses, making it impossible for Rainey to read his expression. He lifts one shoulder in a shrug and rattles the melting ice in his own coffee, “I just don’t like the energy.”

Rainey bites her tongue to prevent her teeth from grinding together. Dr. Diamond would be so proud of her, or maybe he wouldn’t care since he would just get to charge her for more dental work and ineffective mouth guards.

She inhales slowly and counts to five in her head. Hockey players are notoriously weird, she reminds herself. Not everyone could be as chill as the Hintzes. She’s dealt with worse clients. She can deal with this one.

He grins at her suddenly, white teeth flashing in the bright Dallas sun, disarming Rainey.

“Can I take you to lunch?” Mikko asks, taking half a step in her direction.

Rainey blinks at him, processing. She opens her mouth, “I -“ have to pick up Nash from the groomer, have to collect her wayward brother for a ‘set your head straight’ dinner, have to organize the paperwork that’s cluttering the side of her desk.

“No excuse, huh?” Mikko replies, pulling off his sunglasses with a flourish and treating Rainey to a crinkly-eyed smile.

No, she has no excuse. Not a good one anyway. Nash can be picked up any time - they’re always happy to have him around. Ford doesn’t give a shit about listening to her if the lackluster “i guess?” she received in response to her question asking if he wanted to get dinner today is any indication. And the paperwork? Well, that’ll all still be there tomorrow and so will all the other problems with the agency.

So, “sure, let’s have lunch.”

“Really?” It’s Mikko’s turn to blink back at her now, clearly surprised that she gave in so easily.

“Yeah, really,” Rainey nods, smiling fully now. She likes being the one to throw him off his game. “Unless you didn’t mean it?”

She cocks an eyebrow at him, a challenge, and Mikko shakes his head, grinning.

“No, I definitely meant it,” he says, reaching out to nudge her lower back with his fingertips, guiding her out of the front hall and to the street where their cars are parked. Rainey’s spine tingles at the brief, light touch, her clit giving a little throb. His cologne, something woodsy and spicy, invades her senses and Rainey knows this is not going to end well for her.

“Maybe you can figure out how to be less picky on houses,” she teases in a slightly shaky voice, crowded up against the driver’s side door of her car when Mikko leans in to tug at the handle for her. She gets another inhale of his scent and it makes her dizzy.

“Maybe,” he says with a cheeky smile, pulling the door open for her and letting their bodies press together briefly. Rainey’s eyes widen at the feeling of hard muscle bumping her arms and Mikko’s eyes twinkle. “Follow me, Rainey.”

At some point while touring the second house, Rainey had gotten tired of hearing her given name in Mikko’s light accent and decided to tell him to use her nickname. But now it’s worse, the way his mouth shapes her name, tone imbued with promise.

She knows he means to the restaurant, but Rainey can’t help but wonder how far she’d follow Mikko, if he really asked.

And the thought terrifies her.

———

The next week is a flurry for both Mikko and Rainey. He’s traveling - a back to back in Edmonton and Calgary and then two games in Seattle. While he’s gone, Rainey scopes out more properties, sending him links that he scans in his free time.

He tells her that he wants to see all of the houses, an excuse to spend more time with her.

Rainey’s heart skips when she reads his text - “All of them, want to see a good variety, Rainey” - and then groans when she realizes how much work scheduling the tours around his games will be.

But it’s worth it to get away from the chaos. Ricky is still fucking up payroll and her Uncle Mike is still MIA. Her dad is golfing and her mom is blowing up her phone with complaints about Willa and Ford.

Ford, by the way, has blatantly refused to go back to college, insisting that he’s going to become a content creator and that’ll be how he makes a living.

Rainey’s life advice had fallen on deaf ears, obviously.

But why would her brother listen to her anyway? When she has a business degree from Baylor that she hates, a job she’s good at but hates, and no time to follow her own dreams?

It’s not like she’s really succeeding at living her own life.

The only things that seem to make her smile these days are Nash and the texts that Mikko sends from the road. It’s wildly unprofessional, but she’s finding it harder and harder to care.

Not when she can’t sleep at night from the stress of dealing with her family and the business and the only thing she’s looking forward to is Friday’s house tours with Mikko.

She’s attracted to him - more than attracted to him, she flushes red just thinking about how she’d pulled up one of his post-game interviews the other night, listening to his voice while she held her vibrator against her clit. Then she’d laid in bed, embarrassed and still horny, clit throbbing and cunt leaking with arousal as she thought about the little smiles he shot her way.

Guilt settled in long before the arousal went away and so she’s a little glad that she has to bring Nash with her to the house viewings today. Willa was supposed to be watching the puppy, but naturally her sister flaked and is currently en route to Tulum for a long weekend with her best friends.

Mikko’s already waiting on the curb when Rainey pulls up, two iced coffees in his hands. She smiles reflexively. Nash pops his head up in the passenger side window, paws on the ledge, and Rainey watches as Mikko’s eyebrows draw together and then relax, a grin splitting his face.

His reaction to Nash relaxes her, if he likes dogs, he can’t be bad.

“Sorry,” Rainey starts, getting out of her car and holding Nash in her arms like a baby, “I couldn’t -“

“Who’s this guy?” Mikko cuts her off with a smile. He hands her one coffee and uses his now-free hand to scratch under Nash’s chin, letting out a bright laugh when Nash’s tongue lolls out of his mouth and he yips excitedly.

Rainey rolls her eyes affectionately at the puppy. “This is Nash,” she bounces him lightly in her arms. “My sister was supposed to watch him today, but, well….” A shrug and she trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Mikko cocks his head at her, studying her in a way that makes Rainey feel exposed. He opens his mouth, thinks for a second, and closes it again. His eyes soften, icy blue going molten, and he says, “short for Nashville?”

Technically yes. But also, Rainey cringes internally thinking about the puppy’s full name, given while she was in the middle of an ill-advised, post-breakup juice fast and completely starving. Normally she wouldn’t tell anyone the puppy’s full name, but something about Mikko’s face is making her want to be honest.

“Nashville Hot Chicken,” Rainey admits, only slightly reluctantly. “Because -“

“He’s the color of fried chicken,” Mikko finishes her sentence.

Exactly right.

Something warms her chest - the unfamiliar delight at being seen and understood - and Rainey swallows back against a lump of emotion in her throat, nodding.

“He’s lightened up a little bit,” she says, scratching at his ears. “But when I got him, he was the exact color.”

“I like it,” Mikko laughs, nudging her fingers with his. “It’s funny.”

The warm feeling refuses to dissipate, joined by the sparks that Mikko’s fingers against hers sends up and down her arm. Nash seems to grin at her, a tricky little look on his face.

“I can be pretty funny,” Rainey smiles softly at Mikko, “when I want to be.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing that side of you,” he winks and gestures up to the house, “should we start the tour?”

——-

By the time Rainey and Mikko are halfway through touring the second house of the day, Nash is draped over Mikko’s forearm, his little head resting in Mikko’s upturned palm. Rainey had been struggling with Nash’s overexcitement while she tried to open the front door, so Mikko had taken him and when Rainey tried to take the dog back, he shook his head and cuddled the puppy to his chest.

“I think he belongs to me now,” Mikko had grinned, kissing the dog on his forehead and sparking a burst of desire low in Rainey’s stomach.

“If you get tired, just give him back to me,” Rainey says, but it seems like her comment falls on deaf ears. Mikko is scratching Nash’s head and chatting quietly to the puppy, pointing out the backyard. It’s supremely adorable.

By the third house, Rainey’s worried she may have lost the love and affection of her puppy to Mikko. Nash is giving the hockey player big “love me” eyes and Rainey almost wants to copy him, if it means Mikko will look at her like he’s looking at Nash.

Mikko and Nash wander out into the backyard of the third house, a huge green expanse that’s broken up by a pool and a patio with a state of the art grilling set up. Rainey can see Mikko lift her dog and set him on the counter next to the grill, holding Nash in place with one hand while flipping open the lid of the grill with the other.

She smiles faintly at the sight, watching until a noise at the front door startles her.

The front door opens and she recognizes the voice first.

“This one should be big enough for us,” the voice - Brian’s voice - says. Rainey’s heart sinks to her stomach.

She looks around for a place to hide, not proud that this is her first instinct, but the first floor is open concept, leaving her nowhere to go.

Fuck an open concept.

The pair of footsteps gets closer and Rainey freezes against the island, like a bear in a trap, helpless to do anything but stare when Brian finally makes his appearance in the kitchen. It feels like all the air is sucked out of the room when she locks eyes with her ex-boyfriend, time freezing in the most uncomfortable of ways.

Rainey refuses to be the one to break the silence, even though she’s extremely curious as to how Brian got access to this listing when it was supposed to be a Lewis and Lewis exclusive. She crosses her arms over her chest, lips tilting down in a frown that borders on a scowl.

“Lor?” The nickname grates on Rainey’s nerves.

“Bri,” she returns the favor with her ex’s least favorite nickname and takes satisfaction in the way his plastered-on, fake smile dips at the edges.

The petite brunette at Brian’s side raises an eyebrow, looking between Rainey and Brian, before sticking her hand out and introducing herself, “Jana Foster.”

“Lorraine Lewis,” Rainey shakes her hand, figuring she can be polite. “Are you looking at this house?”

Brian coughs and Jana beams. Rainey feels like she’s missing something and then it hits her like a sucker punch to the chest.

“Yes!” Jana chirps. She clearly has no idea who Rainey is, because she holds out her left hand, a huge diamond solitaire twinkling on her fourth finger. “We just got engaged, well, a few weeks ago and now we’re house-hunting. How lucky am I to be marrying a realtor?”

“Oh,” Rainey manages a tight smile, her mind going a mile a minute, calculating. Either Brian moved on remarkably fast after their breakup four months ago or he was seeing both of them at the same time. She’s not sure which is worse.

The squirrely look on Brian’s face is making her lean towards the latter option. Nausea bubbles up when she thinks about how he left her in the Cayman Islands and probably ran right off to Jana’s side, giving him a few days completely uninterrupted without having to worry about her asking questions.

Rainey’s palms start to sweat and she blinks, too fast, blurting out, “how’d you get the listing, Brian?”

It’s a non-sequitur, rude if she considers the look on Jana’s face, but Rainey doesn’t care. The back of her neck prickles.

“Oh,” Brian brushes off the question carelessly, with a casualness that Rainey knows is practiced. “I got it from … Tom.”

He hesitates just slightly before he says the name and even though it’s a generic name, could be anyone, Rainey knows. Her own fucking father gave Brian access to the listing that’s supposed to be an exclusive.

She opens her mouth, not sure what’ll come out, but a warm, rough hand lands on the nape of her neck and her teeth clack together with how fast she closes her mouth. Mikko’s warm at her back, his cologne enveloping her.

“Who’s this, kulta?” Mikko says quietly, the unfamiliar word sticking in Rainey’s brain. His thumb rubs arcs over her skin and it feels like she’s short circuiting and grounding at the same time.

She looks up at him and he looks down at her, a twinkle in his blue eyes. Nash is draped over his other arm and looking at Brian with doggy disdain.

“This is Brian Thompson,” Rainey gestures quickly, “and Jana Foster. Brian’s also a realtor, they’re looking at this house.”

Brian and Jana are both looking at Mikko, matching looks of concentration on their faces, and Rainey figures it’s only a few minutes before they place him. Brian is a Stars season ticket holder.

“What a coincidence,” Mikko sounds pleasant enough, but Rainey’s surprised to realize she knows him well enough to hear the slight edge underlying his tone. He jiggles Nash a little in his arms. “I don’t think this place is big enough for this guy to run around though. Rainey, we should leave them to it, find ourselves a better place.”

“Mikko Rantanen!” Brian bursts out, drawing attention to him. Rainey watches with satisfaction as his ears turn red with embarrassment. Her ex doubles down and continues. “You’re, uh, Mikko Rantanen. I recognized…I’m a big fan.”

Mikko’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes and he steps closer to Rainey, his body heat seeping through her camisole. He doesn’t say anything, but Rainey knows their body language, the way she’s leaning into him, the way his hand hasn’t left the nape of her neck, it’s all giving Brian the impression that they’re dating.

She shivers a little and something snaps inside her, a feral sort of recklessness pushing aside all of her better angels. She leans back against Mikko’s chest, his sturdy bulk the perfect resting spot, and smiles slightly at Brian when he looks at her.

“It was nice to meet you, Jana,” she says with a warmth she doesn’t feel. “Mikko and I have other houses to see, aren’t I lucky that his budget is limitless?”

She giggles lightly and reaches back to hook her fingers in the belt loop of Mikko’s jeans, tugging him forward. He follows willingly and Rainey can feel his body behind hers, Brian’s eyes on them. She straightens her shoulders on the way out, something powerful fizzing in her veins.

When the front door shuts behind Mikko and they’re nearly at their cars, Rainey suddenly can’t control herself and bursts out into uncontrollable, gasping laughter. Her hand falls away from Mikko’s belt loop and she doubles over, arms wrapped around her stomach as she laughs so hard she cries.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes on the words, finally standing up and wiping at her eyes. her fingers come away smeared with mascara and eyeliner, but she finds she doesn’t care what she looks like. Mikko’s been waiting patiently, watching her with a small smile on his lips. He’s got Nash resting against his shoulder now, like a baby getting burped, and Rainey’s pretty sure she’s never getting her puppy back.

“Take your time,” Mikko replies. “You have a nice laugh.”

“Thank you,” Rainey’s pretty sure her face is bright red, but the compliment is nice. “That was my ex-boyfriend and his new fiancée. We broke up four months ago and now he’s buying a house from a listing that was supposed to be an exclusive, but my dad gave it to him. He left me in the Cayman Islands without a passport.”

“Your dad?” Mikko asks, looking both concerned and confused.

Rainey shakes her head, “no, sorry, Brian. He left me there, by accident, quote-unquote. And I broke up with him, but now he’s getting married to some girl who he was probably dating back then and my dad is sabotaging me and giving listings to him. And, oh my god, I’m trauma dumping on you. I am so sorry.”

She snaps her mouth shut, embarrassment making her mouth curl up in a tight, apologetic smile.

“He sounds like a dick,” Mikko says plainly, making her laugh with his bluntness. “You deserve better.”

Rainey’s momentarily speechless, letting Mikko’s words sink in. He reaches out to cup her elbow and squeeze it gently, his entire hand wrapping around her arm and making her skin feel like an electric current is running under it.

“Thanks,” she whispers. Mikko’s thumb presses against her inner elbow and she can feel her heart skip. “Next house?”

Mikko nods, “next house.”

———-

The fourth house of the day is perfect. This is the house Mikko’s going to buy, without a doubt.

“And,” Rainey leads him out to the backyard, gesturing with a flourish to the side of the expansive patio, “ta-da! A sauna for the Finnish expat!”

The blond wood sauna is perfect and Mikko can picture spending time in there, recovering and relaxing, maybe one day with Rainey’s body draped over his. Sweat slicking up their bodies from more than just the steam. His cock throbs behind his zipper and he shifts his stance to relieve some of the pressure.

She doesn’t seem to notice the growing bulge in his pants and Mikko’s grateful for that. Rainey dances down the steps of the patio, gesturing for him to follow her, saying, “come look at the pool house. It’s kind of bare bones, but you could do a reno and make it into whatever you want.”

He watches her hair bounce over her back, enjoying the sway in her hips and the delight in her tone. The drive to this house has done wonders to wipe the ex encounter from Rainey’s mind, clearly.

Mikko can’t stop thinking about it though. Rainey’s body had been so full of tension, hurt written plainly on her face - whether from the business with her father or from seeing her cheating ex move on so fast, Mikko’s not sure. All he knows is he hated the look on her face when that smug ass was in front of her and he never wants to see it again. Her laugh though, that he wants to hear every day for the rest of his life.

“Nash,” he lifts the dachshund into the air, making sure they’re making eye contact, “I think I might be crushing on your mom, are you cool with that?”

The puppy yips and licks Mikko right on the face.

He’ll take that as an endorsement.

“Mikko?” Rainey calls again and Mikko’s stomach does a little flip. Fuck, he wants to hear her say his name for the rest of his life. He wants to hear her scream it while he’s buried as deep inside of her as possible.

He wants to hear her say his name in the early morning and late at night.

He’s in so much trouble.

Rainey’s leaning against the outside of the pool house when he catches up to her, legs crossed at the ankles and a pleased smile on her face. She widens her eyes at him and holds her hands out to the side, wiggling her fingers, “so, did I do a good job on this one?”

“Saved the best for last, Ms. Lewis,” Mikko grins in response, clocking the way Rainey’s pupils dilate and her cheeks flush with color.

His eyes never leave her face, so he sees the exact moment something shifts in her expression, her eyes flickering down to his mouth for a brief second before she lifts up on her toes and presses her lips to his in a kiss that starts hesitantly.

Mikko freezes momentarily, his brain glitching until he can process that Rainey is kissing him, his free hand automatically coming up to her waist and curling around the curve.

Her mouth moves over his, her lips slightly chapped, and Mikko kicks into action, kissing her back. He grins against her lips, tracing his tongue over her lower lip until she opens her mouth with a soft whimper that shoots straight to his cock.

Rainey’s hands are soft, ghosting over his jaw line before burying into his hair and pulling him in even closer when she deepens the kiss. She tastes like coffee and mint gum and Mikko licks his tongue into her mouth to get more of it, more of her.

Mikko surges forward, pressing her flat against the side of the pool house and nudges his thigh between hers, his heart beating out of his chest. She groans and grinds down on his thigh and Mikko’s fingers tighten on her waist.

Nash barks in his arm, squished between their bodies, and Mikko pulls back, startled. He’d forgotten he was holding the dog.

Rainey blinks at him. Her face is flushed, her lips swollen and red. His imagines what it would feel like to have that gorgeous mouth wrapped around him and his cock throbs painfully enough that he has to reach down and press the heel of his palm roughly against the bulge. Rainey’s eyes drop to follow his movement and her mouth falls open even more when she sees the evidence of his arousal.

“Oh,” she breathes and Mikko doesn’t think she realizes that she’s still staring at his crotch. He grins and flattens his palm over himself, rubbing his cock over his jeans. She blinks and her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip.

“Say the word, Rainey,” he says roughly, voice hoarse. “Say the word and I’ll do whatever you want.”

Rainey doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes,” she nods, drawing his face back to hers for another kiss. Into his mouth, she murmurs, “I want.”

Mikko will happily give her everything she wants.

———

It feels like she’s out of her body, every nerve on fire with each pass of Mikko’s hands. His lips are softer than she would’ve thought, pressing hungry kisses over the edge of her jaw, soothing over the spots where his stubble abrades her skin.

His thigh is solid between her legs, thick and hard and perfect for her to grind down against. The seam of her pants presses against her clit and Rainey’s almost positive that she’s going to come like this, riding Mikko Rantanen’s thigh with his hands kneading at her breasts.

“Oh god,” she groans when his hands slide under the cups of her bra, thumbs rubbing over the tight points of her nipples. “Mikko, please, I need…”

She trails off, head fuzzy.

She’s not used to needing.

“Tell me, kulta,” he nuzzles the tip of his nose under her ear, kissing the side of her neck. “Let me take care of you, let me give you what you need.”

“More,” she manages, flexing her hips. It feels like a dam broke inside of her, panties soaked with arousal, stomach coiling tight with pleasure. She wants more. She needs more.

Mikko bites down on her earlobe, pinching her right nipple. Rainey wiggles and gasps and then his hands are sliding over her stomach, teasing at the waist of her pants, waiting.

She nods against his shoulder and that’s all he needs to flick the button and pull the zipper down, thick fingers burying themselves between her legs.

“Fuck,” he groans, teasing at the wet mess of her cunt. “All this for me?”

“Mhm,” Rainey nods again, her head tossed back against the side of the pool house. She can’t believe that she’s letting him finger her out in the open, can’t believe she’s being this reckless. “Been like this for days,” she confesses, the filter between her brain and her mouth gone.

“You’ve been aching for me for days?” Mikko asks, his fingers exploring and finding her clit. She hiccups a gasp and Mikko’s smile goes animal at the edges. “Found it.”

Stars burst in Rainey’s vision, Mikko’s deft fingers playing with her clit until she can’t take it anymore. With a wild moan of his name, Rainey comes on his fingers, dripping even more and clenching around nothing. Her cunt throbs and she digs her nails into his shoulders for purchase.

“Good girl,” Mikko kisses her throat, continuing his work between her legs. He pushes down her pants and exposes her slick cunt to the cool air, watching his fingers disappear into the tight grip of her. Rainey wails with the stretch of his fingers, her brain a blank screen, her body nothing but sensation. “Came so pretty for me with just my fingers. What are you going to do when I get my cock in this perfect cunt?”

Another orgasm builds low, or maybe it’s still the first one, Rainey’s not sure.

Her entire world is narrowed down to Mikko’s fingers pumping in and out of her, the hard press of his cock against her hip. His scent envelops her and she comes again on a broken cry.

Her knees wobble and it feels like she’s been turned inside out, so when Mikko pulls his fingers out from between her legs and sucks them into his mouth to clean, she can’t do anything but gape at him. He winks and that’s it, Rainey’s died and gone to heaven.

“You taste so sweet,” Mikko says lowly, tipping her chin up with wet fingers and sliding his lips over hers in a kiss that’s too chaste for her liking. She nips down on his lower lip and is rewarded with a growl. When he pulls back, Mikko continues, “I can’t wait to get my mouth on you, taste you directly. Dinner tonight?”

“I…yes,” Rainey nods her head quickly, wanting more of him. And then just as quickly she remembers, “oh, no. I can’t. Not tonight. My parents…we’re having an intervention for my brother.”

Mikko frowns at her and strokes the curve of her waist, his fingers rough against her skin and making her shiver. “Intervention?” He asks curiously.

It’s hard to think with his hand on her, but Rainey manages to say, “he dropped out of college. Again. And I didn’t do a good enough job of convincing him to go back over the phone. So, we’re all having dinner to convince him to go back. Or enroll somewhere else.”

He continues to study her face, making Rainey feel even more exposed. A breeze makes her shiver, cool air against her bared lower half, and she angles away from Mikko’s thigh to pull her panties and slacks back up. He looks like he wants to say something, but something hot and slimy curdles in Rainey’s stomach and she shakes her head, ducking down to retrieve Nash from the patch of shade he’d found to nap in.

“Um, I’ll get the paperwork ready,” she says in a rush, backing away from Mikko, “and the house will be yours.”

“Rainey, wait,” Mikko reaches for her, fingers brushing her forearm. “I’m sorry, did - was it too much? Do you -“

He cuts himself off and he looks so horrified that he may have taken advantage of a situation. Guilt settles like a rock in her stomach, her head shaking. “No, it’s not you. It’s - I really, I shouldn’t have done that. You’re, well, you’re you and I’m me,” the words rush out of her in a nearly incomprehensible mess. Nash kicks his legs like he’s swimming in the air and Rainey tightens her grip on him.

“I’m sorry,” she says, feeling awful as she rushes back to her car. She wants to take everything from the last few minutes back and kiss Mikko again, but she shouldn’t have kissed him in the first place. She doesn’t have time in her life for the distraction he would provide.

As if to prove it, her phone vibrates with a call from her mom, connecting to the car’s Bluetooth with a tap of Rainey’s finger. She inhales quickly and doesn’t get a chance to say anything before her mom interrupts.

“Can you swing by the dry cleaners’ on the way home, Rain?” She asks. “Your father and I have some clothes that are ready.”

The mention of her father reminds Rainey of Brian and the listing betrayal. Her stomach curdles and when she replies to her mom, it’s in a quiet, resigned tone.

Things just won’t change.

———-

April speeds by, Dallas heats up, and the regular season starts to wind down. Playoffs are around the corner and it’s looking like Dallas will be facing the Avalanche in the first round.

Mikko’s never been this combination of nervous and excited for a series.

He also hasn’t heard from Rainey in more than two weeks, with the exception of a perfunctory email with sale documents and a final congratulations on the house.

He can’t stop thinking about her in a way that should probably be concerning. She’d flipped moods so fast out by the pool house and he’d thought that things were going in a good direction.

It seems like she’s going through a lot, based on what she blurted out, and Mikko is overwhelmed with the urge to take care of her and make sure she’s enjoying life.

“Just call her,” Miro snaps a towel at him in the locker room.

“I want to give her space,” Mikko replies, scowling. She hadn’t said as much, but it was clear that she wasn’t interested in him reaching out.

“Your big mopey eyes are bringing us all down,” Roope chimes in, sweaty from practice. He runs his hand roughly over his hair, showering his closest neighbors with a spray of sweat and grinning when they complain.

Mikko rolls his eyes - he’s not mopey. He’s…concerned.

“Who needs a new house?” Tyler Seguin cups his hands around his mouth and shouts to the locker room. “We need to get Moose back in the room with his girl. Harls? Robo? Someone step up.”

A few towels fly through the air, landing on Seggy’s face and muffling his cackled laughter.

“No one’s buying a house,” Mikko says, rubbing a fisted hand over the tight muscle of his thigh. “It’s done, it was nothing.”

The words feel sour coming out of his mouth.

“Call. Her. Call. Her. Call. Her,” Roope starts the chant, clapping on beat. The rest of the team joins in, the cacophony of noise echoing around the walls of the locker room and inside of Mikko’s head.

“Fine, fine!” He concedes, with a quick rattle of Finnish curses that makes Roope and Miro crack up. He fishes his phone out of his bag and waves it in the air. “I’ll text her, that way she doesn’t have to respond.”

His thumbs hover over the screen, the text thread with Rainey pulled up, the last blue bubbles left unanswered.

The guys crowd around him, making suggestions of what he should say and Mikko ignores them all, typing a quick message and sending it before he can really think twice.

Roope stares at him, horrified, and shakes his head, “all of this help and you land on ‘hi’? What an embarrassment to the Finnish nation.”

——-

The thing about Rainey is that she doesn’t have very many friends.

Sure, she makes friends and usually she can keep them. But her childhood best friend lives in California now, a career decision that was clearly the right move since she now has a minor part in an upcoming Netflix series, but means that Rainey only sees her a handful of times a year.

Her college friends are scattered to the winds, all settled in different states. They make an effort to get together as much as possible, usually once a year for a girls’ trip. But with time differences and busy schedules, they’re not people Rainey can rely on for day to day problems.

She’s been so wrapped up in her family’s lives, managing their schedules and taking care of everything that needs to be taken care of, it just was never a priority to make friends as an adult. But now that means she has no one that she’s close enough to in the immediate Dallas area that she can talk to about the Mikko Rantanen of it all.

By default, she has Layla, who is the closest thing she has to a friend and also terrifies Rainey a little bit.

When the unexpected text comes through, Rainey has a mouthful of hummus and pita chip and nearly chokes.

“What the fuck does this mean?” She rushes into reception, holding her phone out in front of her. Layla jumps back, startled.

“Is your phone dead? Rainey, the screen’s black, I have no idea,” she says slowly.

Rainey huffs a disgruntled noise and taps the screen so Layla can see the innocent-looking notification - Mikko Rantanen and his ‘hi’.

Layla looks from the screen to Rainey’s face and back again. Her eyebrows lift and she covers her mouth with her hand to smother a giggle. An anxious little pit forms in Rainey’s stomach, accompanied by the fear that Layla is making fun of her.

“Rainey, I think you’ve got a hockey player pining for you,” she grins. “Text him back!”

“No way,” Rainey shakes her head. “I haven’t talked to him in weeks. It’s not -“

“Not what? Something selfish for just you?” Layla arches a brow at her, knowing smirk on her lips. “Not a decision that helps your family? Rainey, you need something for you.”

Layla’s words land like little darts to the chest and Rainey rolls her lips inward. She’s not wired to be selfish, all of her tendencies leaning towards making sure everyone around her is happy and taken care of.

Sure, she thought about confronting her dad about the listing, but decided that it wasn’t worth the fight that would ensue.

Sure, she thought about telling Willa how much of a hassle it created when she promised Rainey she would do something only to flake at the last minute.

Sure, Ford is now crashing on the couch in her one-bedroom because he’s fighting with their parents and Rainey couldn’t say no when he showed up at her door with his duffle and a scowl, proclaiming, “mom’s a bitch, can I stay here?”

“Be selfish,” Layla urges her. “Text him back, get laid. You always had such a huge smile on your face when he was on the schedule?”

Rainey’s fingers clench around her phone, thinking about Mikko’s smile softening at the edges when she kissed him. The coffees he brought her, the feeling of his body against hers.

“I…” she starts, leaves the sentence hanging when she realizes she doesn’t have a counter argument. Layla’s right and Rainey’s been feeling the same way for a long time. Longer than Mikko’s been in her life, for sure. But maybe she needed him to be the catalyst. She nods at Layla. “Okay, yeah, I’m going to text him.”

Her thumbs hover over the screen as Layla throws her hands in the air and cheers. Rainey chews at her lower lip and deliberates on the message, pushing Layla away when she leans over Rainey’s shoulder to see what she’s typing.

“Oh my god,” Layla whines, “‘Hi, how’s the house?’ You are so lame.”

“I panicked!” Rainey wails, tossing her phone onto Layla’s desk. “I’m not good at this, oh my god.”

“Ooh look, dots! He’s responding, girl, you have that man wrapped around your finger if he responded in ten seconds to that lame message,” Layla’s eyes are wide as she watches Rainey’s phone screen.

Rainey groans, dropping her head to her hands. She can only imagine how Layla would react if she knew about the pool house. Her fingertips tingle just thinking about how good it felt to have her hands buried in Mikko’s curls.

“Huh,” Layla’s exhalation draws Rainey’s attention, “he responded and honestly, he’s kind of lame too?”

——-

MR: It’s good, empty. Haven’t gotten furniture yet

RL: Nothing at all?

MR: I got a bed and some chairs, but I don’t really have time to decorate.

MR: Do you know anyone that can help?

RL: I don’t keep interior decorators on file, but…

MR: But what?

RL: I technically have a degree in interior design, I could help, if you want?

MR: Very much. I need your help, Rainey.

RL: How about dinner? To discuss what you want

RL: In the house, like for furniture and decor and stuff

RL: So I can get to know you

RL: Your taste

RL: In decor

RL: I’m going to stop now

MR: Please don’t stop, it’s adorable

MR: Dinner tonight, 7pm. I’ll pick you up

RL: Looking forward to it

———

If Rainey had known that being selfish would end with her legs folded up by her chest and Mikko Rantanen’s perfect cock splitting her open, she might’ve leaned into it earlier.

