dana !!

⋆｡° ✩ hiii welcome!! im dana! i write for NHL HOCKEY (wsh, mc, fm, cb, mr, gp), and have previously wrote for kpop: nct and enhypen,. ⋆｡° ✩

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ nhl hockey works ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

will smith hockey - wsh2

EMERGENCY CONTACT (AND OTHER POOR LIFE DECISIONS) - 7.7k words

SIGNED, YOURS TRULY PT2- 3.4k. 4.7k words

IN THE OFFSEASON (SOMEWHERE WARM) - 4.8k words

WILL SMITH...BAKER? - 0.9k words

SUNDAY KIND OF LOVE - 1.3k words

macklin celebrini - mc71

KISSES IN THE RAIN - macklin celebrini, 0.5k words (FIRST HOCKEY FIC!)

connor bedard - cb98

NO COMMENT - connor bedard, 5.1k words

matt rempe - mr73

BLOOD ON THE ICE - matt rempe, 4.5k words

fraser minten - fm93

NEIGHBOR, NEIGHBOR - fraser minten, 4.5k words

gabe perrreault - gp94

HATTY WATCH - gabe perreault, 4.1k words.

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˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ nct works ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

THE ROADTRIP - mark lee, 0.8k words (my first work, so my bby!)

HONEYMOON SUITE ✮ - jeno lee, 7.3k words

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ enhypen works ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

NISHIMURA RIKI AS YOUR HS/ STAR ATHLETE BOYFRIEND - nishimura riki, hcs

DANCING WITH THE ENEMY - jake sim, 1.2k words

PAIRING ▸ will smith / ws2 x reader 

GENRES ▸ fluff, extremely self-indulgent SRY, extreme wsh withdrawals, SMUT (this is my first time writing it so be kind plz), lowkey dis the plot before sunrise (the movie to end all movies)

SUMMARY ▸ it’s the offseason, you’re in europe with your boyfriend, and what was supposed to be one drink turns into wandering streets, shared music, and staying much longer than planned.

WORD COUNT ▸ 4.8k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ hi!!! guys this might be strong to say but....this might be my favorite fic yet?? extreme inspo from the movie before sunrise (the most perfect romantic movie ever) but when i say this is my dream date this is actually my dream date....cute. i tried to really kick up the imagery here bc this is fr my maladaptive daydream :)

this is also my first time writing smut so plz let me know what you think ill take all feedback!!!

THANK YOU ALL FOR THE LOVE AND SUPPORT!! 150 FOLLOWERS WOW!!! ily will smith hockey wouldnt have been here w/o you! also im crying at the straight/date allegations being shot down not even 24 hours after they occurred oh smitty u endear me so.... ENJOY!!!

it starts earlier, easier than it should.

but that’s kind of how everything is with will.

too early, too effortless, too natural: like you passed over a few steps somewhere and landed here instead, or skipped a few songs on an album to get to your favorite song.

it was currently the middle of the offseason, and somehow that turned into europe.

first, it started as a bored joke when he was at an away game in anaheim - we should take a long trip over the summer - said half-serious, half-smiling over facetime.

later, it was a real conversation you two had when he came home back to you.

then, it was a flight in late july to somewhere warm in northern italy.

so now it’s this: you in a tiny apartment airbnb with the windows cracked open to warm night air, getting ready for a night that already feels like it’s going to linger.

you’ve both been there for a week now, living out of the same heavenly place in a way that felt a little accidental at first, but now just makes perfect sense, just like your tiny shared apartment in san jose.

will's stuff is messily mixed in with yours on the dresser: your makeup bag pushed next to the silver chain he always had on, a discarded sharks hoodie thrown over the back of your chair like it belongs there.

which it kind of does, what's yours is his now.

will's still half asleep from the mid-day vacation nap you two took when you pull yourself away from his warm grasp to start getting ready. he's sprawled across the bed behind you, pale sheets twisted around his bare legs, and he stirs with one arm thrown over his eyes to block the light you just flicked on.

“baby, you’re doing a lot,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. his hair was mussed from the constant writhing around he would do in his sleep that you hated he'd do. 

you don’t turn around, and instead just kept adjusting your outfit in the mirror, plucking and pulling at the fabric to make it sit right. “we have reservations. at the place you wanted to go to, remember?”

you hear him grumbling into his pillow, and you smile, as sleepy will was also cranky will. “yeah, in like an hour.”

“exactly.”

he groans again softly, but when you glance at him a second later through the mirror, he’s awake and already looking at you, still laid sideways on the pillow. not even trying to be subtle with his blue peering eyes.

you roll your own a little, but a small smile finds its way on your face. “go back to sleep william if you're going to give me 'tude. i feel your beady little eyes boring into the back of my skull.”

he only responds with his glorious little laugh, “can’t.”

“why?”

more will-like noises and you see him he shift onto his side, propping his blond curly head up on his hand. “you look too good.”

you pause your pulling. just for a second. then smooth your top like it didn’t affect you at all. 

you've been dating for two years now, but he could still make you blush from a simple compliment.

you crack a grin. “aw, i’m not even done yet.”

“don’t care.”

you shake your head, but you’re fully smiling now.

looking in the mirror, the dark purple two-piece now sits exactly how it’s supposed to, effortless, but not really. one strap keeps threatening to slip down your shoulder every time you move, and you let it.

part of the allure, i guess.

your hair is pinned up loosely, face framing pieces falling out around your face no matter how many times you tuck them back. you eventually choose not to fight it.

you glance at yourself one last time, preparing to start your makeup. “okay.”

when you turn around a few moments later to check on will, he’s sitting up now. watching you do your skincare, fully awake and at full attention.

“wow,” he says quietly, like it slipped out before he could stop it.

you narrow your eyes. “don’t start anything.”

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you were about to.”

he stands anyway, crossing the room in a few steps like the space between you is an inconvenience.

then he's behind you, bending down and putting his head in the crook on your neck to pepper your face with kisses. “i was just gonna say you look nice.”

you raise an eyebrow and jokingly swat him away. “just nice?”

he smiles, reaching for your hand, tugging you a little closer. “really nice. beautiful. gorgeous. amazing.”

you hum, pretending to think about it. “i’ll take it. now please go get ready before you mess up my hair more and make us late.”

and somehow, will gets ready faster than you.

glacing at him, you take inventory: navy blue linen button down, sleeves pushed up to expose his tan forearms, white linen pants that look like they were made for him specifically.

it’s actually annoying how good he looks. you tell him that.

“it’s not fair,” you whine, watching him button his shirt and hide his tan chest slowly.

he glances at you, amused. “what is?”

“this whole look thing,” you gesture vaguely. “you.”

“me?”

“yes. you look like that after getting ready in ten minutes and expect me to act normal?”

he scoffs playfully, "to be fair, you never acted normal towards me."

you scoff right back. “that is not true.”

“you just accused me of being unfair for existing.”

“because you are,” you say, crossing your arms. “this is a structural issue.”

he huffs out a laugh at that, stopping in front of you. “a structural issue.”

“yes. deeply systemic.”

he shakes his head, smiling, eyes raking over you in that way that immediately undoes whatever point you were trying to make.

“y/n, you look really good. even better than me, i swear.” he says, softer now.

you try to hold your ground, but after a second, fail.

“i know,” you mutter.

he grins. “see? not normal.”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

dinner stretches much longer than it’s supposed to.

but it always does with you two.

one glass of wine turns into two, then something else comes out that he orders for you that you pretend to hate but somehow finish anyway.

will picked the kind of place where the lighting is low and warm, everything is golden, voices blend into each other in the background of the slow jazz until it feels like you’re in your own little pocket of the room.

your heeled leg is hooked loosely, sensually, around his under the table.

his warm hand rests on your knee like it’s been there all night, sending shocks up the rest of your thigh. 

conversation slips from one thing to the next without effort, nothing important, yet everything important.

he tells you how the season went, the parts he doesn’t say in interviews but only saves for you: the long road trips, the weird in-between days spent wasting time with mack, recipes from grace he wants to bake next.

you tell him about work, about the book you were currently reading that you think he should use for his book club, about how you think you should replace the curtains in your bedroom back home because they let in too much light in the mornings.

he listens the whole time, not interrupting, just nodding slightly, thumb brushing absent circles against your knee and sending buzzy shocks in their aftermath.

you’re both a little tipsy now. just enough, but you still notice will's glazed over look in his eyes.

“you’re doing that thing again,” you mumble, bringing your glass of red wine to your lips.

he glances at you. “what thing.”

“where you stop listening to me and just stare.”

he smiles but blinks to attention, not even denying it. “i am listening.”

you tilt your head. “what did i just say then?”

he pauses. “you were talking about—”

you stare at him playfully, expecting him to pull out a lie.

he laughs quietly. “okay, maybe i'm not listening and i zoned out.”

“unbelievable.”

“i was distracted!”

“by what.”

he leans in to the side of your face, close to your ear like he’s about to tell you something important. “you.”

he pecks your cheek, "sorry, you're just too beautiful."

"you know flattery only gets you so far."

you can't wipe the smile off of his face, "seems to be working enough."

you smile into your drink, shaking your head at him.

stepping outside later once you finish up dinner, the cool air hits you and you laugh a little, not even really sure why. blame the alcohol.

“oh my god,” you say, tilting your head back and dramatically semi-falling into will's taller frame for support, or maybe just because you wanted to feel more of his warm contact surround you. “i’m actually tipsy.”

he looks at you like this is the most entertaining thing he’s seen all night. “you’re always like this. clingy.”

“i am not.”

“you are.”

you huff in defeat, but you’re smiling, reaching into your bag. “do you have a-”

before you finish your sentence, he’s already pulling it out, handing it to you. “obviously.”

it's a cigarette. you weren't a smoker per say, and will tended not to because of the whole professional athlete thing, but it was summer, and the winde-induced tipsiness mixed with the summer warmth made you want to indulge.

you take it from him, fingers brushing, and a second later, he's clicking a lighter for you in the dim yellow glow of the street lamps.

for a second, it’s quiet. just the two of you standing there, a little closer than necessary. 

the whole exchange was extremely intimate: slowly, in the space between breaths, in the way his hand lingers a second too long near yours after lighting it.

you exhale, watching the smoke slowly curl into the warm night air, your shoulder brushing his as you shift closer without really thinking about it.

he doesn’t move away, because of course he doesn’t.

he watches you too. not subtle.

never subtle.

you lean in a little more, your arm brushing his again, this time staying there.

the street around you feels quieter now, the noise from the restaurant behind you fading into something distant, unimportant.

it’s just this.

just him.

just the warmth of his body next to yours, the low glow of the streetlights, the faint buzz still lingering under your skin.

you pass the cigarette back to him, your fingers grazing his again, slower this time.

intentional.

he takes it, but his hand doesn’t drop right away.

“what,” you say, not even looking at him this time.

“nothing.”

you hum.

liar.

but the buzz from the exchange is absolutely addicting.

you walk after that.

no destination, just moving. 

or well, that’s the original plan.

“i’m gonna take you somewhere,” he says after a minute, pulling his phone out with a sense of confidence that immediately feels misplaced.

you glance at him, amused already. “oh yeah?”

“yeah. there’s this place-” he squints at his screen to read better, thumb tapping around his maps app. “really good ice cream. toff told me about it when him and cat were here.”

you raise an eyebrow. “so you’re navigating right now? will smith is leading us somewhere?”

“obviously.”

you hum. “this feels dangerous. you know how you are with directions.”

he scoffs. “i know where i’m going.”

you give him a look, he ignores it, but you were willing to entertain him, so you cling to his arm and get ready to expect the worst.

five minutes and a few hundred steps later, you’re very much not at the ice cream place. in fact, you’re not entirely sure where you are at all.

“okay,” you say slowly, glancing around at the unfamiliar street bathed in the yellow light. “quick question.”

he exhales a quiet laugh, already knowing where this is going. “don’t.”

“do you know where we are?”

“yes.”

you wait. "will…"

he sighs, wrapping his hands around you and swaying your bodies to seemingly distract you from the situation. “y/n…”

you grin, smiling up at him. “you cannot find your way out of a cardboard box.”

“that’s not true.”

“you just walked us in a full circle.”

“it was a strategic loop.”

you laugh, shaking your head, tightening your grip on his hand as you unwrap and keep walking anyway. “you’re a lost cause.”

“and you still love me.”

“hmm…unfortunately.”

he grins at that, slipping his phone back into his pocket like he’s accepted defeat, but stops to bring your linked fingers to his face and kiss your hand. “okay, new plan.”

“which is.”

he glances down at you, smiling a little softer now. “we just… walk.”

you nod, like that was always the better option anyway. “yeah,” you say. “i like that plan more.”

so you wander.

no directions this time.

just turning wherever feels right, streets warm-toned and glowing under the streetlights, everything a little softer around the edges.

your hand stays in his. like it belongs there. and it does.

you share a pair of wired headphones somewhere along the way, one in your ear, one in his, music low enough that it blends into everything else.

at times when walking, he pulls you close to him and steals a kiss.

quick ones at first, like he can’t help himself. like he doesn’t want to wait until the end of the night anymore. longer ones later. lingering, like he’s trying to make up for all the ones he didn’t steal earlier.

you laugh into one of the latter ones, your hands coming up to his shoulders to steady yourself as he pulls you in without warning, tucking a loose strand behind your ear.

“will-” you start, half-scolding, half-smiling.

“what,” he says against your lips, so close and not even pulling back all the way.

“we're in the street, you can’t just-”

he kisses you again. short. soft. like he’s proving a point.

you huff out a laugh when he finally lets you breathe, your forehead bumping lightly against his, but your fingers curl into the fabric of his dark linen shirt, not letting him get very far.

he smiles, brushing his nose lightly against yours before letting you go, just enough that you can keep walking.

but now your hand doesn’t just sit inactively in his. it lingers.

your thumb tracing absent lines over his knuckles, like you’re still half-focused on the feeling of him.

like you’re still in it.

your mind is in this love-drunk daze, but for the both of you, half your tipsy sentences trail off into laughter anyway, your head tipping into his shoulder for a second before you straighten again.

he lets you.

“this is better,” you mumble after a while of mindlessly walking.

“what is?”

you gesture vaguely with your free hand. “this. not knowing where we’re going.”

he glances at you, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “yeah,” he says. “i think so too.”

and you keep walking, but because neither of you really wants to stop.

somehow, you end up in another bar.

then maybe another.

smaller this time, quieter, lowkey places where the music is softer and the lighting is even lower.

you sit across from each other, then next to each other, then somewhere in between.

in some bars, you dance. not well, not very coordinated.

just the drunk pair of two of you half-laughing, half-moving, his hands finding your waist and sliding up your body without asking, yours sliding up to his shoulders like it’s the easiest thing in the world. two puzzle pieces together.

dancing, you’re both a little too close, a little too comfortable, swaying more than dancing. your laughter gets lost in the music as he spins you once, messily, just to see you smile.

“you’re terrible at this,” he says, grinning.

“you’re worse,” you shoot back.

“that’s not true. i'll have you know i have a very strong reputation for being a good dancer.”

you raise an eyebrow. “but you just stepped on my foot.”

“that was once.”

“twice actually.”

he laughs, pulling you back in anyway, like it doesn’t matter. like nothing else does either.

in other bars, you people watch.

pressed into a corner booth, knees brushing under the table, your shoulder tucked into his side as you point out strangers like it’s a game. except you both don't know a lick of italian, so you go off body language alone.

“that guy is definitely on a first date,” you whisper, nudging his calf with your foot.

“no chance.”

“yes, look at him. he’s nervous.”

will glances over, pretending to be subtle and extremely failing. “he just spilled his drink.”

you nod, satisfied. “exactly.”

“you’re ruthless.”

“i’m observant. remember you on our first date?”

he huffs out a laugh, remembering the fond moment. his hand rests absentmindedly on your thigh again, thumb tracing small patterns like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

you lean into him a little more, your head tipping against his shoulder.

“what about us,” he says after a second, quieter, into your ear. it sends shivers straight up your spine.

you tilt your head up at him. “what about us?”

“what would they say?”

you pretend to think about it. “they’d say you’re obsessed with me.”

he scoffs, but he’s smiling. “that’s not what they’d say.”

“it is.”

“it’s not.”

“you literally can’t stop touching me.”

he pauses, glances down at where his hand is, but still doesn’t move it. 

“okay,” he admits.

you grin.

“case closed.” he shakes his head, but he pulls you a little closer anyway, if that was even possible.

you two were never into outward pda, but here, in a place where you didn't know anyone, where you wouldn't find yourselves on twitter the next day, you wanted all of warm, tan will you could get.

"but i think they'd say i look pretty obsessed back."

you look back at him, now whispering in his ear. "and they'd be right."

after the few bars, time doesn’t feel real anymore.

everything blends: drinks. conversations.

the way he leans in when you talk, like he doesn’t want to miss anything.

the way your knee stays pressed against his.

the way neither of you ever really pulls away.

“i like you,” he says at one point, staring into your eyes casually, like it’s just another thing in the conversation.

you blink at him, laughing. “you’re my boyfriend.”

“yeah,” he says. “i still like you.”

you laugh, shaking your head.

“good.”

by the time you’re back right outside your airbnb, the night feels like it’s wrapped around you; soft, buzzing, like it doesn’t want to end.

you’re walking slower now.

closer.

his arm brushes yours, then stays.

you lean into him without thinking.

“this is my favorite,” you say quietly.

“what is.”

you gesture vaguely. “this. like… this feeling.”

it was absolutely electric. this feeling, incredibly consuming. your love settled into your chest and refused to leave, threading through every step, every breath, every small space between you.

he glances down at you, and in his eyes you know he understands exactly what you mean. “yeah,” he says.

his hand finds your waist, pulling you just slightly closer. enough to stop walking, and just enough that you feel it everywhere.

your hands are on him now: his arms, his shoulders, his shirt slightly wrinkled from the way you’ve been holding onto it all night.

his forehead rests lightly against yours. both of you a little breathless. a little gone.

“you’re gonna lose that strap,” he murmurs, glancing at your shoulder.

you look down to your right.

it’s halfway off.

you shrug. “i told you. part of the allure.”

he laughs softly, thumb brushing your waist. “you’re ridiculous.”

“and you like it.”

“yeah,” he says, quieter now. “i do a lot.”

you smile, lean in, and take the lead to kiss him slow this time. as you deepen the kiss, the world around you fades further, the soft hum of the night air the only soundtrack to this dance of yours. 

your fingers find their way into his hair, a gentle tug that makes him deeply hum against your lips. his hand at your waist tightens, pulling you closer, erasing any space between you. 

the cool night air brushes against your exposed shoulder, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his warm body.

you pull back slightly, your breath hitching, and look into will's eyes. 

they're dark, reflecting the moon and the distant city lights, filled with a hunger that mirrors your own. 

you reach up, tracing his jawline with your thumb, feeling the slight stubble that's grown. a small smile plays on your lips as you remember the feel of it against your skin, the way it made you shiver.

he leans into your touch, his eyes never leaving yours. “we should go inside,” he says, his voice low and gruff, laced with a promise that makes your heart pound in your chest.

you nod, your needy voice barely above a whisper, “yes, we should.”

he takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours, and leads you back into the apartment. the door clicks shut behind you, sealing you off from the world outside. inside, your room is bathed in the soft glow of the table lamp, casting long shadows that dance with your movements.

he turns to you, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly begins to unbutton his shirt. you watch, your breath catching in your throat, as each button reveals more of his tanned skin.

 you reach out, your fingers tracing the lines of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your touch.

he leans into your touch, his hand covering yours, pressing it against his chest. “i love you y/n.” he says, his voice soft, a mirror to the look in his eyes. “so much.”

you smile, leaning up to kiss him again, slower this time, tasting him, exploring him. "i love you."

his arms wrap around you, pulling you close, his hands roaming your back, your curved sides, your hips, leaving trails of heat in their wake.

you pull back, your breath ragged, and begin to walk backwards, leading him slowly towards the bedroom. his eyes never leave yours, a question in them that you answer with a nod. he follows, his steps sure, his eyes never leaving yours.

the bed is bathed in the soft glow of the streetlights outside, casting a warm, inviting light. you turn to him, your heart pounding in your chest, and reach out to pull him close. he comes willingly, his hands finding their way to your hips, his lips finding their way to yours.

you lose yourself in the kiss, in the feel of his body against yours, in the soft moans that escape your lips.

as your backs hit the soft mattress, you both let out a soft laugh, the sound muffled by the hungry kiss you're sharing. 

his hands, strong and sure, find the hem of your skirt, pulling it up slowly, his fingers trailing fire against your skin. 

you arch into his touch, your breath hitching as he reaches the edge of your underwear, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin there.

you reach for him, your hands fumbling with his belt, your breath coming in short gasps as his fingers dip beneath the lace, finding you wet and ready. "will, please, more." 

he groans against your lips, his hips pressing against yours, letting you feel the hard length of him through his jeans, "patience, baby."

you manage to unbuckle his belt, your hands slipping inside to find him hot and hard. he hisses at your touch, his head dropping to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin.

 you take advantage, your lips finding the sensitive spot on his neck, your teeth grazing against his skin.

he growls, his fingers slipping inside you, making you gasp. "you like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough, sending shivers down your spine.

you nod, your breath coming in short gasps, your hips moving in time with his fingers. "god yes," you manage to whisper, your hands moving to the zipper of your top, undoing it quickly, needing to feel his skin against yours.

he helps you, pushing the straps off your shoulders, his eyes darkening as he takes in your bare skin, your hard nipples visible through the thin lace of your bra. 

he leans down, his lips finding one, his tongue flicking against the hardened peak, making you moan.

you arch into his touch, your hands moving to his hair, holding him to you. he obliges, his mouth moving to the other breast, his hands moving to your panties, pushing them down your legs. you help him, kicking them off, your legs wrapping around his waist.

he looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire, his breath ragged. "y/n, you're so beautiful," he says, his voice hoarse, his hands moving to your thighs, pushing them apart.

you bite your lip, your eyes never leaving his as he settles between your legs, his eyes on yours as he leans down, his breath hot against your core. you gasp, your hands fisting the sheets as his tongue finds you, his mouth moving against you, his fingers slipping inside you. 

you don't care about how loud your being, and will's name leaves your mouth like a prayer.

you moan, your hips moving in time with his mouth, your body wound tight, ready to snap. the feeling is all-consuming and he feels it too, his fingers moving faster, his tongue pressing against you, his other hand moving to your clit, rubbing in tight circles.

you come with a cry of his name, your body convulsing, your hands fisting his hair, holding him to you. he stays, his tongue moving slower now, drawing out your orgasm, making you shake with aftershocks.

he moves up your body, his lips finding yours, letting you taste yourself on him. 

you kiss him back, your hands moving to his jeans, pushing them down, freeing him. he kicks them off, his body settling between your legs.

he looks down at you, his eyes filled with a hunger that makes your heart pound in your chest. "are you ready?" he asks, his voice low, his hips moving, letting you feel him against your core.

you nod, your breath hitching, your hands moving to his shoulders, holding on. "please," you whisper, your eyes never leaving his as he pushes inside you, filling you completely.

you both moan, your bodies moving in sync, your hands exploring each other.

your lips locked in a desperate kiss. the room fills with the sounds of your lovemaking, the soft moans, the ragged breaths, the sound of skin against skin.

you can feel it building again, your body winding tight, your breath coming in short gasps. he feels it too, his fingers moving to your clit, rubbing in tight circles, his hips moving faster, his body slamming against yours.

you come with a cry, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back. he follows, his body shaking, his mouth finding yours, swallowing your cries.

he collapses on top of you, his body heavy, his breath ragged. a few moments later, you wrap your arms around him, your fingers tracing patterns on his back, your heart pounding in your chest.