After the first dinner, where Rainey had lowered some of her walls and laughed harder than she had in months, they’d ended up making out like a pair of horny teenagers in the backseat of Mikko’s car. The thick, heavy ridge of his cock pressed against Rainey’s core as she straddled his lap and she’d gone home to get herself off to the phantom impression of his cock and the feeling of his stubble scraping over her skin while they kissed.

In the few days before the playoffs started, Rainey dug into her design plans for Mikko’s home - after he’d told her to pick whatever she wanted, that he trusted her vision - ignoring the rest of her responsibilities. It felt good to focus on the decor, rejuvenating.

She’d also hooked up with Mikko on two more occasions, coming on his fingers with her office door closed and locked and on her own fingers while she’d sucked his cock in the empty, echoing front hall of the new house.

It’s the most reckless she’s ever been in her life and the fizzy buzz of adrenaline and freedom makes her head light. It’s addictive, Mikko’s addictive. She’s terrified to find that she wants more of him when he’s not around and thrilled to find that he wants more of her too.

They text, like all the time, and that’s new for Rainey. Brian hated texting, hated giving her more attention than he felt she deserved at any given moment.

Mikko, on the other hand, is in the middle of the first round and he’s still finding time to ask her about her day. He even sent lunch to her office, knowing she had a packed schedule.

It’s just really nice to be wanted.

And then he invites her to Game Seven of the first round, gives her tickets for Layla and Willa and Ford too, if they want them. (They do, it’s not even a question, she barely finishes her sentence before all three are agreeing.)

And then he scores a third period hat trick and the arena loses it’s ever-loving shit. Rainey shrieks so loud she’s pretty sure she’s done permanent damage to her vocal cords. Ford grabs her around the waist and jumps up and down, shaking her around in a way that should be unpleasant but isn’t, while he screams, “your boyfriend just made me three thousand dollars! I love him, fuck yes!”

And then her phone lights up with a text from Mikko.

A smile splits her face and she doesn’t bother telling anyone where she’s going. They definitely already know what’s happening.

Rainey’s waiting on the porch swing when Mikko’s car pulls into the driveway and she can see his huge smile through the front windshield, her own face breaking out into a matching expression.

“Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?” She calls, unable to hide her delight at the way her practically flings himself out of his car and jogs up the walkway.

“I want to stay in and celebrate,” he replies simply, grabbing her around the waist and swinging her in a circle. Rainey laughs loudly and openly, locking her arms around Mikko’s neck. He sets her on her feet and kisses her deeply, stealing the breath that she had left. “I want to celebrate with you, Rainey.”

Warmth floods her entire body, insides turning to putty, and Rainey nods, burying her face in Mikko’s neck as it heats up. His hands tighten on her waist and he lifts her so she can lock her legs around his waist. Mikko kisses the side of her neck and they’re moving and kissing and his hands are hot on her skin, burning a trail up her sides.

“Mikko…” she mumbles his name, leaving it hanging in the air. She doesn’t know how to ask for what she wants, but he knows.

“I’ve got you,” he kisses her sweetly, tracing his tongue over her lower lip. “Let me take care of you, Rainey, okay? Let me take care of you.”

She nods and Mikko grins into his next kiss.

Rainey’s senses sharpen and fade around the edges at the same time, her body lit up like Times Square with every touch and kiss Mikko plants on her body. He’s huge, she knew that, but didn’t realize just how big he was until he was leaning over her on his bed, running the palm of his hand up the back of her thigh and pressing her legs open wide.

“You’re so perfect, fuck,” he mutters, kissing the inside of her knee.

“Look who’s talking,” Rainey returns in a dry, breathy tone, gesturing at the bare planes of his chest. “It’s like looking at the fucking sun.”

Mikko laughs hoarsely and Rainey’s body flushes with delight. She trails a hand down her stomach, dipping her fingers into the mess between her legs and thumbing slowly at her clit. Mikko’s gaze tracks her movements like a predator with prey and when she circles her clit, his cock throbs between his legs. It bounces when he swallows harshly and his hips twitch into the air.

“Hands off, kulta,” Mikko rasps, pulling Rainey’s hand away and lacing his fingers with hers, squeezing gently. “You do enough for everyone, this time pleasure is only for you.”

“I…okay,” Rainey nods, gasping in the next second when the head of Mikko’s cock presses against her clit. She whines and kicks her foot, hands reaching for Mikko’s shoulders.

The hot, hard length of his cock slides through the wet mess of her cunt, throbbing against her inner thigh and making her gasp his name. Her core clenches around nothing and her swollen clit throbs for more stimulation. But Mikko knows what he’s doing and is purposeful in his touch.

He’s going to drive Rainey insane, she thinks blearily, his hips rocking against hers and one hand playing with her nipples until they’re tight buds for him to suck into his mouth. A jolt of pleasure rockets down her spine when he scrapes his teeth over the pebbled skin and she lifts her hips off the mattress, locking her ankles at his lower back to keep his cock pressed against her cunt.

“Please, please,” she whines, reaching between their bodies to stroke the velvet hot skin of his shaft. Everything feels heightened, pleasure and want and everything good building in her body in a way it never has before.

Mikko releases her nipple with a wet pop and kisses the point of her chin, his cock still moving between her lips, the head of it bumping against her clit on each pass and making her see stars.

“So wet for me,” he grins wickedly, leaning over her and reaching for his night table drawer. A condom crinkles and Rainey’s cunt clenches in anticipation. “Bet my cock will slide right into that perfect cunt of yours, huh?”

She nods like a bobble head and whines when Mikko leans back on his haunches to roll the condom down the thick length of his cock. Rainey’s eyes nearly cross as she watches his hand wrap around the base of his cock and squeeze tightly, his other hand rolling his balls quickly.

“Fill me up, please, oh my god, Mikko,” words fall from Rainey’s lips, tapered off in a gasp when he notches the head of his cock at her entrance and pushes in, just an inch, just enough to stretch her and leave her hiccuping.

“Good girl,” Mikko chokes out, one hand holding her thigh open and the other stroking at her clit. He watches his cock disappear into her cunt, swallowed greedily inch by inch, and groans audibly. “Taking me so well, like you were made for me.”

“I am, I am,” Rainey moans, twisting the sheets in her fists and arching her back. She clenches tighter around Mikko’s cock and the familiar wave of pleasure rises in her stomach with each stroke of his fingers on her clit. She wails and whines, chasing her pleasure on his fingers and cock, groaning his name through her orgasm. She comes on his cock, half buried in her cunt, and Mikko’s groan joins hers.

He pushes in another inch while her entire body trembles from the orgasm, his arousal slick hand ghosting over her stomach and tweaking a nipple.

Another inch and then he rocks back, dragging his cock out a few inches, rocking back in again.


Rainey’s breath saws in her chest, her entire body tingling from the fading aftershocks of her orgasm and she wants more. Every thrust of his cock into her cunt is like a drug and Rainey’s afraid she’ll never be satisfied.

“More, please, oh god, Mikko,” she cries and he buries the remaining inches of his cock deep inside of her, their hips meeting as he bottoms out. Rainey’s impossibly full, legs spread wide to accommodate his size, and she sobs when he rotates his hips to grind the coarse hair at the base of his dick into her clit. Another orgasm builds quickly and Mikko grinds against her, feeling the squeeze of her cunt around his length.

“Open those gorgeous eyes, Rainey,” he grits out, pumping his hips. “Want to see you when you come again. Don’t hide from me.”

Rainey’s eyes open and lock onto Mikko’s baby blues, darkened with lust, and that’s it. That’s all it takes for her to come again, gushing around his cock and soaking the sheets under her body. She keens his name through the crest, gasping for the air that Mikko’s thrusts are punching out of her lungs. He plants his hands flat on either side of her head and doubletimes his thrusts, following her over the edge with a groan of her name. His cock throbs inside of her, filling the condom while she convulses around him.

They’re both spent, Rainey’s limbs trembling and her teeth clacking together. Mikko drops his body weight onto her, crushing her into the mattress and kissing her jawline while he softens inside of her.

Rainey can barely catch her breath with Mikko’s bulk on top of her, but she doesn’t care. Instead she lifts her hands to bury them in his damp curls, scraping her nails against his scalp and enjoying the full body shiver that it elicits from him. She grins and gives a faint, experimental clench of her cunt. Mikko groans and nips at her jaw, more teeth than lips, and despite his weight holding her down, Rainey’s never felt lighter.

——-

“You’ve got freckles,” Mikko notes, running the pad of his thumb over the bridge of Rainey’s nose.

She wrinkles it at him, replying drowsily, “thought I was better than sunscreen in my teen years.”

“They’re cute,” he says and Rainey’s lips curl up in a sleepy smile. She tucks herself closer to Mikko’s side, her head resting on his bicep and her legs tangled with his. The hem of the shirt she borrowed from Mikko rides higher up her thigh and Mikko’s leg shifts to press her legs wider apart.

Rainey traces her fingertips over his chest, scraping her nails over his nipples lightly and enjoying the hiss that ruffles her hair. She presses a kiss against his shoulder and giggles when he shifts and rolls onto his back, making her splay over his chest, one of his thighs pressed firmly between hers.

It’s so late it’s early and Rainey can barely keep her eyes open, but she doesn’t want the night to end.

“The house looks amazing,” Mikko kisses her forehead softly, trailing his hands down her back and under the hem of her shirt. He grabs two handfuls of her ass and kneads with no real purpose. A low hum rumbles in Rainey’s chest. “I couldn’t have done a good job like this.”

She presses her face into his neck, flushed from the praise. She’s not used to it.

“Technically,” she whispers into his skin, “I have an interior design degree.” She knows she mentioned the degree to him before, but she’s know sure if he remembers.

“Technically?” Mikko’s distracted by the ghost of her breath over his skin, shivering a little. He can feel his cock twitch with interest when Rainey shifts on his chest, the heat of her cunt against his thigh.

She hums again. “I have the degree, along with my business one. But I don’t use it. It was always…I was going into the family business. Interior design wasn’t what I was supposed to do,” Rainey’s explanation is muffled and Mikko can hear the hurt edging into her tone. She stiffens under his touch slightly and he smooths a hand over her ass until she relaxes again.

“Why don’t you do it now?” He asks and Rainey’s fingers freeze where they’re tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Do…interior design?” Her nose brushes against the underside of his jaw when she lifts her head to look at him.

Mikko nods, “why not? You’ve been having fun here, right? You did an amazing job. I’d have you come and redecorate every six months.”

He’d do just about anything to keep her in his arms, but this is the truth. Rainey really had captured his tastes perfectly in her work.

“Thank you,” she replies, almost absently. The wheels are clearly turning in her brain and Mikko can see the calculating as it’s happening.

His body relaxes even deeper into the mattress, his muscles loose and the adrenaline from both the game and sex with Rainey finally fading. A yawn cracks his jaw and his eyes drift shut. Rainey relaxes on top of him again and he resumes stroking a hand up and down her back, over the curve of her ass until her breathing evens out and she’s asleep.

When he wakes up, Mikko’s alone in bed and there’s a crinkled piece of notebook paper resting on the pillow next to his head. He yawns and rubs a hand over his chest, grabbing for the paper with his other hand.

Rainey’s loopy handwriting fills the page: Thanks for last night, lots to think about. I’ll talk to you later? xo R

With a P.S.: Proud of that hatty, eat your heart out Colorado ;)

A bark of laughter startles out of his chest, a grin stretching across his face. Rainey’s note loosens something in his chest that he didn’t realize was tight. Stepping up and showing up in the playoffs is all he’s ever wanted to do and this feels like a good first effort.

Maybe he can convince Rainey to come to the next home game, as a good luck charm.

Mikko always plays his best when he’s showing off.

——-

When Rainey finally turns her phone back on after sitting in her favorite coffee shop for six hours with her laptop and the faintest beginnings of a plan, she’s wide eyed at the avalanche of notifications.

A dozen missed calls from her mother alone.

Two missed FaceTimes from Willa.

More texts than she can count, including two from Mikko that she decides to save for later.

She ignores everything and taps open her inbox, composing an email to her entire family - Uncle Mike, Ricky, and the rest of them included.

It’s short and sweet.

Just two words.

“I quit.”

She hits send and it’s like an anvil lifts off her shoulders. She rolls them back and shakes out her wrists, grinning like a fool the entire time.

On the tabletop, her phone goes crazy with texts and calls and she laughs to herself as she swipes them all away. It’s the first time she’s made her own decision in her career and it feels better than she could’ve imagined.

No more concern about Uncle Mike’s disappearances or Ricky’s inability to manage the books.

No more concern about the listings that her dad is giving away to other agents when they’re supposed to be Rainey’s.

With a shaky hand, Rainey covers her mouth to muffle a slightly unhinged giggle.

She just quit her job and essentially quit her family. Sure, she’ll respond to their messages eventually, but right now she’s going to ignore them.

A text from Layla catches her eye: don’t know what prompted it, but i’m proud of you!!! i hope you’re getting dicked down in celebration 🥳

Rainey laughs loudly now. Layla’s personality getting more and more exposed is something she’s really starting to appreciate more. She doesn’t reply to the message right away, but it’s nice to know that she’ll still have Layla’s friendship.

She’s going to need it, with all of her nascent plans, Rainey’s going to need a sounding board and someone to keep her worst crash outs at bay.

Her fingers tap at the touchpad of her laptop, waking it up and displaying the Google doc she had been working in. Full of words and images pulled from Pintrest, it’s Rainey’s hopes and dreams for the future all conveniently packaged in Times New Roman.

She reads through the business plan again, smiling to herself, and makes a change here and there. But it’s pretty solid, if she does say so herself, considering it all started with a blank document, the strongest coffee she could stomach, and dumping all of her thoughts onto the page.

Without really thinking about it, Rainey reaches for her phone and swipes past all the noise her family is making. She pulls up her text thread with Mikko and smiles when she sees the texts he sent her earlier - a photo of his rumpled bedsheets and the question “should I make your side or leave it a mess for later? 😉”

She wants to tell him what he inspired her to do, with just a few simple, nonchalant words last night, but she wants to see his face when she tells him her plans.

For now, she sends two messages in quick succession. First, “I like it messy 😉”, knowing that’ll get a reaction out of him. And second, “when can I see you? Have something I want to tell you.”

Mikko’s response comes quickly, her phone vibrating a second before the notification pops up. It’s a screenshot of an OpenTable reservation for tomorrow night.

Rainey grins and replies “it’s a date” before her phone vibrates aggressively in her hand with an incoming call from her father.

She hesitates, maybe she should take the call and get it over with. Rip off the Band-aid.

Her hesitation is too long and the call goes to voicemail, and Rainey exhales in relief that the decision has been made for her, but it’s short lived. Her phone lights up again with a call from her father, he must not have left a voicemail this time.

This time she swipes to answer.

“Ah, wonderful, my eldest daughter decides to answer the phone,” her usually laid back father’s tone is icy with sarcasm. Rainey’s not familiar with this side of him, but she supposes he’s never had a reason to be anything other than relaxed.

“Hi, dad,” Rainey keeps her tone even, but the hand not holding her phone shakes and her heart beats a little faster in her chest.

“I don’t know what got into you, Lorraine,” he sighs. “But you got your attention. Now, please, get into the office and handle your work.”

Rainey swallows, tracing a line on the table. “No, dad. I’m sorry, but no. I know I kind of burned it down, but I’m not happy,” she says carefully. “It’s been me, handling the agency for so long.”

“And you’re very good at it,” his tone softens, turns a little cajoling, and Rainey closes her eyes briefly to fight against the people-pleasing instincts that landed her in this situation.

“It’s not what I want to do,” Rainey remains firm. “I can acknowledge that maybe I didn’t go about it the right way and I’ll finish up what I need to, but I’m done. I’m going to do something for me.”

“Lorraine, please, this is ridiculous,” the sigh her father lets out is loud enough to ruffle her hair through the phone. “You’re too old for temper tantrums.”

Rainey sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth. This conversation is going nowhere fast and the longer she stays on the line, the more she can feel her resolve crumbling. She curls her hand into a fist and squeezes, letting the tips of her nails stab into the palm of her hand. The sharp prick of pain grounds her and she interrupts the speech her father’s monologuing in her ear.

“Dad!” Rainey doesn’t mean to snap, but the word comes out much harsher than she intended. “I’m done. If you’re so worried about work, give Brian a call. I’m sure he’ll be happy to have the rest of my listings too.”

Finally, her dad is surprised into silence and Rainey smiles grimly to herself.

“Call me when you want to apologize,” Rainey says and ends the call before her father can say anything else. She clutches her phone in her hand, exhaling shakily and staring off at the abstract painting hanging on the wall in front of her.

The lines go fuzzy, the longer she stares, but her future snaps into focus and she can’t wait to get started.

——

“I quit my job,” Rainey announces proudly and Mikko’s eyebrows lift into his hairline.

“Congratulations?” He replies, the word lifting up at the end in a question.

Rainey’s smile lights up her entire face, eyes twinkling in a way Mikko hasn’t seen before. She seems lighter, her shoulders more relaxed - even her hair is down in loose waves, tucked behind one ear and spilling over her shoulders. Mikko wants to run his fingers through the strands, twist it around his wrist and use it to hold her in place for a kiss.

Later.

“I can hear your confusion,” she laughs lightly, spreading a layer of butter on her roll and sprinkling it with the sea salt the waiter had also brought out. “But, remember how I told you I’ve always wanted to go into interior design?”

Mikko nods. “It was two days ago,” he grins, “I haven’t been hit that many times in the head.”

The way Rainey crinkles her entire face at him makes Mikko’s heart clench. This lighter, playful side of Rainey is new and he can’t wait to see more of it.

“Anyway,” she emphasizes the word, moving on, “I quit my job and brain dumped a business plan after I left you the other day. I’m going to do it, on my own, and totally terrified. But I’m actually going to do something for me.”

She’s so proud of herself, spinning off into explaining her plan to Mikko while all he can do is sit back and listen to her. He can feel the smile grow on his face as she gets more and more animated, showing off the early designs for a logo and a website that she’s already bought the domain for.

“I’m proud of you, kulta,” Mikko grabs one of her hands from the air, mid gesture, and kisses her fingertips. Rainey flushes a bright red from the tips of her ears down to the swells of her breasts and Mikko feels a rush of satisfaction that he caused the reaction. He rubs the pad of his thumb over her knuckles. “I’ll happily undecorate my house so I can hire you again.”

“Not necessary,” she wiggles her fingers in his grip, “but I would love to use photos for my website?”

Mikko nods eagerly, “whatever you need. However I can help and support you, I’m in.”

She hasn’t said anything about her family and how they took the news and Mikko wonders if that was a less than positive conversation. He’ll ask her about it eventually, but for now he doesn’t want to say anything that will chase away her delighted expression.

“You’re sweet,” she says quietly, with a slight pause that lets him know ‘sweet’ wasn’t the original adjective she wanted to use. Rainey continues, “this whole thing,” she waves her free hand in a vague circle, “was all because of you, you know. No one’s ever really just…listened to me. Or encouraged me to do what I want, like it’s just that easy.”

With hockey, it’s not always that easy. To be in a slump and to just say, the goals will come. Because it feels impossible sometimes, like he’ll never score again, never contribute to the team again. It’s easy to fall into that negative spiral when it comes to his own abilities.

But with Rainey? Mikko knew from his first meeting with her that she could do whatever she wanted and succeed at it. There was a steely glint in her eye and a set to her spine that made Mikko want to know more and uncover her secrets.

He’ll encourage her to do whatever she wants and support all of her dreams.

Mikko’s not used to the gooey feeling spreading through his chest, but he doesn’t hate it. Rainey keeps talking, switched to a different topic now - Nash’s newfound obsession with barking at nothing - and he’s happy to listen, tracing his fingers over the palm of her hand and enjoying the little hitch in her voice every so often from his touch.

He orders a bottle of champagne to celebrate her, and then another, Rainey’s cheeks flushed and her eyes twinkling in the low light of the steakhouse. Mikko’s more sober than not, three glasses of champagne nothing for his metabolism.

Later, there will be multiple, serious conversations with her family - crying and shouting and eventually, boundaries that lead to awkward dinners where Mikko keeps a hand on Rainey’s thigh to keep her grounded.

Later, there will be Edmonton bouncing Dallas in Game Five of the WCF. Mikko will slam his stick against the boards on his way off the ice, anger and frustration and sadness making him avoid Rainey’s texts and calls, until she has enough of his bullshit and appears on his doorstep with Nash and a bottle of wine. A smile for him and an “I’m proud of you,” that makes some of the hurt disappear.

Later, there will be Rainey’s extremely successful interior design business. Her huge smile while she talks about fabric samples and Mikko’s heart eyes while he listens, Nash curled up like a little potato on his lap.

Later, there will be wins and losses and Rainey in a bright green Dallas Stars jacket for each playoff run, whistling through her teeth every time Mikko scores a goal.

“Hey.”

You open your eyes to look at Brock, who’s standing up over you, looking adorable in his glasses, damp hair, a worn-in Minnesota sweatshirt. “Hi.” He leans down to kiss you but you protest. “Wait, no.”

“What?”

“Don’t move. You’re blocking the sun.”

Brock, of course, moves, which has you whining. He ignores you, instead plopping himself on the beach chair you’ve been laying on. You were in the midst dozing off while drying off from the pool as the sun slowly started setting. 

He nudges your leg. “Come on. Let’s go on a walk. There’s a really good view of the sunset on the other street.”

“Isn’t dinner soon?”

He shrugs. “We’ll be back before then. I don’t think anyone’s even home right now.”

You hum. You both did have a late lunch today at a cute bistro in the center of town. You squint against the sun. It’s acting like a halo behind him now. “Is it far?”

He rolls his eyes. “I think you’ll be able to manage it.”

You tilt your head to the side, feigning hesitation. “Fine.” You feel around the pool chair looking for your glasses that you had taken off before you dozed. Brock beats you to it and just hands them to you like it’s second nature, which, at this point, maybe it is. He helps you up, gently pulling you to stand as you grab the Minnesota Wild sweatshirt that was draped over the chair. You toss it over yourself before slipping on your glasses and following Brock outside of his childhood home backyard into the street. 

Your fingers loosely intertwine with Brock’s as you both walk in comfortable silence. It’s not your first time you’ve visited him in his childhood home in the three  years you’ve been dating, but this time has felt significantly different. Which is strange, because nothing really had changed. His family are still pleasant to be around, his childhood friends still lovingly give you shit, his bedroom still hasn’t really been touched since the first time you saw it. Nothing has changed. 

But you have. With the new job, you had even less time to fly out to see him last season. You couldn’t even make it for the playoffs until the last game that they ended up losing anyways. In the past, you’ve been able to take a few weeks to stay with Brock in Minnesota for the summer, taking some work remotely. But the new job has prevented that and you’re only staying a week this time. And you love the new gig, you really do. It’s everything you’ve worked towards your whole life. But it was hard to say yes knowing that it would have you ever farther away from Brock. 

It’s not ideal that more than half of your relationship at this point has been long distance. But you two have made it work. You try so hard to make it work and Brock is so understanding and kind and patient that you always feel like the one who’s not doing enough, even though he has never uttered those words to you.

So this visit has been different. Because it feels heavier in the way that everything feels more fragile. More meaningful. And you know Brock feels it too. 

As you’re walking, you can’t help but notice the sky painted with red and orange. You know the pinks and purples are coming and you halt in your steps to just admire. You itch to take your phone out but you don’t. Sunsets never look as good on the phone. 

You don’t notice Brock slowing down in step with you and taking his phone out. But he’s focused on the back of your head against the sunset. He has a photo album of photos of just you or the two of you that he looks at often, especially when he’s missing you more than usual. This will be a solid add. 

“Come on,” Brock gently nudges after a good 30 seconds. “The view is better where we’re going.”

You let out a noise of protest but let him drag you to your final destination, swinging your hands casually between the two of you. 

“It’s been really good having you here.”

You turn to look at Brock with a small smile. “It’s been good being here.”

“Yeah?” 

You swallow and turn away, turning your attention back to the sunset. Brock just waits patiently, knowing that you don’t need a push. Just a moment to gather your thoughts. “Yeah. Really good. I’m sad I’m leaving soon.”

He squeezes your hand, “I am too. But then I’ll visit you in a few weeks and it’ll be like we were never apart.”

You know what he’s trying to do. He’s trying to make you feel better. He always tries to do that. Whenever something is the slightest bit off, he has always itched to try to make it immediately better, even if he was getting dressed to go to a game. Even if he was calling you after a horrible loss. The second you’re the slightest bit unhappy, Brock has always jumped to try and fix it. It took awhile for him to accept that sometimes you just had to sit in it and there was truly nothing he could do. Especially this year, when you’ve gone through the highs and lows of being at a new job and moving to a new location. 

Sometimes you wonder why he’s still here. It hasn’t really gotten easier and you wonder if his patience and understanding will eventually run its course. 

You’re so in your own head that you don’t notice that you’re now not walking on the road and instead walking on a grassy trail. Brock’s leading, as he always seems to, but he’s only a slight step ahead of you. He offers a squeeze every 30 seconds or so, and you’re so thankful that you’ve had him in your life for as long as you have. 

Suddenly, you both come to a clearing and you stop. A yellow picnic blanket is laid out and on top is a wicker basket. Beside it is a bottle of your favorite wine along with a nice glass bottle of orange juice. A bouquet of wildflowers is laid out beside everything, tied off with a beautiful white ribbon. 

You turn to look at Brock. “Did you do this?” He nods with a big grin. You rush over to the basket and peek inside. There’s cheese and crackers, a fruit bowl, a large tupperware of what looks like your favorite pasta, wine glasses and cookies. 

As you were admiring, Brock laid out another blanket that you had missed so you both would have more cushioning. He catches your eye and chuckles. “What?”

You bite your quivering lip. You’re so touched. “What’s all this for?”

He shrugs. “I just, I don’t know. I wanted to do something nice for you and show you that I appreciate you and love you and don’t take you for granted.”

You sit next to him, trying to avoid his eye because you need to gather yourself and not completely break down. “You’re sweet.”

“I love you,” he says gently. “I know-I know it hasn’t been the easiest few months. I wanted to…I don’t know. Give you a moment of peace.”

“You always give me peace,” you whisper, watching his hands as he pours out the wine. You take the glass thankfully and take one large sip before setting it down and finally facing him. You give him a quick kiss. “Thank you for this.”

He takes out the pasta and paper bowls with a light smirk. “This remind you of anything?”

You squint at the pasta momentarily before bursting out in laughter. “Oh yeah. When you burned our dinner during our second date. Is this the same pasta recipe?”

“Yup,” he says proudly, digging out utensils from the basket. “Not burnt this time though, promise.” You raise a skeptical eyebrow and he gasps in mock offense. “Paige taste tested this one so I know I didn’t fuck up.”

You beam. “Perfect.” You stare out at the sky. There are streaks of pink tinting the edges of the clouds now. 

“You know I love you so much, right?”

You sigh and nod. “I do. You know I love you too, right?”

“I do,” he says softly. Surely. He runs a hand through his hair as he passes her a bowl of pasta and adjusts the blanket. “I-I know it’s been hard and I know you haven’t necessarily been talking to me about all of it because you think I’ll worry.”

“I know you’ll worry,” you interrupt. He shoots you a playful glare and you roll your eyes. “You know I’m right.”

“Yes, but let me finish,” he gently scolds. “I know you don’t talk to me about all of it during the season and that’s okay, really. Because I know you talk to your family and friends and all that.”

“Does that make you upset?” You ask carefully. 

He takes a sip of his wine. “Not necessarily,” he admits. “As long as you’re talking to someone. And I know it’s not easy because my schedule’s weird and time differences are annoying. I-I guess I want…I need you to know that I’m always there for you and I always support you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Babe, where is this coming from?”

He sighs. “Payton…may have hinted at something.”

You roll your eyes, though not annoyed. This family can’t keep anything from each other. “Right.”

“She didn’t say much,” Brock defends his sister. “Just, maybe, pointed out some things that I didn’t realize.”

“Such as?”

“I didn’t know that you really thought I resented you for taking the job.”

You hold your hand up. “Okay. Resented is a strong word.”

“You know what I mean,” he presses. 

The knot in your stomach tightens and you try to unravel it. It’s Brock. He’s never going to judge you. Nonetheless, you fixate your stare at the sunset instead of him. “Fine. Maybe there were a few moments I thought you may have…not been happy that I took the new job.”

“Just because it’s not in Minnesota?”

You shrug weakly. “Well, yeah. We’ve been long distance for almost our entire relationship so far, and instead of moving closer, I went farther away.”

“But we make it work,” Brock reminds you. “We make it work well. Or what I thought was working well. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“No, I think it does work well,” you say firmly. Because you need him to know that. “I just. I worry.”

“About what?”

You pop a strawberry in your mouth to do something with your hands. “That one day it won’t.”

“Honey, can you look at me?”

You swallow. Brock rarely pulls out the ‘honey.’ You force yourself to lock eyes with him and you can’t help but smile. “Hi,” you mutter. 

“Hey,” he smiles before scooching closer to you and taking your hand, making sure not to bump into your glass of wine that’s set on the blanket. “I’m in this. For the long haul. We have our calendars synched. I have drawers filled with your clothes and your bathroom stuff is always all over my place. And I know it’s hard. I know it’s not ideal. But it’s your career. I would never, ever, ask you to sacrifice that for my career. And I know you look at other relationships with players in the league and a lot of the time, someone has to give. Has to sacrifice something. But we’ve made it work so far, even if it’s hard. Are you still happy?”

“Happy?”

“Like, are you still happy with me? Do you want to be with me?”

“Of course.” You’re almost offended that he would even suggest otherwise. 

He grins. “Good. I feel the same way. M-my point is, is that I know you hate promises. But I can pretty much promise you that you’re it for me. I want to be with you forever. I’m going to want to be with you forever. If it had to come down to asking for a trade, I’d do it.”

You choke out a laugh, because you’re so touched. Brock has always been very thoughtful, but he’s not usually a wordsmith. “You just signed an extension, you dummy.”

“I’d do it. Again and again. If you asked me to," he says. And as he kisses you, you know he means it. Which is really scary, actually. 

“I love you,” you whisper. 

“I love you too,” he responds. “Never, ever doubt that, okay?”

“I’ll try my best,” you promise. 

“That’s all I ask,” he says, adjusting his glasses before he gestures towards the pasta. “Not bad, huh?”

“It’s edible,” you joke. 

“Fuck off,” is his response as he bumps your shoulder with his and all you can think is that you love this man so much. 

You both turn back to the food and the sunset. Your heart feels lighter as you snuggle against Brock, leaning your head on his shoulder from time to time as he places your legs over his and covers you both with the blanket. 

“Everytime I see a really pretty sunset, I think of you,” you admit. 

He hums. “Oh yeah? Why is that?”

“Tampa. Frozen Four.”

“Please don’t remind me.”

You chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. But the night before the final game, you remember how we had dinner with your family and everything before you had to go back to the hotel?”

“Yeah. You kept stealing my steak.”

“Chill. I had a few bites. And it was a really good steak," you respond automatically with a small smile. “Anyways, I decided to stay out to catch the sunset on the beach. It was so beautiful. A little more orange than this one, but I remember feeling really emotional. I was just, I was so proud of you. Yeah, I was nervous. But..I don’t know. I’ll never forget it. So now everytime I’m missing you a bit, or when we hang up before you have a game, and there’s a nice sunset, I think of you.”

A moment of silence, before he swings an arm around your shoulder to squeeze you. “You’re so fucking cute.”

“Brock.”

“You are,” he insists. “That’s so nice. I love you. I love you so much. I don’t want you to leave.”

“Don’t make me sad again.”

“Sorry,” he says. “Thanks for telling me that though. I don’t think you’ve ever told that to me.”

“I haven’t,” you say. “I wanted to keep it to myself.”

“But not anymore?”

You had an issue and you needed to solve that issue fast. Your best friend got a girlfriend and you were green with envy. You didn’t understand why you were so jealous. Matt had been your best friend for more years than he hadn’t been and it wasn’t like he’s never had a girlfriend before. But this time, you were jealous.

Matt’s girlfriend became all he ever talked about. Any conversation you had with him turned into ‘Chelsea this’ and ‘Chelsea that’. It was as if Matt had no other life besides Chelsea. Even when you tried to steer the conversation to hockey, she was always brought up.

As you were washing the dishes from your dinner, you heard your phone ringing on the kitchen counter. You placed down the dish you were working on washing, wiping your hands dry on the front of your shirt, and walked over to your phone to read the caller id. Realizing it was Matt, you took a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for a conversation revolving around Chelsea.

“Hello?” you asked as you answered the call.

“Hey,” Matt replied, “I didn’t call you at a bad time, right?”

“No, you’re good. I’m just washing dishes. I haven’t started getting ready for bed or anything.”

“Oh, okay, good. Are you doing anything on Monday evening?”

“Not at the moment. Why?”

“It’s the family and friends skate,” Matt explained. “Do you want to come?”

“I’m still invited this year?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t you be?”

‘Because your life now revolves around Chelsea and you’ve basically forgotten about me,’ you wanted to blurt out. But you couldn’t do that, it would break his heart to hear that from you.

“I don’t know,” you lied instead. “But yeah, I’m free.”

—————

You arrived to the rink about fifteen minutes later than you should have. You spent a lot longer than you would like to admit thinking about sending Matt a ‘hey, sorry something came up’ text, but somehow, you managed to get up and go to the rink.

Usually, you arrived to the rink with Matt, but this year, you arrived by yourself. You felt a bit awkward navigating the space without Matt by your side as you wove through players, making your way to a free spot you found to take off your running shoes and replace them with your skates. As you bent over to tie your skates, you felt the presence of someone’s eyes on you. You looked up to see Marc-André Fleury standing in front of you, his signature smile plastered on his face.

“Y/N! Glad to see you!” he exclaimed. “I was looking forward to seeing you.”

"Oh, hey Marc-André," you greeted him. He was always someone you got along with, but also, who wouldn't get along with him? "Yeah, I, uh, I almost bailed," you admitted, laughing slightly as you stood up and made your way to the ice with Marc-André.

"How come?" he asked while taking a step onto the ice, skating a few glides away from you, so that you had some room to get on the ice. You scanned the ice, searching for Matt, so you could say 'hi'. You found him on the other side of the ice and tried to get his attention, a hopeful smile on your face, but he was too preoccupied with Chelsea, and your smile dropped. "Ah," Marc-André realized as he followed your gaze to Matt and Chelsea, "I see."

"I'm happy that he's happy, but..." you sighed as you looked away from the couple and continued skating, "he's basically forgotten about me since they got together. And even when we do talk, all he talks about is Chelsea."

"I don't even know why it bothers me so much," you continued, “I mean, it’s not like I like…”you trailed off in realization as you stopped in your tracks, your skates kicking up some snow. “Oh my gosh," you gasped, "I like him.” You turned your head to look at Matt, then turned back to look at Marc-André.

"Y/N, are you-" Marc-André started before you cut him off.

“I have to go.” You hurried off the ice, finding the spot your running shoes rested, and sat down to remove your skates. Marc-André followed you, not wanting to leave you alone in a frazzled state. You struggled to untie the laces of your skates as your hands were shaking due to your realization. Marc-André bent down and began to untie them for you, giving you a smile which you returned as a silent 'thank you' after he untied one skate. You stood up after putting your running shoes back on and Marc-André handed you your skates. "If Matt asks, I never came, okay?" you told him.

"You have my word," he assured you.

—————

You awoke the next day to the sound of repetitive knocks on your door. You groggily walked to the door, peeking out at who was knocking before opening the door to Matt.

“Why didn’t you come last night?” Matt asked before you could ask him why he was at your doorstep.

“I, uh…” you began, trying to figure out a lie to tell him, “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“But no text? I was looking for you the whole time.”

“I had a massive headache, so I wasn’t looking at my phone.” You hated how easily you were able to lie to your best friend.

“Yeah, okay. You keep telling yourself that lie.” Matt read through you and he invited himself in and shut the door behind him. “Now what’s really going on?”

“Nothing. I had a headache and I needed to do nothing to get rid of it.” Your right hand was behind your back, fingers crossed, as you hoped Matt wouldn’t continue to press on your lie.

“Right, right. And there’s no other reason you didn’t show up.” He sarcastically stated.

“What do you want me to say?!” you snapped at him, raising your voice in anger.

“The truth would be nice!” he responded, matching the volume of your voice.

“Fine,” you huffed, then but the inside of your cheek and you tried to formulate the words you were about to say. “I did go to the skate. I showed up, skated for a few minutes, then left.”

“Why did you leave?” Matt pleaded. “You didn’t even find me to say hi or anything.”

“I was jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Of your girlfriend.”

“What?”

“Don’t you get it, Matt? I love you! I can’t go on like this and watch her get what I want, who I want!” You tilted your head downwards, looking at the ground to avoid looking at Matt. “So just go.”

“Y/N, wait-”

“Just go,” you desperately pleaded, gaze not wavering from the ground, not wanting to see Matt’s dejected face. You heard him release a deep sigh, then take a few steps to open the door, leave, and softly shut the door.

—————

About three months of the NHL season had gone by, and you and Matt hadn’t talked since the day you confessed your feelings to him. Winter break had arrived, including the Wild’s annual party, something you were also always invited to. To your surprise, you received a text from Matt. All he sent was the invite to the party with a text that read ‘love to see you there’.

You contemplated over the next couple days whether or not to go. On one hand, you and Matt hadn't talked to one another in a while, but on the other hand, you did miss him.

You know what? Fuck it.

Two days later, you were at the party. Before you could spot Matt, you spotted Marc-André. He breathed in a sharp breath, completely shocked that you were there. He walked over to you and gave you a tight hug which you happily returned.

"Is Matt here yet?" you asked before Marc-André could even say 'hello'.

"Yeah, he's by the drinks," Marc-André pointed over in the direction you had to go. You smiled at him in appreciation before starting to go towards the drinks.

"Y/N!" Matt exclaimed in shock. "You're here!"

"Hey," you softly said. "Where's, uh..."

"She broke up with me about two months ago, I think."

"Oh, Matt, I'm so sorry."

"It's all good, don't worry. It needed to happened." He scratched the back of his head before continuing. "I was kind of an ass when I was with her."

"Kind of?" you laughed, and he laughed with you.

"Okay, I was very much an ass," he corrected himself, still laughing. "I'm sorry. I was a bad friend. You didn't deserve the way I acted when I was with her."

"Apology accepted," you smiled before leaning in to give him a hug.

"Also, what you said the last time we talked," Matt said much quieter than he was previously talking, "it made me realize things and-"

"What, you feel the same way now?" you chortled.

He briefly tilted his head before answering, "Maybe."

“Alright Mr. Boldy,” you laughed. “Let’s enjoy this night and then we’ll figure out everything else later.”

“Sounds good to me.”

You and Matt hugged again, and you felt a pair of soft lips touch your forehead. You leaned into him even more and felt his lips turn upwards into a smile.

——————————

NHL taglist: @readyfreddy @jostystyles @jimothystu @typical-simplelove @2manytabsopen @11livpangburn @matthewkniesys @lifeofpriya @fallinallincurls @islesnucks @jimmystrudel @sof1shticated @dancerbailey3

Brady Skjei has everything: Money, fame, talent, devastating good looks. As the star quarterback for the Tennessee Titans, it’s safe to say that he is a man that women want to be with and who other men want to be. Since having a record-setting college career culminating in a National Championship title and a Heisman trophy, he’s continued to excel in the NFL: 2 MVPs and one Super Bowl ring to his name, with the expectation of more to come in the coming years.

His 6-bedroom mansion in Belle Meade is decadent. Luxury marble countertops, a fully stocked wine cellar, and a home cinema satisfy his extravagant lifestyle, known for hosting excellent celebration parties. He’s got a team the size of a small youth soccer team that services his house, cooks his meals, and keeps him in top physical shape in his state-of-the-art basement gym. In essence, his life is pretty close to perfect.

But he doesn’t have a girl.

And not for lack of options—being Brady Skjei certainly has its perks. With Instagram models fawning over themselves, desperate for a chance to be his arm candy for even just a night, he merely has to flash his ovary-bursting smile to win women over. He’s had rumored (but never confirmed) flings with no less than two top tier celebrities, the gossip columns frequently spotlighting the handsome quarterback, his face plastered across glossy magazine covers in grocery stores. 

But the truth is, because of his travel schedule and lifestyle, it’s hard for him to casually date. And even if he could, half of the girls in his dating pool only want him for clout. At first, it was nice, even fun, to have his pick of virtually any girl he wanted. But after a few years of it all, he’s started to grow bored of the same desperate, too-eager act. He doesn’t really have the energy or the time to distinguish between the authentic ones and the ones seeking five minutes of fame, so it’s easier to stay single-adjacent, earning himself the unofficial title of playboy millionaire. 

The upcoming season will be Brady’s second in Nashville, his seventh in the league, and all eyes are on the Titans, expected to challenge for a title in the postseason. His first season in Nashville, the team made a playoff run for the first time in nearly ten years. There’s a buzz in the city, his name becoming synonymous with something akin to the savior of the state of Tennessee sports.

For you, a three-year veteran on the Titans Cheerleading team, it means tighter expectations, smaller margins of error, and an increased demand for perfection. You’re fortunate to have a remote job that affords you a flexible schedule, allowing you to spend extra time at the studio practicing or at the gym training. It’s exhausting, albeit exciting.

You’ve chatted with Brady a few times, but only surface-level, having seen each other around the Titans’ practice facility from time to time. Enough for you to be somewhat comfortable in his presence, but never enough for you to expect him to remember—or even know—your name, let alone approach you and say hello.

But here he is all the same, greeting you as you sit cross-legged on the ground, your small sewing kit beside you. He frowns at the sight of you sewing in additional padding around the inner hem of your sequined uniform. “What are you doing?”

You tie off the last thread and flip the top right side out to inspect it and ensure there are no visible signs of your doctoring. “I have to add in padding because the sequins cut into my sides.”

“They cut you?”

“Sometimes it makes me bleed on a bad day.”

Brady’s eyebrows crease. “Your uniforms aren’t made in a way that won’t hurt you?”

“The uniforms are made for male entertainment,” you say with a matter-of-fact shrug. It’s true—you’re more than aware of the fact that being under the male gaze is part of your life, part of your job. You accepted that fact a long time ago; you might as well take advantage of your youth and fast metabolism while you can.

“That uniform was made for guys like me.”

It’s a bold statement, one that takes you a moment to recover from. You zip up the case containing your sewing kit and toss it, along with your uniform, back into your bag before you stand and lock eyes with him. If he’s going to be bold, then so are you. “Brady, what are you doing?”

“Wanted to ask you out on a date.” He says it casually, like he had just been walking by when the idea struck his fancy. Like it isn’t completely out of the blue.

Your eyes roll. You watch the way his eyes trail over the Nike Pros you know are just a little too short, gaze traveling down your freshly self-tanned leg. His eyes move back up to meet yours, the dark umber glittering at you along with an expectant smile. 

“Don’t you think it’s a little cliche?”

“What is?”

Your eyebrow raises, conscious of the way you kneel—not bend over—to tug your gym bag off the floor. “The cheerleader and the football player?”

A feline smirk crawls its way onto his face. He’s even more handsome with a smile. “It’s a classic.”

“Goodbye, Brady.”

You’re in sweatpants on your couch, splitting a bottle of wine with two of your teammates. Love Island is playing on the television when your phone buzzes beside you. The red alert notifying you of a new Instagram message has you swiping to read it, the blue checkmark catching your attention.

[bradyskjei:] Call me when you’re ready to take a chance. 555-890-4392.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t ignore the way your pulse thumps a little quicker in your throat. It’s no longer just a passing fancy, akin to an intrusive thought that takes over; he’d taken the time to look up your Instagram and send you a message to reaffirm his interest. The thought makes you shiver.

Not only is it quite literally written in your contract, but it goes against your moral compass to entertain the thought, the boundary of not sleeping with your colleagues a firm one for you. He isn’t really a colleague, you tell yourself, not technically, anyway. Either way, it’s a little taboo, and the idea of sneaking around tempts your daring side.

But he also scares you. Not just because of his celebrity, though the idea of being in that level of spotlight is intimidating, too. His reputation isn’t anything you’re interested in; you don’t want to get involved with gossip columns and celebrity drama. It’s also his larger-than-life persona, his lifestyle so much bigger than anything—or anyone—you know.

But you can’t deny that you’re attracted to him.

You don’t reply, assuming that he’s got much more important things to do than check if you’ve seen his DM. But another hour goes by and you see another message.

[bradyskjei:] left on read? ouch.

Part of you is annoyed by the double text, the insistence despite your clear lack of interest—men—but another part of you recognizes his persistence as his way of showing you he really is interested. You’re sure he’s never been told ‘no,’ but there’s something about him that doesn’t make you turn away in disgust. He could have his pick of any girl he wants, and yet here he is, spending his time messaging you and noticing that you’ve read it and not responded.

Your response is simple: “I’m not interested in being a play thing.”

[bradyskjei:] What if I’m not interested in having a play thing?

Admittedly, your curiosity does ring—what does that mean? You stare at the screen, at the electronic keyboard, searching for something to say. Nothing comes, and you decide that no reply is a reply in itself.

Week 9 of the Titans’ schedule is a home game and it’s against the Ravens, one of two other opponents who remain undefeated. There’s an air in the city, a palpable, infectious energy, that’s seeped into every building, street, and stoplight. Having your life revolve around the team, feeding off of their success and contributing to the atmosphere in the stadium, it’s hard not to let that contagious excitement flutter in your chest. You’re a genuine Titans fan, rooting for the success of the team.

So when Brady throws a career-high 4 touchdowns, you find yourself leaping in the air beside your teammates as the whistle is blown and the field is flooded by reporters and players converging in the middle to shake hands. It’s been weeks since he last tried to pursue you, but at the moment, you’re just like every other Nashville resident, and you’re ecstatic that the best football player in the world is on your team.

By the time you’re done packing up your things in the cheerleaders’ locker room, your heart rate has returned to normal. Slipping on an oversized sweatshirt, you sling your Adidas bag over your shoulder and bid goodbye to the few girls left in the room. Brady Skjei is on your mind as you walk out into the lobby, that handsome, heart-melting smile like a fucking teenage heartthrob.

Which is why your heart does a triple flip when you see him walking down the opposite hallway. He turns his head at the sound of your footsteps, a grin breaking out onto his face when he realizes it’s you. “Guess it really is my lucky night.”

Your smile is coy, but you can’t fight the real smile that blooms at the way he beams. There’s a light in his eyes that you’ve never seen before, adrenaline still coursing through his veins from his exhilarating night. “Congratulations, Brady. It was a hell of a game.”

“Thank you,” he says. You like the way he says it, like he’s so genuinely grateful for your compliment. It surprises you, the peek into the real him, the one that’s beneath the big grins and Nike commercials. “Heading home?”

You nod. 

There’s a brief air of hesitation, gone so quick you thought you imagined it. Then he asks, “Would you like to get a drink with me?”

“You want me to go out in downtown Nashville, in the city where you just had a huge milestone game and your name is the only thing everyone’s talking about?” You can’t help the incredulous tone of your voice or the pointed look you give him.

He smiles, letting the indirect accolades roll off as if they don’t mean anything to him. Maybe they don’t. “Does that mean you’d be talking about me too?”

You ignore his chide. A vision of flashing cameras, trending hashtags, and an inbox full of hate messages from jealous Instagram models passes through your mind, a dread filling your gut. You’re not ready for that. Not for a few hours with a man you barely know.

“I’m really not in for a crowd,” you say, turning to walk away. It’s the truth, but part of you—you’re really not sure which—wonders if you shouldn’t have rejected his advances. What if you did have a connection? 

You only get to take one step before he’s calling after you again.

“What do I have to do to get you to give me a chance?”

You pause, thinking. Then you turn and smile. “Win a Super Bowl. Then we’ll talk.”

The celebrations are legendary. Navy and light blue confetti flies in the air, the roar of the crowd near deafening; later, champagne and beer flow in excess and the music pumps loud through the speakers in the dark, packed bar. Despite the typical order against fraternizing, you and your teammates are earnestly invited to the afterparty. We just won the Super Bowl, they say, no one can touch us.

Brady is preoccupied all night, constantly surrounded by teammates, friends, family, and beautiful girls. If he remembers your unofficial promise, or intends to act on it, he doesn’t show it; you don’t even get the chance to talk to him amidst the celebration. You don’t hear from him at all, so you assume your lack of interest has caused his own to dwindle, writing you off as a lost cause and moving on to the next target.

About a week after the Super Bowl, you’re at the stadium clearing out your locker in the dressing room. The deep, familiar voice comes from behind you.

“I won the Super Bowl.”

When you turn around, Brady Skjei, Super Bowl MVP is standing in the open doorway. He’s sporting joggers and an expensive-looking sweatshirt, and you wonder what he’s doing at the stadium.

“You did,” you say, not trying to hide the grin that grows on your face. “Congratulations, Brady. You—you’re… really special to watch.”

He looks surprised at your genuine compliment, and he blinks. “Thank you.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating?”

His smirk is wicked, eyes flicking down to your leggings. “What if I want to celebrate with you?”

God damn, is he smooth. Against your own will, you feel your heart pulse a little bit faster. “Me, huh?”

“Who wouldn’t want to celebrate with the prettiest girl in Nashville?” 

“Laying it on pretty thick, aren’t you, Skjei?”

“Just telling the truth,” he says with a wink; you fight the urge to roll your eyes. Then, “How do you like dive bars?”

Pausing, you allow your eyebrows to raise before looking back at him. “All that pining and now you’re okay with our first date being at a dive bar?”

“Who said anything about a date?” he says, winking, then grinning at the expression on your face.

Twenty minutes later, you’re stepping hesitantly out of his truck (that costs more money than you have in your savings account) and walking through the door he opens for you. Your self-preservation radar is blinking as you take in the seedy bar, but Brady’s large, looming presence at your back comforts you. The bar isn’t empty, but it is definitely a dive: dim lighting, a neon Miller Light sign on the wall right beside the ‘Cash Only’ sign written in sharpie, and well-worn barstools create a dingy ambience. The bartender doesn’t look up at the opening of the door, but he does nod in familiarity when Brady approaches the bar. You wonder how in the world he knows about this place. 

From the booth you settled in, you watch the two exchange a few words before the bartender sets off to grab the two Bud Lights that he hands him. Back across from you, he slides one bottle across the table at you. He offers the lip of his bottle in a silent toast, which you clink yours against before you take a drink.

“Not so bad, huh?”

“How do you even know about this place?” you laugh incredulously. 

“Been coming here since I moved here,” he explains. “Tom—the owner—was one of the few people who didn’t treat me like this huge elephant in the room. It was the only place I could be just… Brady.”

You cast your eyes down, gaze tracing over the initials carved into the wood of the table. You were guilty of doing exactly what he said; making him into someone larger than he is, letting the weight of his name make your decisions about him before even giving him a chance. 

“It comes with the territory,” he says, like he can sense your guilt. “Everyone does it.”

“That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“I mean, I am the savior of Nashville sports,” he says with a cheeky grin, and just like that, any discomfort has dissipated, clearing the air in an instant. Then he asks, “How long have you lived in Nashville?”

At first, you hesitate, debating with yourself how much of yourself you want to reveal to him. You look into his eyes, trying to determine how interested he really is. They glitter as he looks at you, that handsome, all-American charm radiating over his features. But beneath that, you see sincerity, almost a pleading look—maybe for you to just give him a tiny bit of leeway. 

“Four years. I’ve been on the cheer team for three,” you ultimately say. 

“Dancer?”

Your eyes narrow. True, it isn’t far-fetched to know that the majority of professional cheerleaders have a background and training in dance, but you’re suspicious of how he knows it. Does he know because he’s been around them since being thrust into the world of the NFL, or did he have a more intimate knowledge?

“My sister’s a cheerleader,” he says with a shrug. You get the strange sense he was reading your thoughts. “And, believe it or not, I am capable of making friends that are female.”

“Can you blame me for my suspicion?” 

Another broad grin. “Only a little.”

Conversation comes easier than you expect. Turns out, you have more in common than you thought, and in addition to being handsome and talented and successful, he’s also got funny on his resume. He tells you about his sister, his dogs, and how he typically spends his offseasons. The longer he talks, the more you realize he really is just a normal guy beneath a public persona and 8.1M Instagram followers. 

Bit by bit, he breaks down the brick wall you’ve constructed around yourself, your hesitance around getting to know him evaporating with each laugh that he pulls from your lips. It surprises you how nice it is to see him like this; it makes you feel special that he’s comfortable enough to peel back a few layers with you. You wonder how many people get to see this version of Brady.

And good lord is he handsome. You’ve never really had much of an opportunity to speak with him up close; you never noticed the scar on his chin, the ridge in his nose, or the freckle on his jawline. Sitting across from him, he looks at you like you’re the only person left in the world, not seeming to notice the handful of other patrons in the bar or their lingering stares. 

Being the center of his attention, the subject of his attentive gaze, is intoxicating.

“Man, you are so out of my league,” he says with a self-deprecating chuckle, leaning back against the cushion back of the booth. He shakes his head like he knows he’s in trouble. Even in the dim lighting, his cheeks are tinged with pink.

You can’t help the laugh that barks out in response. “You realize who you are, right?”

“I do.”

“And that you’re quite literally in the biggest sports league in the world?”

He nods, that same sincere look in his eyes as before. “I think you’re insanely beautiful. And talented. And funny. Unless you’re a serial killer, you’re the perfect catch.”

The joke creates an easy opportunity for a laugh, but you find your heart fluttering at his words. As much as you’d like to be immune to the weight of a compliment coming from Brady Skjei, it’s easier said than done. Satisfaction and humility bubble up inside you against your will, and you smile and thank him shyly. It isn’t lost on you that it’s exactly what people say about him.

When you told Brady you’d get one drink with him, you really meant it. But even your impenetrable fortress isn’t immune to his charm; three drinks later, you find yourself pressed against the passenger door of Brady’s car while he mouths at your jawline. His lips are hot against your skin, heating radiating through your body while they trail fire over your neck. A soft moan escapes your lips—it feels so fucking good, so good that you can barely even bring yourself to care that you’re in the middle of the parking lot getting felt up by NFL superstar Brady Skjei.

Your hand clutches onto his bicep, another gasp escaping when his teeth sink gently into your skin. His tongue caresses the sting, finding a tandem that earns another rush of pleasure down your spine. The space between your legs is hot in your leggings, your center seeking out his firm leg; you feel the smirk against your neck before he nudges his knee between your thighs.

His groan rumbles against you when your hips begin to grind yourself against him, creating the friction you desperately need. Soon enough, you’re whimpering shamelessly with his large hand—the one that throws the football—groping at the flesh of your ass to guide you along.

“C’mon,” he murmurs against your lips. “Lemme see you.”

The heat formulates in you faster than you expect, exploding at the apex of your thighs as you cry out. Almost immediately, his hand claps over your mouth to cover the sound, an amused laugh on his face at what he’s done to you, unable to control your own scream. His breathing is almost as heavy as yours when he curses in your ear. “Fuck, baby.”

Your lips are damp from where they were locked with his, feeling slightly swollen as you smile at him when he pulls away, opening the door for you and offering his hand to help you inside the car. “I’ll take you back.”

When he settles back into the driver’s seat, he turns to look at you with a smile before he puts his seatbelt on. Maybe it’s the beer or maybe it’s the fire he lit inside of you, but something makes your hand reach out to stop him, instead leaning over the center console to kiss him hotly. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it, accepting your kiss eagerly and allowing you to brush your hand over his thigh. At first, it lingers on the inside just above his knee, but the return of his tongue to your mouth encourages it to draw higher.

Brady’s breath hitches in his throat when your palm comes up to press against the firm bulge beneath his zipper. You like knowing you have an effect on him, like the way he releases a sigh when you apply a little pressure and squeeze him. 

“Can I?” Your question is a purr in his ear, fingers toying with the waistband of his joggers.

“You want to get your hands on me before I get to touch you? That’s criminal,” he says.

“Guess you gotta work harder than that,” you tease, liking the power you have over him when his dick is in your hand. 

His response is simply a groan, followed by a conceding nod, lifting his hips to help you shimmy his joggers down his legs. It’s a bit cramped in the car, but all you’re focused on is the sizable erection that springs free. Headlights turn on in the parking lot, illuminating the road beside you, and you keep a normal expression even as your hand wraps around his length—you’d almost forgotten that someone could very realistically catch you here, in the act. 

He’s warm, soft skin over the very hard appendage. Your fist begins to stroke, earning a lower groan from him. Glancing over, you smile at the way his eyes close; it amuses you that Brady Skjei, one of America’s most eligible bachelors, is falling apart over a handjob in a dive bar parking lot. 

When you lower your mouth to his tip, allowing your lips to ever so gently brush the head, you look up at him in another silent question.

Brady practically whines. “Now you get to taste me before I get to even touch you?”

“You already tasted my lips,” you say, fully aware of the innuendo. His answering grumble makes your lips curl up on your face. 

His tip is warm, soft against your lips, a dribble of precum leaking out that you catch with your tongue. He’s firm in your mouth, and you find yourself pleased at the physical evidence of his attraction to you. The guttural sound that leaves his throat is motivation to take him further, working your lips around his length.

Nothing about sucking Super Bowl Champion Brady Skjei’s dick in the parking lot of a seedy dive bar is normal, or even remotely how you anticipated your evening would go. But now that you’re here, something inside of you is determined to see it through—if he wants to be a simp, you’re going to give him a reason to be a simp.

Unlike most other men, he has a body part that’s more prized than his penis, but you’re willing to bet that it’s a close second on the list. So you worship him, giving each inch the attention it deserves. Judging by the white knuckle grip he has on the steering wheel, his other hand tangled in your hair to keep it out of your way, you’re confident he approves of your performance.

He grunts out a warning before he finishes, and afterwards, he opens the glove box to fish out a handful of fast food napkins—celebrities, they’re just like us!—and offers you one to help clean up your mouth. “I think I’m in love. D’you want to get married?”

You laugh. “I have to say, a marriage proposal is quite the endorsement.”

“I have a lot to endorse,” he says. “God, you’re perfect.”

Brady drives you back to your car at the arena, one of three vehicles left in the staff parking garage—perhaps the cleaning crew, given how late it is—and he looks at you when he puts the car in park beside yours. “You gonna give me your number this time?”

“I have your number,” you say with a smile. You’re not sure what the last little bit of resistance left in you—you just sucked the guy’s dick in a dive bar parking lot, for Christ’s sake—but it’s what takes the driver’s seat and puts up one last layer of defense.

He smiles back, unbothered by your antics. “I’d like to see you again.” “I’m sure you would,” you reply with a smile, casting a glance down at his lap and earning a chuckle from him. 

“I’m serious. A date. Nothing physical. I have to prove to you that it’s not all about that for me.”

You hesitate. “A drink is very different from a date. I could get kicked off the team—”

“I can be discreet.”

“I don’t know, Brady. The consequences are much steeper for me than for you if this goes sideways.”

Brady grimaces—he hadn’t thought of it like that. He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s trying to conjure a magic solution out of thin air. Then he announces, “I’ll take the blame.”

“I’m not sure it works that way,” you say with a sad smile. 

“I won them a Super Bowl. I’m pretty much untouchable,” he continues, and he says it without an ounce of ego behind his words. “Breaking the tiny rule of pursuing a beautiful girl—which there is evidence of, by the way—won’t even be a scratch on my record.”

You consider his words. He had a point. Brady Skjei is untouchable in Nashville, and you do have the evidence proving his interest long before you ever agreed to see him outside of Titans-sanctioned events. Would it actually do anything to save you should things go sideways? You aren’t sure, but you think it has to count for something. 

There’s also the fact that beneath the surface, through your interactions with him, you’ve found he’s kind, funny, and caring. He’s exceeded all expectations, so much so that he had you humping his leg after just a couple of beers. You feel a flutter between your legs at the thought of what he might have you doing after a real date. 

You hate to admit that you’re really intrigued at what a date with Brady Skjei would look like. How it would feel to spend time with him that has a label, an intention. If it’s anything like tonight—simple and fun and easy—it’d be wonderful. Though you’ve tried to ignore it, there’s something there, the hint of a spark. You can’t deny your curiosity to see if it fizzles or flames. 

“Just one date?” you ask, and the grin that forms on his face is wider than the one he had after he won his second Super Bowl ring. 

Your phone lights up on your nightstand.

It's a photo of a Bud Light, condensation beading down the side of the glass bottle. The text reads, "Come here. Meet me in the back."

A snort leaves your nose as you finish putting away your laundry. You glance at your watch before returning the text: "It's 9 o'clock on a Tuesday."

The next thing you know, your phone is buzzing, the contact named Brad Smith appearing on your screen; the pseudonym became a necessity after your teammate almost caught Brady texting you. You swipe to answer his call, and before you can even greet him, he's saying, "Isn't that the perfect time to go to a dive bar?"

You can't help the laugh that bubbles out. "I guess so."

"So, you coming?"