"hi," you manage to whisper, a soft smile playing on your lips.

he lifts his head, his eyes finding yours, a soft smile on his lips. "hi," he agrees, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "wow."

he leans down, kissing you softly, his body still joined with yours, his heart beating in time with yours. 

you stay laying there for a while, even after will gets up and cleans the both of you up in the aftermath.

not saying anything.

just breathing each other in, the quiet of the room settling around you in a way that feels just as full as the night outside.

your fingers trace lazy patterns along his back, slower now, softer. “i like this version of you,” you murmur after a second.

he lifts his head slightly. “what version.”

you smile, brushing your thumb along his soft cheek. “offseason you.”

he huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head a little. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you say. “you’re slower. softer. and i'm selfish and greedy and want you to myself.”

he watches you for a second, something warm settling in his expression. “i think that’s just me with you.”

your heart stutters at that, but you don’t make it a whole thing.

you just smile, pulling him back down to you.

and outside, the night stretches on, soft, golden, endless - lingering, 

like this is what the offseason was always meant for.

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ hope u enjoyed!!! this fic is actually my baby so i really really hope you did (like sorry it was getting a little y/n with the dress and hair description but i did say this was self indulgent!!!!)

i also kinda like the idea of doing this "in the offseason" theme for multiple fics so maybe more to come....

ALSO REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!! LMK WHAT U WANT 2 READ

part one can be found here!!

PAIRING ▸ will smith ws2 x reader 

GENRES ▸ fluff, lowkey crack fic, reader is a d1 impatient hater she also lowkey cray, it’s like wills first day on earth…plz like hes my friend

SUMMARY ▸ standing in line for will smith’s autograph was supposed to be a favor for your best friend. instead, you accidentally insult his handwriting to his face…and somehow end up leaving with his number.

WORD COUNT ▸ 4.7k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ HIIIIII after a few requests, here's a part two to this fic!!! i am currently facing extreme wsh post season withdrawals rn also i am fiending for literally any crumb (even if that means whatever he was doing in boston last week) hope everyone is doing good and did well on finals if they had any!!!

also again just an extremeeeee thank you for all the love on the fics: 2k likes, 140 followers OH EM GEE NEVER WOULD I HAVE BELIEVED THIS!! i have a very self indulgent will post season summer fic soon also and maybe fraser fic pt 2 so more to come! LOVE AND APPRECIATE ALL OF U

you stare at your phone for a good solid five seconds after sending will your last text. then ten. then fifteen.

because now that it’s out there, now that you’ve actually agreed to dinner with him, the reality of the situation finally settles in:

you are going on a date.

with will smith.

nhl player.

“oh my god,” you whisper to absolutely no one, flopping back on your bed and giggling like you're fifteen again and you had a bad middle school crush. 

was this too much? probably.

but suddenly your phone buzzes, and you quickly bring it to your face.

will: tomorrow?

your stomach flips immediately, but you smile at your phone.

you: bold of you to assume im free on such short notice

the typing bubble appears almost instantly.

will: i feel like i have a pretty good shot :)

you press your lips together, trying not to smile like an idiot at his cockiness. he was a hockey player after all.

you: maybe

will: i’ll take a maybe

will: 7? dinner?

you stare at the message. 7? seven pm?

as in less than 24 hours from now. as in you have approximately no time to mentally prepare. as in you are absolutely going to spiral. 

you: ok :)

you: but you're picking the place

will: consider it done

will: ill try my best to make sure the menu handwriting meets your standards

you huff out a laugh, as you set your phone down on your chest and stare up at your ceiling.

"i’m going on a date. with will.” you say slowly, speaking to yourself yet again.

your phone buzzes again, but this time, with her personalized ringer, you don’t even need to look to know who it is.

y/f/n: SO?????

you groan. you: bye im blocking you

y/f/n: DID HE ASK YOU OUT ??? R U GUYS IN LOVE YET

you: maybeeeee

y/f/n: Y/N.

you: yes!!!!! tmrw at 7 IM FREAKING OUT

three dots appear. then disappear. then reappear.

y/f/n: OH MY GOD

y/f/n: I DID THAT

y/f/n: YOU’RE WELCOME!!!! IM EXPECTING THE INVITE TO THE WEDDING AND FOR U TO SET ME UP WITH MACK AS A THANK YOU

you: remember how you exposed my instagram to the entire internet

y/f/n: AND LOOK WHERE IT GOT YOU

you drop your phone onto your face, “she’s insane, clinically.” you mutter. your phone buzzes again against your forehead.

y/f/n: what are you wearing

you: rn? pajamas

y/f/n: FOR THE DATE

you pause.

then sit up.

"oh shit.”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

the next day arrives far too quickly. like, offensively quickly.

one minute you’re falling asleep in your bed thinking maybe this is all some elaborate joke and you were about to be on some twisted version of "jury duty," and the next you’re standing in front of your messy closet like it personally wronged you.

“why do i own absolutely nothing?” you say, staring at your clothes laid all across the floor.

your phone is propped up against your mirror, your friend on facetime, fully invested.

“you literally have so many clothes.”

“none of them say ‘effortlessly cool girl but also not try hard, but also still hot enough to impress a professional athlete,’” you shoot back.

she rolls her eyes. “you insulted him to his face.”

“that was different!” you say immediately.

“how?”

"i wasn’t trying to impress him then. i was just mad, overheating, and trying to defend your honor.”

she squints at you through the screen. “and now you are.”

you open your mouth. close it. clocked you.

“ok…maybe a little.”

she gasps like she’s just uncovered state secrets. “oh my god, you like him.”

“i do not like him,” you say quickly. maybe too quickly. “i only had one conversation with him. he's just cute.”

“yeah just cute…and you're going on a date with him.”

“that does not mean i like him.”

“you’re spiraling over an outfit.”

you pause. “…that’s unrelated.”

she snorts. “put on the black top, the one that makes your boobs look good, yet still tasteful.”

you glance at it, scoffing. “tasteful my ass…you don't think it's too much?”

“it’s exactly enough.”

you sigh, grabbing it. “if this goes horribly wrong, i’m blaming you.”

“if this goes well, i’m taking full credit.”

“you already have been.”

“as i should.”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

7:02 pm.

you’re pacing.

you’ve already checked your phone twelve times in the last minute, not because he’s late. (because he's not).

because you’re extremely nervous. which is ridiculous.

you’ve been on dates before, both good and bad. you are a normal person, and this is a totally normal situation. right?

your phone buzzes.

will: outside i think

will: im trying to do the gentlemany thing and go to your door but your doorman is looking at me like he wants to hurt me so im as close as i can be sry

you freeze, nervous, but of course like this, he still makes you laugh.

"oh my god.”

you glance at yourself in the mirror one last time, smoothing your top unnecessarily and taking more deep breaths. “it’s fine,” you tell yourself. “you’re fine.”

you grab your bag, walk out the door.

but walk back in, grab your lip gloss, then leave again. 

like you're going into war. it's go time.

when you step outside, he’s leaning casually against his bronco like this is the most normal thing in the world and he's picked you up hundreds of times before.

unfortunately for you, he looks even better than he did yesterday. which feels extremely unfair.

jeans, a navy button up, curls slightly messy like he didn’t try but still somehow got it exactly right. extremely handsome. dangerously handsome.

he looks up when he hears the door, and his face immediately breaks into a toothy smile. not just polite, or not a fan-interaction. but that same one, the same one from yesterday he gave to you when you walked away.

"hey,” he says, breaking the spell.

and for a second, your brain forgets how to function.

“hey,” you manage, once you get it working again.

you walk over, trying very hard to be normal.

he opens the passenger door for you, and you pause a little in surprise. “oh, and he's a gentleman too.”

he shrugs a little. “trying to make a good first impression.”

you raise an eyebrow as you slide into the seat. “a little late for that, don’t you think?”

he laughs, closing the door. “i’m working with what i’ve got.”

he walks around to the driver’s side, gets in, and glances over at you. you revel in it. “you look nice.”

your stomach flips again, which is getting extremely inconvenient.

“thank you,” you say, softer now, more girlish. “you clean up okay yourself.”

he grins. “only okay?”

“i’m trying to stay humble for you.”

“i appreciate that.”

he pulls out of your complex, and for a moment there’s a small, almost comfortable silence.

then: “so y/n,” he says.

you turn toward him slightly, bemused. “yes?"

he glances at you briefly, smiling. “you always this mean to people you just met or am i still special?”

you smile back. “you’re definitely still special.”

“good,” he says. “i was hoping.”

you shake your head, looking out the window to hide your smile.

this is dangerous.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

for a second, during the drive, neither of you say anything.

the car hums softly as he drives, the city lights slipping past in streaks through the window. it’s not awkward, not really. just new.

music starts playing, some don toliver song that of course a twenty-one year old athlete would love, and it settles between you, smoothing over the silence.

you sneak a glance at him, wanting to look at his gorgeous face just for a second more.

his hand rests loosely on the wheel, long fingers tapping lightly to the beat. his other arm is draped casually along the center console, close enough that you’re suddenly very aware of the space between you.

like it’s smaller than it was before. you look back out the window.

then, without meaning to, back at him again.

he catches you this time.

just a quick glance, nothing dramatic, but the corner of his mouth lifts, like he noticed and doesn’t mind.

your stomach flips. again.

“what?” he asks playfully, not taking his eyes fully off the road.

“nothing,” you say quickly, turning back toward the window.

“you were looking at me.”

you huff out a quiet laugh. “you’re driving. i was just….checking you for safety reasons.”

“right,” he says, amused. “very responsible.”

you glance back at him, narrowing your eyes slightly. “exactly.”

he nods like he believes you, but he’s smiling.

the music shifts into the next song, and another stretch of quiet settles in, but it feels different now. warmer. easier.

you rest your elbow against the center console, chin in your hand, now looking at him shamefully. 

“i do have to ask…are you usually this calm?” you ask after a minute.

he glances over. “what do you mean?”

“i don’t know,” you say. “i feel like if i had four hundred people watching me sign things and then someone told me my handwriting looked like shit, i’d be a little more traumatized. im not sure i'd exactly ask them on a date.”

he laughs softly. “i think i handled it pretty well.”

he looks over at you as you hit a red light. “for one, i had to defend myself,” he says. “you came in very strong.”

you hum, locking eyes with will. “fair.”

“and you were funny,” he adds, quieter this time.

you blink, turning your body toward him slightly. “i was bullying you.”

“yeah,” he says, glancing at you again. “but it was funny.”

there’s something softer in it now. less teasing. you look at him for a second too long.

then back out the window again. “good,” you say.

but you can feel his eyes on you for a second before he looks back at the road.

by the time you get to the restaurant, the nerves have settled into something steadier. he pulls into a spot and turns off the engine, the music cutting with it. for a second, neither of you move.

then he glances over.

“you ready?” he asks.

you nod. “yeah.”

the air between you crackled with something unspoken.

will stepped around the car, his movements smooth and deliberate. 

when he reached your side, he opened the door, chivalrous, gentlemanly, all of it, and for a second too long, you just stood there facing each other in the dim glow.

no words exchanged. just breathing. existing in close proximity like magnets not quite touching yet.

he closed your door softly after you got out and fell into step beside you toward the restaurant entrance, not arm-in-arm or anything overtly romantic.

but his presence was heavy. 

every half-step he took brought him subtly closer to you without actually closing the tiny gap between your shoulders.

he gives your name to the host, and while you wait, you stand next to each other in that same almost-space. the almost touching, warm contact, but not just yet.

“you picked this?” you ask, quieter this time.

he nods. “yeah.”

you glance around, taking it in, then back at him. “it’s nice.”

he watches your reaction for a second, but the look on his face is fond. “you sound surprised.”

“i just didn’t know what to expect.”

“is that a good thing?”

you tilt your head slightly, a small smile forming. “so far.”

his smile softens a little at that. “i’ll take ‘so far.’”

your table is ready a minute later, and he lets you slide in first before taking the seat across from you. for a moment, you both reach for the menus at the same time, fingers brushing lightly.

you pull back slightly, a small smile tugging at your lips as you look down.

he does the same, but you can see it, the way he glances at you again before opening his menu.

the conversation throughout dinner comes easier now, but it’s different from before.

slower.

you talk about small things at first, how your day was, how he's liked san jose so far, and you banter about things that don’t feel too heavy.

but every once in a while, it shifts. he asks you about school or family, and actually listens, leaning forward slightly with his blue eyes blinking like he’s paying attention to every word.

you ask him about hockey, and he shrugs it off at first playing nonchalance, but then opens up a little, just enough.

and as you both sat across from each other at the small, candlelit table, there was this... awareness. 

maybe it was the glass of red wine, but it seemed like every tiny movement carried weight now. 

when he reached for his water glass at the same time as you did, your pinkies brushed, just slightly, and neither of you pulled away immediately.

a pause. a slight glance up through your lashes to see if he’d noticed too (and he definitely had).

he smiled, a little sheepishly this time.

 you thought it was a little uncharacteristic for someone usually so self-assured on camera or in interviews, but it was extremely charming.

you ducked your head back down after that brief eye contact exchange like nothing happened, but your cheeks warmed anyway.

you look down at your glass, smiling to yourself.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

one thing you learned about will through dinner, was how extremely endearing he was.

and it wasn’t even anything big. it was the small things.

it was the way he thanked the server every single time they came by, like he actually meant it.

but through your conversations,  it was just will being will too. how he was clearly a big family man, how he loved to golf, how he seemed to speed run every single hobby in the sun.

it made something in your chest feel different. a good, warm different.

at one point, you’re mid-sentence, talking about a class, something small, something that shouldn’t matter that much.

but he’s looking at you like it does.

like you do.

and it throws you off just enough that you pause. “what?” you ask, a little self-conscious now.

he blinks, like he didn’t realize he got caught. “nothing,” he says, but there’s a small smile tugging at his pink mouth.

you narrow your eyes slightly. “you’re doing that thing.”

“what thing?”

“staring.”

he huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “i wasn’t staring.”

“you were.”

“okay,” he admits, softer now.

“you just—” he stops himself, like he’s deciding whether to say it.

you wait. he leans back slightly, exhaling through a small smile. “you’re easy to talk to.”

you look down for a second, fingers tracing the edge of your glass. "you are too,” you say.

and when you look back up, he’s already looking at you again.

a few moments later, your plates get cleared, and your conversation slows. not because there’s nothing to say, but because neither of you seem in a rush to fill the nervous space anymore.

eventually, the check comes.

and of course, 

(of course because he's a gentleman,)

will picks it up without hesitation.

you watch him for a second, then tilt your head slightly playfully. “can i see that?”

he looks up, already smiling like he knows exactly where this is going. “why?”

“i just want to check something.”

he slides it across the table anyway.

you take it, scanning it for a second before your eyes land on the bottom. the signature line.

you hum thoughtfully. “okay.”

he leans forward slightly. “okay what.”

“it’s better,” you admit.

he lets out a small, victorious laugh, leaning back in his seat in a way that shouldn't be as attractive as it is. “thank you.”

“but-” you add.

he groans immediately. “there’s a but?”

“it’s still a little rushed.”

he stares at you. then shakes his head, smiling like he can’t believe you. “you’re impossible.”

“i’m consistent.”

“that’s one word for it.”

you slide the check back to him, and your fingers brush again, this time a little more deliberate, a little less accidental.

neither of you pulls away right away.

and this time, neither of you pretends it didn’t happen.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

time with will moves weird after that.

not all at once.

just in small moments that start to stack on top of each other until one day you realize you’re not at the beginning anymore.

once a few nights later, it’s late, your room dim except for the glow of your phone and a small lamp in the corner.

you’re on facetime this time tonight, not texting like you two usually do.

he’s sprawled across his bed, hair messy, sharks hoodie slightly wrinkled like he didn’t bother fixing it before answering. you've already been talking for hours: about nothing, about everything.

“you’re lying,” you say, narrowing your eyes at the blond man on the screen.

“i’m not, i swear.” he laughs.

“you are. there’s no way you actually bake.”

“i do.”

“name one thing.”

he pauses. “chocolate chip banana bread.”

you stare at him.“groundbreaking.”

he grins. “mine is the best.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. and neither of you hangs up when the conversation slows. 

you just stay.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

another time, it’s a sharks game will's invited you to, a couple of days later.

you’re in the stands, unfortunately way more aware than you expected to be: of the ice. of the crowd. maybe of him.

he’s faster than you thought he’d be, more serious and focused.

and for a second, you forget this is the same person who sat across from you at dinner, listening to you talk about stupid things like it mattered.

but then, he looks up past the boards, and your eyes meet. just for a second.

but it’s enough. his expression shifts, just slightly, and he taps the glass twice looking right at you.

and your stomach flips like it did the very first time.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

the week after, it's sitting in his car after he drops you off, the engine's idle, the soft hum of will's aux filling the silence. 

the moon is a sliver in the night sky, casting just enough light for you to see the gentle curve of his smile. neither of you are in any rush to get out, the moment stretching out, comfortable and warm.

"you're staying," he says, his voice barely above a whisper, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"seems like it," you reply, a soft laugh escaping you.

 you turn slightly towards him, your knee brushing against his. the air between you feels charged, electric, like the world outside the car has become silent around you.

he mirrors your movement, turning towards you. his eyes, dark and deep, hold your gaze. "i like it," he admits, his voice steady, sure.

"me too," you confess, your heart pounding in your chest. you can feel the heat of his hand resting on the center console, so close to yours. you want to reach out, to touch him, but you're frozen, caught in the moment.

he then reaches up, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing gently against your skin. his touch is soft, tender, sending shivers down your spine. 

you lean into it, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

when you open them again to blink, you find him closer, his face inches away. you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the slight part of his lips. 

your heart is pounding, your breath caught in your throat.

"can i...?" he asks, his voice barely audible, his eyes searching yours.

you nod, a small smile playing on your lips. "please," you whisper.

he leans in, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. you meet him halfway, your eyes closing as your lips touch. 

it's soft, tentative, a question asked and answered in the same breath. his lips are warm, gentle, and you find yourself leaning into the kiss, deepening it.

the world outside the car fading away completely: it's just the two of you, lost in the moment, in the sweetness of a first kiss.

when you finally pull away, your breaths are ragged, your hearts pounding in sync.

and you both sit there for a minute longer than necessary, just because you can.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

even publicly throughout the weeks, it’s your name popping up more often than you’d like online.

clips of you two out in san jose on twitter, comments on tumblr, people speculating on everything in between.

[willmack324]: wait will bagged a BADDIE

[wshheart]: wsh girl era who knew this would be possible

[sharksss71]: mack how will u respond ?

which also meant your friend sending you screenshots like it’s her full-time job.

y/f/n: THEYRE LITERALLY OBSESSED WITH YOU

you: they need hobbies

y/f/n: YOU ARE THE HOBBY

you: ok blocking you again

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

it was weeks.

but it didn'’t feel like weeks.

and then, all at once, it happens on a night that isn’t planned.

it starts at a bar you didn’t even mean to stay at that long after dinner. just one drink, you both had said. then maybe another.

then maybe something stronger that you definitely didn’t need but drank anyway because will kept laughing and the night felt easy and you didn’t want it to end yet.

the music is loud inside, people pressed shoulder to shoulder, but you’re both tucked into a corner booth, closer than usual. closer than necessary.

your knee is pressed against his.

neither of you moves it.

you’re both a little flushed, a little slower, words coming easier, slipping past whatever filter you usually keep up. you're inches away from each other, impossibly close.

“you’re staring again,” you say, but there’s no bite to it.

he doesn’t even try to deny it this time. “yeah,” he says simply, smiling stupidly.

your stomach flips. “why?”

he shrugs, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “i like looking at you.”

and for a second, you forget how to respond.

so you just smile stupid back, look down, and take another sip of your drink even though you don’t need it.

eventually, you leave, not because you have to. but just because it feels like the night is better outside.

it’s cooler out, the air hitting your skin and grounding you just enough, but not completely.

you’re walking side by side down the street, a little slower than usual, a little closer too. your shoulders brush once, twice, then stay.

“you’re kinda quiet,” he says after a minute.

you glance up at him, smiling a little. “am i?”

“yeah.”

you shrug. “just thinking.”

“about?”

you hesitate, but then laugh it off lightly. “nothing important.”

he doesn’t push and just hums, like he doesn’t believe you but won’t force it out of you.

your hand swings slightly at your side as you walk. his does too. seconds later, they bump. just barely. and then, slowly, his fingers hook around yours: first, a little tentative, like he’s still asking.

in reponse, your heart stutters, but you don’t hesitate, and you lace your fingers with his.

and just like that, it fits.

later, you don’t even realize you’ve stopped walking at first. somewhere along the sidewalk, under a dim streetlight, the city quieter around you now.

will stops and turns toward you fully.

your hands are still linked, your heart is beating a little too fast and your mind spins a bit like you're tipsy, but you can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or him.

probably him. most definitely him.

“what?” you ask softly.

he shakes his head, but he’s smiling. not teasing, or playful. but just something else.

“nothing.”

your breath catches just a little.

and suddenly, everything feels still. like the moment is waiting for something: for you, for him, for both of you.

you take a small step closer without really thinking.

he notices.

of course he does.

his hand slips from yours, but only so he can bring it up, resting it lightly at your waist to center your spinning mind. warm and steady. you can feel it everywhere, on every nerve ending that is screaming his name.

“i like you,” he says.

your chest tightens in that soft, steady way you’ve started to recognize.

“i know,” you say, quieter now.

he smiles a little. “you know?”

you nod, stepping closer again, closing whatever space was left.

“good thing i like you too.”

and this time, when he leans in,  you don’t hesitate. not even a little.

will's hand at your waist pulls you closer, his fingers splaying gently, as if he's trying to commit the feel of you to memory.

 you can feel the rough calluses on his fingertips from his hockey gloves, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of your thin shirt.

his lips are soft, but firm, moving with a confidence that belies the careful, almost reverent way he's holding you. he starts slow, exploring, as if he's tasting something he's been dreaming of for years. 

his mouth fits perfectly against yours, like two pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. you can feel the slight blond stubble on his jaw, a contrast to the smooth skin of his lips, sending a shiver down your spine.

you lean into him, your hand sliding up his arm to rest on his shoulder, your fingers curling slightly to grip the fabric of his shirt.

 he responds by deepening the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips, asking for entry. you open for him, and the kiss becomes something else entirely. a few days ago in the car it was sweet, but it's hungry now, passionate, a dance of give and take. and you let him take all.

his hand moves from your waist to your hip, then up to your side, his thumb brushing the underside of your chest.

 you gasp into his mouth, the touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. he pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours, checking in. you nod, your lips swollen and wet from the kiss, and he smiles, a slow, satisfied curve of his mouth that makes your heart flutter.

he leans in again, this time his kiss is slower, more deliberate. 

he takes his time, exploring your mouth, learning the shape of your lips, the way you respond to his touch. his hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin, a tender, intimate gesture that makes your eyes flutter closed.

you can feel his heart beating against your chest, fast and steady, matching the rhythm of your own. 

you press closer, your body molding to his, your hands finding their way to his hair, tangling in the soft strands. he lets out a low groan, a sound that vibrates through you, making your knees weak.

when he pulls back this time, you chase his lips, not ready for the kiss to end. he chuckles softly, his breath warm on your mouth. "patience," he murmurs, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

you smile, your fingers still tangled in his hair. "i've been waiting for a kiss like this for weeks," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper.

he leans his forehead against yours, his eyes closing briefly. "me too," he admits. "me too."

you laugh softly. “you took your time.”