"I have a hot date with a pint of Birthday Cake Halo Top."

He hums. "Now that's something I'd like to see."

"Maybe you should come over, then," you say.

"Would, if you'd let me," comes his grumbled reply. You've been resistant to letting Brady inside your apartment—for one, you're embarrassed at the idea of him seeing the inside of your peasant residence; second, you've instituted strict rules about keeping your budding romance a firmly guarded secret. Restricting him from your home just felt like an obvious boundary to set, but the more time that passes, the more you realize that it's just silly. "Jus' wanna see you. Is that too much to ask?"

Your heart melts a little at that. He's met every one of your demands, taken them in stride—though not without a little bit of teasing—and passed every single one of your tests. So far, you couldn't find anything to show that he was anything other than a man of his word.

"If I let you come over, are you going to be a gentleman?"

"Have I ever been anything other than a perfect gentleman?" You snort, but before you can retort, his voice lowers and he adds, "You're the one who sucked me off in a dive bar parking lot. Just saying."

Your cheeks go hot at the memory. A low pulse echoes between your thighs when you remember the weight of him on your tongue, the way he tasted, those delicious grunts that left his throat.

"You can come over," you finally concede, "but I don't have a parking spot for you."

"That's fine. I'll have my driver drop me."

You resist the urge to scoff—his driver—and instead tell him you'll text him the address. Twenty minutes later, your phone dings with the text that he's arrived, and you meet him near the side door to your apartment building. His baseball cap hangs over his face, his head dipped down to avoid being recognized by the car coasting by.

Once the stairwell door is securely shut, you begin to make your way up the stairs when his hand catches yours and tugs you back toward him until you're pressed against his chest. Looking up at him, his handsome face smiles down at you. "Hi, beautiful."

"Hi, Brady," you say with an unamused smile, accepting the peck he presses to your lips.

"I'm excited to see your apartment."

"Let me guess—you're most excited to see the bedroom?"

"If you wanted to get me in your bedroom, all you have to do is ask," he grins. "Besides, I don't need a bed to show you a good time."

Warmth coats your skin, an image of Brady bending you over the counter suddenly painted with stunning clarity inside your mind. When you unlock the door to your apartment, you pointedly look anywhere but your kitchen counter.

Brady takes in the interior of your home while you do your best to fight the self-consciousness that threatens to overcome you. He doesn't scoff at your decor collected from Homegoods and Goodwill; instead, he quietly observes the framed photos on your shelves while an HGTV show plays quietly on the television. For some reason, the expression on his face is endearment rather than disappointment.

Once you make your way to the couch, you're reminded once again how much you like flirting with him, how easy he makes it, how good he is at dishing it back. He asks you how your day was, swapping stories about practice that day. It doesn't take long for his head to find its way between your thighs despite his insistence that that wasn't the only reason he was there. You honestly can't bring yourself to care with the way his tongue is, regrettably, just as talented as his championship-winning arm.

Behind the closed doors and far away from the cameras and publicity, the darkness of your bedroom is the one place where you give him more of yourself. He's an attentive, eager lover, just cocky enough that it makes it fun, but not cocky enough to be a turnoff.

"Knew you just wanted to get me in bed," he says once he's disposed of the condom and slipped back into bed beside you. It feels strange to have a man—one of the most famous men in the country, no less—in your bed, his muscled frame tucked against you.

"Like you didn't know exactly what you were doing," you shoot back. "You're the one who kissed me first."

"I think about kissing you all day long. Can you blame me?"

"All day long?" you raise an eyebrow.

Brady's brown eyes glisten as he smiles, gaze moving back to your lips. He leans in slowly, a contrast to the heated, almost frenzied way he kissed you earlier; lips ghost against yours, warm breath exhaling softly against your face. Once his mouth touches yours, you become drunk on his kiss, the breath faltering in your throat.

He pulls away, eyes locked with yours. "All day long, baby."

A few days later, you're packing up your bag after practice when you overhear a teammate talking loudly in her stall about how Brady was flirting with her on the way out of the stadium the previous day. Instantly, you find yourself bristling, jealousy bubbling low in your belly.

"He followed me back on Instagram," she brags, earning a squeal of interest from her listeners. "And he viewed both of the thirst traps I put on my story. Must've been lurking."

He wasn't. You know, because you still have marks in the shape of his mouth dotting along your breasts and collarbones that he left when she posted the photos—he was most definitely not lurking.

And you know that you shouldn't, but you can't help yourself when you pull out Brady's oversized Nike hoodie out of your bag and slip it over your head. He'd left it on your couch and you'd be lying if you said you haven't been living in it the last few days.

The hoodie, black and soft and worn in on the cuffs, still has his scent on it, and you can't deny that there's a part of you that likes wearing his clothes. It's the only outward symbol you have to show the world that you have the sort of relationship with Brady Skjei where he leaves his sweatshirt at your apartment.

Even if you're the only person who knows the sweatshirt is his.

"I think I'm going to DM him later," she's saying, earning a gaggle of 'oooh's from her surrounding posse.

That bubble of jealousy roils through you again. "I heard a rumor that he's seeing someone."

All three of them turn to look at you. Erin, your newest nemesis, widens her eyes. "Where did you hear that from?"

You shrug. "Rumor mill, I guess."

"Well," Erin says, smiling, "If it's not serious enough to be public, it can't hurt to message him, then, can it?"

Forcing a grin on your face, you nod and hope that your tone isn't too tight. She had a point—you and Brady aren't anything serious. Hell, you've only just let him come over to your apartment for the first time. "Good luck."

Erin does message Brady a few days later, something he chuckles at and screenshots to send to you. He lets you check his messages—green flag alert—to prove that he didn't message her back (you insist you trust him to tell you the truth, but he shows it to you anyways because he wants to make sure you know he's serious).

A few weeks later, the Titans have a bye week, marking your first ever trip as an item: a weekend getaway to Asheville. The more time that passed, the more comfortable you got with the idea of dating Brady Skjei, Super Bowl Champion and Most Famous Football Player In The World. In that time, the stage of your relationship had gradually shifted to multiple sleepovers per week, to FaceTime calls on away trips and texts goodnight. He'd been gently pressing you to spend the weekend with him, and once you begrudgingly admit that fuck, you do like him, it's hard to deny him.

He wines and dines you, taking you to his vacation home in the mountains. A place, he says, that he loves spending time in the off-season, away from the hustle and bustle of Nashville. Brady admits he considered hiring a private chef to both impress you and avoid dining in public, but opted instead for a grocery delivery with a fridge full of food for the weekend—something much more your speed.

Admittedly, you spend far more time inside the bedroom (outdoor jacuzzi included) than anywhere else, but it's still an alarmingly good preview for what life could be like with him. Cooking together is definitely not something you expected to enjoy doing with him, falling quickly into a rhythm beside one another chopping vegetables or preparing the food for him to grill in the outdoor kitchen. It's easier than you expected, and worse—you enjoy it.

In the evening, you sit with your feet in his lap on the patio couch, watching the sun sink behind the mountains while a fire crackles beside you. Brady has a collection of expensive wine, which he delves into the stores of and which serves as the lubricant for hours of conversation. Something between you two shifts in these hours, strengthening the bridge between you. He's funny, the banter between you almost intoxicating; another glass of wine later, sharing hopes, wishes, dreams, fears.

The more you learn about him, the more you like. It encourages you to drop your guard, too, revealing to him more of yourself, more than just your moans and sighs.

If you didn't know better, you'd wonder if you were falling for him.

On the way home, Brady pulls into the Wendy's near your apartment. Instead of using the drive-thru, you offer to go inside to order so that you can use the restroom.

After you've placed you and Brady's order, his card in your hand (his insistence), you hear your name. Your heart sinks when you turn and see Erin.

Perhaps not quickly enough, you offer a greeting. It takes everything in you not to glance toward the door, praying that she didn't see the Audi Q7 that you got out of in the parking lot.

When you retrieve your order, she notes the two drinks instead of one. "Are you with someone?"

At the same time, the door behind you opens and you hear Brady's voice.

"Babe, are you—"

Erin's eyes widen, then flick to you. You try not to wince as you watch her put everything together in real time. Brady comes to stand beside you, offering a casual smile to Erin. "Oh, hey! Erin, right?"

Addressing Erin catches her off guard, but she smiles sweetly anyways. "I didn't know you two were together. How cute! A little workplace romance."

"We're trying to keep things on the DL," he says with an equally saccharine smile. "Really don't wanna have coach up my ass. Or yours, for that matter."

Erin lets out a laugh that nearly makes you snort. She's flirting with him while talking about him being with you. If it wasn't the man who you spent the weekend falling for in the mountains, you might admire her dedication.

But it is. And it would only be kind for you to remind her of that.

"She won't tell anyone, babe." You offer Erin the same smile that she has on her face, enjoying the way it falters slightly at the pet name. "Girl code, right?"

Three weeks later

"She posted again."

You roll your eyes, corking the wine you just opened. Bringing the two glasses into the living room, you hand one to Brady. "And?"

"It's the same as yours, coffee and all."

"So a twenty-something year old woman isn't allowed to post her coffee on her Instagram story anymore?"

Brady casts you an unamused look. "It's obvious that she's trying to imitate you."

"You think you're that cute that she'd mimic me to get to you?" you shoot back with a smirk. He rolls his eyes, and you nudge his leg with yours. "It's fine. I'm not worried about it. Why are you?"

He grumbles, but doesn't say anything as he accepts your feet in his lap while you scroll on Netflix. Brady's thumb rubs soft circles against your foot while you select a movie to play.

You've only just gotten past the opening credits when he speaks again.

"Let's soft launch."

Your heart freezes in your chest, then begins to thud rapidly. "What?"

"I know it seems like I'm obsessed with Erin posting on her Instagram, but it's really just because it bothers me that she thinks I'm available. Because I'm not."

"Brady, you could be available. You are available. We’re not official."

"Do you want to be?"

The question makes you freeze. You weren't prepared to have this conversation tonight. You were hoping you could flirt with him a little bit and have him in your bed before 11pm, not have the what are we conversation before you even get to touch him.

So his proposition? Unexpected. Uncharted territory.

When you look back up, he's looking at you hopefully, waiting patiently for you to respond.

"It's a big step to go from this to—" you gesture vaguely with your hand toward the window, "—all of that."

"I'm just a normal guy."

"You’re not, Brady. You are the biggest athlete in the country. Being your… being with you, publicly, where I'm suddenly exposed to millions of people, is a huge responsibility."

He smiles sadly. He knows. Behind closed doors, in the privacy of his house, away from the cameras and reporters, it can be simple. Easy. But as soon as you're exposed to the public, everything completely changes, for you and for him.

A beat of silence passes, and you brace yourself for the inevitable end.

"You don't have to be. That's a big step, I know," he says. "I just want people to know I'm taken. They don't need to know who by."

Brady's words make your heart swell, the depth of his commitment out there in the open. All at once, you realize the depth of your feelings for him, how much you really do want this. Want him.

And already, he's seen through your resistance for what it is: hesitation. Not of him, but of everything that comes with him.

The spotlight. Cameras, reporters, whispers. Attention—far more than you're used to. And while going semi-public does amp up the heat, it's a chance for you to get your feet wet and get comfortable with the temperature before your identity eventually will have to be revealed. A compromise.

"It would be nice to not see twelve girls asking you on dates on every post," you admit, and he laughs.

"There'll still be one or two. Gonna have to give me a little more to get rid of them all," he says with a wink followed by a breathtaking grin.

It's your turn to roll your eyes. "Let's see how the soft launch goes first, big shooter."

liked by yourusername, ryanoreilly, and others bradyskjei all smiles for season 🎱

rjosi90 why you getting ice cream without me? ⤷ bradyskjei u didn't answer my text

ryanoreilly The soft launch goes hard ♥️ liked by bradyskjei

ryanoreilly smash tho ⤷ bradyskjei 😘

titans run it back?? 👀 ♥️ liked by bradyskjei and 1.4k others

tennesseebrady why is no one talking about the GIRL???? does skjeisy have a gf omg ⤷ bradyskjeidy he liked ror's soft launch comment omg ⤷ tennesseebrady our boy is all grown up!

titansfan73 NOOOO MY HUSBAND

Author's Note: Thanks @senditcolton for helping me brainstorm the plot to one of the most difficult songs on this album, and thanks @wyattjohnston for reminding me that sometimes the simple answer (like going to Wendy's) is the best!

Taglist (message or comment to join!): @lam-ila @ashloveshockey @cellythefloshie @smileysvech @senditcolton

@fallinallincurls

She feels Timo’s eyes as they wait their turn to deboard, but she’s too busy trying to slow her heartrate to meet his gaze. His hand gently takes hers and she forces herself to meet his concerned blue eyes.

“What’s really the matter, schatz?”​​ he asks quietly, thumb tracing a soothing pattern over the back of her hand, slowly easing her pulse.

“What if they don’t like me?” she questions softly, worrying her lip between her teeth.

To her surprise, his face breaks into a grin and he bellows a loud laugh. “What?” she demands, confused and slightly offended.

“Lena, they’re going to love you. You’ve already met my mom when she visited Jersey and she adored you. Is this really what’s been bothering you all week?”

“Maybe” she mumbles, embarrassment dropping her eyes. 

“Hey, look at me” he softly requests, nudging her shoulder with his. “They’re going to love you because I love you.”

“You don’t know that” she argues weakly and he shakes his head.

“Fine, I don’t know for that exact reason. But I do know because you’re kind and warm and considerate. You make people feel safe when they’re with you and you light up every room you’re in. You’re a people magnet, my family won’t be any different, okay?”

His words soothe her so she nods, taking a deep breath, and straightening her shoulders. “Okay, my love” she agrees, placing a gentle kiss on his lips. 

Getting out of the airport is surprisingly smooth and Timo’s father is waiting right outside the doors. After he greets his son with a hug, he surprises Helene by pulling her into one too. “Welcome to your second home” he says, grinning, and Timo groans from beside him. She tilts her head slightly in confusion, glancing towards Timo

“See, no need to worry they won’t like you, they already want you to move here to be closer” Timo explains and Lena chuckles as he helps her into the backseat. The drive to the countryside passes quickly, conversation flowing easily which helps Helene relax fully. 

After settling in and unpacking, Timo leads Lena outside to the patio where his mother laid out a light lunch. Lena’s quickly introduced to Timo’s sister, the last of the Meiers she had yet to meet. As she fills her plate, she notices his parents and sister exchanging glances that she can’t quite read. 

“So, Helene, the one thing Timo won’t tell us is how you met—was he terrible?” his dad asks and Timo groans again as his sister cackles and his mom shakes her head at their antics. 

“T, why haven’t you told them? It’s a sweet story!” she laughs.

“I wanted you with me when I told them, you know my memory’s not great.”

“Well that’s not true at all, you remember way more than me” she admonishes jokingly. “But go ahead, tell them and I promise to keep you honest.” 

***

Timo had been out with the guys for a couple of hours and felt ready to leave. The bar wasn’t as busy as normal, he didn’t like the DJ, and he was feeling restless. 

He’d said his farewells to who he’d been sitting with and was making his way to the other side of the venue to say goodbye to the other half of his group. Just as he cleared the dance floor, the lights swooped and caught a brilliant mane of red hair. His eyes lingered on the woman sitting at the end of the bar–her hair glowed in the lights and her tawny eyes looked almost golden. His breath caught for a moment and he debated stopping to say hi to her, but he noticed a man beside her, his arm looped around her chair back. He took that as another sign to leave and headed towards his friends.

A few moments later, he was retracing his step when movement caught his eyes–the auburn-haired girl with soft brown eyes again. He shook his head at himself when something triggered alarm bells. The man was still next to her, arm lazily thrown on the back of her seat, but the girl was leaning away, eyes darting around uncomfortably. They caught his and he saw panic in them. Based on where she was sitting, she had to get through the guy to leave.

He quickly shifted course, moving towards her, his heart thumping. The closer he got, the more things seemed off–she was holding her drink tightly pressed to her body, her backside barely on the stool as if hoping to just slip away. 

“There you are!” he called loudly once he was within hearing distance and her eyes shot up to his, wide as saucers. “I’m sorry, babe, I ran into some co-workers across the way and lost track of time. Who’s this?” he asked, pointedly spinning her chair so that the man’s arm fell off and he placed his body in between them, forcing the other guy to scootch his chair back. 

“Oh, I don’t recall his name, I tried to tell him I was meeting someone but he wouldn’t go” she said, voice soft in the loud room, her hands fidgeting in her lap. He tentatively placed a large hand on her shoulder, wanting to comfort her and sell the boyfriend story but worried about making her feel worse. To his relief, one of her shaky hands rose to grip his tightly.

“Sorry to tell you man, but that’s not what she’s been saying” the guy slurred, booze wafting off him. 

“Well that’s what she’s saying now, so maybe fuck off, yeah?” Timo said, arranging his face as if squaring off with an opponent on the ice, puffing his chest and squaring his shoulders unconsciously. The man’s eyes darted to the girl but when she wouldn’t look at him and Timo stepped a bit closer, he hurriedly got up and left. 

Timo quickly removed his hand and sat in the newly abandoned seat beside her, “Are you okay?”

The girl let out a long breath, her head dropping into her hands. “Thank you so much, he would not leave me alone and every time I tried to get up, he just shifted me further into the corner” she said, shaking her head.

Timo noticed her hands were trembling slightly and he waved the bartender over to get her some water. She took the glass from him gratefully, taking big sips which seemed to help settle her. 

“I’ll be okay, I don’t want to keep you, thank you though.” She sent him a grateful smile as she set her glass down.

If she hadn’t smiled, he probably would have gone home as planned. But her whole face lit up, her eyes warming into liquid gold, and he felt rooted to his spot, staring at her stupidly. “Are you okay?” she asked after a moment, tilting her head and causing her auburn hair to light up like the sun. 

“Sorry, yeah it’s just…sorry, you just got rid of that creep I don’t want to start throwing lines at you” he said, shaking his head and starting to shift from his seat. 

“What if I’m curious?” she asked, that smile gracing her lips again and he felt his own quirk up slightly.

“I’d say your eyes hypnotized me for a minute there, which is insanely cheesy but also true” he admitted and she giggled, ducking her head slightly before glancing back up at him again.

“I’m Helene,” she said, offering her hand which he gladly took. 

“I’m Timo,” he said, gripping her hand briefly before letting it drop. “That’s the perfect name for you.”

“Why’s that?”

“My sister had a baby recently and was obsessed with picking the right one–she had all these tabs open on her phone, right?” he smiled and she nodded, leaning towards him. “She wanted to make sure the origin of the name fit my niece. She almost picked Helene because it means shining light. Her daughter has darker features so she chose another name but she went on and on about Helene for a while there.” 

“Shining light, huh?” she asked, lips quirking up again. 

“Yeah” he mumbled, eyes dropping as he felt his cheeks flush slightly. 

“Well, you’re the first one to tell me that so maybe I’m shining just for you.”

***

His family fawned over his chivalry, his sister lightly poking fun, and the rest of the day passed quickly. Since he’d shared their first story, Timo had been quieter than normal, seemingly lost in his head. After bidding his sister goodbye so she could return home to her now toddler, his parents moved inside, insisting they’d make dinner so the couple could relax outside. 

“Everything okay, love?” she asks gently, running a hand through his hair before settling into his lap. A hard corner digs into her hip and her brows furrow as she shifts to see what the item is. Her mouth drops slightly as her eyes rise to meet his after seeing the outline of a small box in his pocket. 

“Everything’s great minus you spoiling the surprise” he teases and her eyes widen further and begin to dampen. 

“T…?”

“Can I stand up, my love?” he requests quietly and she rises on shaky legs. They stand toe to toe, her hands quivering for an entirely different reason now. He leans down, kissing the back of each of her hands, before lowering himself into the grass on one knee, his hands firmly locked with her own.

“Lena, my shining light” he begins and she tries blinking back the tears, knowing already it’s a losing battle. “These last two years have been the best of my life. You brighten the world everywhere you go and I still can’t believe you want me by your side. I love you more than anything or anyone in this world and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Schatz, will you marry me?”

“Yes, yes!” she eagerly answers, clapping her hands excitedly, which makes him laugh as he takes out the ring. His eyes are a little glassy as he stands, sliding the diamond ring on before picking her up and spinning her around. She grips his shoulders, laughter falling from her lips as her feet touch the grass once more. He smiles down at her before cupping her cheeks, connecting their lips in a kiss that steals her breath away. A moment later, he pulls away, placing one last peck on her mouth, then rests his forehead on hers. 

“You should really blame your dad you know” she mumbles, fighting a grin.

“What do you mean?”

“As soon as he made that comment in the car, the wheels started turning” she admits, placing a kiss to the tip of his nose as he grumbles in faux-annoyance. 

“Can we come out now? Everyone’s starting to arrive!” his mom calls from just inside the house, his father’s head poking out over her shoulders.

“Everyone?” she questions as Timo beckons them outside. Her heart lights up as she takes in the extended family and Timo’s Swiss friends funneling out of the house onto the lawn, champagne flutes in hand. But she loses all composure as her own family walks out, seemingly sneaking into the country to celebrate with them. 

Tears flow freely as she looks up at Timo, who seems quite pleased with himself. “At least I managed the most important part of the surprise.”

Knock, knock, knock.

As soon as she hears it, Lindy knows what it is—who it is on the other side. Her fragile, battered heart, wrapped in tattered gauze, beats steadily in her chest while she contemplates what to do. Does she answer? Ignore it?

She knows she should. She knows opening the door is only going to lead the way to more broken promises, more disappointment, more scars on her heart.

Beside her, Lauren watches her. Lindy wants to apologize, wants to beg her for forgiveness, to understand.

Because she knows she's not going to ignore it. Ignore him.

The first thing she notices when she sees Pierre on the porch is that he's wearing the dark gray beanie that she likes. A bouquet of roses in his hand contrast the morose expression on his usually handsome face. Lindy can't decide if she thinks it's authentic or not.

"Lin," he says, his voice a whisper. "Can we talk?"

Their relationship started as a fairytale, and Pierre was Prince Charming. When Lindy was dumped, nursing her wounded ego and a broken heart, Pierre swept in with his lazy smile, tattoos, and a warmth that she couldn't resist. He wined her and dined her, his fame and paycheck something that was just a dreamlike plus to meeting a tattooed hunk who treated her like a princess.

Once she earned the title of 'girlfriend', things shifted, like once he got her, he didn't have to try so hard. Lindy told herself it was the normal settling of a relationship, that it was a good thing he felt comfortable enough to let down his guard. It was a badge of honor, she reasoned, to be moving out of the honeymoon phase. Besides, most of the time, he was perfectly wonderful, opening doors, bringing her thoughtful gifts, showering her with affection, so it was easy to brush away those little moments where the mask slipped.

It was about three months in when the first domino fell. Lindy was scrolling on Instagram on her couch when a blonde bombshell's thirst trap appeared in her feed. Underneath the carousel of her bikini photo shoot was Pierre's handle next to the 3,000 other likes. A quick snoop of her profile showed that he'd liked three of her last four posts, each with more cleavage than the last. She frowned, an ickiness settling in the pit of her stomach that she couldn't quite name.

But a few likes were harmless, right? Lindy followed Harry Styles and Michael B. Jordan and it didn't have any impact on her feelings or relationship to Pierre—surely, this was no different. He was too sweet, too doting, too smooth to be the guy who would two time her like that. She opted to ignore it, brushing it under the rug and forgetting about it within a day or two.

Until another account showed up on her For You Page, and Lindy felt that same sinking feeling in her chest when the wall of scantily-clad photos made what she knew deep within her gut to be true.

"Pierre, who is Skylar Rae?" she asked one night, snuggled into his side while some Netflix comedy special played on the TV.

"Just some girl I follow," he said with a shrug. A girl—more like an OnlyFans model. "Why?"

"I just noticed that you liked a few of her pictures—"

"Hang on," he interrupted, his lips curling up into a twisted smile. "Are you stalking my Instagram?"

"No!" Lindy replied, feeling her face grow warm. Great, you're going to blow this relationship because you couldn't keep your mouth shut. "Her picture showed up and I just happened to see that you liked them."

"Okay, and?"

She swallowed, self-conscious. She wanted to be cool, knew she should trust him—a few Instagram likes didn't mean anything. Nothing more than the tap of a finger. Maybe she should just let it go.

But she couldn't shake the unease that lingered even despite all of her attempts to rationalize. The girl, that model, was gorgeous, with perfect measurements: big tits, voluminous blonde hair, mile-long tan legs. Not to mention the inconspicuous links at the top, tempting in a way Lindy could never be. She'd regret it if she didn't just mention it.

"I mean, it's kind of… inappropriate, don't you think? To be liking pictures of other women?"

Pierre scoffed, rolling his eyes. "So you're going to get mad over an Instagram like?"

"I'm not mad. You're in a relationship. She's an OnlyFans model—"

"It's literally meaningless, Lindy," he cut her off. "I like a ton of shit on there. It's not like I'm subscribed to her channel. Besides, I say 'no' to plenty more things."

Lindy's eyebrows shot up, and insecurity threatened to creep in even further. What the fuck does that mean?

"I'm a professional athlete, babe. Girls hit on me all the time," Pierre explained, shrugging in nonchalance. "But I always say no. You're the background on my phone—see?"

He held up his phone as proof, and Lindy offered a smile and a consenting nod. But for some reason, instead of taking it as the reassurance he meant it as—don't worry, you’re the one that I want—Lindy couldn't shake the feeling that his brag was more of a threat: I can have anyone I want.

Lindy made her way around Pierre's living room, tidying up the throw pillows, blankets, and coffee table decor. She checked another item off her list, mentally noting the last three things she had to do: set out the appetizers, turn on Pierre's playlist, and run the vacuum. Sometimes she felt like a little robot, following around the tornado that was Pierre Luc Dubois. But he provided for her in so many ways, she couldn't help but feel a little indebted to him. What was a little extra cleaning here and there in exchange for lavish meals, exclusive parties, and expensive gifts?

Pulling out the vacuum, she ran through the kitchen and dining room, then set to work on the rug, moving around Pierre's legs propped up on the coffee table. She thought she heard a scoff, but when she turned to look at him, his focus was glued to his phone, fingers typing out a message. When she resumed, she heard it again, and then a third time, until she stopped to look at him.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't believe you're doing that in front of me," he said.

Lindy's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "I'm almost done—"

A cold laugh made its way out of his throat. "You're not even going to own up to it? Admit it?"

"Admit what?"

"You're trying to impress them."

"Impress who?"

Pierre rolled his eyes. "My friends."

Aware she was on her third question in less than 30 seconds, Lindy relented one more. "What are you talking about?"

"You're making sure this place looks spotless so that they'll all think you're such a good, little housewife. Why else would you be doing so much? You never clean this much."

Heat rose to her cheeks, embarrassment and humiliation creeping up into her senses until it was all she could do to force herself to respond. "I—I was just tidying up. Don't you want your home to be presentable to them?"

"My house is presentable enough. They're not going to want to fuck you just because you fluffed the throw pillows."

His words stopped her in her tracks. She'd never even thought about one of his teammates in that way. She only had eyes for Pierre, only wanted his place to look nice for company. But then, wasn't his apartment an extension of her? No, she didn't live with him, but his place being messy did, in a roundabout way, reflect poorly on her…

Maybe Pierre was right. Lindy glanced up, his gaze daring her, goading her to push back. She didn't, choosing the suffocation of her silence and acceptance of defeat rather than suiting up for a battle she wasn't equipped to win. Instead, she nodded, apologizing quietly before moving to put the vacuum back in the closet.

His voice called after her, carrying on as if he didn't stop time with his words. "Babe, you should see their hotel rooms. They're all so messy…"

Two days later, when she returned to Pierre's apartment, Lindy was presented with a Cartier bag on the counter, waiting for her arrival. Pierre clipped the gold chain onto her wrist, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Only the best for my girl."

"Guess what?" Lindy sang upon walking into Pierre's condo, setting down her bag on the counter. She couldn't keep the smile off of her face, dancing her way over to Pierre and delivering a kiss to his cheek.

"What?"

"I got the campaign!" she exclaimed, unable to contain her excitement. Finally—after 16-hour-days at shoots, after hours upon hours of fittings and in the makeup chair, after casting call upon casting call—her hard work paid off, culminating in her first official brand deal with Alo.

Something shifted in Pierre's eyes, his expression hardening and instantly darkening the room. The sparkle of her excitement began to dim, already seeing the storm clouds beginning to brew. Over seven months in, she'd learned to decipher his signals, figured out how to navigate around his outbursts rather than wade through them; she'd been on the receiving end of his sudden switches more times than she could keep count.

He was quiet for a moment, as if to let her stew in the discomfort and anticipation of his impending tantrum. She braced herself for impact.

"Really?"

Instead of answering, Lindy simply just returned his stare. She knew he couldn't wait long to get mad at her—to find something wrong with her being excited about getting a fucking job.

"I'm going to be traded any day now. My life—and yours, for that matter, are about to be completely changed. Honestly, it's really insensitive of you to come home bragging."

"I thought you'd be proud of me." Lindy hated how small her voice was. How small he made her feel.

Pierre exhaled an exasperated sigh. "Of course I'm proud of you, babe. I just have bigger things to worry about."

His words, though enough to quell her desire for his affection, stung. He had to look out for himself first, she knew, the same as she would do; and maybe it was unfair of her to be so excited about Alo while knowing all of the stress he was under. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Twenty four hours later, he got the call from his agent, informing him he'd been traded to Washington. Lindy's heart sank—D.C. couldn't be farther away from Los Angeles, from her. But D.C. wasn't far from New York, and Alo had told her she would be required to travel to the East coast for promotional trips and shoots. With Pierre's travel schedule, their time together was already limited; she knew they could make it work.

It wasn't until much, much later that she identified the other, smaller, lingering feeling inside of her as relief.

"So Pat's team is going to arrange the movers," Pierre announced, returning to the kitchen and pocketing his phone. "They'll be at your place tomorrow at 9AM."

Lindy, who was in the middle of reviewing the branding kit that Alo sent, glanced up at him. "Who?"

"The movers. They're coming to pack up your stuff, so make sure to pack a suitcase or something of the stuff you'll need until it gets to the new place. You're gonna love it, by the way—"

"Pierre, what? I'm not moving to Washington D.C." With you.

He stopped mid-sentence, his phone back out with a half-typed text message to his agent. Lindy watched his face morph into a restrained sort of confusion, like he couldn't possibly be understanding what she meant. "Well, no, not until September, but they're going to get all of the big stuff moved now."

A flutter—of nerves, of anger, of dread; maybe a combination of all three—rose in her chest. She steeled herself, reinforced herself with her dwindling supply of confidence, and took a breath before saying, "No. Not at all."

Pierre blinked. "What do you mean, no?"

"I literally just landed the Alo campaign," she explained, annoyed that she even had to state it out loud. "I can't leave LA. Not now."

The silence stretched between them, echoing louder than the yelling and raised voices she anticipated. His expression was wounded, shocked; in the frenzy of the trade aftermath, he hadn't even stopped to consider that she might not want to pack up her things and move cross-country to a place she had never even been before. Of course he hadn't.

"I should've known," he said, a sneer curling up on his face. "You can't help but make it all about you."

"This is huge for my career—"

"And this trade isn't?"

"I never said that, Pierre. Are you really going to make me pick between my career and yours?"

"Are you really going to pretend that your career is going to amount to as much as mine?"

Of course, Pierre had made all of the cliche model jokes before—too dumb to do anything else; it's a good thing you're so pretty—but Lindy had always brushed them off, taken them in stride, taken them for what they were: silly, (mostly) harmless jokes.

But suddenly, in the cold, thick tension of Pierre's clean, sterile kitchen, Lindy didn't feel like laughing anymore. It was a little too deep, too personal, too hurtful to pretend that it wasn't.

Bidding the tears to stay put until she got to her car, Lindy grabbed her purse and ignored Pierre's calls after her on her way out the door.

As much as she wished she didn't, Lindy missed him as soon as she left. Back at her apartment, full of little reminders of him—his t-shirt in her hamper, his jewelry in her closet, his expensive wine on the counter—she could hardly breathe, suffocated by him and yet simultaneously cursing his absence.

She despised herself for how much her heart ached for him. His name, at the top of all of the news articles in her feed, her algorithm swarmed by hockey news thanks to him, serving a sharp sting every time she saw those combination of letters, P's, L's, and D's standing out as if he was calling out to her through the internet. Every day, she found her thoughts wandering to him, wondering what he was doing, who he was with, if he was thinking of her.

So when he called for the hundredth time, there was nothing she could do to prevent her finger from swiping to answer it. Her heart screamed at her brain, the two warring each other while she listened to his tear-filled apology, his sweet, honeyed promises to do better, be better.

She forgave him, the way she always knew she would, the way he expected her to.

The onslaught of gifts began arriving a few days after that. First, an enormous bouquet of roses with a very sappy handwritten card attached. Then, a Louboutin box. Gucci. Balenciaga. Each one, with the same message at the bottom:

I can't do it without you. Please.

September came, and as she cried on the way to the airport, Lindy vowed that someday, she'd gather the courage to leave him for good.

When Lindy arrived in Washington D.C., there was an entirely new Pierre waiting for her. Or, rather, the original Pierre she knew: sweet, kind, loving. The first month was like a dream, exploring the city, getting to know his new teammates and their partners, and settling in to the apartment they both called home. Lindy started to believe that Pierre really meant it this time, that things were different and he had turned over a new leaf.

But soon enough, the old ways began to flicker through the new facade, and the doubt began to sink in through the cracks. When Pierre scored his first goal with Washington, Lindy celebrated with a gluten free cupcake, sparklers, and a special lingerie set that he bought for her upon her arrival to the city. Afterward, lying in the darkness of their bedroom, the faint sounds of the city making their way through the window, Pierre warned her that she ought to learn to celebrate his wins bigger and better in the future.

It got worse after that, with little tiffs breaking out more than she could track. Lindy felt as though they were arguing more often than they weren't, walking on eggshells with every move she made.

The boiling point was on a Saturday night in the middle of March. The Capitals had become the first team to clinch a playoff berth and earned a rare Sunday off. As a result, Lindy found herself at a dimly lit, swanky bar, accompanied by the majority of the team and their significant others.

Pierre had picked a fight before the game—but then again, when wasn't he picking a fight?—and she couldn't stop herself from ordering a second tequila soda immediately upon receiving her first. The burn and the bubbles felt good, stoking the dangerous feeling in her gut.

She wanted to start a fight. She wanted to be the one to provoke him, on purpose for once, because if they were going to fight, shouldn't it at least be worth it?

So she let herself stand near one of the younger guys at the bar, making innocent enough small talk. She didn't intend to do anything, not seriously, just give him enough attention that she knew would piss Pierre off. His innocence was almost enough for her to feel bad, but not quite. Her fucks had disappeared somewhere on her six hour flight from Los Angeles to Washington DC.

The fight was a blowout, starting with a few verbal jabs masked by the 80's dance hit blasting over the speakers. Soon enough, they were outside, the wintry cold biting at her skin the same way as his words, cruel and calculating. It passed in a blur, insults hurled back and forth until Pierre stormed off into the darkness, leaving Lindy alone, red-faced and sniffling until Lauren, Dylan's girlfriend, scooped her up and put her in an Uber.

Lauren's apartment was warm, quiet, peaceful, safe, the flood of unfamiliar emotions rushing at Lindy as she realized she hadn't felt those things in months. With a pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt, Lindy held the mug of hot tea that Lauren handed her, watching the steam rise from the liquid.

"You don't have to go back to him, you know." Lauren's voice pulled Lindy out of her reverie, a faded and spotty film reel playing the flashes of memories from outside. She blinked.

"What?"

"Pierre. You don't have to stay with him."

Lindy's mind whirred with excuses, crafting a story to paint the picture of a happy couple facing a normal, regular tiff. But she was tired. Tired of the facade, of pretending, of lying not just to the world, but to herself.

She opened her mouth—to say what, exactly, she wasn't sure. Instead of words, she felt the burn of fresh tears swimming in her eyes, like her body knew she was about to step over the edge from denial into acceptance.

The tears poured out in quiet, steady streams. Lauren sat beside her patiently, rubbing soothing circles onto her back while she cried for all of the times she let him belittle her, insult her, gaslight her; for all of the times she didn't stick up for herself.

Argument after argument, left defenseless against his unattainable expectations of her, Lindy realized that it was a battle she was never meant to win. She could've done everything right, passed every impossible test, and he'd still find a way to blame her.

"I've been where you are," Lauren said quietly, once the tears subsided. "My ex. He used to say these awful things—he manipulated me, made me believe I deserved it. It took me a long time to see how toxic he was. How toxic we were together."

Lindy wiped her eyes, taking in a shaky breath. She felt fragile, tender even, more vulnerable once she'd finally admitted the truth to herself.

Pierre was bad for her. She was bad for Pierre. They were like oil and water, fire and ice, always drawn to one another and falling all too easily for the lies they both told themselves.

She wasn't blameless, either. Pierre might've started it, but Lindy fed into it, unable to resist the urge to poke the bear. He'd turned her into someone who no longer took the high road, but instead met him on his level, fighting bad with worse, until somewhere along the way, she became someone she didn't recognize.

Lindy's heart cracked under the weight of it all, from all of the times he broke her down, for every time he'd ever made her feel less than. She resented how much time she wasted on him. With him. She thought about the life she left behind in Los Angeles, of the doors she shut in her career by giving in and following him to the opposite side of the country.

But most of all, she resented herself for how much of her heart he still possessed.

A gust of cold wind wraps around her, bringing her back to the present. Pierre. On her porch. Lauren's porch. At the house she offered Lindy a place to crash, a safe space to fall into after she packed up her things and left the apartment she shared with Pierre.

He leans against the railing of the fence. His eyes, rimmed with red, are dull and distant. Lindy is vaguely aware that he's been talking—apologizing—the entire time she's been off in her head, reflecting on all of the things he's apologizing for.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Lauren told her he'd be around to apologize. She also said that he would never really say what he was sorry for.

"Are you really, truly sorry, or are you just sorry that I finally reached my limit and left?"

Pierre looks at her, the flash of anger in his eyes so brief, she almost didn't notice had she not been waiting for it. Lindy finds that feeling that's lived deep within her for the last year and grasps onto the gnarled mess of hurt, anxiety, shame, and guilt like the grounding force it's become for her since she met Pierre.

He stutters, spluttering through his practiced list of excuses, and Lindy's strength grows as she watches him stumble. Her grip tightens on her emotions, determined not to let them slip through her fingers yet again.

"What are you sorry for, Pierre?" she asks, her voice reaching a fortitude she's impressed by.

"For hurting you."

"And what did you do to hurt me?"

For once, Pierre has nothing to say, no sleek words prepared to win her back. He's quiet, and Lindy recognizes the expression behind his eyes as panic—at being caught, or called out, she isn't sure. Her heart begins to tick more quickly, the weight of her decision sitting heavy in her chest.

She doesn't have time to think it through, doesn't give herself a chance to regret it before she says it.

"I'm not coming back to you this time, Pierre. It's over. For good."

She relishes his stunned expression, mouth agape and eyebrows furrowed. He didn't anticipate this, didn't anticipate the backbone that Lauren helped to nourish during her time apart from him.

"Lindy, come on," he says, recovered from his temporary shock. "Don't be like that. I love you."

Lindy's heart softens momentarily at his words, pausing for a moment to consider the tempting offer to fall back into his warmth. The door is ajar, inviting even, and her hold onto that thick strand of resistance loosens. Yes, there was bad, but oh, there was good, too. She remembers the laughter, the feel of his kiss against her temple, the feeling of pride and love that glimmered inside of her chest when she got to wear his name on her back.

Pierre's hand brushes hers, pulling her out of her wistful trip down memory lane, one last trip around the block. By the time her eyes look up at meet his, the memories have evaporated and reality sinks back into her. She can feel her fingers tighten around her own resolve, letting it take control of her once more.

"I'm sorry it didn't work out," she offers. "Good luck in the playoffs."

Author's Note: I went back and forth forever on if I wanted this to have a happy/hopeful ending or not and it wasn't until I was almost finished that I decided Lindy deserved some justice. I had so much fun with this! Thank you as always to @wyattjohnston for the help brainstorming and plotting. 🖤 I hope this is everything you were wishing for, Nicole!

zero 

“Hurry up!” Macklin chirped as he walked quickly down the hallway of his apartment building or rather his sister’s apartment building they he bugged her till she say yes that he can live with her in San Jose now that he would be living in San Jose again.

His sister is the oldest of out of five Celebrini siblings and she is current attending Stanford University in her junior year as Macklin was about to start his rookie year in the NHL.

She followed her Mom’s path and has been playing soccer since she could walk, she has been the starting goalie at Stanford since she joined as a Freshmen.

“I’m coming.” Will sighed exasperated as his new friend and teammate rushed him to the apartment.

“Hellooo?” Macklin called out as he opened the front door and walked into their shared apartment with Will right behind him

“Yeah?” A softer voice called back and Will just followed Macklin helplessly into the kitchen seeing a girl with darkand longer hair wearing a emerald green hoodie and black shorts while standing at the kitchen making a coffee.

Will immediately raised an eyebrow seeing how much caramel she was putting into the coffee and he slowly smiled.

“Smitty this is my sister.” Macklin gave Will a proud grin as he tossed an arm over his sister’s shoulders making her look at him and fondly roll her eyes, “And this is Will.”

Will watched her glance at him, immediately his breath got caught in his throat looking at her being completely captivated by her but especially by her bright shining eyes.

Her eyes slowly looked across Will’s face and she gave him a tiny smile holding out his hand, “So you’re the blonde my brother doesn’t shut about.” She sounded amused as she spoke. Macklin hasn’t stopped talking about Will since they became friends during the summer.

Will set his hand in her hand ignoring how much he liked the touch with a stranger, “Oh he talks about you constantly.” Will felt like he knew her already with how much Macklin talks about his favorite sibling.

She gave him a sweet smile not realizing they were still holding hands looking at each other, Macklin didn’t realize either as he was more focused on stealing his sister’s coffee.

“Mack!” Macklin laughed as she shot around realizing what he was doing.

Two months later it had become common for Will to spend most of his free time at the Celebrini’s apartment and most of the time he ends up staying over in the guest room.

Will and her have had quite a lot of quiet moments where Will thinks she might feel the same for him.

Will’s been completely whipped her since the day he met her in the end of August. Will knows he likes his best friend’s older sister.

She was the more hesitant one, she knew she felt something for Will that much was obvious but he’s a year younger and her little brother’s best friend, there is lines there she doesn’t want to cross or rather she is trying to not cross but she could only ignore the pull to Will for so long.

She was currently standing in the Toffoli’s house for a Sharks party after finishing the first month of the hockey season. Macklin dragged her to the party on one of her rare free nights.

She excused herself my the conversation feeling a familiar pair of eyes on her and needed a second. She let out a tiny sigh of relief finding one of the quieter patios that currently was unoccupied.

The sliding door opened behind her making her nose twitch smelling the extremely familiar cologne, the same cologne that is now glued all over her apartment.

“Hey.” Will’s tone was soft while he slowly walked over to her. His eyes glued to her side profile.

“Hi.” She let out quieter and softly and then she glanced over making eye contact with Will, who was already looking at her.

Will took a small step closer making her slowly swallow glancing up through her lashes.

“This is a bad idea.” She muttered once she saw Will’s hand reach out to touch her waist.

“Maybe.” Will lowly agreed before flashing her a sunny smile, “But i don’t want anything else.”

She softened just slightly as his words making him set his hand on her waist for the first time.

“Mack will hate it.” She mumbled trying to not focus on how close Will has gotten and stare at his lips.

“Is that a yes?” Will whispered in a hopeful tone his eyes glued on her lips.

She barely started to nod before Will cupped her cheek and finally kissing the girl he’s been waiting to kiss.

Her fingers went into Will’s blonde curls pulling him closer as she kissed right back.

Will kept his forehead rested on hers watching her eyes open back up and look at him.

“We should keep it to ourselves.” She barely got out her words before Will was kissing her again.

“Whatever you want.” Will muttered against her lips happily.

She just smiled fondly, she could worry about the secret later for now she was going to enjoy kissing the boy she has wanted.

That night was the start of a relationship that they would desperately try to hide.

one

She was sitting at the small circle dinning room table with her headphones on playing her favorite twenty one pilots playlist as she worked on her school assignments.

She didn’t even look up feeling Macklin plopping down heavily next to her in the other chair until he put a bowl under her face making her glance up from her books after she paused her music and slidding her headphones down onto her neck.

“What’s this?” She asked her brother as he handed her a bowl of food.

“Dinner.” Macklin shrugged easily before starting to stuff his mouth with the same dinner.

“You didn’t cook.” She stated raising an eyebrow knowing he had just gotten home and Macklin can’t cook.

“Of course not dearest sister.” Macklin scoffed playfully, “I brought food home from the rink.” He causally explained knowing she will spend the whole night here at the table and wanted to make sure she got a good meal.

Her face softened making her reach over ruffling his hair, “Thanks Mackie.” She gave him an appreciative look.

“Yeah yeah just remember i’m your favorite sibling.” Macklin gave her an innocent grin making her laugh shaking her head fondly before starting to eat her dinner he got her.

“Oh by the way is that Smitts hoodie?” Macklin asked curiously noticing the hoodie she had on.

She choked harshly on her food coughing, “Is it?” She croaked out after she stopped coughing.

“Yeah.” Macklin nodded easily, “I must have taken it by accident.” Macklin assumed he just got Will’s hoodie on a road trip and that his sister had assumed she was wearing Macklin’s hoodie as she steals his hoodies often.

He didn’t even think of the possibility that Will might have given her the hoodie because they are together.

“Must of.” Her voice went a bit high but shoved the spoon in her mouth looking away from her brother.

two

Will and Macklin were sitting in Stanford stands watching her play.

It was currently November but in San Jose it was still nice and comfortable outside not feeling like winter at all.

Will had a Stanford hoodie on that she gave him, a hoodie that Macklin didn’t even blink when seeing Will wearing it.

The buzzer rang making Will and Macklin both shoot up cheering loudly as Stanford won 4-0 and the shut out win was her record breaking game for the most shutouts at Stanford as a Goalie.

She glanced over to the stands after getting out of her team dog pile and beamed seeing her brother and boyfriend giving them a wave.

She quickly rushed over to the two boys the second she could and laughed as Macklin tackled her first hugging her so tightly.

“That was really cool!” Macklin whispered to her sounding proud of his eldest sibling.

“Thanks Mackie.” She softly mumbled back fixing his beanie as they pulled back before she glanced over seeing Will waiting patiently with a calm but proud smile holding a bouquet of her favorite flowers.

“For me?” She asked softly giving him a loving grin as Will stepped closer to her.

“Course.” His voice just as soft, he might of convinced Macklin that they needed to get her flowers purely for her big game so he could her flowers without Macklin asking questions.

She gently took the flowers before Will wrapped an arm around her waist pulling her into a tight comforting hug.

“Congrats Love.” Will mumbled against the side of her head.

She squeezed him softly back both not fully realizing how long they were hugging but Macklin didn’t realize either.

She shared a look with Will looking amused as Macklin was immediately rambling to them about dinner plans once they stopped hugging.

three

Macklin rubbed his face sleepily walking into the living room seeing his sister curled up on the couch with her favorite green blanket watching a formula one race. He will never understand her love for F1 especially she is always getting up earlier to watch race weekends.

Macklin plopped down on the couch next to her stealing some of her blanket.

“Morning Mack.” She mumbled half focusing on her brother as she watched intently as Alex Albon was working on overtaking another car.

Macklin mumbled something unrecognizable back before asking, “Is Smitty up?”

Will has spent the night at the siblings apartment, Macklin thought Will was in the guest room but Will spent the entire night in her bed.

“Getting breakfast.” She muttered back cheering softly to herself as one of the William’s car went up a position and was now in the points.

Macklin made a sound in return half falling back to asleep.

Will walked back through the front door sliding his jacket and shoes off holding a bag and tray of drinks as he walked into the living room.

She took her eyes off the screen to give him a sweet smile. Her eyes widen quickly after Will leaned down kissing her cheek.

They both looked over at Macklin seeing him just sitting up rubbing his eyes while looking at the two, he obviously saw Will kiss her cheek but didn’t say anything or didn’t even realize why Will was kissing her cheek, “Food.” Macklin reached for the bag.

Will shared a relived look with her before rolling his eyes fondly and helping Macklin get the food Will picked out for him.

“Thank you.” She spoke softly giving Will a smile as he handed her an iced coffee that she loves and a box with her breakfast.

Will sat down pretty close to her on other side of her as Macklin was still sitting next to her on her other side. Will ended up having a hand on her thigh under the blanket as her head ended up leaning on his shoulder as a pillow while Will and Macklin both sat with her watching the rest of the race.

She is starting to realize that Macklin is never going to realize about her relationship till he literally sees them kissing or she tells him.

four

Macklin looked across the locker room looking heavily amused seeing Will rushing through getting has suit back on.

Macklin had realized Will had been talking to a girl frequently with how much Will is texting and always smiling at his phone.

But that is all Macklin knows as Will is being incredibly tight lipped.

“He so had a girlfriend.” Macklin commented once Will rushed out of the locker room. Macklin failed to see the amused looks sent at him for not realizing just who is Will’s girlfriend.

“That goal was incredible.” Was the first words Will heard once he saw his girlfriend waiting for him in the hallway wearing a Sharks bomber jacket, unfortunately she has nothing with his number on.

Will walked right to her cupping her face kissing her quickly making her stop talking with wide eyes before she kissed him back.

“Hi.” She gave him a raised brow after their kiss looking around the hallway warily knowing Macklin only a couple feet down the hall.

“Sorry.” Will shrugged not fully sorry because he’s been wanting to kiss her since warmups and he saw her wearing Sharks merch and finally attending a game. It’s rare for her to have the time to come out to a Sharks game which Will understands it just makes him love it more when she is there.

“Mhm.” She hummed fully not believing him but gave him a smile not mad as she reached up fixing his tie.

Macklin walked out the locker room and his brows furrowed seeing his sister and Will talking. Macklin thought he would finally see Will’s girlfriend today, he wondered where she went.

five

Will leaned over her shoulder from behind setting the plate and glass in front of her before kissing her cheek softly feeling her smile grow.

Will quickly say down next to her tangling their legs together as she started breaking up the muffin for them to eat and held a piece for him.

They don’t get nearly as much alone time together as they would like but today they did as they both managed to give Macklin excuses so they could have a coffee date today.

“Thank you my love.” Will kissed the tip of her nose after she gave him another piece of the blueberry muffin.

She hummed softly in reply wiping the crumbs of his lips with her thumb.

Will kissed the side of her head talking fully of advantage of not having to hide their relationship.

The couple talked about random things and upcoming off season plans, plans that they were making together and both knew they would tell Macklin by the end of the hockey season.

Will whispered a joke to her making her start laughing her forehead hitting his shoulder as her shoulders shook with laughter and Will watched with the most dreamy smile seeing her laugh because of him.

“What are you two doing here?” A very familiar voice spoke making her head quickly shoot up and they saw Macklin standing there before he plopped down at the empty seat at their table and immediately stole a piece of the muffin.

“Isn’t it funny we all ended up meeting here?” Macklin gave them a grin, he didn’t even think that maybe they were both there together on purpose.

“So funny.” Will muttered trying to not glare at Macklin for interrupting their date.

“Oo that guy looks like he has a house full of cats.” Macklin commented looking at a guy across the coffee shop.

She closed her eyes letting out at a sigh as her brother was third wheeling again and Will let his forehead hit the table groaning softly.

+one

Macklin and Will were sitting together again on the Stanford stands during one of her last soccer games of the season.

Will shot up first the second she hit the ground and didn’t get back up, Macklin not far behind him.

It seemed like she got a cleat to the face and was on her knees on the ground covering her face as medical rushed over to her and her teammates surrounded her while simultaneously protecting her from the people and cameras watching.

Macklin and Will could barely see as she was helped up but they saw how she swayed a bit standing up.

“She swayed, she doesn’t sway.” Macklin muttered looking so worried, his sister is always fine but right now she wasn’t.

She got helped off the field with her glove covering her face the entire time.

Macklin didn’t waste a second and rushed out do the stands with Will quickly following him as they rushed to the medical room together.

Will stopped at the door not sure if he is allowed in and Macklin didn’t even pay attention heading right to his sister.

She was sitting on the end with a doctor looking at her eyes with a light and her face was gushing blood from above her eyebrow.


Macklin walked right to the open side of her bed grabbing her hand softly making her squint and realize it was her brother.

She had a pretty mild concussion and would need a good amount of stitches for face.

She was left almost with Macklin for a few minutes as one of the nurses went to get the supplies for stitches.

“Where’s Will?” Was the first she croaked out with her eyes squeezed shut.

Macklin titled his head at her question, “Uh outside the door i think?”

“Can you get him?” She asked quietly wanting her boyfriend.

Macklin looked at her slowly and nodded even if she wasn’t looking at him. He let go of her hand walking to the door and seeing Will pacing outside in the hallway.

Will’s head snapped up at the door opening and sighed in relief seeing, “How is she?”

Macklin blinked hearing the desperation in his best friend’s voice, “Not horribly, she’s asking for you.” Macklin barely stepped out of the way before Will was rushing in right to her.

Macklin watched Will immediately grab her hand and gently cup her face with his other hand and Macklin watched how his sister fully relax at his best friend’s touch.

He saw Will gently kiss the top of her head, “Oh.” Macklin muttered a tiny bit upset realizing there is obviously something going on between his sister and best friend and he had no idea.

“So when were you guys going to tell me?” Macklin asked crossing his arms.

She immediately opened her eyes wincing looking at her little brother desperately, desperate to explain and for him to understand, “Mack I swear-”


The door opened and the nurse walked back in stopping her from being able to explain to Macklin.

Will looked at Macklin and Macklin looked away with a clenched jaw.

Macklin didn’t say anything just stood at the end of the bed and watched his sister hold onto Will’s hand tightly as she got stitches. Macklin knows how much she hates getting stitches and Will managed to get his sister to keep her calm the entire time.

She didn’t get a chance to explain to Macklin after her stitches as she had to go take a shower and get changed.

She wasn’t allowed to drive so she walked with the boys back to Will’s car. Macklin still not saying anything.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Macklin spoke up very quietly in the already quiet car. He was looking at his sister in the passenger seat.

She had her eyes closed but knew who his question was for and she let out a small sigh, “I didn’t know if you would be okay with it.”

Macklin blinked looking a bit hurt and said looked away at the window not saying anything else.

Will and Macklin helped her back up to the apartment and got her settled in silence on the couch so they both could watch over her.

Macklin watched Will tuck her in and gently push back her hair, “I’m not mad you guys are dating.” He spoke up looking honest, he loves the idea of his sister and best friend.

“I’m hurt that you guys thought you had to hide it from me.” Macklin sat down looking at the two.

“I’m sorry Mackie.” She apologized honestly grabbing her brother’s hand. She could have given her brother more credit and thought that he could have been accepting.

“I’m sorry too.” Will apologized to his best friend as he sat down on the couch too.

“It’s okay.” Macklin gave them both a soft smile.

Will shared a look with her, all of those times they hid and all of times it made their relationship tense and they just could have told Macklin instead.

“So when did you get together?” Macklin leaned closer to them with a grin making Will laugh softly and she had a small smile happy everything worked out.

The front door creaks open slowly, carefully, before slamming into the wall. The loud bang startles you out of your focus. Homework abandoned on the kitchen table, chair legs scrape against the old tile as you push your chair back, cautiously walking to the foyer entrance. In the hall stands a boy who looks like he stepped out of a movie—blond, athletic build, windblown hair, flushed cheeks, and a hockey bag slung over his shoulder. He’s too busy examining the photos littered across the wall to notice you.

“Hi,” you say, breaking the silence.

He startles, jumping a bit. Head turning until he spots you leaning against the wall, hand raised in a wave. “Hey. I’m sorry. I thought I was alone. I was told to just come right in.”

“You’re William? The hockey player?”

You look him over, trying not to stare too obviously.

He nods. “That’s me. And you’re…my welcoming committee?”

“If you want to call it that,” you say with a shrug, telling him your name, “I would say ‘household member who forgot that you were coming today’ but that’s just me.”

You push off the wall, moving further into the foyer. Eyes meeting a little longer than necessary.

“Nice house. Smells like vanilla and home.”

“That’s all moms doing. And her baking.” You gesture further down the hall to a staircase leading to the basement. “Come on. Your room’s downstairs. Second door on the right. It has glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Sorry in advance. That used to be Nate’s room.”

“Glow-in-the-dark stars, huh? Fancy. Really feeling the special treatment.”

Stopping just outside the doorframe, you say, “Don’t let it get to your head. They barely glow for five seconds now.”

“Just like me after practice.” He’s quick to fire back, walking into the room and dumping his bags down. 

You smirk, biting the inside of your cheek to disguise it. “Charming. Is the built in ego the norm, or did we order an extra?”

“Only in elite players.”

“Wow. You’re going to fit in so well.” You turn towards the stairs, making your way back to the kitchen. “Want something to drink? I made lemonade, majorly mediocre.”

“Majorly mediocre. A good first impression.”

He follows you back up the stairs to the kitchen, shoulders occasionally bumping into the picture frames hung on the wall. You don’t look back, smile only growing a fraction when you hear the footsteps behind you—and maybe a little for the cute boy living in your house.

“Oh! Don’t touch anything on the fridge. The magnets are strategically arranged, based on vibes,—it’s a special privilege to rearrange them.”

“Got it. No fridge magnets. Just glow-in-the-dark stars and mediocre lemonade.”

Walking into the kitchen, you expect he’ll follow. Opening the fridge, you pull out the lemonade and pour it into two mismatched glasses. Setting one at the edge of the counter for William, you leave yours closer to the fridge and hastily clean up the homework you left haphazardly splayed over the table. As you walk back to grab your drink, you look over at William who’s taking in the room—the full fruit bowl, the childhood drawings still hung on the fridge, the stained glass window above the sink, and the slightly leaning stack of well-loved cookbooks sitting on the counter under the wall-anchored landline which doesn’t work anymore. 

Lemonade in hand, you walk over to the kitchen table, sitting in the chair across from him, sipping your own drink.

“You weren’t kidding. This is majorly mediocre.”

“Told you so. It’s my signature.”

“What’s your secret?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You and I, we’re not there yet. Ask me again at the end of the season.”

A lazy smirk grows on his face as he nods. “So…you cook too? Or is it just your lemonade that’s mediocre?”

“Excuse you—my grilled cheese is known to be able to make a grown man weep.”

His smirk transforms into a half-smirk, half-grin. “That a threat or a promise?”

“Depends on you.”

“On what?”

“How cocky you are after your next game.”

He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. William watches you over the rim of his glass, smiling. You pretend not to notice, fussing with the small shard of wood peeling from the table.

“So, are you coming to the game?”

“My brother’s playing, so I should go.” You say, shrugging, turning to look out the window, still not looking directly at him. “And if I just so happen to see you, well…”

He grins, eyes twinkling like he’s planning something.

“I don’t really do the whole jock/fangirl thing.”

“Lucky, I don’t do the whole jock thing…just happen to be good at skating fast and hitting stuff.”

You both laugh, and the world falls away, a comfortable silence settling in place. At ease with one another in a way that usually takes much more time to achieve. The late afternoon light starts shifting to the amber coloured hour, making the kitchen glow. Conversation flows between you—about school, family, hobbies, almost anything under the sun—even the pauses don’t feel awkward. Your home still feels like home, no awkwardness to be found.

Raising your glass, you take a sip before speaking. “You aren’t what I pictured.”

“What did you picture?”

“Someone like the guys at school. You know…loud shoes, too much cologne, dressed like a wannabe rapper, and like, a motivational quote and Soundcloud link in his Insta bio.”

“Ouch.” William feigns offence, hand moving to lay over his heart. “That really hurts.”

Laughing at his reaction, you say, “Don’t worry. You’re much better than that.”

Another long moment passes—something indescribable weighing in the air—he doesn’t break eye contact this time.

“You know…you’re not what I pictured either.”

“Let me guess—overly flirty, basically throwing herself at you, and following you around like you’re gods gift to the earth.”

He shakes his head with a smile. “No. I mean, maybe. But I certainly didn’t picture someone who would make mediocre lemonade weirdly interesting.”

You tilt your head, surprised. “You flirting with me, hockey boy?”

“Would it work if I was?”

“Maybe.”

He flashes a winning smile at you. “Then yes, Definitely flirting.”

You roll your eyes, but your body feels hot, and you can no longer fight the smile breaking onto your face. Pushing yourself up out of your seat, you move to the counter, trying to put some distance between you. “Alright, Prince Charming. Go unpack. When mom gets home, she’ll try to feed you enough spaghetti for two.”

Before either of you speaks, you hear your mom's voice call you from outside. “Lovebug, come help with the groceries.”

“Speak of the devil…” You say, gesturing to the front door. 