“i didn’t want to mess a kiss that caliber up.”

your expression softens at that. “you didn’t.”

then he exhales, “can i ask you something?”

you nod. “yeah.”

he looks at you for a second longer than usual, like he’s making sure. like he already knows the answer, but still wants to hear it.

“will you be my girlfriend?”

your heart flips, but it settles just as quickly.

you smile, soft and more sure of anything in your entire life.

“yeah,” you say. “i’d really like that.”

his hand tightens slightly at your waist, like he doesn’t want to let go just yet. 

everything was absolutely perfect.

you smile, then laugh softly to yourself.

your friend is never going to let you hear the end of this.

a/n: hope u enjoyed! <3 tbh ive never really wrote a spicy scene but it was getting a little hot ;)

you truly have a gift for writing!! love all of your works 💖 wishing you the best!!

OH MY GYATTTTT this is sooooo nice tysm 😭😭

PAIRING ▸ will smith ws2 x reader 

GENRES ▸ fluff, lowkey crack fic, reader is a d1 impatient hater she also lowkey cray, it’s like wills first day on earth…plz like hes my friend

SUMMARY ▸ standing in line for will smith’s autograph was supposed to be a favor for your best friend. instead, you accidentally insult his handwriting to his face…and somehow end up leaving with his number.

WORD COUNT ▸ 3.4k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ hello hello so sorry for my absence i have been trying to be much more #normal about hockey and hockey men but alas i love wsh too much to not write about him I WILL BE MORE ACTIVE I PROMISE! also sorry this is not my best: quite short & super silly & dialogue heavy…writers block kicking my ass but this is slightly inspired by will last home game signing fans things and taking pics and being the last player to leave WSH WHY MUST U BE SO ENDEARING??

    alsoooo just a thank you thank you thank you for all the love ive gotten recently i appreciate it more than you guys could ever know <3 i might do a pt two of frasers fic after this!

skip to part two: here!

there are a few things you’d rather be doing on a sweltering saturday afternoon in san jose. grocery shopping. cleaning your apartment. sitting directly in front of your cold air conditioner contemplating every decision that’s led you here.

instead, you’re standing in a line that wraps halfway around the outdoor concourse of the sap center.

it’s been two hours.

two whole hours of jerseys, sharpies, hockey sticks, and fans clutching merch like they’re about to meet the pope.

all for an autograph. 

mind you, not even for an autograph you want. an autograph your best friend wants.

“i still don’t understand why i’m here,” you mutter, shifting your weight for the fiftieth time. the birkenstocks you last-minute threw on this morning now seemed like a horrible idea, and you're pretty sure that tomorrow you were going to wake up sore from standing.

your best friend doesn’t even look up from staring toward the front of the line like she’s tracking prey,  “for emotional support.”

you continue staring at her and continue your whining, “you’ve barely spoken to me this whole time.”

“moral support then.” and with that she goes back to silence. she's totally locked in, tunnel vision for the task at hand.

you solemnly glance toward the long table at the front where the reason for this entire situation is currently sitting.

a number of sharks players are signing things nonstop while staff members try to keep the line moving. jersey after jersey, puck after puck, the sharpie barely leaving their hands.

and in your watching, you notice that people step up to the table and immediately forget how to speak. one guy nearly drops his stick. someone asks for a selfie and then apologizes for asking.

it’s all very intense.

but it's not all to say you didn't understand them; you've definitely had your own share of fangirling in the past (i.e the absolute embarrassing period of your life where one direction and harry styles twitter fan interactions dictated how good of a day you were going to have), but as a hockey outsider who would rather much be spending this day on the beach, didn't do so well in hot temperatures, and was dragged here, it was all a little much.

however, you were a good friend, and you already made it this far, so might as well see it through.

you lean a little closer to your friend as you nod towards the first player, lowering your voice like you're discussing something deeply serious.

“…which one is he again?”

she turns toward you slowly, very slowly. the kind of slow that suggests she’s reconsidering the entire foundation of your friendship.

“they’re all sharks players.”

you roll your eyes at her. “yes thank you, i gathered that part.”

“then why are you asking?”

“because you’ve been talking about them for two hours and i still don’t know who anyone is.”

she sighs dramatically and gestures toward the table like she’s presenting a museum exhibit. “those are the players. will smith first, he went to bc, it's his second year. then, macklin celebrini. my personal favorite. remember the player that was serving face when canada won the silver? he's the yo-”

you squint to see them, your friend's babbling continuing in one ear and out the other. when you turn back, your friend, meanwhile, looks like she’s about to ascend as she finishes her descriptions.

“i love them all,” she whispers reverently.

you smile at her, "all of them?”

“yes.”

“even the one who just signed that puck like he’s drawing a spiral?”

she gasps like you’ve insulted her personally. “do not start.”

you glance toward the player she’s referring to, the very first one in line.

blond curly hair, hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal his toned forearms, leaning over the table while he signs something quickly and hands it back with a small smile.

“…i’m just saying,” you murmur. “his handwriting looks a little questionable.”

“you cannot say that.”

“i didn’t say it to him. he can't hear me anyway.”

the line shuffles forward again, and suddenly the table is closer.

close enough now that you can actually hear the conversations happening.

your friend straightens like she’s preparing for the most important moment of her life.

“okay,” she whispers.

you glance back at her doing deep breaths, “okay, what.”

“we’re almost there.”

you glance back toward the table, and the line moves again. suddenly there are only two people in front of you. another fan steps away from the table, the next person in line moves up.

now there’s just one guy between you and the players.

you glance toward the table again.

the first player, the one your friend identified earlier, will, is signing something quickly, handing it back, then reaching for the next item.

the sharpie's moving fast. a little too fast.

"see? look at his form.” you murmur.

“please stop.”

“i’m just saying it looks like he’s signing during an earthquake. we did not wait two hours for some chicken scratch.”

she glares at you. “please do not speak when we get up there.”

“im just trying to help you!”

“just hand him the jersey.”

you push, now amused. “what if he says something?”

“nod.” she has a murderous look in her eyes.

“what if he asks a question?”

“smile.”

you stare at her. “ y/bff/n, you realize this is a conversation, not a hostage negotiation.”

she doesn’t answer because the line moves again, as the person in front of you steps away. and suddenly, you’re next.

your friend freezes. completely freezes. like a 2007 imac laptop buffering, not a single thought in her eyes.

you look at her, urging and pushing a shoulder. “hey…are you going?”

she shoves her jersey into your hands instead.“you go first.”

you stare at her in disbelief. “absolutely not. this is your jersey!”

“please.”

“why.”

“i forgot how to talk.”

you glance at the table, then back at her. then down at the custom sharks jersey now sitting in your arms like it’s your responsibility.

"this feels like a trap.”

“just hand it to him.”

before you can argue further, the staff member at the end of the table gestures toward you. “next!”

great, fantastic, awesome. 

your legs eventually propel you forward. the first player looks up from the puck he’s signing.

blond curls falling slightly over his forehead, as his blue eyes meet yours, sharpie still in hand.

he smiles easily, and you'd be lying if you said your stomach didn't flip at the sight of it. dammit, why did he have to be gorgeous too?

“hey.”

you hold out the jersey, a little speechless and a tad starstruck.

he takes it, glancing briefly at your friends name on the back, then he starts signing.

closely, you watch the sharpie move across the fabric. but then, you pause.

then squint.

it's wrong. it's all wrong. 

you get that it's been hours of him signing things, but it's possibly the worst written thing you've ever seen. and something that your best friend, sharks super fan, sharks season ticket holder, did not deserve after talking so highly of the team.

you've also never thought of yourself as a confrontational person, but before your brain can stop your mouth, you hear your own voice start, “wait.”

he looks up, confusion lining his perfect features. “yeah?”

you point at the signature.“…is that supposed to say will?”

absolute silence.

your friend behind you makes a small choking noise.

the staff member next to the table suddenly finds the floor very interesting.

will looks down at the jersey, then back up at you, blinking slowly. "i mean….that’s the idea.”

you blink. "huh.”

“no offense really,” you add quickly, “it just looks a little like three squiggles. and my friend has been waiting for two hours.”

will stares at you for a second. and it may single-handedly be the longest second of your life. 

you then think you most definitely are going to be kicked out, banned from any sharks game, blacklisted from any nhl event to come.

but then, will laughs. an actual laugh, more akin to a giggle, like you’ve genuinely entertained him.

which somehow makes this situation worse. because now he’s still looking at you, still holding your friend’s jersey, and still smiling.

“three squiggles?” he repeats, amused.

you shrug helplessly, because at this point you’ve already committed fan social suicide and couldn't possibly make it any worst. “i’m just saying?”

behind you, your friend is silently vibrating with secondhand embarrassment, and you make a mental note to buy her dinner at least for the next few days to make up for it.

will glances down at the jersey again, tilting it slightly like he’s evaluating his own work.

“you know,” he says thoughtfully, “i’ve signed about four hundred things today.”

“that explains the decline in quality.” ok, y/n, just stop talking.

he looks back up at you, and the smile gets impossibly wider. “decline in quality?”

you smile back at him, “i’m trying to be generous.”

the sharks staff member next to him snorts before quickly pretending it didn’t happen.

will taps the sharpie against the table once, in contemplation, “okay,” he says.

he pulls the jersey back toward him and writes something again underneath the signature, as you watch suspiciously.

“what are you doing?”

“improving it.”

“is that possible?”

he finishes writing and slides the jersey back toward you. “there.”

you glance down. under the signature, written much more clearly this time, is:

“will (will smith hockey, 2, sharks nhl player)”

you stare at it, then glance back at him. “wow, very clear.”

he shrugs, “figured i’d clarify.”

you huff out a laugh despite yourself.

behind you, your friend makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a dying animal.

will glances past you briefly, grinning at her. “that's your friend?”

you turn, and your friend looks like she’s about to pass out, but weakly smiles and waves. “the one and only.”

he nods toward the jersey, and gives a little wave back. “better give it to her before she faints.”

you hand the jersey back to her.

your friend clutches it to her chest like it’s sacred, but she's smiling so big it makes the whole social suicide exchange worth it.

will looks back at you. sharpie still in his hand, “so,” he says casually.

“you always critique people’s handwriting or am i just lucky today?”

you cross your arms, but it's hard to wipe the smile off of your own face. “only when it’s especially concerning.”

he laughs again, locking eyes with yours, and for a second you almost forget you’re standing in the middle of an autograph line in front of hundreds of people.

then the staff member gently clears their throat,the universal please keep the line moving signal.

you step back, starting to turn away and falling back into line with your friend, who's actively recovering from whatever just occurred.

but will's voice stops you, “hey.”

you glance back.

he's already signing the next fan’s puck, but he looks up briefly, still smiling at you, "three squiggles was a little harsh.”

you grin, “you’ll recover.”

he shakes his head, and you look at him for the last time, trying to soak in the feeling of his charming smile directed towards you, “probably.” 

as you walk to the next table, your friend immediately grabs your arm. hard. “WHAT WAS THAT.”

you wince. “can you please not yell, he's literally still right there.”

she continues to whisper-yell. “you insulted his handwriting.”

“i critiqued it.”

“you said it looked like three squiggles!”

“it did look like three squiggles! and you deserve the best…especially after we waited this long.”

she presses the jersey to her chest like it’s the most valuable object she’s ever owned. “ok, true. thank you y/n.”

you glance back toward the table.

will is already signing something else for the next fan in line, but you notice something. every few seconds he glances up toward you, and when your eyes accidentally meet again, he smiles.

not the polite fan interaction smile, but a different one.

which your stomach does something extremely inconvenient in response to.

the rest of the tables goes by in a blur.

your friend manages to magically regain the ability to speak somewhere around the second player (macklin) and proceeds to have very normal fan interactions while you silently stand beside her trying very hard not to think about the fact that will smith, professional hockey player, and admittedly, very cute hockey player just laughed at something you said.

which, objectively, should not matter.

except it does.

a little.

okay, maybe more than a little.

by the time you reach the end of the tables, your friend is glowing like she’s just had the best day of her life.

“this was amazing,” she breathes.

“i’m glad one of us enjoyed it.”

you start walking toward the exit of the concourse, now already dreaming about your air conditioner and a very cold room.

but halfway down the hallway, your friend, now scrolling on her phone, suddenly stops completely still. “oh my god.”

you pause,“what now?”

she shoves her phone directly in your face: it’s on twitter, and watching slowly, there's a video playing, a very familiar video.

it's your voice, much more quiet but still very clear: “…is that supposed to say will?”

it's filmed by a fan a few people back in line, and the camera angle shows the entire table and subsequently the whole interaction: will looking up, you pointing at the jersey. and then, his laugh.

the caption reads:

“will smith hockey bad handwriting confirmed”

the video already has a few thousands of views.

you stare at it in horror, stuck in a feeling of total mortification and seconds away from deleting whatever parts of your presence that publicly exist on the internet. or in real life, if that was possible.

jaw dropped, you get out, "oh my god, that genuinely happened five minutes ago.”

your friend scrolls, submerged,  “there’s already another one.”

you lean closer, another fan angle, but this one catches something you didn’t notice before. after you walk away, will looks up again, watching you walk away, and smiles a last time to himself, shaking his head.

the reply underneath reads:

“will smith CRUSH???”

you immediately push the phone away, “absolutely not. i do not want to see anything further.”

your friend grins. “i’m just saying.”

“don’t say anything.”

she's excited now, waving the phone in your face. “he was totally watching you!”

you start walking again, fast, hoping to escape the area before anyone around you notices. “we’re going home.”

your friend's ecstasy continues, “this is the best day of my life.”

“i insulted an nhl player! and it's recorded for the whole internet to see!”

“but he liked you.”

you stop. “he did not like me.”

she raises an eyebrow. “he wrote his name again just for you. you had a whole moment!”

you open your mouth, but close it again. because unfortunately, she’s not wrong.

but you wanted to pretend the whole exchange didn't happen, so you shove the phone away.

“i need to move cities. i can never show my face in san jose ever again.”

she side hugs you, linking arms to walk side by side. “relax, he laughed.”

“that’s because he’s nice.”

she grins. “and also because you’re funny.”

you shake your head and start walking again. “we’re never speaking about this again.”

she slips her phone back into her pocket, but a smirk remains on her face. “never.”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

later that night, the entire ordeal has finally started to settle into something that feels less like a public humiliation and more like a weird fever dream story you’ll probably tell people in a few years.

you’re home: the air conditioner is blasting, you’re in pajamas post-shower, and fully horizontal on your couch contemplating the fact that you survived two hours of standing in birkenstocks.

on the table in front of you, your phone suddenly buzzes. then buzzes again, and again.

you glance down at it lazily, thinking it's probably your friend group chat laughing at something stupid. but it's instagram notifications, and in fact, a whole slew of them.

you frown slightly and unlock your phone.

[willmackfan222] started following you. [smittyhockey] started following you. [bedminttruther] started following you.

most of them are hockey fan pages. you stare at the screen. shit. “that can’t be good.”

your phone buzzes again, this time it’s a text from your friend.

y/f/n: sooooo

you already don’t like where this is going.

you: what did you do

the typing bubbles appear, then disappear, then reappear.

y/f/n:  before you get mad 

y/f/n: just hear me out

you sit up slightly, bracing yourself for the worst.

you: what did you do???

another message appears, while the steady stream of instagram followers continues.

y/f/n: i may have helped the internet connect a few dots.

your phone buzzes again, and in her next text, a screenshot appears.

it’s twitter. the viral video. and directly underneath it, your friend’s reply. “this is her btw” followed by your instagram handle.

you stare at the screen in complete silence. then type:

you: you did WHAT!?!??!?!

her reply comes immediately.

y/f/n: IT WAS FOR THE PLOTTTT 

y/f/n: YOU NEED TO CAPITALIZE ON YOUR FAME and also everyone was asking:) enjoy!!

you drop your head back against the couch, speaking to your empty apartment. “unbelievable."

after a few seconds of quiet contemplation of either going to her apartment and driving your car right through it or hugging her for the free followers, your phone buzzes again, another instagram notification.

you glance down automatically, but freeze.

[_willsmith2] started following you.

your brain stops working for a second. you open the notification. his profile loads: blue check, same blond curls, same cute smile.

the same guy who laughed when you told him his signature looked like shit.

then another notification appears only a few moments later.

[_willsmith2] new message request.

you stare at the screen like it might disappear if you blink, then slowly open it.

[_willsmith2]:  for the record…

a second bubble appears.

[_willsmith2]:  my handwriting is usually much better than that.

you stare at the screen. then laugh. because of course he opened with that.

you type back before you can overthink it.

you: i stand by my critique. think about the hundreds of fans before us who got your chicken scratch. tragic.

the typing bubble appears almost immediately.

will: harsh

you: honest

will: wait

will: i can fix this

before you can ask what that means, another notification appears: not a text, but an image. you open it.

it’s a piece of paper, clearly ripped from a notebook. written across it in extremely neat, practiced handwriting is:

“will smith”

underneath it, smaller: a phone number.

you stare at the screen, and your brain takes a second to catch up. will smith, professional nhl hockey player, has just slid in your dms and gave you his phone number.

another message appears.

will:  proof

will:  my handwriting is actually elite

you laugh again, shaking your head.

you: this could still be fake

you:  anyone could’ve written that

there’s a short pause, then:

will: true

will:  guess you’ll have to text it and find out

you roll your eyes at the cheesiness of the text like he can somehow see you doing it.

you: this is a suspiciously elaborate defense of your handwriting

will:  listen

will: when someone accuses you of signing things like you’re in an earthquake

will:  you have to clear your name

you grin despite yourself, and you realize he heard you with your friend even before you approached the table.

you:  i said it looked like three squiggles

will:  which is somehow worse

a few seconds pass. then his next message appears.

will: if my handwriting has officially been redeemed

will: i was wondering something

you lean back slightly against the couch.

you: should i be concerned ?

will: probably

another typing bubble, and the entire situation settles in your mind. was this real?

will: but mostly i was wondering if the pretty girl who made fun of my autograph in front of like 400 people

will: might want to get dinner with me sometime

you blink at the screen. once. twice. this definitely was not real. but you type back, amused.

you:  is this a pity invite because i bullied you

his reply comes almost instantly.

will: no

will: i just think it would be funny to let you critique my handwriting in person

you stare at the message, fully smiling now.

then you type.

you: ok :)

you: but if the menu handwriting is bad i will say something

then:

will: i’m willing to take that risk :)

find part two here!

a/n: hope u enjoyed!!! i also started writing this during the sharks preds game last night (literally every time i watch a sharks game they win...is this a sign) yayayayay!!! fraser fic continuation soon? or a new fraser fic?

my fic masterlist can be found: here

PAIRING ▸ gabe perreault gp94 x reader 

GENRES ▸ fluff, mutual crush, meet cute, oblivious reader, gabe HATTY

SUMMARY ▸ your morning routine is simple: the same coffee shop, the same iced caramel latte, the same ten minutes before work. it also, apparently, includes your quiet coffee shop crush who orders cold brew under the name “dan.” you just didn’t realize he’s also a professional hockey player.

WORD COUNT ▸ 4.1k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ hi welcome to an incredibly self-indulgent gabo fic UR HONOR I LOVE HIM :) but GABO HATTY WHAT A STAR!!!!!! im so happy for him <3 also enjoy the perrempe if you squint sorry im a #truther and happy easter if you celebrate!

this also references the video of gabe from us dev where he apparently said dan as his name for food? oh gabe ur so weird lets get married!

(p.p.s if u r reading this i just realized my account wasn’t set to let other ppl/recommended see (bruh) until today so ill be linking my master list below!)

in this world, the only certain things in life are death, taxes, and you getting your morning coffee.

to that end, there’s a strict routine.

every morning, before becoming a slave to the corporate machine (i.e your desk job), you stop at the tiny coffee shop two blocks from your apartment and order the exact same thing: a small iced caramel latte, light ice. nothing more, nothing less.

same coffee shop, same time, same barista who writes your name slightly too large on the cup. and at times, spells your name wrong, whether that be on purpose or not.

you get your coffee, sit at the little window counter for exactly ten minutes, mentally prepare yourself for another day of emails and meetings that could have been emails, and then drag your feet to work.

it’s extremely predictable, as you were a woman of routine after all.

which is why the first time you notice him, it’s because he disrupts the routine. not in a dramatic way, but just enough to make you look up.

the barista calls out from behind the counter. “large cold brew for dan!”

and for some reason, amidst your ten minute window sulk, you glance up. the guy standing next to the pickup counter grabs it.

you shamelessly check him out: he's tall, dark curly hair, rangers shirt, big nose. the kind of quiet guy who looks like he just rolled out of bed but still somehow looks good doing it. your type to a t.

he nods at the barista. “thanks.”

then he turns and almost runs straight into you as you're leaving. 

“oh—sorry,” he says quickly, a sheepish look pulling onto his features.

you reply without thinking, a polite smile on your own. "you're good, no worries."

he pauses, just for a second. you revel in the way he also seems to check you out, in your work clothes and all, and you enjoy the momentary ego boost. 

then he smiles, a gorgeous thing. “…yeah, thanks.”

and leaves. you sip your latte, already forgetting about the entire interaction.

after all, people come and go from this coffee shop every day. it's also new york, and you see attractive people approximately every two hours: celebrities, influencers, even the random ny knicks player you saw on raya and didn't end up matching with last week.

it’s not like you’ll see him again.

except you do.

it's a week later.

same small coffee shop, with the barista scribbling names onto cups like she’s practicing calligraphy, and sometimes her spelling.

you’re halfway through your daily ten-minute existential crisis at the window counter, zoned out to the unfortunate benson boone blasting in the shop, when you notice him again.

it’s him: tall guy, same rangers shirt situation, but today there’s a black cap pulled low over his curls like he’s trying to stay a little under the radar. it gives him a slightly mysterious, joe-from-you-esque vibe. almost…incognito.

he’s sitting at one of the small tables near the wall, and you hear his quiet, soft voice on the phone, amused, "no, rempe, i don't think you can run a kids camp after-"

and then the barista calls it again. “cold brew for dan!”

you glance up automatically, because apparently your brain has already filed that away as information worth remembering.

he grabs the cup, nods his thanks, then he adjusts the brim of the cap a little lower, like he’s used to keeping his head down in public. he then turns right as you’re walking past his table he's sitting at. 

you think you'll just walk by, but when you glance at him to again (shamelessly) check him out for a second time, he surprisingly smiles at you, silently nodding a greeting.

you pause just long enough to say, casually, “morning, dan.”

he looks up from his phone call. there’s a split second where he clearly did not expect you saying his name. then his mouth twitches slightly, like he’s trying not to laugh. “…morning, y/n.”

he says it like he’s amused about something. you assume he’s just not a morning person. which, fair.

you also note how he now knows your name, probably also hearing the barista like you did.

so with that and an extra pep in your step, you grab your bag, finish your coffee, and leave.

but after that, it becomes a thing. not an intentional thing. just, a kinda, routine thing.

some mornings he’s already there when you walk in: sat with his cold brew sweating in front of him, usually in some sort of cap or beanie to conceal his dark curls, and many times on the phone with a loud man you've gathered to be named rempe?

some mornings you’re the one sitting at the counter first: iced caramel latte, peering out the window, and usually wishing you were laid out on some sort of tropical vacation.

but somehow, around the exact same time every morning, you end up occupying the same two corners of the same tiny coffee shop. and eventually the two of you start talking.

although, not full conversations. just little things. small talk, whatnot, and the like.