“Gotta be honest, spaghetti for two, that doesn’t really sound like a punishment.”

“It’s not.” You say, grinning, “But you’ll be asleep by like 8. All the carbs, y’know.”

William walks toward the stairs, glass in hand. Pausing just before the top step, looking back at you. “Hey—maybe if I survive your moms spaghetti and the haunted glow-in-the-dark stars…maybe you’ll let me take you out.”

You raise a brow, surprised, but surprisingly not put off. “Maybe.”

He disappears down the stairs. You watch the spot he was in for a moment longer than you need to, then smile to yourself and head out to help with the groceries.

——————————

The table is set for dinner like usual—plates, utensils, a salad bowl that has definitely seen better days, and a massive bowl of spaghetti in the middle, like it’s a guest of honour. The light overhead flickers once, like it always does, before it stabilizes and bathes the room in a warm white glow.

William sits at one end of the table, looking freshly showered and like he stepped out of a teen drama—playing someone’s hot older brother. You slide into your usual seat, which just so happens to be across from him.

Nate walks in from the kitchen—24, tall, relaxed, with a walk that can only be described as the “jock swagger,” something only developed after years of being an athlete, going in and out of locker rooms—carrying a tray of garlic bread.

“If you don’t eat at least 3 slices, mom will cry actual tears. You’ve been warned.” Nate says, looking directly at William, smirking.

“I’ll take that challenge.”

“Of course.” You roll your eyes at their antics.

Nate sets the tray down and plops himself into the seat next to William, eyeing him. “So, new rookie in town. You’re the one who started the season playing SHL?”

“That’s me. ‘M grateful for the opportunity to be here now.”

“Respect. Nah, for real, I’m happy for you man.”

William and Nate fistbump like they’ve known each other longer than the 90 minutes they have. You watch unimpressed but vaguely amused.

“There’s two of you now. Great.”

“You’re just mad because you’re outnumbered at the table.”

“I’ve always been outnumbered at this table.”

“I can switch side if it helps,” William says, grinning at you.

“No need. You’re doing great right where you are.”

Mom walks in with a pitcher of water and a distracted hum, already half-talking to herself about reheating the dessert. Conversation settles in with the easy rhythm of clinking forks and overlapping chatter.

Nate reaches over to steal a bite of garlic bread from your plate. You elbow him without looking.

“Anyway—William, me and a couple of the guys are skating at the REC rink tomorrow morning. To keep fresh. We’re planning for like 6. You in?”

“Definitely.”

“You’re skating that early?” You ask, suddenly glad the invite wasn’t extended to you. “The sun isn’t even up yet.”

“Greatness doesn’t sleep, Bug.”

“Clearly, it doesn’t shower either.”

William snorts into his water.

Nate flicks a piece of basil at you.

Mom returns with dessert, and the table breaks into playful chaos. But under the noise, William catches your eye, just for a second. Something quiet passes between you again—not exactly a smile, but not not that either.

And for the second time that day, you don’t mind the new guy in your house quite so much.

The rink is nearly empty, cold. The buzzing fluorescents hang overhead, reflecting off the fresh ice. William and Nate skate slow laps, puffs of breath visible in the icy air, sticks tapping gently. The other guys on the bench are drinking water and chatting. Both William and Nate lose track of time; they’ve been out on the ice for a good while—running drills, taking shots, and a bag skate for good measure. The silence is good, and the pair settles into a rhythm easily. 

Gliding over to the bench, they stop just short. Leaning on their sticks to catch their breath. Nate lets his gaze linger on the far side of the rink for a minute—then speaks, flat. “So. About Bug.”

William’s faint smile fades a little more. He nods once to show he’s listening. Knowing exactly what’s coming. “Okay.”

“I like you. You’re good on the ice. You work hard. You don’t seem like a jackass. I’d trust you with the puck.” He pauses for a moment, no smile in sight, no hint of teasing. “But not with my sister.”

William swallows, letting his gaze drift from Nate's face to the ice.

“You’re new in town. New to the league. Living under our roof for who knows how long. Whatever you two have—or might be thinking about starting—cut it off.” Nate looks at William, long, measured, and calm. “I’m not saying all of this because I think you’re a bad guy. I’m saying it because she’s not just some girl. She’s my kid sister. You’re on my team. In my house. That means something.”

“I hear you.” William says quietly.

“Good. Then we don’t have a problem.”

William, jaw tight, nods. No pushback. No argument. Just quiet understanding—a brother trying to protect his sister. They both fall silent again. The scrape of a lone puck skittering into the boards is the only sound for a few moments.

Nate straightens, tapping William with the blade of his stick. “Now, get your head back in the game. We’ve got a game coming up. I’m not carrying your line.”

William exhales and skates off without another word—faster this time, like he’s burning something off.

Nate watches him go.

The years pass slowly and quickly at the same time. William didn’t end up living at your parents' house very long, but he stayed in Toronto. You moved away and moved back. Did school. Maybe fell in love—though nothing quite measured up to the feelings from all those years ago. You watched Nate meet the love of his life, fall in love, get their first home together, and propose. 

As the years went by, you lost touch with William. You didn’t talk anymore, save for the occasional happy birthday or holiday greeting. Still, you’ve been following along with his career, so it's more than okay to be a silent supporter and cheer him on from the sidelines. You were so proud when he finally got the call-up to the Leafs, even more so when he scored his first NHL goal. But time had done its thing. It’s easier to blame time and life and circumstance rather than accept that neither side really put in much effort to keep the friendship—or relationship—going.

And now you’re here. In Vegas. For a joint Stag/Doe party for your brother and his fiancée, Paloma. The glittering lights of Las Vegas are a kaleidoscope against the tinted windows of the party bus. Music is pulsing inside, vibrating through the pleather seats and into your bones. Glitter clings to your arms, sequins shine under the pink LEDs, and someone—probably Jess—is already halfway through a bottle of prosecco she’s smuggled from the Paloma’s suite.

You laugh and lean into the energy, willing yourself to let go—just a little. It’s your brother's—hopefully only—stag party, and he’d gone all out. Nate and Paloma had spared no expense. Poolside drinks early in the afternoon. Now dinner and a private lounge downtown. And to close the evening, a club with a VIP booth and bottle service. It’s exactly the kind of night you’d expect in Vegas. Loud. Slightly off-kilter. Wild.

But you’re…off too. A little too in your own head. Eight years. Maybe nine. That’s how long it’s been since you’d actually seen William in person. You aren’t even sure if he’s going to be here tonight; his schedule is a little more demanding than Nate’s. And your brother hadn’t mentioned William by name, just a casual “most of the boys are flying in for it.” 

You tried not to ask. Tried not to want to know.

But still, you’d done and redone your makeup. Twice. That says enough.

When the bus pulls up in front of the velvet-roped lounge, you let the other girls pile out first, all body glitter and heels and excited chattering. You step onto the neon-soaked sidewalk, pulse already bumping a little too fast.

The guys are waiting outside. Most of them are already a couple of drinks in—laughing, hugging, fist bumping like they hadn’t seen each other in years (it had really only been months at most for almost everyone).

You scan the group instinctively. And there he is. William. Leaning casually against a pillar, hands in the pockets of a pair of well-tailored trousers. He’s broader now. More filled out than he was at 19. His jaw more defined, scruff clinging to it like it belongs there, and his eyes—those steady, baby blue eyes—lock onto yours the moment you see him. 

The sounds of Vegas—music, shouting, laughter, car horns—all fade. He doesn’t smile right away. Just looks. Like, he doesn’t quite believe that you’re real. That you’re standing there across the way.

Your breath catches. Smoothing a hand over the gold dress you’d chosen on impulse. One of three options, it fits you in all the right ways. Boosting your confidence and hugging your body just enough to make you feel grown, more than the girl he used to know. Your hair falls perfectly, fluttering gently in the breeze, and the glitter littering your skin catches the moonlight, reflecting the rays and giving you an ethereal glow.

Someone calls your name, pulling you into a brief hug. Your eyes still stay locked on William’s.

He pushes off the pillar slowly and crosses the walkway toward you, each step deliberate. Unhurried. Almost like he knows there’s a possibility you’ll bolt.

“Lovey,” he greets you, voice low and warm.

Your stomach flips hearing that nickname fall from his lips. The one only ever used by him. “Hey, stranger.”

He stops almost a foot in front of you. Tall. Confident. Familiar. And a complete stranger.

“You look…” he lets the thought die on his tongue as he takes you in. With a half-laugh, he shakes his head. “Wow.”

“Ditto,” you say, trying to sound more nonchalant than you feel. But holy, you mean it. He looks like every single dream you’ve tucked away all these years. Older. Calmer. But unshakeably him.

You both stand there, bathed in the lights, entranced in each other a little too long.

“You two know each other, yeah?” Jess’s voice cuts through; she’s all cheeky grins and elbow nudges.

“He’s one of Nate’s friends.” You answer, smile tightly.

“Ohhhhhhh,” Jess says knowingly, elbowing and digging into your ribs before she drags you towards the entrance with a wink. “Say no more.”

You let yourself be pulled in, but your heart doesn’t feel in it. It feels like you left it outside. On the sidewalk. In the exact spot where William was looking at you like something he’d almost forgotten he’d lost.

Inside the lounge is a sensory overload—velvet booths, mood lighting, neon accents glowing like they’re trying to make contact with space, and bass-heavy music pulsing loudly.  Waitresses weaving between tables in glittering mini dresses, carrying trays of shots and cocktails shimmering like potions. Everything in the lounge screams curated chaos. 

You’re standing with the girls near one of the reserved booths, champagne flute in hand, trying to focus on the conversation happening in front of you. But your eyes keep betraying you, keep flicking over to the bar.

William is there.

Leaning against it like he owns the place, listening to the guys with a polite smile, but he wasn’t fully present. You know that look. Half-listening. And with the way his eyes keep finding yours, you know he’s watching you. He hasn’t approached again—not since just outside the lounge—but you feel the pull of him like gravity slowly but inexplicably tipping the night in his direction.

“So…” Jess leans close, clearly tipsy. “Are you going to do something about that?”

“About what?” You pretend not to understand.

“Oh don’t play innocent. You and your hot ex-whatever over there have been making eyes at each other since we walked in. Actually, scratch that, since we met the guys outside.”

“We never dated.”

Jess gives you a look. “Okay. But that body language, damn! That man wants to either apologize or kiss you—maybe both.”

You laugh, quiet, breathy. “We have a history. That’s all.”

“The messy kind? Or the unfinished kind?”

You don’t have an answer for her. Not because you don’t want to. Because you don’t know. You’re not a teenager anymore, caught up in infatuation and hormones. You’ve lived a whole life since then—relationships, heartbreak, dreams, disappointment. You’ve been drowning in the what-ifs and could’ve beens for almost 9 years. William existed in a quiet, unreachable place.

Nostalgic.

Untouchable.

But now, he’s here. Not a what-if anymore.

“Don’t overthink it,” Jess adds, handing you a fresh drink. “It’s Vegas, babe. If you’ve ever wondered about closure—or a beginning—this is the best place for it.”

You sip your drink, letting the silence hang, and scan the room again. Sure enough, William is already looking at you. He lifts his glass slightly. You mirror the motion.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Three.

And then he pushes off the bar. Your pulse spikes. He threads through the crowd, eyes never leaving yours. When he finally reaches you, he doesn’t say anything. He leans close enough for you to smell the faintest mix of whiskey and his expensive cologne.

“Want to step outside for a second? Get some air?” He asks.

You glance around. The others are deep in their own bubbles of laughter, shot competitions, and some sort of version of a dance-off.

“Yeah.”

The two of you slip away unnoticed (save for Jess and Paloma, who shoot you an encouraging smile and a wink) down a side hallway leading to a rooftop balcony—open-air, distant from the chaos inside, quiet, private. Vegas spread out below you like a fever dream. Noise and neon. Bad decisions and magic. William leans against the iron railing, looking out. You stop a few paces back, arms crossed loosely over your chest.

“This is weird,” you say softly.

He looks over at you. “Yeah. It is.”

“But not bad.”

“No, not bad at all.” He shakes his head, turning to look back at the view.

You study him in the sparkling lights. He looks older, but more grounded. Like the restless energy he’d been carrying with him all those years ago had finally found a home.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,”

“I wasn’t sure I would.”

“Why?”

He exhales, angling his body toward you, eyes finding yours once more. “Because I didn’t know how it would feel. How I would handle it. Seeing you again.”

Your throat tightens at his words. “And?”

William looks at you for a long moment. “Feels like I never stopped.”

The silence that settles in place is thick and electric. It hangs for a few moments. Then you step closer. Not all the way. Just enough.

“I used to wonder, you know,” you say, eyes flitting to his quickly before flitting away. “If you ever thought about me. Especially after how we left things.”

He smiles, small. “Every damn year. On your birthday. On Nate’s birthday. When I would come across your moms Facebook posts celebrating something. Random Tuesdays. Milestones in my career—and yours. All of it.”

“You could’ve called.”

“I almost did. A thousand times.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

He shrugs. “Pride. Fear. Life. Mostly fear.”

You nod slowly. “Same.”

He shifts closer to you now, voice quieter, distance smaller. “I want to say sorry. For how we left things all those years ago. For not being braver.”

“You were a kid,” you say. “So was I. Even if we took that leap, I don’t know we would’ve been able to handle it.”

“We’re not anymore.”

“No. We’re not.”

A breeze sweeps over the rooftop, stirring a few strands of hair out of place and sending a shiver through you. William is quick to shrug out of his suit jacket, draping it gently over your shoulders. Without thinking, his hand reaches up and tucks the loose hair behind your ear. Fingers lingering against your cheek. It’s too much. And not enough. You take a slow step forward, closing the last bit of space between you.

“You look really good, William.”

“So do you.”

You hesitate, taking a deep breath, and you ask the question that’s been burning in your brain all night. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“No.”

“Seriously?” You search his face, brow raised, looking for any sign he’s lying—telling a half-truth—and you find none.

“Seriously.”

“Why not?”

His eyes don’t waver from yours. “Because no one ever really measured up.”

Your breath catches. The world around you narrows to a sliver of night, suspended in glittering lights, above Vegas like a secret neither of you had said aloud yet.

William leans in slowly. Deliberate. Giving you time to move away or stop him.

“If I kiss you right now,” he murmurs just loud enough for you to hear, “is it a terrible idea?”

You don’t answer.

Leaning in, you kiss him instead.

You don’t remember much about how you made it down from the balcony and back to the hotel. You know your hand was in William’s—warm, anchored, steady—and that somewhere between the soft ding of the elevator and the golden hallway, your body started humming. You feel alive.

Neither of you says much. Though what is there to say? Everything that needed to be said was said with that kiss. And everything else would follow. 

As you step out of the elevator onto the floor, your steps slow, reality nipping at the edges of your already frayed nerves.

This is real.

This is happening.

It’s not just a fantasy.

And it’s not just nostalgia or desire. It’s him. William. Your brother’s best friend. The boy who used to tease you when you’d reach for the last slice of pizza. And the man, who managed to make you feel more seen in one night than anyone has in years. 

He glances back as you stop. “You okay?”

“Just…taking a second.” You say, voice quieter than intended.

He turns toward you fully. “We don’t have to do anything, Lovey. If this is too fast, or if you’re not sure—”

“No,” you interrupt gently, placing a hand against his chest. His heartbeat is strong but frantic beneath it, reassuring you more than words could. “It’s not that. I just…want to make sure I remember this.”

“Remember what?” His brow furrows in that soft, concerned way you’ve missed all these years, the way you love.

“Remember this moment, right here,” you whisper. “Before anything else. Before what-ifs. Before opinions get thrown out like confetti. Just…standing here, with you, knowing I want you and you want the same.”

His jaw tenses, like your words mean more than he can handle. He cups your cheek with his hand, thumb sweeping back and forth against the line of your jaw. “I’ve wanted you for so long, Lovey. This? It’s not a fling. At least, not for me.”

“It’s not for me either.”

In that moment, it’s like whatever invisible barrier was holding you back dissolved. The ding of the elevator breaks the moment. Soft chatter, going the opposite way, but still gets you moving. William leads you toward the hotel room, his hand repeatedly brushing the small of your back like he can’t help needing to touch you. 

William steps forward and unlocks the door. You follow him inside, pulse drumming beneath your ribs, each step pulling you closer to something inevitable. Something years in the making. A line that once you cross, there’s no going back.

The room is dim and quiet, with a warm glow from the LEDs lining the walls and the glittering nightlife just outside the window. The city sparkling below—chaotic and Alice, and so indifferent. But in the room, here, it’s just the two of you. Suspended. Separated from the world.

The soft click and hushed beep of the door behind you breaks the silence. You kick off your heels and lean against it, breathless—not from exertion, from a dizzying cocktail of champagne, music, and something heavy. Something years in the making, hanging in the space between you and William. 

He stands ahead, in the centre of the suite. Undoing his tie, watching you with eyes darker than you remember. The buzz of the joint party is still ringing in your ears, but this…this quiet makes everything suddenly feel sharp. He looks like trouble, half-drunk on restraint and celebration. His shirt half-untucked, the top buttons undone, showing the smallest sliver of skin that you want to trace with your tongue.

You’re not drunk, nor is he, but both tipsy. Just loose enough to let the guardrails drop. 

“I’m not sure I even remember how to do this.”

“We don’t have to.” He steps closer. Slowly. Like a man approaching a fire with the intention of getting burned. “Lovey, if I’m wrong about this, tell me now. Please.”

You walk toward him, one step at a time, until there’s barely space to breathe. Lifting your hand, you rest it on his chest above his heart—feeling the rapid beat. “You’re not wrong.”

The kiss starts soft—careful. Like neither of you is sure if this is a vivid fantasy or reality. Leaning into him, your hands fist the fabric of his shirt, and he groans, pulling you closer. His jacket slips off your shoulders, landing in a pile on the floor. Neither of you pays any mind. Your hands find the edges of his shirt, pushing it back from his shoulders. He shrugs it the rest of the way off, lips never leaving yours, arms wrapping tighter around you to pull your body flush to his. He groans against your mouth as your hips press forward—the sound vibrates through you like a live current.

Your hands move from tracing the lines on his body, down to his belt. Giving it a tug, you pause and look up at him. “Still not stopping me?”

He smirks, the look that comes so naturally to him, but something deeper swirls behind his eyes. “Haven’t wanted you to stop since we were teenagers and you told me that I looked good in a suit.”

Biting your lip, you pull the belt free with a slow, deliberate flick of your wrist. “You did. You still do.”

He pushes you gently towards the bed, fingers slipping beneath the straps of your dress, tracing the skin. “This is insane.”

“Probably.”

“We shouldn’t—”

You silence him with a kiss and whispered words against his lips. “I don’t care. The only thing that matters is you and me right now.”

The zipper of your dress hisses down your back, the fabric sliding from your body, pooling at your feet. He steps back just enough to look at you.

He lets out a shaky breath. “Jesus, Lovey.”

Hands reaching out, you tug him towards you by the waistband of his trousers. “Touch me.”

With your consent, he does. Reverently at first. Fingers skimming over your hips, tracing the curve of your stomach, thumbs circling lightly around the hem of your underwear. He dips his head to press his mouth against the swell of your breast, teeth grazing the skin lightly. 

You gasp and arch into him, nails dragging lightly down his back.

The bed catches the back of your knees, trusting it and him, you let yourself fall into the mattress. He follows, crawling over you, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, the slope of your shoulder.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, voice rough with want.

You wrap your legs around his waist, grinding up against him. “I want you. No teasing. No thinking. Just…you.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time. All tongue and hunger. Then he moves down your body, mouthing at the swells of your breasts, hands hovering, trembling slightly.

“I’ve thought about this too many times,” he confesses against your skin. “But it never even came close to this.”

You thread your fingers into his hair, guiding him back to your breast. He suckles gently, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak, while one hand massages the other. Your thighs tighten around him involuntarily, hips lifting, desperate for more.

He pulls away slightly, chuckling against your skin. “Needy already?”

“You talk too much,” you huff out, breathing heavy.

“I’ll shut up when I’m inside you.”

The promise makes you throb. Sitting up slightly, you push at his pants, shoving them down and grazing the sharp lines of his hips with your fingers. He kicks them off along with his boxers, and you pause, eyes sweeping over him.

“You’re staring,” he says, breath catching.

“So are you.”

His hands slide your underwear slowly down your legs, then part your thighs, and he settles between them. He looks at you like you’re something sacred, then dips his head, moving slow enough for you to stop him. When you don’t, his tongue finds your slick folds. You cry out, hips jerking forward. He moans as he tastes you, the sound vibrating against your skin, enhancing the pleasure. Licking slowly at first, then he circles your clit with maddening precision. One finger slips inside, then another, curling just right.

You whimper, fingers curling in the sheets. “Will…please. I need—”

Drawing his fingers out, you whimper, and he kisses his way back up. Face lined up with yours, his hips settle between your legs. “I’ve got you.”

Your eyes lock as he lines himself up. Neither of you is really thinking, just focused on the moment. No barrier. Just you and him—raw and real.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face contort with pleasure. You gasp, legs wrapping around his waist, drawing him impossibly deeper.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

“You feel…” he can’t finish the sentence. Overcome with emotion and pleasure, he groans, burying his face in your neck.

He starts to move—slow, deep thrusts that make you see stars. Each stroke deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of your walls around him. Your hands roam his body—back, shoulders, neck, waist—searching for purchase, for something to hold onto. Your mouth finds his again, tongues tangling like they’re in battle.

Your bodies move together, sweat slick between you, gasps and groans mixing with the creaking of the bed echoing in the suite. As you clench around him, moaning his name, he thrusts harder, chasing the edge.

“I’m close,” you pant, separating your lips from his. “Don’t stop. Please don’t—”

He reaches between your bodies, rubbing your clit just right. That’s all it takes for you to finally shatter. So you do. Crying out, shaking beneath him, as your climax crashes through you.

The sight of you coming undone tips William over the edge. He groans loudly, thrusting one more time, and spills inside you with a deep, shuddering breath. No second thoughts. Just the raw aftermath you’d been holding back.

He falls into the sheets beside you. Both boneless and breathless, tangled in the sweat-soaked linens.

It’s only a moment before he tucks you into his side, fingers tracing circles on your bare shoulder.

“You okay?” He asks.

“Better than okay.”

Kissing your hair, he says, “I don’t know what this means yet. But I’m not running.”

You smile against his chest. “Good. We can figure it out, together.”

Just over three weeks have passed since Vegas. You and William have been texting back and forth nearly every day since that trip. As a result, you’ve been battling nerves and jumping every time your phone buzzes—it’s like everything has changed at the same time nothing at all has. After seeing you do that for the fifth time, Paloma declared you were desperately in need of a girls' night.

The smell of popcorn—the first borderline burnt batch—and rosé linger in the air, layered over laughter and the mellow hum of a playlist shuffling through early 2000s throwbacks. You’re sitting cross-legged on your living room floor surrounded by your four closest girl friends—Jess, Emily, Paloma, and Liv—slightly tipsy, flushed with wine and the heady comfort of a long overdue girls' night.

“Okay,” Paloma says, holding up a pack of pregnancy tests like they’re party favours, “I saw this TikTok trend. Pregnancy Test Roulette. Everyone pees on a stick. Let’s see who’s carrying a ghost baby.”

You roll your eyes, laughing. “Why do you have pregnancy tests just lying around?”

“We had a scare last month,” she says breezily. “And my cousin gave me a bunch as a joke at the bridal shower. Expiration dates are fine. Now stop stalling. You in?”

You hesitate, rosé buzzing low in your bloodstream. You had been feeling off lately, and you were late, but you’d blamed it on stress. Work. The upcoming wedding, that night with William.

Your stomach flutters and face heats as you reach for the outstretched test. “Fine. But if this turns into a therapy session. I’m blaming you.”

Everyone traipses to the bathroom, laughing like teenagers sneaking into the club. One by one, the tests are labelled with initials and laid out on the counter. Ten minutes later, the timer has gone off, and you’re all nervously hovering, looking at the answers.

Liv squints at hers. “Negative.”

Jess holds hers up like a trophy. “Negative.”

Paloma’s is clear, too.

You stare at yours.

 pregnant 

         3+

“Holy shit,” Jess says, stepping closer. “Bugs?”

Your ears ring as you try to process. Every beat of your heart feels like a drum in your throat.

Liv reaches for your hand. “Are you okay?”

You stare down at the test. Voice quiet, almost detached. “It’s real, right? That’s positive?”

Liv nods slowly. “That’s not a faint line, babe. That’s a full-on congratulations.”

Silence falls over the group.

“Oh my god,” Jess whispers, breaking the silence. “Is it William’s?”

You blink, tears threatening to fall. And nod. Back sliding down the wall, you sit on the floor.

Liv sits down beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “What do you want do to?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know. I haven’t even told him yet. I didn’t even know until…well, now.”

Paloma squeezes your hand. “We’re here. You know that. Whatever you need, we’ve got your back.”

The other girls nod in agreement. You exhale shakily. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you see William—the way he’d looked at you that night, the way he’d held you after, and the way he hadn’t pulled away.

This certainly wasn’t how you imagined finding out. But maybe that’s why it’s exactly how it needed to happen.

————————————

Breakfast had come and gone. You didn’t eat much, too nauseous. The girls had gone home, and your apartment is quiet again.

You’re sitting on your couch, tea in your favourite mug cooling in your hands, staring at the test that now sits in the middle of your coffee table. Your phone vibrates, drawing your attention away.

Willy 🏒

hey

want to grab a coffee?

im near your place

I have the dogs too

You stare at the screen. The line in the textbox blinking at you as you think about what to write—whether or not to answer.

You

can you come over instead

I need to talk to you

It isn’t even ten minutes before a knock echoes through the apartment. You open the door, William smiles—casual and handsome, making a hoodie and sweats look good, Pablo and Banksy excitedly wagging their tails at the possibility of a new friend—but the smile fades fast at the look on your face.

“Are you okay? What is it?”

You step aside, gesturing him in. “Yeah. I mean…not really. Just…sit down.”

He steps inside, sending the dogs wandering off to explore, and then closes the door before moving to the couch. Sitting down, he looks at you, waiting. Brows furrow as you move to the coffee table and pick up the test. Without a word, you hand it to him.

He looks down at it.

Then up at you.

Then down again.

“Lovey,” he says slowly, “is this…are you…?”

You nod. “It’s mine. I didn’t know until last night. It was just supposed to be a silly little game and I wasn’t expecting anything and then…surprise.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just stares. You can see the wheels turning in his head.

“I’m not asking you for anything,” you add quickly. “I’m not asking for money. I’m telling you because you deserve to know.”

He looks up with a bewildered expression. Voice sharp. “Don’t. Don’t do that thing where you assume I’ll walk away. Not when you know what--how much--family means to me.”

You blink. Slightly taken aback at his reaction. You had been bracing for the worst.

He sets the test down gently on the coffee table and stands, crossing the room to you. “You’re pregnant. We’re…going to have a baby.”

“We are.” Tears well in your eyes.

He brushes a loose strand of hair off your face, thumb skimming your cheek and swiping at the tears that managed to trickle over. “Okay. Then we figure this out.”

“Yeah?”

He kisses your forehead. “Yeah. Together.”

A month has passed since the revelation. You and William have been spending more time together—when schedules allow—getting reacquainted, going to doctor appointments. And FaceTimes and texts when he had to go away for a roadie. You’d been to each other’s places multiple times. It’s gotten to the point that you both have a few creature comforts at each other's apartments.

It’s fairly quiet, save for the dogs breathing and the occasional hum of traffic outside the window. You’re curled up on his couch, in one of his old hoodies, legs tucked beneath you, dogs cuddled up to your side, watching as he paces back and forth in front of the window.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says. “About everything. About us.”

“Me too,” you say softly, absentmindedly running your hands over the dogs’ fur.

He stops his pacing momentarily to look at you. “We never planned for this. But I can’t pretend that this isn’t something I want, that I don’t want you. Not just the baby. You.”

Your eyes soften. “I don’t want to force something that’s not there,” you say. “I don’t want you to be with me because you think you have to.”

“Lovey, it’s real. That night wasn’t a heat of the moment decision. I’ve been in love with you for years. I promise, I’m not forcing anything. I’m not pretending. I want YOU and the baby.”

You stand and walk over to him; the dogs huff in disapproval. “So, what do we do now?”

He cups your face gently. “We try. For real. We date. Take it slow. But we do it together.”

“And the baby?”

He smiles. “They’ll be more loved than anything.”

“Okay. Let’s try.”

Tears well in your eyes again. This time, they all fall.

He kisses you—not urgently or desperately. But a soft promise.

You still have everything to figure out. But now you’re in it. Together.

You fidget with the edge of the paper plate, fighting down the bouts of nausea threatening to rear their head every time the breeze blows past, wafting the scents of charcoal and grilled onions in your direction. The usually delicious smell lingering in the warm backyard air is now your temporary arch-nemesis. Since going on IR after his shoulder surgery, your brother has picked up a new hobby. He insisted on throwing a celebratory barbecue for both the Marlies and Leafs for making it to the 1st round of the playoffs.

He stands at the barbecue, flipping burgers like it’s a competitive sport, completely oblivious to the impending conversation with a high probability of detonating his afternoon.

William is standing beside you, sipping from his beer, deceptively relaxed posture. But you feel the tension in the way his hand occasionally brushes yours. Neither of you has spoken since arriving. Waiting for the right moment—if it even exists.

Nate finally turns to you, pulling off his apron. “Alright, burgers are up. Grab the buns?”

You nod and force a smile, walking over to the patio table. William follows.

“You’re sure about this?” He murmurs.

You glance at him. “No. But I can’t keep it from him any longer.”

Turning, you see Nate approaching, wiping his hands on a towel. “So? What’s up? The two of you are hovering like weirdly attractive vultures.”

William chokes on a laugh.

You wince. “We need to talk to you. Privately.”

Nate raises an eyebrow. “Oh god. Did someone die? Who died?”

You lead him inside the house, into the kitchen, shutting the door behind you.

Nate leans against the counter, levelling the two of you with a look. “Okay, talk.”

You open your mouth, willing the words to come. Still, nothing comes out. William steps in. “Lovey’s pregnant.”

Nate blinks. Slow. Then looks at you. “You’re…”

“It’s not a joke,” you say, nodding. “It’s real.”

Nate’s expression twists. Something unreadable at first. Shock. Then confusion. Then something colder. He turns to William with a look of barely contained rage. “Is it yours?”

William doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”

“You slept with Bug, you slept with my baby sister,” Nate says, jaw clenched.

“I love your sister,” William says. No hesitation.

You inhale sharply.

Nate’s eyes narrow. “Yeah? Since when?”

“Since before I was allowed to. But,” William pauses to look at you, swallowing before continuing. “I didn’t act on it. Not until recently. And before you say it, it wasn’t a mistake.”

Running a hand through his hair, Nate turns to look at you—he looks like he wants to hit something or someone. “Are you okay?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I am. I’m a little ways along now, but…I’m not scared.”

Heavy silence fills the kitchen. The only audible sounds are breathing and the occasional faint pop of the grill.

Nate exhales, pushing air through his teeth. “Jesus Christ! Okay. Okay. So what now?”

You glance at William, and then back at Nate. “We figure it out. We’re not rushing anything, but we’re not pretending it didn’t happen.”

“You better not fuck this up. I mean it. You break her heart, I’ll break your face.” Nate says, looking at William.

William nods, solemn. “Fair.”

Another tense moment passes before Nate finally gives a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I need a drink. And probably a session with a therapist. But..congrats, Bug. You too, Will.” 

You smile, eyes watery. “Thanks, big brother.”

———————————————

The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the distant hum of the street. You toe off your sandals in the entryway and lean back against the wall with a long, slow exhale. William sets his keys in the dish on the hall table, watching you.

“That bad?” He asks gently.

You crack a tired smile. “No. Just…exhausting.”

He nods, stepping closer. “I’m proud of you.”

“For what? Not throwing up on the kitchen island while my brother stared at us like we’d just confessed to murder?”

William smiles. “For holding your ground. For trusting this.”

He reaches for your hand and pulls you into his arms. You melt into him without hesitation, tucking your face into his shoulder.

“It could’ve gone worse,” you say, words muffled by his shirt.

“He didn’t punch me.”

“You wouldn’t be joking if you knew how close he was.”

“I do know. I saw his jaw twitch and his fist clench.” William chuckles, then softens. “But he also didn’t tell us to leave. And when he looked at—at us—at the end, he wasn’t angry anymore.”

“No,” you agree, tilting your head to look up at him. “Just shocked. Confused. And a little…sad.”

“He’ll come around.”

“I know. He already is. It’s just…a lot. For all of us.”

The two of you stand there quietly, in the middle of the living room. Williams' thumb is tracing slow circles on the back of your shoulder.

“I hated the idea of hurting him,” you whisper. “He’s my brother. He’s always protected me.”

William’s voice drops, steady. “I’ll protect you too. Both of you.”

“You already do.”

Neither one of you speaks. The silence stretches between you, not awkward, but thoughtful. Then William leans in and kisses your forehead. “We told him. That was the big one. You know our parents will be excited.”

You nod against his chest. “Yeah. The rest will come.”

He looks down. “And now?”

“Now…” you sigh, lips curving up in a smile betraying you. “Now we eat an unreasonable amount of ice cream and lie on the couch while our child turns my bladder into a trampoline.”

“You really know how to party.” Willy says with a grin.

You smirk at him. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

“I love you. Everything else is just a bonus.”

He presses another kiss to your hair, and you tighten your arms around his waist.

“You love me even when my feet are swollen and I cry because we’re out of the good stuff?”

“Especially then.”

You laugh, muffled and tired, and stand there a little while longer—anchored to each other, both knowing that the hardest part’s behind you. The best parts are still to come.

Nestled into the couch, you’re watching the screen as the clock winds down in the last game of round 1 for the Leafs. Pablo and Banksy are sitting beside you, protecting, just like William told them before he left. As the horn blasts, you watch as the Leafs players jump off the bench, celebrating, before moving to the handshake line.

Hand resting atop the bump that only recently popped, you rub back and forth, soothing the excited baby. “Look at that jellybean! Your dad just made it to round two. I guess you’re his lucky charm.” Looking back at the TV, you catch a quick glimpse of William smiling before the camera pans to someone else.

A yawn escapes you.

Grabbing your phone, you look at the time. It’s late. No wonder you’re yawning. Quickly, you type up a text and fire it off to Willy.

Congrats babe!

You did it!

Jellybean and I were cheering you on from here

Can’t wait to see you!

We love you💋

Safe travels

Settling into bed, you’re quick to fall asleep. The world fades to dreamland.

The sunlight’s just starting to bleed through the gap in the curtains, casting warm streaks across the tangled blankets. The world outside is quiet—no cars, not yet—just the faint sound of birds, the stillness of the early morning.

You lie half-curled on your side, body moulded into what you think is the pregnancy pillow. Shifting, you press further into it, waking up only slightly as you feel the release of a breath on the back of your neck. A gentle kiss is placed there, and you feel William’s familiar hand, large and warm, move to rest on the slope of your belly beneath the hem of your sleep shirt. Neither said a word. You didn’t need to.

He nuzzles into the space behind your ear, voice rough with sleep, murmuring. “You awake?”

You make a soft noise of affirmation, not quite a word. Stretching carefully, not to disturb the moment, you lay your hand on top of his, holding it against your stomach.

“Mmmmmm…she’s been busy already,” you whisper. “Rolling around in there like she’s got somewhere to be.”

William chuckles quietly, flattening his palm a bit more. “Well, maybe she knows you’re not exactly a morning person. So she’s trying to shake you awake.”

“Rude,” you say, smiling, but your eyes are still closed.

The two of you lie like that for a while—no hurry to get up just yet. Mornings like this are rare. Mornings with this kind of softness, the kind that only comes when the rest of the world is sleeping. William keeps his hand on your belly, stroking lightly in slow circles, feeling the slight shifts beneath your skin.

Then, all of a sudden—thump.

His breath hitches. “Wait—did you feel that?”

You grin, eyes flying open now. “There it is. That’s what I was talking about.”

He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow, his other hand still pressing against you, gently. “That was…different. That wasn’t just fluttering.”

“Right? She’s been practicing, I think. Wanted to congratulate her dad for advancing to the next round.” Another tiny kick, more deliberate this time.

William’s whole face changes. “Oh my god. That’s her. She kicked my hand.”

You turn your head, watching him with a reserved smile. “First time you’ve really felt it, huh?”

He nods slowly, afraid to burst the bubble. “She’s really in there.”

“She always has been.”

“But now I feel her. She’s real in a whole new way.” He leans further forward, pressing his lips gently to your temple.

You turn to face him a little more, one arm draping over his ribs. “It’s weird, right? Like…it’s not just imagining her anymore.”

William slides down the bed, just slightly, so his mouth is level with your navel.

“Hey there,” he whispers, thumb brushing just under your navel. “You’re pretty strong for someone the size of a papaya.”

“Did you seriously look up what fruit she is again?” You ask, laughing.

“Weekly updates are sacred.” He says, fully serious.

Another tiny kick. You gasp again—then laugh. “She heard you.”

Williams' grin widens. “You like your dad’s voice, huh?” His hand splayed wide on your belly. “Get used to it, jellybean, I’m gonna be talking your ear off forever.”

You run your fingers through his hair gently, heart swelling with affection. “She’s already wrapped around your finger.”

He looks up at you, eyes warm. “You both are.”

Sunlight filters in through the curtain-less living room windows, catching small specs of dust floating through the air as you stand in front of the bookshelf, head tilted, fingers tracing the spine of a novel you’d borrowed and never returned months ago. One of William’s old shirts draped over your frame, knotted over your growing belly, and leggings that had become your daily uniform. Comfort level, unmatched.

William leans against the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and watching you with a soft smile. The apartment still faintly smells like cinnamon and clean laundry.

You turn, catching his eye. “You’re staring.”

“I’m appreciating,” he corrects, shaking his head with a smile.

You roll your eyes, but your growing smile gives you away. You cross the room and sink carefully into the armchair, exhaling and exhausted already, settling your hands over your bump.

William watches for a beat longer, then sets his coffee down and crosses the space between you. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, squatting down to sit on the ottoman in front of you. “We should move.”

You blink. “Move…where?”

“Somewhere new. Together.” His voice is calm, but his fingers fidget slightly with the edge of your leggings. “Not you moving in here. Not me moving in to your apartment. Not me arranging the kitchen to make space. I mean a place that’s ours. Fresh start. New walls, new neighbours, a backyard…whatever we want.”

You stare at him, surprised.

He keeps going, a little on the breathless side now. “This place—it’s fine. But it’s always been mine. The staged furniture, bachelor stocked fridge, decorated for a bachelor. You deserve so much more than just wedging your life into mine. We’re about to start a new chapter. Let’s do it on neutral ground. As a team.”

Your eyes soften, watering slightly. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

His eyes are suspiciously shiny. 

“Every day since your third prenatal appointment,” he admits. “I was trying to figure out how to bring it up, but there never seemed to be a perfect time. I’ve been looking at listings when you fall asleep.”

“You sneaky romantic,” you say, smile tugging at your lips.

He shrugs. “I just…want to do this right. You, me, and the baby. I want a place where we decorate a nursery together. A kitchen where we burn stuff together. A place where every single piece of it feels like us.”

You look at him for a long moment. Then reach out and cup his neck, pulling him closer until your foreheads touch.

“I love that idea,” you whisper. “A real beginning.”

“So you’re in?”

“I’m so in.”

It doesn’t take long to actually find a place and start moving. With all the research William had been doing, it’s actually a breeze. 

Three weeks later, and you’re already half-moved into your new home. 

The living room is a half-unpacked mess—boxes everywhere, bubblewrap which the dogs are having the best time with, and a sofa that has yet to be assembled properly. The space echoes with the promise of a bright future.

You’re sitting on the floor, back against a stack of pillows, hand resting over your belly.

William walks in from the bedroom, sweaty and a little dusty, toolbox in hand. “The crib is mostly a crib now. But I might have a couple extra screws, so…maybe don’t lean on it.”

You grin. “Noted. Maybe give John a call tomorrow, he might be able to help.”

He flops down beside you, bumping your shoulder gently. Together, you look at the chaos surrounding you: unopened boxes labelled “kitchen stuff”, a half-hung curtain rod, and the smell of last night's takeout in the air.

“This is perfect,” you say softly.

He looks at you, love shining in his eyes. “Even with the missing screws?”

“Especially then,” you say, turning to look at him. “It’s messy and new and completely ours. But,” you say, gesturing to your growing baby, “if we do this again, I’m not changing our living situation at almost 6 months pregnant.”

“Noted.”

He leans in and kisses you, slow and lingering, like an attempt to seal a promise.

Outside your front door, the city is moving like it always has, but inside, something brand new is just starting.

——————————————

Only a few days later, you find yourself standing in the last undecorated room—with the help of friends and teammates, your house had been unpacked and organized pretty quick—the nursery.

Rain taps lightly against the windows, odd but not uncharacteristic for June in Toronto. You stand barefoot in the middle of the room designated to be the nursery, hand resting on the curve of your belly as you look around the mostly empty room: freshly painted walls in soft, buttery yellow; warm hazelnut-stained crib against the wall; unopened boxes stacked in the corner labelled linens, wall decor, and mobile-Fragile!

“Okay,” you say, turning to William with a mock-serious expression. “You ready to make this officially the cutest room on the planet?”

William steps in from the hallway, carrying a box labelled daisy decals. He’s wearing sweatpants, a now threadbare Marlies t-shirt, and a determined look that makes you smile.

“I was born ready for this,” he says, setting the box down with a faux grunt. “I have to warn you: I may have gone a little overboard with the daisy-themed decor.”

“Is that even possible?”

“We’re about to find out.” He says, laughing.

You start with the walls. William peels off the adhesive daisies one by one while you direct from your glider, occasionally standing up to reposition one yourself. He places a small cluster of daisies above the changing table and arranges a circle of them around the light switch. You stand back, tilting your head.

“Those are crooked,” you tease.

Groaning, William says, “your sense of geometry is ruthless.”

He fixes the last decal, then moves to stand beside you, hands on his hips. “Okay. It’s ridiculously cute. I admit it.”

The yellow walls are bright but soft, like sunlight melted onto the drywall. The daisies add just enough whimsy.

Next come the linens. You open the box of crib bedding: pale yellow sheets and a white knit blanket embroidered with daisies. William helps you make the crib, smoothing the sheets and then draping the blanket just so. The dogs weave between the two of you as you move about the room. 

“I still can’t believe there’s going to be an actual human in here,” he says in awe.

You rest a hand over your belly—something that’s become a habit throughout the pregnancy. “She’s going to love it.”

You both move on to the mobile next—white felt clouds, little golden suns, and of course, tiny daisies that spin gently when William gives it a careful nudge, testing the security.

You watch it turn slowly above the crib, exhaling. “It’s really happening.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, watching the way your face changes. “It really is.”

Later that day, you find yourself curled up on the porch swing with William, under cover, watching the rain fall. The porch light flickers just once and stays on. The flicker is enough for you to catch the sheen in William’s eyes, staring out at the falling rain and empty street. He’s deep in thought. 

Tucked into his side, one arm is wrapped around your shoulders, his other hand settled on your growing belly. Moving your hand to cover his, you rub your thumb gently across his knuckles. His face turns to you; you know you’ve got his attention now.

“Penny for your thoughts?” You ask softly.

“I wrote you letters.” The words come out fast, like he didn’t quite mean to say them; the look on his face seconds this. Silence settles as you take in what he says.

“Like…actual letters?”

He huffs out a half-laugh. “Yeah. Paper and Ink. Some typed in my notes app when I couldn’t sleep. One’s on a napkin. One on the back of a receipt.” He scratches the back of his neck, cheeks flushed. “You…you show up in a lot of places.”

You don’t say anything. Just watch him.

“I think it started because of this movie I saw when I was a kid. I don’t even remember the name of it—just this scene where the guy had been writing the girl letters without sending them. And I just remember my mom and sister watching, and being like ‘that’s how you know it’s real.’” He gives a small shrug. “I think it imprinted on me or something. So, I figure that it was the best way to process my feelings.”

You blink slowly. Voice soft, gentle as you speak. “How long have you been writing them?”

William still doesn’t look at you. “Since I was 18.”

“Since…you.” The words just hang there, suspended between you. You swallow before speaking. “Why didn’t you ever send them?”

He stays quiet for a couple of minutes. Rain is the only sound between you.

“Because I was living in your house. Because you were younger. Because your brother would’ve killed me. Because the timing was always just slightly off.” He pauses. “And honestly? Because I was scared. Of what it might ruin, what it might mean.”

You tighten your hold on his hand, just slightly, interlacing your fingers. “Do you still have them?”

He tilts his head, just enough to meet your eyes, face raw and unguarded. “All of them.”

“I want to read them.”

“Okay.”

The rain is tapping gently against the windowpane, a soft metronome in the hush of the bedroom. Outside, the city is glowing in muted amber, street lights burred from the drizzle. Inside, warmth radiated through the house—from the candle on the nightstand, flickering, to the layered blankets, to the man watching her with eyes so full of awe it makes your breath catch.

You’re lying back against the pillows, body curved with the weight of eight months of pregnancy. Your hands rest on the swell of your belly, bare beneath the cotton of one of William’s sleep shirts, fingers gently stroking absentminded patterns over the spot where your child is shifting inside you.

William’s sitting beside you, shirtless, one hand resting on your thigh. “You look like something out of a dream.”

You laugh quietly. “I feel like a house. A sweaty, swollen house.”

He smiles, leaning down to press a kiss just below your navel. “You feel like home. My home.”

Your breath hitches.

He kisses higher, then again, slowly working up your belly, your ribs, the centre of your chest. When he finally meets your mouth, the kiss is unhurried—a silent conversation of love and memory and patience. You haven’t had sex in weeks—partly because of your discomfort, partly because the two of you were set on not rushing things. But tonight, with the summer storm raging outside and the stillness between you, it feels like the right time.

Pulling him gently toward you, you say, “I want you.”

“Are you sure?” He asked, cupping your face. “Because we can just lie here. I’m happy just being able to hold you.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But I miss you. I think we’re ready. And I want to feel close to you again.”

William kisses you slowly. “Okay. Let me take care of you.”

He helps lift you to shift on the bed, removing your shirt carefully. His eyes roam your body without hesitation or restraint, only wonder, and love. Your breasts fuller, skin warmer, belly round and tight with the life you’d created together.

“You’re beautiful,” he says again, voice soft. “So, so beautiful.”

He moves over you with care, hands smoothing along your sides, and pausing every few inches to worship your skin with his mouth. You shiver as he kisses down the valley between your breasts, and then over your stomach, whispering to the baby beneath.

“Daddy loves you. But right now, I need a minute with your mama.”

You laugh, eyes stinging with emotion.

His hands spread your legs gently, touch so tender you nearly come undone just at that. He kisses along the inside of your thighs, slow, teasing. When his mouth finally finds you, you moan—a desperate sound that you almost can’t believe you uttered—and your hands bury themselves in his hair.

“Willy…”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

His tongue moves in slow, loving circles, coaxing you towards pleasure with an infinite amount of patience. He knows your body. Knows every gasp and sigh, knows every tremble. He doesn’t push—only offers. And when you finally come, it’s with a cry that feels like gratitude and release all at once. Tears streak the corners of your eyes as he kisses his way back up.

“You okay?”

“More than okay,” you whisper.

He kisses you again. Then slowly, carefully, he enters—one inch at a time—until you’re completely joined together. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, and he stills, letting you adjust, foreheads pressed together. You move together in slow waves. No urgency. No frenzy. Just connection. Your eyes stayed locked on each other. Tears and sweat glisten. One of his hands drifts down to where your bodies are joined, and the other settles protectively on your belly.

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too. So damn much.” He says, voice cracking.

You climax together—not wild, not loud, a deep shuddering release that feels like being completely seen and loved anyway. He doesn’t move, staying inside. Holding you. Breathing with you. 

The world goes still just before it erupts.

You’re standing in the middle of the kitchen, one hand wrapped around a mug of tea, the other resting on the small of your back. Twinges and tightening have been coming for a few days now, each time you’ve waved them off as Braxton hicks, but this time, as the pain washes over you, you know it’s the real deal. Your first contraction. It’s not dramatic. It’s quiet and sharp, like a breath that didn’t get released when it should’ve. Your face tenses and you freeze, blinking at the white LED clock on the oven.

William notices from across the room, body pausing mid-step. “Lovey?”

Your eyes meet his concerned gaze. “I think it’s starting.”

William helps you time the contractions—and when they shift from manageable to breath-stealing, you both know it’s time to go. Families get called, the dogs get handed over to the neighbour until someone can come get them, and the hospital bag that has been packed for weeks, stowed by the front door, is moved into the car. The drive feels both endless and far too short. William doesn’t let go of your hand once. Not through the check-in. Not through the change into a hospital gown. Not through the first IV drip or the second.

Hours blur. 

You swear. 

Once. 

Twice.

Thrice.

Each time, you apologize immediately after.

William takes it in stride. Stroking the damp hair back from your forehead, whispering encouragement—you barely registering it through the fog of pain—hating how helpless you feel, and how grounded he stays.

The epidural helps some, but not completely.

And when the nurses confirm full dilation, the fear hits like a second wave.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you gasp.

“You can,” William whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “You already are. I’ve never been more proud of anyone. Ever.”

Pushing is a storm.

Pain, effort, noise, breath—all wrapped in a vulnerable kind of power unique to the situation. You clutch his hand like a lifeline, screaming. One, two, three, four times, and then—

Your baby’s cry pierces the room.

Time is suspended.

You sob. Not from pain but from relief, and something too big to name. A nurse gently places the tiny, squirming bundle against your chest, and all the fight drains from your body.

William leans over your shoulder, eyes wide and glassy. “She’s perfect.”

Looking down at your daughter, you can’t help but smile while you sob. Beautiful. Wrinkled. A perfect mix of the two of you. You and William hadn’t decided on a name until that moment. But, staring into her face, it’s obvious.

“Linnea,” you whisper. “Hi, baby.”

William kisses your cheek. “Linnea Ella.”

You nod, heart full and breaking at the same time.

You and William hold her together, swaddled in soft hospital blankets, hands over lapping on her tiny body.

Even though the room is still buzzing, you can only see William and Linnea. You did it. Together.

Hours later, the once buzzing hospital room is silent. Bathed in pale light from the white fluorescents lining the hall and the soft glow of the monitors beside your bed. Outside, dawn is only starting to spill over the horizon, sending faint streaks of silver across the windowpane.

You lay propped up against a pile of pillows, sweaty and exhausted, hair damp from exertion. Hospital gown slightly askew, just enough to cradle the tiny, sleeping bundle nestled against your chest, skin-to-skin.

Linnea.

William sits on the edge of the bed, one leg curled beneath him, his hand gently resting on your thigh over the blanket. His other hand is cradling Linnea’s back, fingers splaying protectively. He hasn’t looked away from either of you in what feels like hours.

Neither you nor William speaks. Only the occasional steady beeping of the monitors and Linnea’s soft newborn breathing fill the space.

“I didn’t think I could love anyone more than I love you,” William finally whispers. “But then she comes out and—god, Lovey—my heart actually hurts.”

You turn your head toward him, slowly, eyes rimmed red but shining. “It feels too big for me to hold. I keep looking at her and thinking…how?”

William leans over, careful not to squish the baby between you, and kisses your temple, letting his lips linger for a moment. “You did this. You made her. I just…helped out a little.”

You smile weakly.

He shifts and tucks an arm around both of you. “You didn’t just do it. You were incredible. You ARE incredible.”

You sit in silence again, letting the warmth settle between you. Linnea shifts, her tiny mouth smacking sleepily against your skin before nestling deeper into the crook of your arm.

“I didn’t know love could feel this quiet,” you murmur, eyes not leaving the sleeping bundle.

William nods, chin brushing your shoulder. “Like the world stopped moving but came more alive.”

He kisses Linnea’s head gently. “She has your nose.”

“And your chin,” you add. “And I think she’s already bossy.”

“Oh definitely,” he chuckles. “She already runs the show.”

Your eyes well up again, but this time it isn’t from exhaustion. “We’re a family now.”

William looked at you, eyes burning with tenderness. “We always were. But yeah… now it’s real. Now she’s here.”

The morning rush starts to fill the hospital, but you’re conked out in bed. The exhaustion is finally catching up to you. The dimmed lights of the room cast soft shadows against the curtains, pulled tight to keep as much light out as possible. 

William is sitting in the chair beside your bed, still in the hoodie and shorts he had thrown on in a rush almost 24 hours earlier. Linnea lay tucked against his chest, wrapped only in a warm blanket, her tiny body rising and falling with each sleepy breath.

The last nurse to come and check on you looked at him and suggested skin-to-skin. “It’s good for bonding,” she’d said, smiling as she carefully helped him unbundle the baby. “And good for her heartbeat, her breathing, and her sense of safety.”

William doesn’t hesitate. But he certainly wasn’t expecting this.

The moment her bare skin touches his, something in him cracks wide open.

She’s so small. Her whole body fits between his collarbone and stomach. Her cheek presses against his chest, and her fingers—no bigger than sunflower seeds—curl against his skin like they already know him. He breathes in her scent: clean, warm, and somehow, already so familiar.

“Hey, jellybean,” he whispers, voice rough from lack of sleep and full of emotion. “It’s me. I’m your dad.”

The words feel impossibly big. Real in a way that makes his ribs ache. 

“I know we just met,” he continues, hand resting lightly across her back, “but I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”

Her body twitches slightly, nothing more than a reflexive movement, and yet he stills instinctively—watchful, protective. He glances toward the hospital bed where you’re sleeping, your face peaceful for the first time in hours. He looks back down at Linnea.

“She’s amazing isn’t she?” He murmurs. “Your mom. You don’t even know yet, but she’s strong. Brave. Funny as hell. You’re so lucky you got her.”

Linnea lets out a soft gurgle, almost like a sigh. William blinks hard.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits into the quiet. “I’ve never been someone’s dad before. But I’m going to learn. I swear I’ll learn everything I possibly can to make your life the best I can. I’ll learn how to be someone you can count on.”

The weight of her tiny body against him isn’t heavy, but it is profound. A responsibility. A miracle. 

He sits like that for nearly an hour, barely moving, afraid to disturb her. The nurse only peeks in once, sees them, and leaves without a word. Eventually, Linnea stirs slightly. Tiny mouth parted, searching, and William gently shifts her in his arms, careful, reverent.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Time to go back to mama I guess.”

It’s a slow Sunday morning. Your parents invited you over for lunch, citing they’d missed you—mostly just angling for a chance to see Linnea again. The familiar hum of jazz from your dad’s old speakers fills the halls of your childhood home, the smell of coffee and the day's earlier meal linger in the air. The living room has become a chaos of baby blankets, bottles, and the kind of peace that only exists where love outweighs exhaustion.

You’re curled up on the couch, mismatched socks, legs curled under you, and Linnea resting on your chest. Her tiny fingers curling into William’s worn hoodie draped over your frame.

William is sitting behind you on the couch, one arm looped loosely around your waist, and the other gently stroking Linnea’s tiny foot as it peeks from beneath the swaddle. He isn’t looking at the TV—old hockey highlights flickering on the screen—he’s not even pretending. His gaze stays anchored to you and your daughter.

———————

Your brother—Nate—stands in the hallway, watching, unnoticed.

He’d come to drop off a set of pacifiers you’d forgotten at his place after dinner a week prior. He doesn’t mean to linger. He told himself a thousand times that he is okay with this—okay with you and William.

But this is the first time he sees it.

Sees William not as his best friend.

But as your person. As the man who loves his sister. As the father of his niece.

William leans in and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. You turn your face slightly, murmur something too quiet for Nate to hear, and he watches William smile.

Not a big grin. Just the small, quiet one. The one he used to get when they talked about things that actually mattered. When something actually meant something to him.

——————————————

Nate steps into the room, clearing his throat lightly. “Hey. Door was open.”

You look up, surprised, but face warming. “Hey! Come in. You want coffee?”

Nate shakes his head, walking toward you with a half-smile. “Just brought the pacifiers you left. Figured you might need ‘em.”

William stands slowly, careful not to jostle you or the baby. He takes the bag from Nate and gives him a nod. “Thanks, man. Seriously.”

Nate's eyes drift to Linnea, sleeping peacefully on your chest. “She looks bigger already.”

“She’s eating like a champion,” you say proudly, shifting slightly to let Nate sit beside you.

He does, hesitantly at first, relaxing as the couch dips. He stares at the little girl he’s already fallen in love with and feels something he doesn’t expect. 

Peace.

“You’re good at this,” he says after a beat.

You look down at Linnea and then back at William. “We’re figuring it out.”

Nate nods, then turns to William. “You, uh…you’re good with her.”

“She’s got me wrapped around her finger. Both of them do.”

There’s no joking in the statement. No cocky bravado. Just truth.

Nate studies him a moment longer. Then leans back, sighing. “I wasn’t sure at first, you know?”

“I know,” William says softly.

“But I see it now,” Nate continues. “The way you look at her. The way you hold the baby like she’s the most fragile thing in the universe. The way she leans on you like she knows you’ll never drop her.”

You blink. Rarely does Nate get sentimental.

“I used to think you were just…William,” Nate adds, with a smirk. “But you’re not just my friend anymore. You’re her person. You’re their family.”

Williams' throat bobs.

“Don’t screw it up,” Nate adds quickly, clearing the emotion with a cough.

William grins. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You reach for your brother, giving his shoulder a grateful squeeze.

Nate looks around the room once more—blankets on the floor, coffee cooling on the table, two people so clearly in sync—and realizes he didn’t just accept it.

He’s glad for it.

You’re good together. 

Better than good.

You’re exactly where you belong.

Clayton Keller was utterly screwed.

Or at least that's what it felt like when his year long situationship told him that she wouldn't travel back to Missouri with him for a wedding for his best friend. In hind sight, it really was a silly question. How could he have expected someone he couldn't even put a label on to travel across the states with him for a wedding of two people she'd never met.

But now here he was, back at home in Saint Louis, mumbling to himself in the grocery store about how he was never going to find a date and how Matthew was going to kill him. He had RSVP'd for a plus one, and really it wasn't that Matthew couldn't afford to eat the cost of his non-existent date. It was the fact everyone in their friend group from back home was settling down, and he couldn't even fathom putting a label on his "situation" with a girl for a year. They both felt that it was better off that way, but now any way he turned it, it just looked silly.

He knew what his friends would say. That he was too critical, too judgmental, just waiting around for someone absolutely perfect to come around and knock him off of his feet. But that really wasn't the case. In Arizona he felt like he was constantly bustling around and couldn't settle down, and then by the time that he felt like he had his feet underneath him, the rug was swept out, he was relocated to Utah.

He swore he could hear the voices of his friends and their snarky comments as he walked through the aisles, trying to find the couple of things that his mom needed for dinner tonight. It was then that he realized that it wasn't the voice of his friends, but there was a voice speaking to him. He thought for a second that it could've been a fan, but there was a distinctly familiar quality to the voice that he heard. It sounded like honey, warming his insides and causing a blush to his cheeks that he hadn't felt in years. When he turned around, his suspicions were confirmed. It was you, his childhood best friend, who he hadn't spoken to since before his move to Utah.

Yeah, that was a low blow. The two of you grew up together, spending every waking moment together from Pre-K all the way until high school. You even spent your summers working together at the summer camp up by your lake house that Clayton had practically lived at all summer. When he spent two weeks there and one week at home on and off for the entire summer, it was hard to say that he didn't live there when he spend more time living at your family's lake house than he did at his house, much to his mother's dismay.

"Did you start talking to ghosts since the last time we spoke, howler? I can imagine you had to resort to something since you all but ghosted me but I didn't think you'd have to stoop this low." You had the teasing tone you always had when you talked to him, still calling him the stupid nickname you gave him when you were 17 years old and your best friend was drafted to the Arizona Coyotes. In a way, it refreshed him to hear that. If you called him howler, you couldn't possibly hate him as much as he thought you must've.

"Lose the light in your eyes, don't think because I called you howler that we're on good terms. I just hoped it would annoy you as much as it did when we were kids," you joked, trying to mask the hurt you felt. "We were 17 when you came up with that nickname," he said back, trying to mask his own hurt at your comment, although he knew it was him in the wrong, not the other way around. No, to him, you were perfect.

"That's the age of children, Clayton. God, those Utah people haven't taught you anything, have they?" You quipped, causing him to smile. "Well then I assume if you're calling me howler then I can call you sugar. Certainly that won't bother you." He came back with a smirk. After your creation of the nickname "howler" he knew he had to come up with a nickname for you. He decided on sugar, your massive sweet tooth was undeniable. Clayton had been bringing you a sweet treat or having one ready for you every time you got together since he had his own money, and before that he always made sure his mom took him to the store to pick out the perfect selection of sweet treats, even if you were just coming over for an hour.