“busy today?” you ask once while stirring your latte.

he glances up from his phone. “always.”

you nod like that makes complete sense, but you appreciate the little rapport between you two.

another morning he asks, “what do you do?”

you gesture vaguely, not wanting to get into boring details that would surely put anyone to sleep.

“corporate stuff. not too important."

he laughs quietly at that. “sounds thrilling.”

“oh trust me, it’s not.” you playfully roll your eyes.

he smiles, “i believe you.”

then, you ask what he does.

he shrugs a little, nonchalantly, “sports stuff. not too important.”

you nod like that’s a perfectly normal, completely explanatory answer. but you let it slide because it's not like your answer was any better. just adds on to his mysterious allure, i guess. 

you smile back at him, “sounds thrilling.”

even some mornings the shop gets too crowded and you end up sitting across from each other. the tables are tiny anyway, and you end up close enough that your knees bump under the table if neither of you is paying attention. but neither of you care enough to move your knees away.

and you seem to very much like this coffee shop crush that's developing.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

one morning, the calm shop is unusually loud. not exactly crowded or loud, just chattier than normal.

there’s a small TV mounted above your usual designated table that usually plays muted morning news, but as you walk in, today someone has changed it to a hockey highlight reel.

you barely notice at first, with your back to the tv.

until the barista groans from behind the counter. “i swear if the rangers blow another lead tonight i'm quitting.”

that gets your attention.

you glance up toward the TV just as a replay starts. some player in red and blue, with his back to the camera, skates down the ice, with quick hands, makes a quick shot, crowd roaring in the background.

you don’t really follow hockey, as you grew up definitely more of a basketball fan, but even you can tell it’s impressive.

behind you in line, you hear a huff and a quiet laugh. you glance back, noticing it's dan, clad in all black and his now signature black cap.

you make a face at him, “what?”

he shakes his head, clearly amused. “nothing.”

you narrow your eyes suspiciously, but you remember the few times you've seen him in rangers gear, and assume he's agreeing with the illiterate barista. “you a big rangers fan?"

he smiles, “something like that.”

you gesture vaguely toward the screen. “do people actually fight like that all the time? like elbowing in the face and everything?”

he glances up at the TV, then back at you, the smile never leaving his face. “…sometimes.”

you study him for a second, wondering why he's suddenly become mr. smiley, then shrug. “seems stressful, i don't think i could ever do it.”

then the barista calls out your order. “small iced caramel latte, for y/n.” you then realize your name is a letter off, but still sit at your table.

later, post your ten-minute window yearning, when about to leave, you pass dan’s table, then pause.

“what's a rangers game like?” the question comes out before you even realize you’re asking it.

he blinks down at his phone, then looks up at you, a little taken aback at the directness of the question. “a rangers game?”

you nod, "you're a fan, aren't you? don't tell me you've never been to a game. "

he smirks a little, but you miss the playful lilt in his tone. “yeah, those are pretty fun. they've got some real good players too.”

you nod your thanks in appreciation, continuing your rant. "my friend has…courtside? rink-side? whatever hockey calls it, seats. she says we're across the bench, for allegedly 'optimal viewing pleasure' …whatever that means. but personally i've never been a huge fan, i'm being dragged to this.”

he raises an eyebrow and laughs a little more, “dragged?”

“she also said and i quote: ‘live sports will fix your opinion.' i've never been to a hockey game before so guess there's only way to see.”

that makes him laugh again. “did it work?”

“i’ll let you know.”

you grab your bag and head for the door, waving goodbye. “see you tomorrow.”

there’s a small pause behind you. then,

“yeah,” he says softly. “see you.”

you do not, at that moment, realize two things.

one: that "dan" watches you leave every single morning, right before he leaves for rangers morning ice practice.

and two: that the player who just scored on the TV behind you last night, number 94, looks suspiciously familiar.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

madison square garden, during a new york rangers game, is a lot.

you realize this almost immediately, literal seconds into walking into the arena.

it’s loud. like really loud. the kind of loud where the entire building vibrates every time someone so much as bumps into the boards. overstimulation central. 

your friend, meanwhile, is thriving in all the chaos, the hockey fan she is.

“isn’t this amazing?” she yells over the music blasting through the arena.

you glance around at the crowd, the lights, the giant scoreboard hanging above the ice. “i mean…it’s definitely something.”

“you’ll get into it, i swear,” she promises. “everyone gets into it.”

you remain skeptical, even while wearing the rangers hoodie she basically chucked in your face an hour before.

but the seats are good, like really good. close enough that you can see the players skating past the bench right across you, helmets flashing under the lights.

close enough that when the rangers take the ice for warmups, you can actually make out faces.

you sip your emotional support alcoholic drink of choice, watching casually and getting more hype by the second.

until, you pause.

because one of the players skating, number 94, looks oddly familiar as he flies by.

dark hair, skinny frame, same slightly awkward posture you’ve seen a hundred times leaning over a tiny coffee shop table.

you squint, mostly talking to yourself. “…wait.”

but then your friend looks over in curiosity, pausing her extreme yelling for a puck, thank god. “what?”

you gesture toward the ice. “that guy.”

she glances over. “which one?”

you hesitate. because the player is already skating away. “…never mind.”

because that would be insane. so incredibly insane. there are millions of handsome, tall guys with dark hair in new york. you shake it off.

but your eyes keep going to 94, perreault. you notice that he's making laps around the rink, seemingly scanning the crowd.

you notice that he's making laps around the rink, seemingly scanning the crowd and focusing across the bench. like he's looking for someone.

your brain tries very hard not to make that someone you.

then he skates past your section again. closer this time.

and suddenly, his head turns. your stomach drops. because his eyes land directly on you. not just in your direction.

on you.

for a split second he slows, like he’s making sure. then his mouth pulls into a small, familiar smile. the same crooked, extremely charming one he gives you over a cold brew and a tiny coffee shop table.

your heart stops.

because he lifts his glove, and gives you a quick little wave. it's not even a big dramatic wave, just a small one, casual, basically just lifting his hand. like this is a completely normal thing to do during warmups at madison square garden. in front of 19,000 people.

but it's undeniably directed right towards you. so you stare back at him, completely frozen. if fight or flight were the main two psychological responses, you must've unlocked some secret third one where your mind, body, and soul were in absolute paralysis. holy fuck.

“…oh my god,” you whisper.

your friend turns toward you immediately, and her light hand on your shoulder could tip you over. “...oh my GOD.”

you eventually kick-start your brain after a few seconds, and wave a weak hand absolutely pathetically, all done wordless. you don't even want to think about what your face looks like at the moment.

then he's already skating away again, pushing off toward the blue line, leaving you with a single last grin. motherfucker.

your friend squints at the jersey. PERREAULT.

then she slowly turns toward you. “…why did gabe perreault just wave at you.”

you press both hands to your face, hoping your hands could shield you from all the stares you were getting. “that’s dan.”

she stares. “…who the hell is dan.”

“my coffee shop friend…crush…situation…”

your friend blinks: once, twice, then her eyes get very wide. “…your coffee shop crush-situationship,” she repeats slowly, like she’s trying to process the words one by one, “is gabe perreault.”

you peek at her through your fingers.“…apparently? and i thought his name was dan!”

she grabs your arm, hard. “you have been flirting with a new york ranger over iced lattes? ”

you stare back at her, “i didn’t know he was a new york ranger! his name is gabe?”

“you told me he literally wears rangers merch!”

“in my defense, i thought he was just really supportive!”

she stares at you like you’ve personally offended the entire sport of hockey. “that man,” she says, pointing dramatically toward the ice, “is literally the future of the rangers.”

you slowly lower your hands from your face. “…you’re kidding.”

“i am absolutely not kidding.”

you glance back toward the ice. gabe, dan?, gabe is skating another lap during warmups.

and for a split second, like he can feel you looking, he glances back toward your section again.

your friend notices immediately. “…oh my god.”

“please stop.”

“he’s doing it again. look back and smile.”

“no, stop.”

“he’s literally looking right at you.”

“stop.”

she leans closer to you, whispering like this is the most serious gossip of her life. “does he know you’re here?”

you think about the wave, the grin, the fact that you have called this man dan for the last three weeks. “…yes.”

“how.”

“i may have told him i was coming to the game.” you groan into her, "and i may have also told him you were dragging me here."

she slaps your arm, “YOU INVITED YOURSELF TO WATCH YOUR COFFEE SHOP CRUSH PLAY IN THE NHL?”

“I DIDN’T KNOW HE WAS IN THE NHL!”

she stares at you, then slowly shakes her head. “…this is the craziest meet cute i’ve ever witnessed.”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

the game starts. and suddenly everything is happening very fast.

people yelling, sticks clashing, pucks flying. and you try to focus on the game, you really do. but unfortunately, number 94 is very noticeable. and it is extremely hard to take your eyes off of him.

every time he touches the puck your friend grabs your arm, which will probably bruise at this point. “your man has the puck.”

“y/f/n, please stop calling him that.”

“he's skating toward us.”

“stop narrating.”

then, it happens. perreault steals the puck near center ice. he cuts down the left side, quick hands, faster feet.

the goalie drops. the puck snaps into the net. and the arena absolutely erupts.

your friend screams. “GOAL!”

you glance up at the scoreboard. PERREAULT GOAL!

your friend is shaking your arm now, jumping. “THAT'S YOUR COFFEE BOY.”

“HE IS NOT MY—” but you don't even bother to finish the sentence, the infectious energy causing you to laugh instead.

on the ice, gabe is smiling as his teammates crash into him. and for just a second, he looks up again.

right toward your section. right toward you. and you swear, he’s trying not to laugh.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

the second goal happens so fast you almost miss it.

one second the puck is pinned against the boards near the blue line. the next second gabe somehow slips it free, cuts through two defenders like it’s nothing, and snaps the puck past the goalie.

the arena detonates. again.

your friend is now fully standing, now high fiving people around her. “OH MY GOD.”

you barely process what just happened. because as the celebration breaks out, gabe skates past your section. and this time, instead of just glancing up, he taps the glass. twice. with his glove. right in front of you.

your friend loses her mind. “HE KNOWS YOU!”

you're at a loss for words, "oh my god.”

shes absolutely geeked, “HE JUST TAPPED THE GLASS AT YOU.”

“i saw.” your heart is beating so fast.

“THIS IS SO ROM COM. I THINK THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE! ” you're unsure if it's still your friend or just the alcohol talking.

you sink low into your seat. “i am never returning to that coffee shop. i simply cannot.”

“oh you absolutely are.”

then something worse happens. much worse. because minutes later, suddenly the arena music cuts out.

and the giant scoreboard above center ice flashes to life. FAN CAM

your friend gasps, standing and waving her hands. “oh my god. we have to get on it.”

you don’t even have time to react before, both your faces appear on the jumbotron, and you notice the camera only a few feet away.

massive, twenty feet tall, staring back at you in high definition. you freeze instantly: fight, flight, or the mysterious third option: complete psychological shutdown.

“…no.”

your friend grabs your shoulders and starts shaking you as she's pulling every dance move in history, “WAVE.”

your teeth are clenched, “absolutely not.”

“YOU HAVE TO.”

“i am going to die. you will never see me again.”

the camera zooms in slightly, the crowd around you starts cheering. you reluctantly lift your hand and give what you think may be the most awkward wave in human history. the arena erupts in applause.

and then, the camera cuts to the ice. to number 94, gabe perreault, who is standing near the bench. holding his stick vertically with his arms on it and grinning. right at the screen, right at you.

your friend screams directly into your ear. “HE'S SMILING AT YOU, literal heart eyes.”

you think this may be some sort of humiliation ritual, “i am literally going to move cities.”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

five minutes left in the game. you are mentally exhausted, emotionally unstable, and fully aware that the hockey player you’ve been calling dan for three weeks has now scored twice.

then it happens again. the puck rebounds loose in front of the empty net. gabe is already there and he taps it in clean. goal.

the building explodes. hats start flying everywhere, literally everywhere.

the announcer’s voice booms through the arena. “HAT TRICK FOR GABE PERREAULT!”

you sit there in stunned silence: hats rain down onto the ice, gabe skates through the celebration, laughing with his teammates.

and then, once again, for the last time, during his victory lap, his eyes lift toward your section. toward you.

your friend leans into your ear. “…you are never beating the allegations.”

you bury your face in your hands. “i am never going back to that coffee shop.”

but across the ice, gabe perreault grins like he already knows exactly what tomorrow morning is going to look like.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

the next morning, against your better judgment, you still get your coffee.

because routines are important. also because pretending none of that happened feels significantly easier than changing your entire life schedule to avoid one very specific hockey player.

so you walk the two blocks to the coffee shop, you order the same thing.

“small iced caramel latte, light ice,” you say automatically.

the barista nods like she’s heard it a thousand times, because she has. you grab your drink and sit at the window counter.

ten minutes. in and out. normal, predictable, safe.

you take a sip of your coffee. then the barista calls from behind the counter, “large cold brew for—”

there’s a pause. “…gabe?”

your head slowly lifts, and there he is. his dark curls are out today, a few stray ones across his forehead, rangers hoodie. smiling. right at you.

you stare at him like he just personally ruined your entire life. “you…you lied to me.”

he walks over, cold brew in hand, sliding into the stool across to you like this is the most normal morning in the world, like any other day from the previous weeks.

“i didn’t lie.”

you squint at him. “your name is not dan, gabe.”

he scratches the back of his neck a little, sheepish. “okay, that part might’ve been a little misleading.”

“a little?”

he shrugs. “it’s easier.”

you stare. “…dan is easier than gabe?”

“i've used that name for food orders my whole life. ”

you blink slowly. “so…you let me call you dan for like four weeks.”

he takes a sip of his cold brew. “i mean, you seemed really confident about it. who am i to tell a woman she's wrong?”

you drop your head onto the counter. “i watched you score a hat trick last night.”

“yeah.” he smiles, like he's reliving the moment.

“and you waved at me.”

“...you waved back.”

you lift your head again. “and …you got me on the jumbotron.”

he grins. “that one wasn’t my fault.”

you narrow your eyes. “and …you tapped the glass.”

“okay, that part might’ve been my fault. you just absolutely froze every single time i interacted with you, it was just too fun.”

you sigh dramatically, leaning back on your stool. “…i cannot believe you're a new york ranger. and the fact that last night was an actual thing.”

he bumps your elbow lightly. “could be worse.”

“how?”

“i could still be dan.”

you laugh despite yourself, feeling your mood lighten by the second. then he glances at you, a little more tentative now.

you swirl your straw through your drink, studying him. “what?”

he gestures vaguely toward the window. “you realize you’ve been sitting in that exact spot every morning for a month.”

you blink. "yes…”

“same stool.”

“it’s a good stool.”

“same drink.”

“i like the drink. and if im not wrong, you get the same drink too.”

“same ten minutes.”

you pause, putting your hand on your chin. "you’ve been timing me?”

he shrugs, very unbothered. “hard not to notice.”

you stare at him. “that’s slightly creepy.”

“i prefer observant.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. then he leans his elbows on the counter a little closer. “i was thinking.”

“possibly dangerous.”

“very.”

he nods toward the door. “tomorrow morning.”

you wait. “skip the ten-minute existential crisis.”

you squint at him. “…and do what instead?”

he thinks for a second, and you realize he may be doing this all on the fly. then says, casually,  “take a walk with me.”

you gesture vaguely toward the window like he’s suggested something completely absurd. “outside?”

“that’s typically where they happen.”

you narrow your eyes at him. “gabe.”

“yeah?”

“we live in new york.”

he waits. “people here do not go on whimsical morning walks with hockey players.”

his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh. “i didn’t say it had to be whimsical. just you, me, a sidewalk, possibly angry cyclists.”

you tap your straw against the side of your cup, pretending to think very seriously about it, but a smile escapes you.

“…okay.”

he blinks, a little surprised. “okay?”

you shrug, trying to look casual even though you’re definitely not. “i guess i can spare ten minutes of my extremely busy morning schedule.”

his grin widens immediately. “good.”

and for the first time since moving to new york, your morning routine might be about to change.

PAIRING ▸ fraser minten fm93 x reader 

GENRES ▸ fluff, neighbors, mutual crush, meet cute, fraser is just sooo cutie

SUMMARY ▸ moving to boston means figuring out the t system, over crowded bars, and moving furniture. you soon realize it also means midnight elevator rides with your cute mysterious neighbor.

WORD COUNT ▸ 2.7k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ first fic for fraser!!!!!!!! tbh before i like really really got into hockey i first saw him in a tiktok edit and i was like who is this cutie with glasses (literally my weakness), so i need fraser to wear his glasses more please and thank you :) also bruins win today!!! (and gabe perreault point / rangers win but thats besides the point i guess LOL i do wanna write a very self indulgent fic for gabo soon) - but enjoy!!

the first time you notice your neighbor is in the elevator.

it’s late. like unreasonably late. the kind of late where the building is silent and the hallway lights feel a little too bright after a long day.

and a long day you've had. it was only your first week after moving to boston and between moving furniture, settling in, and getting extremely lost on the T (for the third time, mind you), there was nothing more you wanted to do than lay in your bed that you're pretty sure you overpaid for only a day before.

you step inside the apartment's elevator, press your floor, and just as the doors start to close, a hand stops them.

the doors slide open again.

a tall guy steps in: dark hoodie, sweats, dark curly hair still damp like he just showered. he smells faintly like cold boston air and something sharp you can’t place. and he's wearing glasses. 

he smiles and nods politely. “hey.”

“hi.” you manage to get out like you aren't going to collapse out of exhaustion any second.

the elevator starts moving.

he’s quiet. not awkward quiet, just… quiet, which in your tired state, you definitely appreciate. small talk over the weather sounded like your worst nightmare when your pillows and the real housewives were calling your name, cute neighbor or not. comfortable silence fills the ride between you two. 

you just assume he’s another neighbor coming home from work. but, the next night it happens again.

same elevator. same tall guy. same tired late hour.

“hey again,” he says, surprise lining his light eyes as he smiles. he's cute, you notice.

seemingly built, gorgeous eyes, and an adorable smile? if he was setting the bar for boston men, you think you would be sticking around for a little bit.

so after staring at him for maybe a second too long, you get out a “hi!” and nearly tumble into the elevator as he moves aside for you. real smooth, y/n, real smooth.

after the ride, though, as he lets you step out first the gentleman he is, you assume that is the extent of your relationship. relegated to late-night tired elevator pleasantries and to never go any further. but the third night?

same thing.

you start to think the two of you must have the exact same schedule, because somehow you always end up in the elevator together around midnight.

and so far, you can catalog a few things about him, sure and slowly. for one, he always carries a duffel bag. two, he’s always a little tired (much like you usually are) and sometimes, refer to night two and night three, sometimes he’s a little bruised.

but you’re a polite neighbor. so you don’t ask, as much as you want to. curiosity does get to the best of you though, and some nights before you sleep, your mysterious neighbor creeps into your thoughts.

maybe he's a boston mob gangster? it would explain why he's always in dark clothes. or maybe some sort of boston batman vigilante? also possible.

until one night, a few days later,  the elevator doors open and he steps inside like usual,

and this time you can’t help it.

because to you, he looks like he just walked out of a bar fight. taking inventory, you notice there’s a small cut near his eyebrow, his red knuckles are taped, and there’s a bruise blooming along his cheek.

you stare after wincing a bit, and he notices immediately. definitely a mobster. his shoulders drop a little like he already knows the question is coming.

you open your mouth. do i ask? close it. maybe shouldn't. open it again. well, fuck it.

you're a little unsure what to say, so you start with “…are you okay?”

he exhales through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck like he isn't sure how much to explain to you. “before you ask…”

he gestures vaguely at his hurt face. “…hockey.”

you blink. oh. “…hockey?”

“yeah.” he says it like that should make perfect sense.

the elevator dings softly as it passes another floor. you look at his knuckles again. “…you fight people? in…hockey?”

he shrugs. “sometimes.”

you stare at him for a second longer, then you nod slowly. “oh, okay.”

he glances at you sideways, surprised.“…that’s it?”

you shrug. “i mean… i guess that explains the bruises. i honestly thought for the last few days you were some sort of mob gangster but this seems like a much better explanation.”

he lets out a quiet laugh. the first one you’ve heard from him since the elevator rides started. and in that moment, you decide you want to hear it a lot more.

“definitely not as cool as that.”

the elevator reaches your floor. the doors slide open. you step out first, then pause when you realize he’s stepping out too.

“…you live on this floor?”

he nods toward the apartment two doors down. “yep.”

you blink. in your tired daze the last few nights you must've never realized he left the elevator behind you every time.

“…you’re my neighbor. like my neighbor, neighbor.” wow, y/n, absolutely killing it with the social cues tonight.

“looks like it, neighbor.”

he shifts his duffel bag on his shoulder, and you think he might end the conversation and immediately leave but he continues, “fraser, by the way.”

you blink, and realize your cute neighbor is introducing himself to you. right. names. that's a normal thing people exchange when they meet.

“y/n,” you say quickly, gesturing vaguely toward yourself like that wasn’t already obvious. “by the way.”

fraser nods once and smiles, like he’s filing the information away somewhere.

“nice to meet you, y/n.” he glances toward your door.

“so,” he says, nodding at it slightly. “new to the building?”

you follow his gaze. “is it that obvious?”

he smiles again a little. “you got lost in the elevator that very first night.”

your mouth falls open. “hey, i did not get lost.”

“if you recall, you pressed the wrong floor twice.”

you groan, covering your face with one hand. “okay in my defense-”

“i did note there was a lot of button staring involved.”

“i just moved here!” you protest. “the T already tried to kill me three times that day, i didn’t need the elevator betraying me too.”

fraser laughs again, softer this time. “boston learning curve.”

you sigh dramatically. “oh trust me, i know."

you both smile at each other for a second, and you let it linger, before you gesture lightly toward the hallway.

“goodnight, fraser.”

“night, y/n.”

he heads toward his apartment two doors down, unlocking the door and disappearing inside a second later.

you stand there for another moment, a little flustered from the interaction. then you unlock your own door and step inside, dropping your bag onto the floor with a sigh.

your neighbor plays hockey.

scratch that, your neighbor, fraser, plays hockey.

your neighbor, fraser, who is also very cute.

you shake your head and collapse onto the couch. boston might actually be growing on you.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

the next time you see fraser, it’s not in the elevator.

it’s a random saturday night, and you’re sitting in a loud bar somewhere in fenway with your friend across from you, half-listening to her complain about a coworker while you nurse a drink that’s basically melted ice at this point. not any fault to her, but you were just a little overstimulated.

the place is absolutely crowded, packed with the kind of weekend energy that only seems to exist in cities like boston: people yelling over music, bartenders sliding glasses across the counter, the faint smell of beer and fried food hanging in the air. not too much of your scene.

you’re nodding along to whatever story she’s telling, scanning the wall of televisions in front of your in pure boredom, when you suddenly cut her off mid-sentence, recognition filling your body.

“…wait.”

she glances up. “what?”

you squint harder at the screen, double checking, no triple checking, for confirmation. another angle change of the camera and - there he is, on the tv.

bright arena lights in the garden, helmet on, jersey tucked under his pads,  and a 93 visible on his sleeve as he glides across the ice. you're more sure than anything.

it's fraser. your neighbor fraser. your neighbor fraser who apparently plays professional hockey and is currently on national television. playing. for the bruins.

you stare. “…oh my god. it's him. my neighbor.”

your friend swivels toward you immediately. “THAT’S him??? your mysterious hockey elevator boyfriend?”

you’re still staring at the screen, watching as he skates into frame again, helmet tilted slightly, curls poking out underneath that you usually see in their damp form. definitely him.

you ignore your friends description. “…that’s him.”

she looks between you and the tv like she’s just been handed the most unbelievable gossip of her life. “you told me he was like… a tall guy with a duffel bag!”

“he IS a guy with a duffel bag. i thought he like played hockey with his friends, not like in the nhl!”

“he is also on television.”

you take another slow sip of your drink, still watching the game, but also extremely disoriented with this new information. “yeah…that explains the bruises.”

on the screen, fraser gets bumped along the boards and shoves someone back before skating away. your friend leans across the table. “y/n.”

“…yeah.”

“you’re neighbors with a professional hockey player.”

you shrug, trying to play it cool. “i guess? …apparently.”

she groans dramatically. “this is the best thing that’s happened since you moved here. i've lived here all my life and i've never had anything remotely this interesting happen to me.”

you roll your eyes and try to continue the conversation, but you don’t miss the way your gaze keeps drifting back toward the screen every few seconds.

every once in a while the camera cuts to him again. and each time you catch yourself smiling a little.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

much later that night, once you are able to escape your friend and the atrocities at the bar, you step into your building’s elevator again, a little tipsier and a little messier than usual.

the doors start to close, and then a hand stops them. you already know who it is. the doors slide open.

fraser steps inside.

hair still damp again, clad in a t-shirt, duffel bag slung over one shoulder like always.

he looks up, and then he pauses. you notice how his eyes rake over you in your going out outfit, the traditional "boston uniform" of jeans and a black top.

“y/n.”

you tilt your head slightly. “hey.”

a small smile pulls at his mouth. “late night?”

you lean back casually against the elevator wall, needing the support of the cold wall, and suddenly very aware that you just watched him on national television about an hour ago. “…something like that.”

he nods once, like he’s heard that answer a million times before.

the elevator doors close and the car starts moving. for a second neither of you says anything. then you glance at him, and your tipsy mouth moves faster than your mind does.

“…so.”

he raises an eyebrow slightly, curiosity pulling at his face. “so?”

you gesture vaguely at him. “…saw you earlier on tv.”

fraser exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, like this conversation was inevitable. he looks amused now.

“you were watching?”

you immediately regret bringing it up. “i mean…it was on at the bar.”

“right.”

“but, to clarify, i was not specifically watching you.”

he laughs, the delightful sound coming up again. “sure.”

you squint at him a little, grinning. “wow. professional hockey player and already super humble about it.”

that makes him laugh softly, a little sheepish. “i didn’t say that.”

“you implied it.”

he shakes his head, pushing his curls back slightly like he’s embarrassed you caught him. “i just meant… it happens sometimes.”

the elevator hums quietly as it climbs another floor. you fold your arms loosely across your chest, looking at him again like you’re reassessing something. “…so you play in the nhl. like as your job.”

he glances over at you, almost cautious. “yeah.”

there’s no bragging in it. if anything, he looks like he’s trying not to make it a whole thing.

you gesture vaguely toward him. “and you didn’t think to mention that while we’ve been sharing midnight elevator rides all week?”

he shrugs a little, shifting the duffel bag higher on his shoulder. “didn’t really come up.”

you stare at him. “…you showed up with bruised knuckles and a cut on your face.”

“fair point.”

“and you said ‘hockey.’”

he smiles again, smaller this time. “technically not a lie.”

the elevator dings softly as it reaches your floor. the doors slide open and you both step out into the quiet hallway again.

you both walk side to side, while you fish your keys out of your bag. when you reach your apartment, you lean back lightly against your door, studying him again.

“…so.”

he smiles faintly. “you do say that a lot.”

you point at him. “don’t make fun of me.”

“i’m not,” he says quickly, a little amused. “just noticing.”

you shake your head.“…still kind of processing the whole ‘my neighbor is secretly an nhl player’ thing.”

he rubs the back of his neck, sheepish again. “wasn’t really trying to keep it a secret.”

“you kind of succeeded.”

“fair.”

a quiet moment settles between you again. then he clears his throat a little, shifting his weight like he’s deciding something.

“hey.”

you look up. “yeah?”

“…if you’re going to keep watching the games at bars,” he says carefully, “you could just come to one.”

you blink. “…what.”

he nods toward you. “like. actually come. to the garden, i get a few tickets for each game.”

you stare at him for a second, trying to process. “you’re inviting me to a hockey game.”

“technically i’m inviting you to watch my hockey game,” he corrects gently.

“a game that you’re playing in. a bruins game?”

“minor detail.”

you laugh, a little incredulous. “fraser.”

“yeah?”

“that seems like a conflict of interest.”

“how?”

you smile. “what if i accidentally become your biggest fan.”

his mouth twitches. “i think i could handle that.”

he laughs again, softer this time. “i just figured,” he says, shrugging a little, “it might be a little more fun seeing each other not just in an elevator.”

you narrow your eyes playfully. another quiet second passes before you finally nod.

“…okay.”

his eyebrows lift slightly. “okay?”

“i’ll come to a game.”

something bright flashes across his face. “cool! i mean yeah, good, good.”

you bite back a smile. he shifts his weight again, like he’s about to leave, then stops. “…and, um—”

you look back up. “yeah?”

he gestures vaguely with his free hand, like he’s trying to play it off but also very clearly overthinking it. “we could- after, i mean- if you wanted-”

you tilt your head, watching him struggle a little. 

he exhales, a small laugh slipping out. “there’s a place a few blocks from the garden,” he says, a little more straightforward now. “we usually go there sometimes. after games.”

you wait. he glances at you again, hope and fear both in his eyes . “i could take you. if you’re already there.”

your smile softens, just a little. “oh i see, so this is like… a two-part invitation.”

he huffs a quiet laugh. “i didn’t plan it like that.”

you pretend to think about it for a second, tapping your keys lightly against your palm. “…does this place have good food?”

he shrugs playfully. “debatable.”

“how honest.”

“but the fries are good.”

you nod, satisfied. “…okay.”

his eyebrows lift again. “okay?”

“i’ll accept your two part invitation. for the fries. and for you.”

he smiles, that same soft, slightly relieved expression. “good.”

you unlock your door but pause before stepping inside. “…but if i end up on the jumbotron looking confused,” you warn, “i’m blaming you.”

he grins. “i’ll gladly take that risk.”

you shake your head, smiling as you step inside your apartment. “…goodnight, fraser.”

“goodnight, y/n.”

your door clicks shut behind you, and in perfect rom com fashion, you sink back against it. suddenly, living two doors down from fraser minten feels like the best decision you’ve made since moving to boston.

PAIRING ▸ matt rempe mr73 x reader 

GENRES ▸ lana del rey coded, hockey men, slow burn, moody, soft intimacy, hurt/comfort, trainer x player

SUMMARY ▸ matt rempe fights. a lot. which means he keeps ending up in the training room with split knuckles and bruised ribs, and as a trainer, you’re the one who has to patch him up. at first it’s just part of the job - but after a while, he seems to keep showing up.

WORD COUNT ▸ 4.5k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ as a newer hockey fan i have recently discovered matt rempe and….lemme just say the thought i have about him should be kept between me and god..….also he is soooo lana coded like he literally listens to her…so i just hadddd to write this…rangers win td tho :)

matt rempe always smells like ice, sweat, and a little bit of blood when he shows up in your training room. 

usually it’s his knuckles—split open from another fight on the ice, bruised ribs blooming under his jersey, a cut above his eyebrow that needs stitching. it’s nothing new. fighting is part of his job as a professional hockey player, and fixing him up is part of yours.

you’ve gotten used to it.

more often than not, the trainers’ room door swings open after a rangers game, loud against the quiet of the medical area, and you don’t even have to look up to know who it is. heavy footsteps, a quiet lingering in his movements, a tall shadow in the doorway.

“again, rempe?” you say, not bothering to even glance up from the counter.

you finally look up, and you see matt rempe, in all his 6'9 glory, shrug, already moving to sit on your exam table like he’s done it a hundred times before, which, at this point, he probably has.

“told you before y/n, part of the job.”

you hum in disapproval, pulling on gloves as you step closer. taking a look at him, you notice that his knuckles are already starting to swell, skin split across two of them, dried blood along the edges. there’s a thin line of red cutting through his eyebrow where someone’s helmet must’ve caught him during the fight.

“hold still,” you mutter.

he does, and you always note that’s the strange part. on the ice he’s pure chaos: six foot nine and throwing punches that would make your own mother wince. but in here, he’s always quiet, almost careful. he lets you take his hand without a word while you clean the cuts, barely flinching when the antiseptic stings.

you reach up to tilt his chin slightly so you can see the cut above his brow better. for the amount of fights he got in, you hated how gorgeous the man was. he took tall, dark, and handsome to new levels, and it took everything in you to not just stare into his dark eyes. but you were a professional, so you continued.

his entire body goes still, but not tense. just still. like he’s suddenly aware of how close you are.

“you’re going to ruin your hands doing this,” you say, dabbing at the wound with gauze.

he huffs softly, something close to a laugh. “so i’ve been told.” 

you stitch the cut quickly, tying off the thread before pressing a small bandage over it. when you step back he finally relaxes again, rolling his shoulders like he’s remembering how to move.

“all good,” you say. “try not to punch anyone with that hand for at least twenty-four hours.”

he grins slightly. “can’t promise that.”

you roll your eyes, already turning back to the counter to complete your task. it should be routine. but over the next few weeks, matt rempe keeps ending up in your training room.

sometimes it’s swollen knuckles after another fight. sometimes bruised ribs that need checking. sometimes a shoulder that needs ice.

every time you scold him. “you know you don’t get paid extra for bleeding, right?”

he just shrugs. quiet. slightly amused. never arguing while you tape his wrists or wrap his hands.

eventually the rangers locker room starts noticing.

one night gabe perreault leans into the doorway while you’re cleaning another cut across rempe’s knuckles.

“damn, rempe,” gabe says with a laugh. “you fighting guys just to see the trainer now?”

you glance up briefly. rempe doesn’t even look embarrassed. he just shrugs again. and doesn’t deny it.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

but one night, matt shows up differently.

it’s late. the arena has mostly emptied out, the noise of the madison square garden post-game win chaos fading into distant echoes down the hallway. you’re wiping down the counter, organizing gauze and tape back into their drawers, already thinking about finally heading home to your too small apartment.

the door creaks softly behind you, and you glance up automatically. rempe is standing in the doorway. no blood. no bruises. no ice pack.

just leaning against the frame, arms crossed loosely over his chest like he’s not entirely sure what to do with himself.

you raise a brow. “you hurt?”

he shakes his head. “…no.”

you pause, setting the antiseptic bottle down. “then why are you here?”

for a moment he doesn’t answer. he just looks around the room like he’s noticing it for the first time: the quiet hum of the lights, the empty exam table, the soft echo of the arena far away.

then he shrugs slightly.

“it’s quiet in here.”

you blink at him.

that’s it? that’s the explanation. you don’t know why that answer settles somewhere strange in your chest.

you shake off the unfamiliar feeling and go back to cleaning.

“well,” you mutter, “try not to bleed on anything on your way out.”

he huffs a quiet laugh. but he doesn’t leave right away.

you can feel the change in energy without even looking: his presence still lingering in the doorway, tall enough that he basically fills the frame. you finish wiping down the counter, reorganizing a roll of tape that doesn’t really need reorganizing, and when the silence stretches a little too long you finally glance back at him.

he hasn’t moved, still leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, watching you.

“you planning on haunting the training room?” you ask.

he snorts quietly. “just standing here.”

“very productively.”

he shrugs, finally pushing off the frame and stepping inside like that was the invitation he was waiting for. his skates thud softly against the rubber flooring as he walks over and sits on the exam table, legs hanging off the edge.

you stare at him. “rempe.”

“yeah?”

“you’re not hurt.”

he nods like that’s a confirmed fact. “…yep.”

“so why are you sitting on my exam table.”

he tilts his head, thinking about it like it’s a complicated question. then he gestures vaguely around the room. “like i said. it’s quiet.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t kick him out. instead you toss the used wipes in the trash and lean back against the counter across from him, taking in his profile.

“you know there are other quiet places in this building.”

“not really,” he says.

“locker room.”

“guys yelling.”

“weight room.”

“guys yelling.”

“players’ lounge.”

he pauses.

“…guys yelling.”

you huff a laugh despite yourself. rempe grins slightly, encouraged.

“plus,” he adds, resting his hands on the edge of the table beside him, “you’ve got snacks.”

you glance toward the small cabinet in the corner. “those are recovery snacks.”

“they’re still snacks.” before you can stop him, he hops down and wanders over to the cabinet like he’s been doing it his whole life. he opens it, peering inside.

“rempe.”

“yeah?”

“those are not for recreational use.”

he pulls out a protein bar anyway, inspecting the wrapper.

“too late.”

you watch him for a second, baffled. this is new. 

usually when he comes in here he’s quiet, almost shy while you work on his injuries. but now he’s talking, actually talking, and it’s like once he starts he doesn’t really stop. 

he tears open the wrapper. “long road trip next week,” he says casually.

you raise a brow. “i know, how exciting.”

“not really. bus smells weird.”

a laugh escapes you, and you note how his face lights up after. “the bus smells weird?”

“yeah,” he says through a bite. “someone spilled protein powder in the back last time and now everything smells like vanilla chalk.”

you stare at him. “…vanilla chalk.”

“exactly.”

he gestures with the protein bar. “and someone keeps playing the same country song in the locker room before every game.”

“how tragic.”

“it’s bad.”

“you’re from alberta,” you point out. “aren’t you legally required to like country music?”

he grimaces. “not that kind. im more of a willie nelson guy, not so much morgan wallen.”

you shake your head, grabbing your bag off the chair. “i can’t believe i’m standing here listening to you review locker room playlists, after hours, mind you.”

he shrugs again. “you asked.”

a grin on your own face, “i absolutely did not.”

but you notice something as you watch him finish the protein bar and lean back against the exam table again, looking far more comfortable than a man who just claimed he was only here because it was quiet.

he’s smiling. and what a gorgeous sight it was.

talking easily now, about road trips and teammates and the weird superstition one of the defensemen has about taping his stick.

and for the first time since you’ve known him, matt rempe doesn’t look like the guy who drops the gloves on the ice. he just looks like a guy sitting in your training room.

and for some reason, you don’t tell him to leave. maybe you even let him walk you out until you two eventually separate on different train lines.

you tell yourself it’s just because it’s late.

the arena is much quieter than usual once the crowd clears out, the a few footsteps bouncing off the concrete corridors while arena staff finish shutting things down for the night. rempe falls into step beside you easily, long strides forcing you to walk a little faster just to keep up.

for a minute neither of you say anything, content in the city sounds filling the silence.

then, of course, he starts talking again. “did i ever tell you about the time the bus broke down in winnipeg?”

you glance up at him. “that sounds like a story that ends with someone getting arrested.”

“no,” he says quickly. “well… not arrested.”

you stop walking. “…rempe.”

he grins. “we just had to push the bus.”

“you pushed a team bus.”

“couple of us did.”

you stare at him for a moment before shaking your head and continuing toward the exit doors. “i’m not even going to question that.”

outside, the cold air hits immediately, the city louder than the quiet arena behind you. taxis honk somewhere down the street, and the glow of neon from the nearby bars paints the sidewalk in red and blue.

rempe pulls his hoodie tighter over his head. “you always take the train?” he asks.

“yes,” you say. “because i’m not an nhl player with an absurd salary.”

he laughs under his breath. “fair.”

you reach the subway entrance, slowing to a stop at the stairs that split in opposite directions.

for a second neither of you move. it’s strange.

you’ve seen him dozens of times in the training room, held his hands in yours while you tape his wrists or stitch cuts across his brow. intimacy that only a few know.

but standing here, outside the arena, it suddenly feels different. less professional. more real.

rempe rocks back slightly on his heels. “so,” he says.

you smile “so.”

he gestures vaguely toward the entrance behind you. “guess i’ll see you when i inevitably injure myself again.”

you snort. “i look forward to your next terrible life decision.”

he grins, that easy crooked smile that somehow makes his whole face soften. “you always do.”

and then he turns, his tall frame ducking down the stairs toward the other platform.

you watch him disappear for a second longer than you mean to before shaking your head and heading toward your own train.

and you miss how he looks back again to watch you leave.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

the next time matt rempe shows up in your training room, he isn’t bleeding. which is a new development.

you’re halfway through taking inventory of your supply drawers when the door opens again, that familiar tall shadow stretching across the floor before you even look up.

“don’t tell me,” you say automatically, still facing the counter. “you fought someone in warmups. you don't even play for another two hours.”

there’s a pause. “…not today.”

you finally turn around. rempe is standing there again, hands shoved in the pockets of his rangers hoodie, looking suspiciously intact.

you look over at him, taking inventory of all his limbs. no split knuckles. no bruised ribs. no stitches waiting to happen. still a gorgeous face.

you narrow your eyes. “rempe.”

“yeah?”

“what’s wrong.”

he lifts one hand slowly. “my wrist feels weird.”

you stare at him for a second. “your wrist feels weird?”

he nods very seriously. “weird how.”

he considers this. “…just weird.”

you sigh, already motioning him toward the exam table. “sit.”

he does immediately, hopping up onto the table like always, long legs dangling over the edge while you step closer.

you take his hand, turning it over carefully, fingers pressing lightly along the joint. nothing. no swelling. no tenderness. no injury.

you look up. he’s watching you again, very closely. faces only inches away from each other.

“…rempe.”

“yeah?”

“your wrist is fine.”

he blinks. “…you sure?”

you drop his hand. “yes.”

he nods slowly like he’s processing life-altering information. “huh.”

you cross your arms.

“anything else mysteriously wrong with you while you’re here?”

he pauses. “…shoulder’s kinda tight.”

you stare at him, then you step forward again and check his shoulder. also fine.

“miraculous recovery,” you say flatly.

he shrugs. “guess so.”

but instead of leaving, he stays exactly where he is. sitting on the exam table and watching you.

you notice it immediately. “rempe.”

“yeah?”

“you’re cleared.”

he nods. “…good.” and still doesn’t move.

you busy yourself with the supply drawer again, mostly so you don’t have to acknowledge the fact that a six-foot-nine nhl player is just… sitting in your training room like he lives there and staring at you like it's normal.

after a moment he speaks again. “so.”

you sigh quietly. “so.”

he swings one leg slightly where it hangs off the table. the rubber sole of his sneaker taps softly against the metal frame.

“what neighborhood do you live in?”

you glance back at him. “that’s random.”

“just asking.”

“east village.”

he nods like this is important information. “that’s close.”

“close to what.”

he starts. “my pl- i mean, here.”

you snort, ignoring his slip up. “thank you for the geography lesson.”

he smiles a little, encouraged. “you always know you wanted to be a trainer?”

you shrug lightly. “pretty much. played sports growing up. tore my acl in college. spent enough time in athletic training rooms that i figured i might as well work in one.”

he listens carefully, elbows resting on his knees now, and all attention towards you. “that sucks.”

“yeah,” you say, but smile. “but it worked out.”

“guess so.”

a pause settles between you, comfortable in a way that surprises you. then he asks, almost casually, “you ever get tired of fixing guys like us up.”

you raise a brow. “you mean large professional athletes who punch each other for a living?”

“yeah.”

you think about it for a second. “…sometimes.”

he laughs quietly. “fair.”

you lean back against the counter again, arms folded. “what about you.”

he looks intrigued. “what about me.”

“you ever get tired of getting punched in the face?”

he tilts his head like he’s considering it. “…not really.”

you shake your head. “psychopath.”

he grins. “occupational hazard.”

you open your mouth to respond, but the door suddenly swings open. hard.

both of you look up. oh shit.

the rangers head coach steps halfway into the room, clearly in the middle of stalking down the hallway toward the locker room before spotting the extremely obvious giant sitting on the exam table.

his eyes narrow immediately. “rempe.”

matt straightens like a kid caught skipping class. “…coach.”

coach sullivan crosses his arms. “why are you in the training room.”

rempe gestures vaguely toward you. “…medical reasons.”

you choke slightly, and you hope nothing on your face reveals anything. sullivan looks at him. then at you. then back at him.

“you’re not even dressed for practice yet.”

rempe glances down at himself like this is news. “…oh...right…”

the coach sighs, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “locker room. now.”

rempe slides off the table immediately. “yes sir.”

he takes two long steps toward the door before the coach adds,  “and if i find out you’re starting fights just so you can hang out in here again—”

rempe pauses. “…hypothetically?”

“rempe.”

“locker room,” he says quickly, already backing into the hallway.

the coach shakes his head and disappears down the corridor, and matt quickly follows. 

“sorry y/n,” he says over his shoulder, already halfway out the door. “duty calls.”

you lean back against the counter, arms crossed, trying very hard to look unimpressed. “try not to pick a fight on your way there,” you call after him.

he stops in the doorway. turns back. for a second he just looks at you, that crooked half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s trying not to laugh.

“no promises.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too wide now too, and you know he catches it.

his gaze lingers a second longer than it probably should. like he’s memorizing something. then he nods once, pushing the door open with his allegedly "wonky" shoulder.