"Call me whatever you want, Keller. I'm unphased." You started to turn on your heels when he reached out and grabbed your arm without thinking. "Wait, don't go. I've missed you. I'm sorry, the move was really hard on me. I wish I could go back in time and have reached out after the move but I felt paralyzed. I felt like the further away I got from home, the further I strayed from you. I wasn't sure if you would want to keep waiting around for me to come home." He wasn't sure what it was about the produce aisle of the local grocery store that made him open up like this, but he wasn't sure when the next time he would see you would be, and he wanted to get everything out before you could go.

"Clayton, isn't Utah technically geographically closer to St Louis than Arizona? Anyways. We'd been best friends since we were 4. What makes you think that a relocation, against your will, mind you, would have made me leave? It just feels like you didn't give me the chance to make that decision. I'd think you'd have known that I wouldn't be going anywhere after 20 plus years but maybe I didn't make that clear enough." You scoffed at his impulsivity to make decisions, wishing you would have known he was feeling this way.

"Whatever, what's past is past. Let's just move on, maybe get drinks sometime soon?" Before the word soon is completely out of your mouth, Clayton cuts you off. "Will you come to Matthew's wedding with me?" he blurts out, seemingly still not aware that he's in the middle of the aisle at the local Kroger. "You're joking, right? You think I'd want to go to that asshole's wedding? Last time I saw him he puked his cheap beer all over me in Ballpark Village 8 years ago. No shot," you scoffed, shocked that he had asked.

"C'mon, now's your chance to get him back. Run up the tab at the open bar. I'll buy you a dress if you don't have anything. It's just downtown but we can get a hotel so no one has to drive home. I'm sure the food will be great, his fiance's sister owns a catering company." Clayton tried to reason with you, but he really wasn't panicking. He just had an inkling that you'd give in.

You scowled at him, the both of you knowing that you'd give in. You had trouble saying no to him, no matter how much you wanted to flip him off and leave him stranded in the produce aisle. "Fine. I need a dress, you're driving to and paying for the hotel, and I swear to god, if any one of those goons tries to pester me, I'm leaving immediately." He grinned knowing it would be him.

----------

You had not expected the luxury branded box to show up at your door after you sent Clayton the link to a dress you'd liked from an online boutique, but in hindsight, you really should've seen it coming. Clayton loved to spoil you, and anytime you let him, he went all out. You shook your head, wishing you'd had forced him to honor a price limit with the dress.

The dress fit beautifully, and you made sure to send Clayton a quick message thanking him for the outfit. The two of you texted plans for the night back and forth, getting ready for the wedding that was only in 48 hours. You felt yourself smiling at his messages, wondering how you could fall for his charm so easily again. But the thing about Clayton is that he never changes. He could make a billion dollars throughout his career and he'd still be the same fun loving, boy next door that you've known since you had to be told you couldn't eat crayons even if they were food colored.

When you woke up the next morning, you hoped you could convince yourself that the dream you had about Clayton was purely incidental, even though you knew damn well.

----------------

"3 o'clock means 3 o'clock, sugar," Clayton mused at you from your living room. Despite living in your hometown, you were no longer living with your family. You lived in a 1 bedroom apartment in the city, grateful that you didn't have to settle for a studio. Especially in this very moment. Your palms sweat and shook as you tried to get yourself ready. Your jewelry was slipping out of your hands, your fingers struggling to grip the zipper of the expensive dress. You didn't know why you were so nervous, it was just howler, you tried to convince yourself, but you both knew better. You had been texting constantly since your run in at the grocery store, and even more so since the dress arrived at your house 2 nights ago. You were hoping you could push these feelings aside. There was no logic to being with Clayton. Long distance at this time in your life would be difficult. Who are you kidding, you're still trying to suppress the crush you've had for a decade, not bring it back up.

"I know, Kells. I'm trying my best." You muttered out disconcertingly, causing his brows to furrow. Your tone made him nervous. Were you even ready at all? Maybe you had decided to back out at the last second as payback for the past year of silence. He shook his head, making his way towards your bedroom door, slowly rapping his knuckles on it. "Sugar? You need any help? I've got two working hands if you need help with a clasp or a zipper. I can't help you with the makeup, though. Sorry about that," he rambled along, hearing you scoff on the other side of the door. Your footsteps grew louder as you walked toward the door, opening it slowly.

Clayton thought he was going to pass out. He thought it could be possible considering he was wearing a suit in Missouri in the middle of July, but this was certainly what was going to do it for him. Tucked inside in the air conditioning, his heart was going to give out. "Sugar..." he mumbled off, not able to take his eyes off of you. "Do I look stupid? I knew this dress was too expensive," you rattled off and Clayton had to grab onto your hands as you walked past, stopping you in your tracks. "That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"Sorry?" You asked, mumbling sheepishly. "The fact that you think that you look anything less than jaw dropping, stunning, makes me sick." He muttered, reaching out to grab onto your waist.

This was foreign territory. The two of you had always used alcohol as an excuse to get touchy. You weren't an inherently touchy pair of best friends, but you used the excuse every once and a while. When you couldn't stand it anymore. But this was in broad daylight, no excuse other than Clayton wanted to touch you and he would be damned if he couldn't. Unless of course, you asked him not to.

"Clay, thank you. Can you tie the strap on the neck please?" You asked, trying to divert your attention to anything besides the tension that was growing between the two of you. You could both feel a shift happening between the two of you. You both were toeing the line between best friends and something more.

Clayton tied the strap loosely, hoping you couldn't feel his clammy, shaking hands, or hear the way his breath was speeding up just at the mere proximity of the two of you. After that, you slipped on your shoes, Clayton helping you walk to the car.

You drove to the venue in comfortable silence, only about 20 minutes away from your apartment. Clayton had insisted on booking a hotel, but you insisted it wasn't necessary. His apartment in the city was a good hike from both yours and the venue, so you offered for him to sleep on the couch if he really needed it.

You arrived at the venue just in time for the ceremony. Taking your seat, Clayton followed you into the row next to you. You sat admiring the art in the church, having no idea that Clayton's gaze was on you. Eventually, the bridal parties started filing in, causing everyone's attention to turn. With the sharing of the vows, you felt Clayton reach down and grab your hand. You put yours on top of his, once again hoping he couldn't feel how shaky and clammy you were. You weren't sure where this excessive touching was coming from, chalking it up to the emotions of seeing his good friend get married.

The two of you mingled both together and separately during the cocktail hour, as well as during the dinner. Clayton was the life of every party, and you were enjoying catching up with some people you hadn't seen in a while. The two of you only sat down to enjoy your meal.

Eventually, the music turned on after the ceremonial dances, and a slow song came on. "Well I didn't put this in the job description, but would you dance with me, sugar?" Clayton asked, sticking his hand out to you like you were guests at a ball. "I'd love to, Mr Keller." He helped you up, guiding you out to the dance floor. It was funny to think about all of the casual times you'd spent with your best friend, definitely never having envisioned the two of you slow dancing.

"Sugar, I can't do this anymore," Clayton's voice broke out of the music, causing you to freeze. "What happened? Did I step on your toes too much? Are my hands too sweaty?" Your heart started racing, not sure what went wrong. You felt like this was perfect, exactly where you wanted to be.

"Nothing, you're perfect. It's just, I can't keep pretending anymore. Sugar, I love you. So much. I've loved you since we met in preschool. I loved you when I was drafted to the league and you gave me that horrible nickname. I loved you when I moved around the country for 82 games, wanting nothing more than to be home with you every night. And yes, I loved you when we were apart. I can't believe I let you slip away for that long. Please tell me I didn't screw this up."

To say you were shocked would be an understatement. You have had feelings for Clayton for a long time, apparently not as long as he had for you, but since high school. You never thought he'd feel the same way, and even if he did, you thought the distance would be too much.

"You don't have to say anything, I'm sorry if I ruined everything." Not wanting words to fail you anymore, you did the first thing you could think to do. You kissed him. You kissed him so hard he took a step back, stumbling, before regaining his steps and grabbing your waist, dipping you down like you two were the ones walking down the aisle. You giggled out loud, always having loved Clayton's playful nature.

"I love you, howler. Even if you think it is a horrible nickname," you laughed, leaning your head against his chest. "Nothing you could ever do or be is horrible. You make every day better. You're perfect. I love you."

Or at least, not like this.

He honestly can’t even remember what he said to make her laugh like this- something dumb, probably. A throw-away joke or a half-teasing comment that just slipped out. But now she’s laughing. Really laughing. The sound of it hits him like a truck. Her entire face lights up with it, her eyes crinkling at the corners and a beautiful grin on her face. She’s bent over slightly, one hand pressed to her chest, the other wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. 

Brock can only sit there, utterly captivated. He wishes he knew what he said but all thoughts of anything that wasn’t her, laughing like that, flew out of his head as soon as he heard the giggle. When it progressed to a full on laugh, he wonders if they could stay in this moment forever. When her eyes finally met his again, he’s pretty sure he’s in love.

“Yeah,” he thinks, watching her take a sip of water, to try and calm down. “I could do this for the rest of my life.”

-----

Two- our favorite show

Bum buh-duh bumbum, bum dum dum

“That better not be what I think it is!” Emily calls out, her voice echoing lightly through the apartment as she toes off her sneakers by the door..

Silence answers her.

She frowns. He either muted the TV… or paused it in a guilty panic.

Her eyes narrow as she straightens, already suspicious. If Brock had the audacity to start without her…

“Brock!” Emily calls again, sharper this time..

“It’s nothing!” He calls back, far too quickly.

She rounds the corner into the living room, and there it is. The unmistakable neon-pink glow of the Love Island: Aftersun title card shining smugly from the television screen like the world’s most damning piece of evidence.

Emily gasps, clutching her chest like she’s been personally wounded. “Betrayal!”

Brock doesn’t even pretend to look ashamed. He’s sprawled out on the couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table and remote in hand. “It’s only Aftersun,” He reasons, as if that somehow absolves him from stabbing Emily in the back.

She ignores him entirely. “I brought you ice cream!” 

His eyes light up, but suspicion creeps in quickly. “What kind?”

“Peanut butter, obviously.” She drops the to-go bag on the coffee table unceremoniously. “And this is how you repay me!”

“An egregious error,” Brock agrees, making grabby-hands for the ice cream. “Won’t do it again.”

“I should’ve brought you vanilla,” Emily grumbles, though there’s really no heat behind it, as she finally passes him the pint she’d picked up for him. 

Brock gasps, mid-bite, as if she’s said the most offensive thing imaginable. “Never.”

Emily grins, basking in the dramatics as she settles in on the couch, leg brushing against him comfortably. “That’ll teach you to start watching without me.”

-----

Three- the oven timer

Brock barely makes it through the front door before he’s hit-ambushed, really-by the most incredible, mouthwatering smell he’s ever encountered. Warm, rich, and unmistakably sweet, it floods his senses the second he walks in and he stops a minute, closes his eyes and just enjoys it, before going to track it down.

Following the scent, he pads quietly down the hallway. He finds her in the kitchen, bent over and peering through the oven window.

Brock pauses in the doorway, smiling to himself. He lets his eyes roam- messy bun barely holding on, her cozy oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, and those worn leggings he likes way too much. He soaks it all in for a beat longer than necessary before finally announcing his presence.

“Hi.”

Emily spins around eagerly and breaks into a grin. “Hi!” she says, bouncing a little on her toes. “You’re back!”

“I’m back,” Brock echoes with a smile to match hers, stepping forward to loop his arms around her waist and pull her in close. He tips his head toward the oven. “Whatcha making?”

“Cookies,”

He perks up. “Protein cookies?”

Emily bursts out laughing, leaning further into him. “Chocolate caramel crunch.”

Brock groans, burying his face into the curve of her neck. “That’s definitely not on my diet plan.”

“The occasional something sweet won’t kill you.” Emily murmurs against his lips and then leans in for a kiss.

Brock tightens his arms around her. “Mmm, you might be right about that.”

He’s not even mad the timer stops him from taking it any further. Those cookies are fucking delicious.

-----

Four - “I was just thinking of you”

Emily’s already having a rough day when the crowd of people crossing the street alongside her pushes past her roughly enough to spill her iced latte all over her. 

If she weren’t in the middle of the crosswalk, she’d sit down and just…cry. As it is, she picks up the cup, fumes about it until she reaches the nearest trashcan, and fights back tears of frustration for the next two blocks- leaving her just enough time before she gets to her office to barely pull herself together and greet her coworkers with about half her usual level of enthusiasm.

But then she sees it.

A cup.

On her desk.

She blinks once, then twice, unsure if she’s imagining it. But no—there it is. An iced latte, perfectly made, condensation gathering on the sides, a tiny sun drawn on the lid.

Her favorite.

Emily turns around suspiciously, and then looks back at her desk. That’s the logo from her favorite coffee shop, the one across town that she hardly ever gets to go to anymore, since her office moved.

She turns around again, but no one’s even looking at her, and she steps closer, inspecting the cup more closely.

Her phone buzzes in her hand. The screen lights up with Brock’s name.

She answers it slowly, eyes still on the mysterious latte. “Hi…”

“Hi,” He says, and she can hear the grin in his voice. “Did you get it?”

Emily frowns. “Get what?” Her brow furrows, and then it hits her. Her eyes go wide. “Wait…you?”

“Me,” Brock confirms, sounding thoroughly pleased with himself.

“But…” She trails off, struggling to form a full thought. “How did you even get this?”

“Mmm,” Brock teases. “Can’t go around revealing all my secrets.”

Emily sinks into her chair and puts him on speakerphone. “How did you know?” She reaches for the latte greedily, savoring that perfect first sip.

There’s a pause on the other end, just a beat.

“I was just thinking of you,” Brock says gently. “You sounded like you were having a rough day.”

Was she?

She closes her eyes, swallows another sip, and smiles.

She can’t even remember anymore.

-----

Five- champagne popping

Pop.

Fizz.

Fizz.

“You idiot!” Someone hisses from behind them. Petey, maybe? His whisper is never as quiet as he thinks it is. “She hasn’t even said yes yet!”

“Of course she’s going to say yes!” Quinn fires back, not even bothering to try and whisper.

Emily’s standing in front of him, still frozen, hands pressed lightly over her mouth, eyes wide. The look of pure shock on her face when Brock had first dropped to one knee and pulled out the little velvet box has begun to morph- slowly, beautifully- into a grin, one she’s trying to hide because these fools he calls friends fucked up their one job. 

This is so not how Brock pictured this moment going down.

“Guys?” he calls back over his shoulder, his tone even and painfully patient. “Do you mind?”

There’s a brief, shuffling pause.

“Oh.”

“Right.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Emily’s eyes are shining now, and her lips are pressed together, trembling- not from nerves, not from uncertainty, but from the absurdity of it all. Her laughter is practically vibrating out of her, and Brock can’t help but smile, despite the very obvious derailment of his perfectly planned proposal.

He exhales slowly, adjusts the little box in his hand, and clears his throat, determined to get this back on track. “Right,” he mutters under his breath, trying to collect himself. Then, more clearly, “Back to it.”

“Em,” he begins again, trying to remember where he left off before. “I love you more and more every day. You’re my best friend, my favorite person, and there is no one else I want to spend the rest of my life with.” His voice cracks just slightly on the last word, but he powers through. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes!” Emily nods, and the tears are back, she’s crying as he slips the ring on her finger and then-

Pop!

“Nailed it!”

-----

(+1 a moment of silence)

Brock knows crowds.

He’s played in front of tens of thousands- screaming fans packed into stadiums and arenas, all eyes on him in the biggest moments. He knows pressure, the way it settles on your shoulders, tightens your chest, narrows your focus until it’s just you and the play and the noise roaring around you like a storm. He knows the feeling of all eyes on him, in the clutch moments.

But this?

This is different.

There’s not a single eye on him.

Every single person is turned around, facing the end of the aisle, waiting patiently.

Except Brock.

Brock is not waiting patiently.

He stands at the other end of the aisle, heart pounding harder and faster than it ever has in a game, hands flexing slightly at his sides. He’s watched the bridal party come down one by one, the slowest countdown to set the stage for the big moment.

And then, finally, finally—

There’s a pause.

A beat of silence so loud it nearly knocks the wind out of him.

The music shifts, and the doors at the end of the aisle open.

And there she is.

Emily.

Time stops. 

Brock forgets to breathe.

She’s radiant. Utterly, breathtakingly beautiful. Dressed in white that just glows in the soft light, long veil trailing behind her. Her dress fits like it was made for her—simple and elegant, catching the light in all the right ways, a timeless beauty.

She’s holding onto her father’s arm, but her eyes are locked on Brock, glowing with a joy that’s too bright to be contained. Her smile is wide, beautiful, and slightly teary, but she’s steady—like she’s been walking toward this moment her whole life.

Brock’s throat tightens. His vision blurs. All the sound in the room- the music, the shuffling feet, the quiet sniffles of someone crying in the second row- fades until all he can hear is his own heartbeat. 

He thinks of all the arenas he’s stood in, all the cheers and pressure and adrenaline he’s ever felt.

None of it compares to this.

Because this time, it’s not a game.

Twyla ignored the notification that lit up her screen, just as she always did. She regularly got called out for being uncontactable, but she prescribed to the idea that anything via text was non-urgent. If somebody truly needed her, they would call, and she would answer. Most of the time.

A second text had her look at her phone briefly enough to register it was a text from an unsaved number, but not long enough to unlock it and read.

The following five rapid fire texts? Much harder to ignore.

With mass amounts of uncertainty, Twyla picked her phone up off the table and clicked through to the texts without reading any of them; she nearly threw it across the room when the chat title Isles WAGs appeared at the top of her screen and the names of her contacts on the left side of the screen were interspersed with numbers she did not know.

There was screaming via texts and more came pouring in as she tried to work out exactly what had happened and a finally!!! that had her fingers moving rapidly across the screen.

Sorry ladies I think there’s been a mistake and you’ve added the wrong person. I’ll just leave! I won’t tell Mat!

And she did just that: left the chat before anybody else could say a word.

In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t a huge deal to be incorrectly added to the WAG chat. It was flattering in a sense, to know that she was well liked enough to be wanted in the group to begin with—it was just that the person who ultimately decided if she should be in there had never given any sort of impression that he liked her enough for it to happen.

Learning the intricacies of being a WAG hadn’t been intentional on Twyla’s part, because she wasn’t a WAG she was Mat Barzal’s longtime situationship at best, but her best friend had sent her enough Lexi Lafleur TikToks that they had started to appear organically. She would have preferred, of course, to learn it all by being part of the inner circle, but at least she wasn’t ever going to do something ‘forbidden’.

It wasn’t all that much later that her phone started to vibrate in earnest. A call breaking through her Do Not Disturb settings after 10pm meant it was her parents forgetting about time zones, her brother asking to be bailed out of trouble, her best friend wanting to go out and drink, or Mat.

Most of the time it was Mat.

“It’s a school night, Mathew,” Twyla answered. His immediate, booming laugh was enough to quell any fear she had about him having heard about the group chat.

“I’m, like, two minutes away. I’ll be asleep the second I see a pillow. Let me in?”

Twyla sighed dramatically but didn’t make any actual attempts at getting him to stay away. He continued talking for the remainder of the drive—she felt for the Uber driver who had to listen to his one-sided, nonsensical conversation. Not that she was contributing much other than some affirmative noises occasionally as she tried not to laugh at the absurdity.

In slightly less than five minutes, he was walking up her front steps.

“Big night?” she asked, watching the slight lean in his stance. “How much have you had to drink?”

“I had fun,” he said simply, his smile taking over his entire face. “I’m ready for sleep.”

“Good.” She herded him inside. “Me too.”

It was abundantly clear that he had no idea about the WAG chat, because he threw his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in to kiss the top of her head. It made for an awkward movement as he didn’t stop walking towards her bedroom, but it wasn’t the first time she’d had to re-learn how to walk just because he was being clingy.

Mat hadn’t been kidding about falling asleep the second he saw a pillow. He managed to kick his shoes off on the walk to the bedroom, his shirt also magically being lost along the way despite Twyla being positive that neither arm ever lost contact with her body, and was unbuttoning his pants by the time he flopped onto her mattress.

“You didn’t have to come see me,” she reminded him as she grabbed the ankles of his pants and pulled.

“I like seeing you.” Mat then promptly fell asleep, barely even finishing his sentence.

As was often the case, Twyla left Mat in her bed when she went to work the next morning. He watched her get ready with half-shut eyes, taking the time to comment on every choice she made and end it all with a complimentary wolf-whistle before she kissed him goodbye and asked him to lock the door behind him when he left.

It was so absurdly normal that the sudden ghosting had caused a persistent ache in her chest.

He texted her as normal when he left, even told her that he’d run the dishwasher and taken out the trash, and then again after practice to tell her something stupid that Noah had said. And then absolutely nothing.

The first day or so wasn’t weird—he was always slightly less responsive on road trips unless they had a free day, but she definitely did notice that he didn’t respond to anything even as he would have been getting ready for bed.

But then the road trip ended but the silence did not.

“Twyla, what on earth is happening that has you so attached to your phone?” Twyla’s mother asked, her voice drifting into the southern accent she only had when she was annoyed. “Please at least pretend to be present.”

“She’s stalking her boyfriend,” her brother crooned. The hand he reached out to snatch Twyla’s phone was predictable, and Twyla had already moved it out of his reach before her mother had started speaking.

“How old are you?” Twyla snarled. “Fucking twelve? Grow the fuck up, Julian.”

“Twyla! Language!”

With a deep sigh, Twyla apologised to her mother. She forced her phone uncomfortably into the pocket of her pants, because putting it anywhere else would leave it in Julian’s reach and he had a supernatural ability to guess her passcodes.

Her family knew vaguely of Mat, almost entirely because Julian had found out and was incapable of helping a secret. Nobody seemed to care too much, aside from her mother’s occasional requests to meet him, but whenever he was brought up organically her father used it as an opportunity to talk about the Islanders. He couldn’t get in trouble for bringing up sports at family dinners if it wasn’t him who brought it up.

So, Twyla was forced to sit and listen as they talked about how well Mat had played that afternoon—as if she hadn’t been trying to watch the post-game interview he’d done for being First Star—all the while wondering why he still wasn’t texting her back.

Just tell me what I did?

Please?

Is it something I can fix?

That hit in the second was brutal. Should you have come back on? Are you ok?

I know this is pathetic btw

Desperate even

I just don’t fucking know what happened.

“Do you think he found out that the girls added you to their chat?”

Bridget’s question came early in their dinner, still sharing appetisers. She’d heard about the ghosting via phone call, but their schedules hadn’t lined up for an in-person debrief because adulthood was a time sink.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense, right?” Twyla sighed, loudly and dramatic enough to draw the attention of the people sitting at the next table. She didn’t even notice. “But that wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask to be added, and I left right away.”

Bridget nodded, humming. “What if—what if he got spooked. Like, it was casual right? You being added to the WAG chat is probably the equivalent of your dad inviting him over to watch the Giants game.”

“Fuck.”

With another loud sigh, Twyla’s shoulders slumped, and she sunk down further into her seat. Her fingers twitched against the table, but she was able to stop herself from lifting up her phone to yet again find nothing from Mat. It was getting more and more demoralising every time she found nothing had changed.

“You liked him, huh?” Bridget’s voice was soft—softer than Twyla had ever heard it in close to a decade of friendship.

“Apparently.” Twyla shrugged dramatically, hoping to dislodge the heaviness that was settling in her chest. “But maybe being ghosted just fucking sucks?”

“Okay. We can go with that.”

No tears had been shed about the situation, and she wasn’t going to change that in the middle of dinner with the judgey table-neighbours. With each day that passed, though, it was getting closer and closer. Frustration, largely, with a side of guilt for something entirely unknown, were building into something that might only be fixed with a healthy breakdown.

And a visit to her psych to discuss the specificities of why she would think any breakdown to be healthy.

It was close to three weeks later when everything finally came to a head. Three solid weeks of walking past his building on her way home from work—it was on her way, thank you—and three solid weeks of no sign of him at all she spotted him on the corner of his street carrying what she knew to be a ludicrously expensive smoothie from their favourite sketchy bodega.

Whilst they didn’t make direct eye contact, it was instantly evident that he had seen her because he turned his back to her and was walking at pace in the opposite direction of her and his home.

Twyla saw red. She shouted, not at all caring about the other people on the street. “You fucking asshole! Don’t run away from me!”

It drew more attention than just Mat’s—the woman nearest her squeaked and swore under her breath—but it did get Mat’s.

He stopped, his free hand flexing by his side, before he turned and walked towards her at the same speed as he’d walked away.

“Do you really wanna do this here, Twyla?” he asked when he was within a few feet. “Right on the street where the whole world can see?”

“No,” she scoffed, shaking her head, “I don’t, actually, but you’ve ghosted me so hard that I’ll probably never get another chance. So, we’re going to do it.”

“Have you been walking around my apartment so that you can ambush me?”

“You’re such a fucking prick. The fact that you’d accuse me of that when you know I work two streets away.”

She’d worked out that he’d modified his schedule to avoid being out on the street when she might walk by. Or maybe he’d gone back to his schedule from before they’d met. Either way, she hadn’t seen him.

“We can do this at my place,” he said, his voice tight. “I don’t want to do it in front of everyone.”

Twyla didn’t say a word, just gestured for him to lead the way and walked two steps beside him in a heavy, stilted silence the entire time. It was amazing, really, how much the walk tempered her anger. What had been immediate, and seething simmered back into the melancholy that had filled her during the few weeks prior.

It was a walk they had done many times before, but never with such dread, or lack of conversation or laughter, and never walking apart as if they were people who just happened to be moving in the same direction.

Upon arriving at Mat’s place, Twyla stepped away from the front door just enough to let it shut behind her before firmly planting her feet. Mat was standing across the entry way, nearly in the kitchen.

“So.” She spoke with a finality in her voice, letting him know that she expected him to start.

His face fell as he understood the prompt, and the expression was enough to have her thinking about what she would say if she had to go first—as if she hadn’t been rehearsing the conversation in her mind for weeks. She was rifling through which thing she wanted to start with when Mat started to speak instead.

“You don’t just get added to the group chat when the girls decide they like you.”

Twyla scoffed, the ire resurfacing instantly. “I didn’t ask to be added. They added the wrong person, it’s fine. I left right away and wasn’t even going to say anything, so I have no idea how you even found out.”

Mat’s brows pulled together, his whole face contorting. “They didn’t add the wrong person, and I know you didn’t ask. I told them to add you, and then you left the chat.”

“Why would you ask them to add me?”

“Because you’re my girlfriend and we’ve been together awhile, and it made sense to? Obviously, you don’t agree because you just fucking left it and didn’t tell me why but still let me sleep in your bed that night.”

Frankly, it was a lot to process, and nothing like she had rehearsed—she couldn’t remember anything she had rehearsed in that moment, so she wasn’t sure she could catch up if he was following the preprepared script.

The only thing she could make her mouth say, and it did feel to be the most pressing thing, was, “I’m your girlfriend?”

“Well, no, I guess you aren’t anymore. You as good as broke up with me.”

She cut him off before he could continue, taking a step closer to him, “Mat—I didn’t know you thought of me as your girlfriend. I thought we were fucking and having fun. You needed to tell me that you wanted to be in a relationship, not just throw me into a WAG chat and expect me to get it.”

Mat’s back went straight, his whole body freezing and Twyla was sure she’d never seen with such a look of hurt on his face, and the confusion in his voice nearly had to closing the gap to them, “Are you fucking other guys?”

“No,” she said emphatically. “But that doesn’t mean that we’re in a relationship.”

There was a brief shrug from Mat, but nothing more, and Twyla wasn’t able to work out what it meant. His face hadn’t changed from when he asked if there was anybody else, she was seeing—fucking, crude and rude of him—and it wasn’t an expression Twyla was able to read which made her uneasy.

“How long have you thought we were in a relationship?”

“I don’t know, like six months? Since I came back for training camp and we started spending basically all of our free time together. But it’s whatever. You don’t want that.”

With one finger in the air, a signal for Mat to stop talking, Twyla said, “I never said I didn’t want that. I said we hadn't had that conversation. All I know about WAG shit is that the guy needs to be the one to initiate it, and I know that I’ve hung out with some of the girls, but they’ve said some things about women who got too attached too quickly and tried to force their way into the inner circle way too fast and I got added to that group chat and I didn’t want to be that. I didn’t want you to find out and then stop talking to me because you thought I was too clingy and overstepping and forcing my way into something I had no right to be in so I did the only thing I could think of and that was leave before you found out! And then you stopped talking to me anyway so, really, what fucking good was that when—”

“Are you gonna take a breath?”

Twyla did just that, so much air filling her lungs that she was sure her ribcage would break from her chest. As she exhaled, she said, chastened, “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. We should have had that conversation ages ago and I probably should have asked if you were ready to be a WAG because if you hadn’t left, I’m pretty sure you would have been asked to fork over a not insignificant amount of cash.”

Snorting was just about the only thing she could do, as she imagined what she would have thought had that had a chance to happen. Without warning she probably would have left the group regardless. Mat’s smile at the result of her laugh was cautious but it was definitely present, and it settled any and all worries she had had up to that point.

“Being ghosted was sort of shit,” she admitted willingly.

Mat took a short step towards her. “It was sort of shit to be broken up with.”

“I didn’t even know I did that,” she countered, her voice light and the hint of a laugh behind it. “Is this a no take backsies situation or do we get a redo?”

“I think we get a redo. We kinda make that rule, don’t we?”

With an ever-growing grin and an enthusiastic head nod, Twyla effectively launched herself at Mat. Whether he was expecting it or not didn’t matter, because he didn’t falter as he caught her with his hands under her thighs as they wrapped around his waist.

With her hands on his cheeks, she pulled him close dramatically and enthusiastically, in an utterly unromantic clash of teeth as their kiss was interrupted by their contagious laughter.

Twyla pulled her phone out of her purse and checked her phone for the first time since she’d arrived at Mat’s. There were an alarming number of texts waiting for her, the Isles WAG title of the group chat staring up at her many, many times—even more than had been the first time she was added.

A separate text was sitting at the top, though, from Alexa, that simply said, if you leave this time I will hunt you down myself.

Twyla snorted, covering her mouth a little too late to muffle it. Mat turned to her, immediately smiling, and she just handed her phone to him so that he could read it—and all the other texts.

“She might have been more upset than me,” Mat said as he handed the phone back. “I got yelled at for embarrassing her.”

Twyla groaned, herself feeling embarrassed about it all. She sent back a quick apology to Alexa, promising that they would hang out soon, and then sent a text to the group.

Good luck getting rid of me now!