“see you later, trainer.”

the door swings shut behind him. the room goes quiet again. but this time, as you turn back to the counter and try to focus on reorganizing the exact same stack of gauze you’ve already organized twice, you realize you’re smiling.

and somewhere down the hallway, matt rempe is probably doing the exact same thing.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

a week later, the first snow of the season hits new york.

it’s late.

another rangers win, another long night at the arena finishing paperwork and restocking supplies after the players have cleared out. by the time you finally shut off the lights in the training room, most of madison square garden is quiet again.

the kind of quiet that only happens after a game. you pull your coat tighter around yourself as you step outside the arena doors.

snow is falling slowly, soft flakes drifting down through the streetlights. the city feels different like this, muted, calmer than usual.

you barely make it three steps down the sidewalk before you notice him.

rempe is leaning against the brick wall just outside the players’ exit.

hood pulled up. hands shoved in his pockets.

and, apparently, holding a cigarette.

you stop. “…seriously?”

he glances up. there’s a moment of surprise in his expression before it settles into that familiar, easy smile.

“hey trainer.”

you walk closer, folding your arms as you stop in front of him. “you know that’s terrible for your lungs.”

he shrugs. “i don’t make a habit of it.”

“that’s not reassuring.”

he takes a slow breath, watching the smoke curl into the cold air. “just one...a victory cigarette if you will.”

snow collects lightly in his hair where it escapes the edge of his hood.

you stare at the cigarette for a second. then you reach forward, pluck it right out of his hand, and drop it into the snow at your feet.

the tip hisses quietly as it goes out.

matt watches the whole thing happen without stopping you. in fact, he smiles. slowly.

like he was expecting that exact outcome. “knew you would.”

you brush your hands off.

“someone has to protect your career.”

“appreciate it.”

for a moment neither of you move. snow continues to fall around you, settling on the sidewalk, on the edges of the street, on the shoulders of his hoodie. he looks calmer out here.

“you waiting for someone?” you ask after a second.

he shakes his head. “nah.”

“then why are you standing outside in the snow.”

he shrugs slightly. “…quiet out here too.”

you huff a small laugh. “you have a lot of quiet places apparently.”

“guess so.”

another pause settles between you. cars pass at the end of the block. a taxi honks somewhere down the street.

but right here, it’s just the two of you and the falling snow.

he glances down at you. “headed to the train again?”

you nod. “always.”

he shifts off the wall. “i’ll walk you.”

you raise a brow. “what, worried i’ll get lost?”

he grins faintly. “something like that.”

you shake your head, but you don’t argue. and a minute later the two of you are walking down the snowy sidewalk together.

his steps are slower this time. like he’s making sure you don’t have to hurry to keep up with his much longer strides.

halfway to the subway entrance he glances down again.

“you’re gonna keep stealing my cigarettes if i smoke again?”

“absolutely.”

he laughs quietly. snow catches in his eyelashes when he looks up at the streetlight.

“good to know.”

you reach the subway stairs. the same spot where you split off the other night. again neither of you move right away.

“guess i’ll see you next time i get punched in the face.”

you tilt your head. “statistically speaking, that’ll be soon.”

he grins. “probably.”

but this time, before he turns away, his gaze lingers on you again. long enough that the cold suddenly feels less noticeable. like he’s thinking something he isn’t quite saying yet.

then he nods once. “night, trainer.”

“night, rempe."

he turns and heads back toward the arena. you start down the subway stairs. and halfway down, you glance back.

he’s still there. standing on the sidewalk under the falling snow. watching you go.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

the next time you see matt rempe, it isn’t even a week later.

late again. the arena is quiet in the way it only gets after a game, the kind of quiet that settles once the crowds leave and the equipment carts stop rattling down the hall. most of the players are already gone.

you’re halfway through closing a cabinet when the training room door opens. soft this time. not the usual dramatic entrance.

you don’t even look up. “rempe, if you fought someone again after i specifically told you not to, i swear to god i-”

“i didn’t.”

you glance up. he’s standing there in the doorway, just his signature blue rangers hoodie and sweats, hair still a little damp from the post-game shower. no blood. no ice pack. no bruised knuckles.

you narrow your eyes immediately, suspicious. “…so what’s up.”

he leans one shoulder against the doorframe, casual like he hasn’t been lingering outside your workspace all season. “you done for the night?”

“almost.”

you grab your bag from the chair. “why?”

he shrugs a little, like it’s no big deal. “thought maybe we could get a coffee.”

you glance at the clock on the wall. 11:47 p.m.

“it’s almost midnight,” you say flatly. “most coffee places are closed.”

he grins. “it’s new york…good thing i know one.”

you stare at him for a second longer than necessary. then you shake your head.

“this is a terrible idea.” definitely.

“probably.”

but you’re already walking toward the door, smiling a little more than normal.

the place he brings you to is a tiny diner a few blocks from the arena. the kind that never closes.

neon lights humming in the window. chipped mugs stacked behind the counter. coffee that’s probably been sitting on the burner for hours.

but somehow it feels perfect.

you sit across from each other in a booth, hands wrapped around warm mugs while snow falls slowly outside the window.

rempe talks and talks. about road trips, about his teammates, about the time the team bus actually did break down in winnipeg. even personal things. his sisters, his mom, how he's played guitar all his life.

you laugh more than you probably should. 

but he also wants to know about you. about your family, friends, how you got your start with the rangers.

between the objectively bad coffee and his terrible storytelling, you realize something. he isn’t just the guy who shows up in your training room bleeding anymore. he’s just matt.

when you step back outside the diner later, the snow is coming down harder. the city is even quieter now, as it’s almost two in the morning.

you stop on the sidewalk, pulling your coat tighter around yourself while cold air curls around your ankles.

“well,” you say. “that was surprisingly normal.”

“high praise, i thank you..”

you smile. then you notice he’s looking at you again. the same stare he sometimes does in the training room. quiet, focused. like he’s trying to decide something.

“what,” you say.

he exhales slowly, a puff of white breath disappearing into the cold air. “can i ask you something?”

you laugh softly. “you’ve asked me like twenty things tonight.”

“yeah,” he says.

“but this one’s important.”

your stomach flips a little. “…okay.”

he hesitates, which is new. you’ve seen matt rempe throw punches at guys, even guys older than him, without blinking. but right now he looks nervous.

he shifts his weight slightly, snow catching in his brown hair.

“do you ever think,” he says slowly, “that maybe i kept coming into the training room for more than just the injuries.”

you tilt your head. “matt…i figured that out around fake wrist injury number two.”

he smiles a little at that. then he steps closer. “good.”

your heart starts beating faster. snow catches on the shoulders of his hoodie, melting slowly under the streetlight.

“…why,” you ask quietly.

he shrugs, but there’s something softer in his voice now. “because i was hoping you might’ve liked me back.”

the words settle between you. you stare at him for a moment. then you sigh. “rempe.”

“yeah?”

“you are the most obvious man alive.”

he blinks. “…that’s not a no.”

you step a little closer. close enough that your boots bump lightly against his.

“it’s not.”

something soft spreads across his face then. relief. a little disbelief. “good.”

neither of you moves for a second. snow drifting around you. the city quiet.

then his hand lifts slowly, hesitating just for a second before resting lightly at your waist.

like he’s giving you time to pull away. you don’t.

“trainer,” he murmurs.

you raise an eyebrow. “yeah?”

“you gonna report me for this?”

you shake your head. “hmm…depends.”

“on what.”

you glance up at him. “how good the kiss is.”

he laughs under his breath, the sound low and warm in the cold air.

then he leans down. slowly. like he’s still half convinced you might change your mind. his hand tightens slightly at your waist, pulling you a little closer before his lips finally meet yours.

the kiss is warm despite the cold air around you.

soft at first. careful. your hand grips the front of his hoodie without thinking, fingers curling into the fabric as you lean into him just a little more.

that’s when he relaxes. the hesitation fades, the kiss deepening for a moment before he pulls back slightly, forehead almost brushing yours.

both of you smiling.

“so,” he says quietly.

“coffee again sometime?”

you roll your eyes. but you’re still standing very close to him.

“…only if you promise not to get into fights just to see me.”

he considers that very seriously. “…no guarantees.”

you laugh. and for once, you’re not waiting for matt rempe to show up in your training room.

he’s already right where you want him.

PAIRING ▸ will smith (wsh2) x reader 

GENRES ▸ fluff, wsh soft, childhood best friends → idiots in love, emergency contact, drunk calls, late night vulnerability, one bed trope MY FAV

SUMMARY ▸ the three times will smith calls you when drunk, and the one time it actually matters.

WORD COUNT ▸ 7.7k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ sharks gameday!!! smitty beating WASHED ALLEGATIONS, smitty beating BALD ALLEGATIONS, 21 bday with the toffoli’s, hatty watch the last game?? this is will smith hopecore and he will score tn!!! (i love him i cannot deal) also longest fic soooo far yay! 

the first time will calls you when he shouldn't, it’s at 2:47 in the morning. your phone buzzes against your nightstand far too loud and far too long enough to drag you out of sleep, the screen lighting up your dark room with a caller id you know far too well: will smith (contact name willy for nickname purposes). for a moment you just stare at it, half awake and half convinced you’re still dreaming. then your phone rings again. then buzzes a text. then rings again. which means one thing, and one thing only - will has either done something incredibly stupid, or he needs a ride home.

or possibly both. both was very possible if it was concerning will.

grabbing your phone, you mentally prepare yourself for whatever will, known resident troublemaker, has gotten himself into, and dragged you into by default. 

willy: y/nnnnnn

willy: im slushed

willy: snow shed

willy: fuck

willy: slohed

willy: Y/n. I am sloshed. (sent with Siri).

you sigh inwardly, but you can't help the smile that sneaks across your face. this boy. you were sure if you searched up the definition of twenty-one year old drunk boy will's face and golden curls would be front and center on page one.

you: hello william

you: will u be needing assistance ? 

willy: cant refd

willy: read

you: call me again maybe i'll answer this time

its not like this was entirely new to you. in fact, if you were being honest, it had become something of a pattern, or somewhat of an arrangement between you two. will gets drunk, will loses something important, will realizes he does not in fact know how to get home without assistance, and then, like clockwork, will calls you. you can recall the very first time it happened, back at bc when gabe perreault's sweet dulcet tones took over the phone and politely pleaded you to pick will up after one too many beers.

while you’re not entirely sure when you became the default solution to all of his bad decisions. you assume it comes with the best friend description, as for the last few years between will at the ntdp, late nights at bc, and throughout his rookie season, you two were solid constants in each other's lives. ever since your childhood you've been known as the "will wrangler," nickname a la grace smith.

but you suspect this dependency happened gradually. sometime between helping him move apartments last fall in san jose and the time he called you at midnight because he “accidentally bought too many groceries and they were going to expire.”

either way, the result is the same.

your phone starts ringing again.

you answer before the second ring finishes, somewhat groggy but still alert.

“hello, william.”

there’s a beat of loud music on the other end. someone yelling (asky maybe?) in the background. then, “y/n?”

his voice is unmistakably drunk. slower than usual, words slightly slurred together. signature drunk will.

you pinch the bridge of your nose as you sit up in bed. “yes. that is my name, that is who you called. where are you.”

“i told you,” he says, like this is obvious.

“you told me you’re ‘slushed’ and ‘snow shed,’” you reply flatly. “unfortunately, neither of those are locations.”

there’s a pause. “oh.” more background noise. someone laughs.

“i’m outside. it's cold. and i think someone stole my jacket. my new one! it's from zara and i was going to wear it to the game on-”

you close your eyes, cutting off the far too long rant about his new jacket. “outside where, will.”

“the bar.”

“which bar.”

another pause. longer this time. “…the one with the door.” you don't see his face but you know he's smiling. 

this little shit. you drop your head back against the pillow. “fantastic.”

he laughs softly, like he’s pleased with himself. “you’re funny when you’re mad.”

“i’m not mad.”

“you’re a little mad.”

you swing your legs out of bed with a sigh, already reaching for the hoodie hanging off your chair.

“i’m tired,” you correct. “and you woke me up at three in the morning.”

“it’s not three,” he argues. you glance at the clock. 2:53 a.m.

“it’s basically three.”

he hums thoughtfully, like he’s considering this information. “i did just call to hear your voice but while you're here…can you come get me.”

not a question. not really. just…will.

you pull your hair into a loose ponytail, grabbing your keys off the dresser.

“text me your location then please.”

“okay.”

“…how do i do that.”

you stop in the middle of your room. “will.”

“yeah?”

“give the phone to someone else.”

you hear muffled shuffling on the other end. voices. someone saying “dude she sounds mad.”

then a familiar voice cuts in.

“hey,” macklin says through the phone, barely containing his laughter. “can you come get your boy.”

you sigh. “what did he do.”

macklin snorts. “nothing illegal.”

that does not reassure you.

“yet,” he adds helpfully.

you rub your forehead. “i’m on my way.”

in the background, you hear will again. “is she coming?”

macklin answers before you can. “yeah, smitty. she’s coming.”

there’s a brief pause. then will’s voice, quieter this time. “told you she would.” 

you ignore it.

twenty minutes later you’re pulling into the dimly lit parking lot of a bar that looks exactly like every other bar in san jose that caters to hockey players with too much money and not enough sense. neon lights flicker against the windows, music thumping faintly through the walls.

and, right on cue, will smith is sitting on the curb outside the entrance. he looks exactly how you expected.

legs sprawled out in front of him, elbows on his knees, blond curls completely wrecked like he’s been running his hands through them for the last hour. someone has, in fact, stolen his new zara jacket. he’s in a t-shirt with his silver chain peeking out despite the cold, staring down at his dead phone like it personally betrayed him. looking like a kicked puppy.

macklin and a couple of the other guys are standing nearby. macklin spots your car first.

“oh thank god,” he mutters, nudging will with his foot. “your ride’s here.”

will looks up slowly. his face lights up. actually lights up. like someone flipped a switch.

“y/n!” he says, standing up far too quickly for someone in his current state. he wobbles a little. or a lot. macklin grabs his arm before he faceplants.

you roll down the window, smirking. “hello, william. your uber has arrived.”

he grins. “you came.”

“that i did.”

“i told them you would.”

macklin snorts. “he would not shut up about it.”

will ignores him completely, already making his way toward the passenger side of your car like a very tall, very drunk golden retriever.

you glance back at macklin. “he owe you guys money or something?”

“nah,” macklin says. “just his dignity.”

you laugh, fair, and quickly say your goodbyes.

will struggles, yet eventually climbs into the passenger seat, immediately slumping down like gravity has suddenly increased inside the car.

the second the door shuts, he exhales dramatically. “oh my god.”

you start the car. “what, you drama queen.”

“you saved me.”

you pull out of the parking lot. “from what.”

“them.”

he gestures vaguely out the window toward the bar. “they were being mean to me. and stole my jacket.”

“were they.”

“yeah.”

you glance over. he’s staring at you now, very seriously. “macklin said i can’t fight a bouncer.”

“…you cannot fight a bouncer.”

“i could.”

“you absolutely could not! you barely get into fights on ice… accept that you're just a lover not a fighter.”

he considers this. “okay maybe not tonight.”

you laugh quietly, shaking your head. there’s a moment of silence before he leans his head against the window. then, slowly, he leans the other way.

until his shoulder bumps yours. and then his head. rests there. you glance down at him briefly.

“will.”

“hmm…”

“sit up.”

“no.”

“you’re drunk.”

“i’m comfortable.”

he says it like that settles the matter. you sigh, but you don’t move him. instead you just keep driving, with the extreme difficulty. you sigh, but amusement settles deeper into you than actual annoyance. who would've thought - at the ripe age of twenty-one you would be playing chauffeur for your passenger princess best friend on a saturday night?

granted, there has been a number of nights where you are the one in the passenger seat, totally passed out and will to the rescue. one of those times was maybe last weekend after your girlfriends suggested getting a margarita. which turned into two. which turned into tequila shots. which turned into will holding your hair back while you became very well acquainted with the bush outside his apartment.

lets just say the arrangement between you two was more than fair.

for a minute, he’s quiet, only the quiet hum of your car and the radio playing softly filling the noise in the car.

then, like the nonstop yapper he is, will starts, “toff started it.”

you blink. “started what.”

“the argument.”

“what argument.”

“the one about penguins.”

“…what?”

“he said penguins are birds,” he mutters.

“will. penguins are birds.”

“they don’t fly.”

you press your lips together.

“i’m not having this conversation with you right now.”

he huffs, offended. “you never take my side!”

“because you are wrong. and usually are wrong.”

“unbelievable.”

you drive for another minute before realizing the car has gone suspiciously quiet. too quiet. you glance over. will is asleep.

completely asleep.

head still resting against your shoulder, mouth slightly open, breathing slow and even. mouthbreather.

you shake your head softly. “lightweight.”

he doesn’t even stir.

by the time you pull into his apartment complex, he’s still out. it takes a few attempts to wake him.

“will.”

nothing.

“will.”

he groans.

“we’re here.”

his eyes crack open slowly.

“…oh.”

“yeah. oh.”

getting him upstairs is a process. a slow, slightly uncoordinated dance involving a lot of leaning and one moment where he almost walks directly into the wall. god, what are they feeding these athletes?

after a while, you finally manage to get him inside his apartment. you think you deserve some sort of medal or nobel peace prize for the athletic feat you just accomplished, as will collapses onto the couch immediately. like a man who has completed a long and exhausting journey. you grab him a glass of water from the kitchen.

when you come back, he’s blinking up at the ceiling, and you're unsure any thoughts are being processed in his mind. “drink this.”

he takes the glass obediently. halfway through, he looks at you. really looks at you. and smiles. soft. a little dazed. “you’re the best.”

you roll your eyes. “oh, i know.”

he shakes his head slightly. “no, like… you are.”

you pause. something in his tone makes you glance back at him. he’s still smiling. eyes half-lidded and pupils blown.

completely, absolutely drunk.

“i’d marry you if i had to,” he mumbles.

you snort. “wow. how romantic. if you had to.”

he nods like he’s said something incredibly profound. “yeah.”

you take the empty glass from his hand and put an advil next to him. “go to sleep, will. don't forget you have practice tomorrow.”

he’s already halfway there. you turn off the lamp on the way out, closing the door quietly behind you. it’s only once you’re back in your car that the words replay in your head.

i’d marry you if i had to.

you laugh softly to yourself, starting the engine. drunk will says a lot of things.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

the second time will calls you when he shouldn’t, it’s just after midnight a few weeks later. not 2:47 a.m. not drunk. just… quiet. very unlike him.

your phone buzzes once on the couch beside you while you’re halfway through an episode of something you’re not actually paying attention to. when you glance down at the screen, the name makes your stomach drop just slightly. willy.

for a moment you assume it’s another ride situation. maybe he lost something again. maybe he noticed you stole the fancy mixing bowl from his apartment the other day. maybe he locked himself out of his apartment for the third time this month.

but when you answer, there’s no music. no yelling. no background chaos from teammates. just silence.

“…y/n?”

his voice is softer than usual. tired and a little bit pained. you immediately sit up a little straighter.

“yeah, here.” you say. “what did you do.”

there’s a small huff on the other end. not quite a laugh. “hey, nothing.”

which, coming from will smith, is suspicious. “okay,” you say slowly. “so why are you calling me at midnight if you didn’t do anything.”

another pause. more silence. then- “just wanted to hear your voice…you busy?”

and just like that, you know. something’s wrong. sometimes you swear you knew will better than he knew himself. 

you grab your keys before you even answer. “i’ll be there in ten.”

when you let yourself into his apartment, the first thing you notice is the TV playing game tape. paused mid-play. the second thing you notice is will.

he’s sitting on the floor in front of the couch, back leaning against it, long legs stretched out in front of him. a takeout container sits open beside him, half eaten. there’s another one on the coffee table in front of him. his hair is still wet from a shower.

he doesn’t look up right away when you walk in.

he’s staring at the screen, locked in. you follow his gaze. it’s the same clip looping over and over. him. missing coverage. goal against.

“…will.” he glances over.

his expression shifts slightly when he sees you, like he hadn’t entirely expected you to actually show up even though you always do. “hey.” it's despair and restraint all in one.

you drop your bag on the counter.

“you’ve been watching that the entire time, haven’t you.”

he shrugs, which means yes. you walk over without another word and sit down beside him on the floor.

you know will has always been in his head when he plays, inwardly critiquing every move he makes and overthinking almost everything. it was a flaw, but something you loved about him so much. 

for a second neither of you say anything. the TV hums quietly. then you reach forward, grab the remote, and turn it off.

the screen goes black. will immediately protests.

“hey-”

“no.” your answer is resolute.

“i was watching that.”

“it’s midnight,” you say, setting the remote down out of his reach. “you’re not allowed to review game tape at midnight.”

“coach literally told us to.”

“warso did not tell you to spiral on your living room floor at midnight alone.”

he exhales, leaning his head back against the couch. “i feel like shit. i played like shit.”

“no you didn’t.”

“i did.”

you nudge his shoulder lightly. “you didn’t.”

he turns his head to look at you. “did you even watch the game?”

shit. you pause, directly caught in the act. meekly adding, “…highlights?”

he groans, but you catch a smile sneaking on his face. bingo.

“unbelievable.”

you grin. “listen, if you wanted emotional support you should’ve called someone who actually understands hockey.”

“i thought i did.”

you bump him again. “excuse you, rude.”

he huffs quietly, but you can see some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

for a few minutes you just sit there. talking about nothing. you steal a dumpling from his takeout container. he complains about it. you ignore him. you then notice how close you are, how side to side your thighs are touching but how neither of you care enough to move.

without really thinking about it, you shift slightly closer and rest your head against his shoulder.

he goes still for half a second. like he noticed. you wonder if it was a little too much, but he doesn’t move away. instead, after a moment, he relaxes again.

and his hand, absentminded, almost unconscious, comes to rest lightly on your knee. it felt right.

neither of you comment on it. neither of you move.

you lean into his touch, greedy for more warm contact between you two. "better?"

he turns his head a little towards you, his face inches away from your own. "much."

you stay like that for a while, just sitting on the floor. the game long forgotten. you try not to overthink it.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

the third time will calls you when he shouldn’t, it’s 3:11 in the morning. you almost ignore it.

your phone buzzes against the couch beside you while you’re half asleep under a blanket, some movie long forgotten still playing quietly in the background. you groan, blindly reaching for it, fully expecting one of your girlfriends sending something stupid in your group chat.

instead the screen lights up with a familiar name.

willy

you stare at it, doing a quick fact check. 3:11 a.m. friday. sharks win last night. you smile, yeah, that checks out.

the call stops before you answer. then immediately-

willy: emergency contact willy: are you still that

you blink. before you can respond, the phone rings again, this time a facetime. you answer, propping your phone up on a pillow next to you and grinning. “will.”

the response is immediate. “hi.”

as he comes into frame, you notice he is very drunk. not just tipsy. not even “i’ve had a few.” extremely drunk: splotchy cherub cheeks, messy hair, pupils blown and all.

in the background there’s music, someone yelling, and macklin laughing next to him as will struggles to keep the phone up.

luckily for him, you were in a good mood. “william charles…are you drunk?” you ask.

“no.” a pause, but you see him immediately giggle.

then macklin’s voice somewhere in the distance, a flash of his brown hair. “dude you’re sitting on the floor.”

you laugh. “get off the floor smitty. where are you?”

“good question.”

“will!”

“here i'll show you." the camera was flipped to the back to show the bar but all you could really see was will's legs getting up from the floor after your scolding.

"bad angle smit."

more shuffling. then the sound of the phone changing hands. macklin appears again, with ekky next to him.

“heyyyyy y/n” they're both smiling, dazed, also obviously quite drunk.

“hi you two.”

mack starts, “can you come get him, he's starting to go up to random people here and yap about his goal earlier.” you hear a very close will shout "hey!"

“did he lose something again.”

macklin snorts. “his ability to stand.”

you grab your keys. “i’m on my way.”

macklin laughs softly, looking at ekky. “told you.”

and somewhere behind him you hear will say, very proudly, “she always comes.”

this time, when you arrive at the bar, he’s not outside. walking inside, the first thing you see is a booth in the back corner filled with hockey players who absolutely should not be trusted in public past midnight.

and right in the middle of them, will smith. sprawled across the booth like a cat who has fully claimed the furniture. his blond curls are wrecked, his silver chain glinting against the low bar lights, and he’s mid-story about something (probably retelling his goal story for the 30th time) when macklin spots you walking over. 

“oh thank god,” macklin says.

will turns. his entire face changes. “y/n!” like you’re the best thing he’s seen all night. which is saying something considering the bar has neon lights and tequila. will was drunk and still looked good, how was this fair?

you stop beside the booth, crossing your arms, feigning strictness. “hello william, up to no good i see?”

he beams at you. “you came.”

“that seems to be a pattern.”

macklin leans back, grinning. “he called you three times.”

you look at will. “three.”

will shrugs. “emergency.”

“what emergency exactly?”

he pauses. “…i forgot.”

macklin snorts into his drink. you shake your head.

“okay. up.” will immediately obeys, the compliant man he is. 

sort of. 

he stands up, and then immediately wraps you in a hug. a full bear hug. arms around your shoulders, face dropping against the side of your head like you’re a pillow.

you freeze, taking in will's cologne and his tight grip around your body. sometimes, you tend to forget how absolutely clingy and needy will gets when he's super drunk. exhibit a.

“will…”

“hi,” he mumbles into your hair.

macklin loses it behind you. “dude.”

you shove lightly at his chest, but not enough to actually move him. “okay, hi. personal space.”

“no.” he squeezes you again, almost lifting your smaller frame off of the ground.

“missed you.”

you blink. “…you saw me like five hours ago. i went to your game. you drove me home.”

“still counts.”

you finally manage to pry him off of you. mostly. one of his hands stays hooked around your wrist and the other on your lower back like he forgot how arms work. the warmth of his touch makes electric shocks course through your body.

eventually, you get your thoughts in order. “we’re leaving,” you say to the group.

macklin salutes you from the booth. “godspeed.”

the car ride is worse this time. because drunk will has decided you are apparently his emotional support human.

five minutes in, he’s holding onto the sleeve of your hoodie with one hand with a grip like a baby.

ten minutes in, his knee is somehow pressed against yours.

by fifteen minutes, his head is on your shoulder again.

“will.”

“hmm.” his drunk mumble sounds extremely sleepy.

“you’re doing it again.”

“doing what.”

“using me as a pillow.”

“you’re comfy.”

you sigh. “that’s not the point.”

he hums quietly, clearly not listening. for a moment the car is quiet. then he speaks again, softly. like it’s just a thought passing through. “y/n, you know you’re my favorite person right.”

your hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. “…what.”

he doesn’t even look up. still half leaning against you.

“like if i had to call someone.” he nudges your shoulder slightly with his forehead.

“it’s always you.”

your stomach flips. you tell yourself immediately, he’s drunk. drunk will says things. drunk will always says things. things sober will doesn't actually mean.

still, you hate that your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. “that’s only because you make bad decisions..and i'm always there to help you.”

he shakes his head lazily. “no.”

“because it’s you.”

you don’t respond to that. instead you pull into his apartment complex parking lot.

“okay,” you say. “inside.”

he groans dramatically. “you’re bossy.”

“someone has to be.”

he smiles slightly. “i like it.” freak.

getting him upstairs takes longer this time, mostly because he keeps leaning against you. like gravity has decided you’re the safest place in the room.

when you finally get him inside his apartment he makes it to his bedroom and collapses, albeit very dramatically. you bring him water. he drinks half of it, then looks up at you. eyes softer than ever, a little unfocused.

“you’re the best.”

you roll your eyes. “yeah, yeah.”

he shakes his head. “no. like—”

he pauses, clearly searching for words. “you just are.”

you don’t answer. you just take the empty glass from his hand.

“sleep,” you say.

he doesn’t answer right away, and you're unsure he's even heard you. instead, just as you turn to leave and pat yourself on the back for a job well done, his fingers catch loosely around your wrist, not enough to stop you, really. just enough to make you look back at his form on his bed..

“don’t go yet,” he says, voice low and heavy with sleep and alcohol. his words are softer now, less sloppy, like even drunk he means this part. “stay.”

you glance down at his hand around your wrist, then back at his face. his curls are flattened on one side from the pillow, cheeks still a little flushed, blue eyes half-lidded and pleading in a way that would’ve been unfair even if he weren’t will.

which, unfortunately, he is.

“will,” you say carefully, trying not to let your heart get ahead of itself. “you’re drunk.”

he blinks slowly, considering that. “yeah.”

“and you need to sleep.”

“i can do both.”

despite yourself, a laugh escapes you. “that’s not what i meant.”

he doesn’t let go. instead, he shifts further onto his side, making space beside him with a sleepy pat to the mattress. “just for a little,” he mumbles. “please.”

you know you should say no. you absolutely, definitely should say no.

he’s drunk, and clingy, and warm, and looking at you like you’re the answer to a question he hasn’t figured out how to ask yet. this is dangerous territory, the exact kind of thing that gets messy. the exact kind of thing that makes best friends start reading too much into half-meant words and late-night moments. something you and will never did.

you know that.

and yet.

“…for a little,” you repeat, mostly to yourself.

his mouth curves, small and sleepy. “yeah.”

you sigh like this is a burden, like this is an inconvenience, like your heart isn’t already halfway across the room and you made your decision the second he asked.

“fine,” you murmur. “but if you throw up on me, i’m actually never speaking to you again.”

will smiles, all soft and dopey. “you love me too much for that.”

the words hit harder than they should. you ignore that too. it seems like recently you've been doing a lot of ignoring feelings when it comes to your best friend.

kicking off your shoes and stealing one of will's old bc shirts, you slide onto the very edge of the bed on top of the comforter, fully prepared to keep as much space between you as possible.

that plan lasts all of three seconds.

because the second you’re there, will turns toward you and immediately tucks himself in close, one arm slinging loosely over your waist like it belongs there. his face presses into your shoulder, breath warm through the fabric of your shirt.

you go completely still.

“will.”

“hmm.”

“personal space, remember?.”

“no,” he mumbles, already half asleep again. “you’re staying.”

like that explains everything. like that settles it. somehow, with him, it usually does.

you then stare up at the dark ceiling, listening to the soft sound of his breathing evening out against you. unfortunately for you, every point of contact feels way too noticeable. his hand resting warm at your side. his knee nudged between yours. the weight of him, familiar and not, all at once.

it should feel strange. it doesn’t. that’s maybe the worst part.

slowly, carefully, like you don’t want to spook either of you, your hand lifts and comes to rest in his hair. it just looked so soft and touchable.

his response is immediate, even half-asleep. he leans in closer with a quiet hum, curling into you like he’s been waiting for it.

something tight twists in your chest.

“you’re such a menace,” you whisper, though there’s no heat in it.

he only breathes deeper, asleep now for real. eventually, your eyes drift shut too.

the next morning, you wake up to sunlight.

and panic.

for one disorienting, horrifying second, all you register is warmth and weight and a body much too close to yours. you bask in it for a moment, how wonderful it feels to wake up like this.

then memory quickly rushes back in. will. bar. macklin. emotional support. favorite person.

right. fuck.

you blink the sleep from your eyes and glance down.

will is still asleep, sprawled halfway on top of you like at some point in the night he decided proximity was not enough and simply committed to full contact. one arm is wrapped around your middle, his face buried in the crook of your neck, hair a complete disaster against your cheek.

you should move. you don’t. instead, you lie there for a second much too long, just… looking at him.

at the slow rise and fall of his chest. the faint crease between his brows even in sleep. the way his lips are parted slightly, completely relaxed. the way he’s holding onto you like it’s instinctual.

like it’s easy, like you belong here.

your stomach drops. oh, no. no no no. absolutely not.

because suddenly all the little things from the last few months come rushing back with humiliating clarity. the midnight phone call just to hear your voice. his hand on your knee on the floor by the couch. the way he always calls you, and you to him.

the way he always looks for you first. the dumb, drunk things he says that you’ve been laughing off because that was easier than actually thinking about them.

i’d marry you if i had to.you’re my favorite person.it’s always you.

shit.

your face heats all at once. you are not doing this.

you are not becoming one of those girls who falls for her best friend because he’s clingy and affectionate and looks at her too long and says things he probably won’t even remember in the morning.

except, except you already have. that’s the problem.

the realization settles over you all at once, quiet and undeniable: you like will. not in the casual, “he’s objectively attractive and occasionally very charming when he wants to be” way. not in the easy, best-friend affection way. in the bad way. in the dangerous way.

in the way that makes your heart trip when he calls and your stomach flip when he leans on you and your whole body go warm at the idea that maybe, maybe, some part of him means it when he says it’s always you.

in the way that destroys year-long friendships.

you stare at the ceiling again, like maybe it’ll offer solutions. it does not. all it offers is morning light and the crushing weight of your own stupidity.

because of course. of course you’d fall for will smith. and of course it would happen like this, half asleep in his bed, with him clinging to you like you’re something he can’t quite let go of.

and of course, because the universe hates you, he chooses that exact moment to stir.

his grip around your waist tightens for half a second before he blinks awake slowly, head lifting just enough to look at you.

there’s a beat, and for a moment, fear courses through your body. every wrong scenario plays through your mind: he knows, he's going to see right through you, he's going to hate you.

yet, his sleepy expression doesn’t change. “morning,” he mumbles, morning voice rough and gravelly. shit, now you were even finding his sleepy voice attractive. this was so incredibly bad.

you clear your throat, praying your face doesn’t look as hot as it feels. “morning.”

he squints at you, then glances down at the way he’s basically wrapped around you. “…oh.”

you let out a breathy laugh that sounds nowhere near as normal as you want it to. “yeah. oh.”

but instead of panicking, instead of jerking away or acting weird, his mouth just pulls into the smallest, sleepiest smile. “you stayed.”

simple, dangerous. you hate how much that does to you.

“you asked,” you manage, but it's actually the only words you manage to get out.

he hums, like that makes perfect sense, then drops his head right back to your shoulder for one more second like he’s not fully ready to be awake yet.

“good,” he says into your skin.

and that, that is what really ruins you. because later, when you’re back in your own apartment replaying every second of the night before with a coffee going cold in your hand, there’s no use denying it anymore.

you have, very inconveniently, absolutely caught feelings for your best friend, and you have no idea what to do with that.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

the fourth time will calls you when he shouldn’t and the one time it actually matters, you don’t answer.  which, in retrospect, is maybe the entire problem.

it happens two weeks later on a random tuesday afternoon. nothing dramatic. no bar. no post-game chaos. no tequila shots or macklin yelling in the background.

just your phone buzzing on the kitchen counter while you’re halfway through answering work emails. you glance at the screen.

willy

you hesitate for a second. not because you don’t want to answer. just because lately after your little realization…things have felt different ever since that night.

ever since waking up in his bed with his arm wrapped around you like it belonged there. ever since, for the last 14 days, you've been making excuses upon excuses up to will on why you haven't been able to hang or make it to any games. 

so instead of answering immediately like you always do, you let it ring out. your phone goes quiet. you tell yourself it’s fine, that he’s probably bored. or needs help with groceries again. or wants to argue about something ridiculous like whether penguins count as birds.

then it rings again. still will. you silence it. twenty seconds later, it rings again.

you stare at it this time, three missed calls, which would normally mean something. but you sigh, grabbing your phone and typing instead.

you: sry busy w work

you: if drunk, drink water and go to bed LOL

ok, cool, casual. you toss the phone back onto the counter, think about possibly going on do not disturb, and go back to your emails for about thirty seconds. then your phone rings again.

this time, macklin. your stomach drops immediately, shit maybe it was bad.

you answer on the first ring, “hello?”

“hey,” macklin says quickly.

he doesn’t sound drunk. which is worse.

“is will with you?”

you stand up before he even finishes the sentence. “no,” you say slowly. “why.”

there’s a brief pause on the other end. “he tried calling you.”

three missed calls. your chest tightens, and your mind goes to the worst.

“what happened? is will ok?”

“nothing terrible,” macklin says quickly. “just—he took a hit in practice. shoulder. trainers checked him out but he kinda freaked out after.”

“he kept saying he needed to call you.”

your heart stutters. “where is he.”

“locker room hallway,” macklin says. “he didn’t wanna go home yet.”

you’re already grabbing your keys.

“i’m coming.”

the arena is mostly empty by the time you get there. practice ended an hour ago. the hallway outside the locker room is quiet except for the distant echo of equipment being packed away somewhere down the hall.

you spot him immediately.

will is sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, long legs stretched out in front of him.

not drunk. not smiling like usual. just alone and quiet… staring at the wall across from him and thinking. his shoulder is wrapped in ice and athletic tape peeks out from under his t-shirt sleeve. his curls are still damp from a shower, pushed messily off his forehead.

he looks up when he hears your panicked footsteps. the second his eyes land on you, something in his expression shifts.

it's immediate relief.

“hey,” he says softly.

you stop a few feet away, crossing your arms even though your chest still feels tight. “you could’ve called literally anyone,” you say.

he watches you for a second, then shrugs lightly. “i did.”

“you.” the hallway suddenly feels very quiet, the clatter of the equipment very far away. you open your mouth, then close it again. because he’s right, he did call someone, you just didn’t answer.

“macklin told me what happened,” you say finally, stepping closer. “how bad is it.”

“it’s fine,” he says quickly. “just tweaked it.”

you glance at the ice pack on his shoulder, and you're both thinking about his injury that took him out a few months ago. you hesitate for a second before sitting down next to him against the wall.

neither of you speak for a moment. the silence is heavy.

eventually you bump your shoulder lightly against his good one.

“dramatic,” you mutter.

he huffs out a small laugh, and it was good to hear his giggle again. “i panicked.”

“you get hit every game.”

“yeah but-” he pauses, then shrugs again. “i don’t know.”

you glance at him. “you don’t know?”

“ii just…” he runs a hand through his hair. “wanted to talk to you.”

your stomach flips. dangerous territory, but sober this time. you try to keep your tone light.

“that’s what teammates are for.”

he looks at you then. really looks at you.

“but they’re not you.”

that lands somewhere deep in your chest, and this feeling is exactly why you've been avoiding him for the last two weeks. you look away quickly.

for a moment neither of you move. the hallway is quiet except for the hum of the arena lights overhead. it feels strangely private, like the entire building has decided to give the two of you space.

will nudges your knee again. a small habit. one he’s had for years. you don’t realize how much it affects you until now.

“you know,” you say after a second, forcing some of your usual teasing back into your voice, “this is technically the fourth time.”

he glances at you. “fourth time what.”

“that you’ve called me in some kind of crisis.”

he snorts quietly. “this was not a crisis.”

“you panic-called me three times.”

“okay,” he says defensively. “maybe a little crisis.”

you tilt your head. “and i didn’t even answer the first time.”

he shrugs, like that part never mattered. “it never mattered how many times i called, you still came.”

the simplicity of it makes something in your chest tighten. you look down at your hands.

“yeah,” you say quietly. “i guess i did.”

another small silence settles between you. “seriously though,” you add, trying to sound casual and failing slightly, “you should probably update your emergency contact.”

will frowns. “why.”

“because apparently i’m unreliable now,” you say. “three missed calls...and mack had to call me today.”

he studies you for a second, then shakes his head. “no.”

you look up. “no?”

“no.” he adjusts the ice pack on his shoulder, then looks back at you.

“i like my emergency contact.”

your heart does an unfortunate little flip. you try to roll your eyes, but the smile still comes out. “you like having someone who will pick you up from bars and stop you from fighting bouncers.”

“that too,” he admits.

you laugh softly.

then he says something that changes everything. “but mostly i like that it’s you.”

he makes the words so simple, so easy. like he’s just stating a fact he’s known for a while. you feel suddenly very aware of the way your shoulder is still pressed against his. the way his knee is touching yours. the way he’s looking at you like this conversation means more than either of you is pretending it does.

you swallow. “will…”

he tilts his head slightly. “yeah?”

your brain runs through about a hundred possible exits. jokes about how his hair looks. deflections. anything that keeps this from becoming real.

but then you remember the missed calls. and the way he looked sitting on the floor when you walked in. and the fact that every time something happens: good, bad, stupid, drunk, he calls you. always you.

so instead you say the only thing that feels honest. “why do you always call me.”

he blinks like the question surprises him. then he lets out a small breath. “you really don’t know?”

you shake your head. his mouth twitches slightly.

“y/n.” the way he says your name feels different than all the times before, softer. “it’s always been you.”

your heart stops. or at least it feels like it does.

you laugh weakly. “that’s not an answer.”

he shifts slightly so he’s facing you more fully now.

“okay,” he says. “then here’s the answer.”

he looks a little nervous now, and you’ve never seen that before. not from him, not cocky professional player will smith.

“i call you because you always pick up,” he says. “even when you pretend you’re annoyed.”

you open your mouth to argue, but he keeps going. “and because you show up. every time.”

“and because when something happens, anything, i want to tell you first.”

your throat goes dry.

he shrugs lightly. “kind of figured that meant something.”

“will,” you say slowly.

“are you saying—”

he cuts you off. “i like you.”

just like that, no dramatic buildup, no grand speech. just will smith, your best friend, sitting on the floor of the empty arena hallway, looking slightly nervous and very sincere.

you blink, “you like me.”

“yeah.”

“like…like like?”

he smiles a little. “like i call you when i’m drunk, and when i’m freaking out, and when i’m bored, and when i probably shouldn’t. im pretty sure i like you a lot. and i have for basically only thought about you for the last 6 months.”

your brain is still catching up. “that’s… a lot of calls.”

“yeah,” he says. “good thing you’re my emergency contact.”

you laugh before you can stop yourself. “that is absolutely not what that means.”

he leans a little closer. “maybe not.”

your heart is beating so loud you’re convinced he can hear it. you stare at him for one second longer. then you sigh, and you shake your head.

“this is so inconvenient.”

“why.”

“because,” you say, rubbing your forehead, “i realized i liked you like two weeks ago and was planning to ignore it forever.”

will freezes. “wait.”

you immediately regret saying that. you wince, “…what.”

“two weeks?”

“will.”

“you like me?”

you groan. “oh my god, don't make it a whole thing.”

his grin spreads slowly, as you see his bunny teeth come out, dangerously. “wow.”

“will please do not make that face.”

“what face.”

“that one.”

“the ‘i’m winning’ face?”

“there is no winning here!”

“feels like winning.”

you shove his shoulder lightly, and he laughs. then the laughter fades into something quieter. he looks at you again.

“so,” he says after a second.

“so,” you echo.

the air is comfortable but charged with something new, and you're unsure on how to proceed with this new territory. you rub the back of your neck. “this is weird.”

he huffs out a quiet laugh. “a little.”

“we’ve been friends for years,” you say. “and suddenly you’re just casually dropping the ‘i’ve liked you for six months’ thing.”

“sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t look very sorry. “should i have made a powerpoint?”

you shove his shoulder lightly. “don’t push it. don't take that one good shoulder for granted”

“hey,” he says quietly. you glance back at him.

“yeah?”

“come here.”

you blink. “…i’m literally already right here.”

“closer.”

your stomach flips, and the softness of his voice makes desire run through your body. "look who's bossy now." but you shift anyway, turning slightly so you’re facing him more fully.

the movement puts you closer than before, close enough that you can see the faint freckles across his nose, close enough that you notice the way his gaze flicks down to your lips for half a second before coming back up.

neither of you say anything. will reaches out slowly, like he’s giving you time to change your mind.

his fingers brush your wrist first, then slide down to lace loosely through your hand.

your breath catches, and he notices immediately.

his thumb brushes across the back of your hand. slow, absentminded, like he’s been doing it forever. another second passes, then you tilt your head a little.

“will.”

“yeah?”

“are you going to keep staring at me like that or…”

his eyebrow lifts. “or what.”

“…or kiss me.”

that does it. the corner of his mouth lifts slightly in a smirk. “thought you’d never ask.”

his hand comes up to your cheek, warm and careful, like he’s still half expecting you to pull away. you don’t. so he leans in.

the first kiss is soft, almost cautious. like both of you are still adjusting to the fact that this is real. like you weren't just two best friends who admitted their feelings to each other just seconds ago.

his lips are warm, a little hesitant at first, but when you tilt closer, when your hand slides up into the curls at the back of his neck that you love so much,  something in him relaxes.

he kisses you again. deeper this time. much more certain. like he’s been holding back for months and finally decided he doesn’t have to anymore.

you let out a quiet laugh into the kiss when his other hand settles at your waist, pulling you a little closer.

he pulls back slightly, smiling. “what.”

you shake your head, a little breathless. “nothing.”

“no,” he says, forehead bumping lightly against yours. “what.”

“i just,” you say, trying to catch your breath, “cannot believe this started because you’re bad at making responsible life decisions.”

he grins. “hey.”

“you panic-called me three times.”

“yeah.”

“and now you’re kissing me in a hallway.”

“seems like a good outcome.”

you laugh softly. then he kisses you again, quick and warm, like he just wanted another one. when he pulls back this time, you’re both smiling. the tension that’s been sitting between you for months finally gone.

you lean your shoulder against his again.

“so,” you say.

“so,” he echoes.

“next time something happens,” you say, nudging his knee lightly, “you should probably just text.”

he looks over at you.

“nah.”

“will-”

“calling worked out pretty well for me.”

you roll your eyes, but your fingers slide back into his without thinking.

later that night, your phone buzzes on will's kitchen counter while you’re standing a few feet away. you glance down at it.

willy

you look up at him from across the room. he’s already watching you from the couch, mischievous grin creeping across his face.

“really?” you ask.

he shrugs. “just checking if you’d answer.”

you roll your eyes, but you do. and somehow, that’s always been the point.

PAIRING ▸ will smith wsh x reader 

GENRES ▸ fluff, established relationship, wsh soft, wsh pretty boy agenda

SUMMARY ▸ a slow sunday morning with will means messy hair, lazy cuddles, and refusing to get out of bed.

WORD COUNT ▸ 1.3k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ oh white boy you have endeared me so…..pushing the smitty soft pretty boy agenda IDGAF!!! also manifesting will goal and sharks win soon IM READY FOR IT!

there’s something about sundays in the early morning that feel softer.

maybe it’s the way the sunlight comes in slower, spilling through the curtains in thin golden strips instead of harsh beams. or the way the world feels quieter: no alarms, no rushing, no schedule to follow except the one you make for yourself.

or maybe, it’s the way will’s arm is thrown over your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

you wake up slowly, blinking against the sunlight, still half tucked into sleep. the first thing you notice is warmth. despite the san jose heat, will's 6'0 frame often splayed across your smaller form was a consistent furnace: you usually went to bed now clad in one of his old oversized development shirts to accommodate.

the second, weight. you shift slightly to your side, testing it, and the arm around you tightens immediately.

you huff out a quiet laugh of disbelief. this boy. “will, i can tell you’re awake,” you mumble.

behind you, there’s a low, sleepy groan that reverberates through your body. the timbre of his voice is deep, and one thing about you was your absolute obsession with wills sleepy morning voice.

“m’not i swear,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, face pressing further into the back of your neck and quickly planting a featherlight kiss on your shoulder. “go back to sleep.”

you smile a little, even though he can’t see it. “you just answered me.”

“doesn’t count.”

“hmm…i think it does.”

his grip tightens again, pulling you back into his body when you try to turn over. you revel in the feeling for a moment, caged in by all muscle.

“baby, stop moving,” he complains, words slurring together. “it’s sunday.” another thing about will in the mornings other than his clinginess was that he was an absolute whiny baby. if he had an early morning skate, you basically had to fight to drag his whiny form out of your bed.

you snort softly. “what does that even mean.”

“means we don’t do anything today.”

you finally manage to roll onto your side to face will, his arm still draped over your waist like it belongs there.

“you say that every sunday.”

“yeah,” he says, blinking one blue eye open to look at you. his blond hair’s a mess from sleep, sticking up in every direction, and there’s a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. “and every sunday you try to make plans.”

“excuse you…because normal people leave their apartments sometimes.” you lift a free hand to muss up his hair even further and slide your fingers down his face in a caress. will leans into your touch lovingly.

he squints at you. “i leave our apartment.”

“for hockey.”

“that counts.”

“it does not count, that's your job.”

he stares at you for a second longer, like he’s genuinely considering this argument. then,  “okay,” he says. “then i guess i’m not normal.”

that makes you smile and flick his nose playfully. “i could’ve told you that.”

he narrows his eyes. “rude.”

“accurate.”

he shifts, propping himself up slightly on one elbow, looking down at you now. there’s still sleep in his eyes, but there’s something else there too. you know it's love.

you take the time then to look at will. really look at him. you know he hated when people would chirp him and call him pretty boy, but times like this made you hyperaware of how gorgeous he was. the natural morning light showed off the moles on his skin, the angular slope of his perfect nose, the tips of his golden hair. you didn't want to admit you were jealous, but it was hard not to be.

“you're staring… and you’re still here,” he says, like he’s just realizing it.

you blink. “…yeah?”

he hums, like he’s satisfied with that answer, then lets himself fall back down beside you, tugging you closer again without asking. another featherlight kiss to your shoulder. “good.”

“you’re clingy, and whiny.” you mumble.

“only on sundays.”

you smile again “ we both know that’s not true.”

“okay,” he amends, voice muffled now against your shoulder. “mostly on sundays.”

you laugh quietly, letting your hand drift up again to his hair, absentmindedly fixing a piece you mussed earlier that’s sticking straight up.

he leans into it immediately. of course he does, the golden retriever boy he was. “don’t start,” he mumbles.

“start what.” your tone is innocent but you know exactly what you're doing.

“that,” he says, tilting his head slightly into your hand. “if you do that i’m not getting up.”

“you weren’t getting up anyway.”

“true.” quiet. easy. stable. you glance toward the window again, sunlight stretching further across the bed now.

“…we should get breakfast,” you say.

he groans. “no, can't i just stay in bed with my beautiful girlfriend all day?.”

“will, flattery is going to get you absolutely nowhere.”

“no please,” he repeats, tightening his hold on you again. “we have food here.”

“we have pancake mix and three different kinds of protein bars. if you can recall, we did not go grocery shopping the other day because you were busy binging new girl again.”

“that’s breakfast.”

“that is not breakfast.”

he lifts his head just enough to look at you again. “…i could make us pancakes.”

you raise a brow. “you can’t make pancakes.”

he looks offended. “i can absolutely make pancakes.”

“last time you tried to make pancakes you set off the smoke alarm.”

“that was one time.”

“you and macklin made a pizza with the cardboard still under it, will.”

“we did not make a pizza with the cardboard still under it, and that was completely macklins fault! ”

you just look at him, squinting a bit.

he pauses. “…okay maybe a little.”

you laugh, and he smiles at that, small, sleepy, a little crooked.

it unfortunately makes you fold. just a bit. “okay, maybe it won't hurt to stay in bed a little longer.”

his face changes immediately. like, actually immediately. the lazy, half-asleep expression melts into something brighter, softer, extremely boyish. his eyes light up just a little, the corners crinkling as a grin spreads across his face.

“yeah?” he says, like he’s trying to play it nonchalant, but it's will, who has no nonchalant bone in his body, so he was absolutely failing.

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “yeah i guess.”

that’s all it takes. “good,” he murmurs, and before you can say anything else, he shifts closer, somehow even closer than he was before, until you’re basically tucked underneath him.

“will, ” he cuts you off with a kiss. not a real one. just a quick press to your cheek.

and then another. and another.

“will, ” you laugh, squirming slightly as he peppers kisses across your face, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “what are you doing”

“being grateful,” he mumbles against your skin, not stopping for a second.

“for what-” another kiss.

“for this,” kiss.

“for you not making me leave,” kiss.

“for-” he pauses, pressing one softer, slower kiss right below your cheekbone. “-this.”

you huff out a breath that turns into a laugh, your hands coming up to push lightly at his shoulders.

“you’re ridiculous.” your fingers slide into his golden hair, tugging gently just to get him to stop for a second so you can actually look at him.

he still looks stupidly happy. his hand comes up, brushing a piece of hair away from your face. you smile, leaning into his touch without thinking. he grins again, like he’s won something, before dropping his head back down against you, arms wrapping around you like second nature.

you settle into him, the warmth, the quiet, the slow stretch of the morning wrapping around both of you.

it's at that moment you officially declare sundays as the best day of the week.

PAIRING ▸ connor bedard x reader 

GENRES ▸ enemies to lovers, media x athlete, mutual annoyance, slow burn?, everyone notices except them

SUMMARY ▸ working media for the red wings, the blackhawks rival team, means interviewing connor bedard after every game.

connor bedard, unfortunately, hates your smug questions. you, unfortunately for him, enjoy asking them.

WORD COUNT ▸ 5.1k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ sometimes when i see connor i feel feral like that pic of the wolf tearing its shirt off (especially his biceps oml)….also i am like #1 fan of sassy connor so here’s this!!!!! also connor and reader are lowkey losers…lol MY LONGEST HOCKEY FIC YET YAY

it was no stranger to anyone in the hockey world that you and connor bedard had what could be called… a rivalry of some sorts. 

to anyone, the logic behind it all was fairly intuitive - two hockey franchises with a history of hating each other. connor bedard, the on occasion hot-headed blackhawks star hockey player. you, the usually pushy young post-game red wings media talent. ergo, rivalry.

the whole ordeal started almost two years ago, in which connor bedard immediately decided that he, in your first post-game presser and blackhawks loss, did not like you.

it's not like he had no reason to: you knew you were pressing his buttons. you, in your fresh charcoal suit and perfectly straightened hair, in your media debut, did the impossible. you visibly shook the normally stoic connor bedard.

the whole presser presented business as usual: casual questions and comments on turnovers, power plays, and the like. it was very media-formal, boring, and started to drag. you, however, weren't the biggest fan of playing by the media's rules. it was one of the reasons you were there in the first place, a young media talent with a gritty personality and a habit for asking the questions no one else would.

so, you decided to come out swinging. "hi connor, y/n l/n, red wings media. tough loss tonight, any personal thoughts on what went wrong?" your tone was polite, but your smile hinted that you knew exactly what you were doing.

connor then looked up from his stat sheet to find you in the crowd, locking you into his gaze. his intense stare made you for a split second regret everything you said, but to your surprise, he smirked. "tough loss huh…we'll review the tape." the glint in his eye held a little bit of a challenge, but you weren't going to back down.

you then decided that just wasn't enough, and would make it your personal mission to get more out of him. you bring your mic back to your face, "right then. definitely a lot to review."

his face, just for a second, exposed his true shock to your response, but quickly settled back into nonchalance. the rest of the conference goes similarly, you pushing slightly smug questions about the hawks loss to the wings, and connors seemingly-polite, shutdown answers delivered with a grimace. 

by the end, the obvious tension between you two was apparent. you're basically out of your seat at this point, mic warm in your hand from overuse, blood pumping from the back and forth. you were absolutely fired up. connors stare is now glaring, all stoicism lost. he was very clearly pissed, now solely answering with "no comment" which prompted your fiery responses. other reporters seemed to take a back seat on their own questions, instead entertained by the showdown between you two that has occurred over the last forty minutes. suddenly, the hawk's media team breaks the ice as much as they could, as a man stands, blocking connor from your view, "alright everyone, thanks for all the questions. have a good night!"

you smirk. now satisfied with the outcome and starting to pack up your things, you miss the way connor watches your every move as you leave, intrigued. 

later that evening you receive a call from your best friend. "Y/N!!!!! have you been on twitter recently? you're viral!"

dammit. this is what you didn't want to happen. "your first day and you're already stirring the pot! the whole interaction though? it was lowkey hot. did you see the way bedard was looking at you?"

you groan. "yeah girl, he looked like he wanted to blow me up with his mind. please, noooo. i am a professional media-trained representative."

you cant see her face but you hear her scoff clearly annoyed, "sure, media trained my ass! i can think of other ways bedard could blow-"

"ok bye! no more speaking, thank you good night." you hang up the phone, and go on twitter. sure enough you've gone mildly viral, and hockeytwt is all over the press conference between you two.

willsmithhockerlover: WAIT THIS IS HOTTTT WHO IS THIS QUEEN

bedsygirl222: she's better than me…if i was her i would've dove over the table to him

blackhawks412: lowkey i need both of them…MORE PLZ 

this was a whole thing now, unfortunately. game on, connor bedard.

-------

then, what started as one (slightly?) unprofessional press conference quickly turned into a pattern. for the rest of the season, every single time the red wings played the blackhawks, without fail, you were now assigned to connor bedard. and to both of your dismay, the fans and the rest of the media loved it.

it wasn’t even subtle anymore. your boss would glance at the schedule, glance at you, and go, “l/n, you’ve got bedard tonight.” like it was fate. or a freak social experiment. definitely the latter. you did not put fate and connor bedard in the same sentence.

every single time, it played out the same. you’d step up with your mic, composed, polished, a little too confident, and somehow, he’d already be looking for you in the crowd.

waiting.

at some point you knew his presence very well. a little too well for your taste. his stupid blue eyes. the way his hair would be mussed after an especially hard fought game. the way, at times, his gold chain found his mouth when he was thinking about a reflective question. it was torturous.

then started the forty minute dance between you two, connor dodging and rebutting questions, you shooting comments about his performance. 

the tension between you two, at this point, was impossible to ignore by anyone. his teammates would start nudging each other the second you stood up, and you once heard a chirp from nazar "bedsy, look your girlfriends here!" which was met subsequently with a unpolite shove. PR staff would sigh like they knew exactly what was about to happen

other reporters? oh they were watching. not asking questions. not writing notes. watching. because your interviews had officially become entertainment.

“y/n, red wings media,” you’d start, like clockwork.

and connor would lean back slightly in his chair, jaw tightening with a clench just enough to be noticeable. dammit, why did he have to have such a good jawline?

you’d ask about a missed play.

he’d respond with, “no comment.”

you’d ask about defensive breakdowns.

he’d respond with, “we’ll look at the tape.”

you’d raise an eyebrow to his response that reflected your first meeting.

he’d glare. you'd glare. commence a staredown.

wash, rinse, repeat.

at some point, the dynamic stopped being strictly professional. It became something else. a game. and neither of you were backing down. but, if the rest of the media and the hawks were bad, the fans were the worst culprit.

what started as a single clip from your first press conference had snowballed into something… much bigger than either of you intended. because apparently, hockey fans had decided that your ongoing verbal sparring with connor bedard was not, in fact, professional tension,

but chemistry.

every interview was clipped. every glance slowed down. every micro-expression by each of you analyzed like it was game footage. and the comments?

genuinely unbearable. you learned very quickly to never open twitter immediately after a game. you didn’t always succeed.

bedsyfan88: THEY'RE LITERALLY FLIRTING IDGAF redwingsnation: why is y/n the only one who can get him to talk… nhlanalysisss: y this is the most personality bedard has ever shown in an interview user47291: enemies to lovers plot loading…

you slammed your phone face down on your bed.

absolutely not. this was not an “plot.” this was your job. your very serious, very professional big girl job that now, somehow, involved getting into weekly staredowns with one of the most talked about young players in the league.

on connors end, things weren’t much better. it starts in the locker room.

“hey bedsy,” rinzel calls out, barely holding back a grin. “your reporter friend’s here.” connor doesn’t even look up as he pulls off his gloves. “she’s not my—”

“you two flirting again tonight or what?” nazar chimes in.

he finally looks up at that, shooting him a glare that would’ve shut down anyone else. it doesn’t work. “shut up,” he mutters, grabbing a towel and throwing it over his shoulder. “she’s just annoying.”

“yeah?” someone snorts. “then why do you only answer her questions?” connor pauses. just for a second.

long enough for it to be noticed. “i answer everyone’s questions,” he says flatly, seemingly nonchalant.

“no you don’t.”

“whatever,” he mutters, already heading toward the media room. “it’s her job to ask.”

but even he knows that’s not the whole truth. because every time he walks into that room, he finds you first. always. like it’s instinct. like it’s expected. like it’s part of the routine now. and when your eyes meet from across the crowd, there’s that same spark. annoying. familiar. and just a little bit exciting.

------

then one night, unfortunately for you, connor bedard decides to play like an absolute menace. he's usually always good, but three points. clean skating. unreal control on the ice. and worst of all, the wings lose. badly.

by the time you make it into the post-game room, exhausted from yelling, you already know this is going to be different. you spot him immediately in his right side chair as always.

he’s relaxed. too relaxed. leaned back in his chair  in a black blackhawks tee and a backwards cap, one arm slung over the next that showed off his bicep a little too good, talking quietly with nazar until the media settles.

then, as always, his eyes find you. of course they do. and there’s something new there, something you intensely dislike the way it makes you feel. pure confidence. cockiness emanating from his body.

you hate it. you hate the way it's insanely attractive, the way it makes the bottom of your stomach turn with need. you hate the way how much you like this version of connor bedard. you step up anyway.

“y/n l/n, red wings media,” you start, voice steady despite everything. there’s a brief pause, everyone in the room on their toes and holding their breaths. you sigh internally.

and then, against every single instinct in your body,

“impressive game tonight.”

the room goes quiet. like, noticeably quiet. someone in the back actually lowers their camera. connor blinks. once. twice.

his brows pull together slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of trap. “…is that a trick question?” a few reporters snort.

you press your glossed lips together, fighting a smile.

“no,” you say, tilting your head slightly, grinning a bit. “just an observation… no further questions.” you sit then, smoothing your suit pants and hoping no one can hear how fast your heart is beating. a girl CAN be polite. it didn't mean anything, he just had a good game and you had to let him know, right?

he studies you for a second longer than necessary. like he’s trying to read between the lines. like he doesn’t quite trust you. “…thanks,” he says finally, slower this time. and for the first time since this whole thing started, there’s no bite in it. no edge. a few months in, and your first wholesome interaction. slowly, you two smile at each other for a second. its weird. unfamiliar. but,

you feel it before you can stop yourself. a shift. small, but unmistakable. and suddenly, this doesn’t feel like a battle anymore. you look away focusing on your clipboard in front of you, suddenly shy. just so the fans don't look into it too much, sure.

-------

a few weeks later, once you think you've gotten enough of connor bedard, you’re minding your business at your desk, scrolling through clips from the last game, when your boss appears beside you like a bad omen. shes smiling, mischievous from head to toe.

“l/n.” you don’t look up. “…no.” the look is straight trouble, and she only ever looks at you like that before a press conference. 

“you don’t even know what i’m about to say!”

“if it involves connor bedard, the answer is still no.”

a pause. “league media feature. you’re filming it. tomorrow. in chicago.”

you freeze. slowly, you look up.“…with who.”

she doesn’t even try to hide it. “bedard, obviously.”

you drop your head back against your chair. “you’ve got to be kidding me, we don't even play them for another four weeks!”

she sends you a look that you can't quite decipher. "first of all, concerning that you know when we play the blackhawks next. second, everyone knows he's most comfortable around you."

you dodge the second half of what she said. "it's literally my job to know when we play." you deadpan.

"and so is listening to whatever your boss says!" she then walks away, leaving no room for arguments.

so the next afternoon and one short flight to chicago later, you find yourself standing in a empty united center with a camera crew, a clipboard in your hand, and the overwhelming urge to walk out. this was fine. this was professional. this was your job.

you could absolutely spend extended time with connor bedard without losing your mind.

“you’re late, media girl.”

your head snaps up. and there he is. clad in a hoodie, backwards hat, hands shoved into his pockets like he owns the place, even though he does.

you scoff. “ excuse me, i’ve been here for twenty minutes. and i do have a name you know.”

“yeah,” he shrugs, stepping closer. “so have i, y/n.” you blink.

you ignore the way that this is the first time you've heard him say your name and how good it sounds coming from him. “…what?”

he jerks his head toward the other side of the rink. “just didn’t feel like saying hi yet.”

you stare at him. unbelievable. “you’re insufferable.”

“you love it.” you let out a short laugh before you can stop yourself. that’s new.

he notices, his eyes brightening once you laugh. that’s worse.

filming starts.  no press room. no microphones shoved in his face. no audience waiting for one of you to slip up. just you, him, and a camera. “alright,” you say, glancing at your notes. “we’re doing a quick segment on your training habits. try to keep it interesting.”

“oh, i always do.” he rolls his eyes, but there’s no real bite to it.

“yeah, i’ve noticed.” you hum.

“you’re welcome for the personality, by the way. your interviews were getting a little boring before me.”

he lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“oh so you've noticed my interviews before? a fan then, you’re unbelievable.”

“and yet,” you tilt your head, smirking slightly, “you keep answering my questions.”

he pauses at that. just for a second.

“…yeah,” he says finally, quieter this time, smiling at himself. “guess i do.”

the rest of the session is actually to your surprise, fun. you tease him about his multi-step in-depth superstitious training routine. he chirps you about your “aggressive interview tactics.”

once, you bump his shoulder when he makes a comment. he nudges you back, but careful not to knock you on your skates.

it’s easy. way too easy. and that’s the problem. later in your hotel room bed, it hits you slowly. annoyingly, forcing you to sit up. because this interview version of connor bedard? is not the one you’ve built up in your head he’s not cold. he’s not short-tempered. he’s funny. quick witted. a little cocky, yeah, but in a way that makes you want to push back, not walk away.

right before you sleep, your phone lights up.

[instagram: _connorbedard has started following you]

you try to ignore how your heart clenches at the sight of it. fuck.

calling your best friend, you begrudgingly admit, " y/bff/n…hi i know it's like 3am in michigan sorry..but…i think i...like connor? we had this whole thing today and he just followed me on instagram and…"

there’s a pause on the other end. like, a long one.too long.

“…hello? are you there?” you mutter, already regretting everything. and then,

“OH MY GOD.” you wince, pulling the phone slightly away from your ear. "volume, please!"

“you like him? as in—like like him? as in connor bedard, public enemy number one, post-game menace, ‘no comment’ king...him?” you flop back against your pillows with a groan.

“please don’t say it like that.”

“how else am i supposed to say it?” she scoffs. “you’ve spent the last two years verbally sparring with this man on camera and now you’re calling me at three in the morning like—‘hey girl i have feelings.’” you press the heel of your hand to your forehead.

“i do not sound like that.”

“you literally do.”

you sigh, a little pathetic.“it’s just,” you start, then stop, staring up at the hotel room ceiling. “he’s not like that. not… outside of it.”

“outside of what.”

“the interviews,” you say quietly. “the whole thing. he’s, ” you hesitate, like saying it out loud makes it worse. “he’s like nice and funny… i guess.”

she goes quiet again. “…nice? and funny?” she repeats slowly, like the word physically pains her.

“i know,” you groan. “i hate it.”

“oh you are gone,” she says immediately.

“i am not gone!”

“you just said the man you’ve been beefing with for two years is ‘nice.’ and 'funny.' in your world of liking men, you are absolutely gone, y/n.”

you roll onto your side, pulling the blanket up to your chin like it might shield you from the reality of the situation. “it’s not like that,” you insist weakly.

your phone buzzes in your hand. you freeze. she hears it.

“what was that.”

“nothing.”

“y/n.”

you swallow, slowly lowering the phone to look at the screen. a notification. again.you open it before you can stop yourself.

[ _connorbedard: liked your photo ]

your stomach flips. actually flips. you sit up again, faster this time.

“…he just liked my post.”

there’s a beat. and then, “SHUT UP.”

“i’m serious.”

“which one.”

“the one from last week. the…” you stop yourself. “it doesn’t matter which one.”

“it absolutely matters which one.”

you press your lips together, already spiraling. you haven't felt this way about someone is so long, it was driving you crazy. “no it does not. why is he liking my stuff?”

“because he likes you.”

“no, no, that’s not,” you shake your head, even though she can’t see you. “he probably just—i don’t know—accidentally hit it.”

“yeah, he accidentally found your account, accidentally followed you, and accidentally liked your photo. very believable. GIRL WAKE UP! very professional nhl athlete, might i add very rich man, connor bedard likes you.”

you groan, dropping your head into your hands. “please stop. you're torturing me for entertainment.”

“no, because i need you to be serious right now, lock in.” she continues, relentless. “this man has been giving you the most personality he’s ever shown in interviews, he pulled you aside today, and now he’s on your instagram at three in the morning.”

you freeze. “…wait.”

“what.”

“…it’s three in the morning here in chicago.”

another pause. and then, slowly,

“oh my god.”

you stare at your phone. the notification still there. his name. your heart starts beating a little faster. louder. more noticeable. annoying. so, so annoying.

“he’s awake,” you murmur.

“he’s awake and thinking about you,” she corrects.

you bite the inside of your cheek, trying, and failing, not to smile. you've never been the type to be like that but you were fighting the serious urge to giggle and kick your feet. oh god. 

“…shut up.”

“you shut up. what are you gonna do?”

you hesitate. look at your phone again. thumb hovering. this is a bad idea, right? a terrible idea. the worst idea, actually.

“…i don’t know! ” you admit.

but you don’t put your phone down. you don’t mean to open the app again. you really don’t. but your thumb moves anyway, like muscle memory, like curiosity is stronger than your common sense.

his name is still at the top. _connorbedard. following you. liking your post.

awake at three in the morning for some reason that definitely has nothing to do with you. obviously.

you hover. one second. two. three. your phone buzzes.

you physically jolt. “WHAT?” your best friend yells through the phone.

“he—” you scramble, sitting up straighter. “he just—”

you open the message, you feel like a crazed woman.

_connorbedard: safe flight back

you blink. once. twice. “…he just texted me. slid in my dms.”

“WHAT DOES IT SAY.”

you stare at the screen. “he said… safe flight back.”

there’s a pause. “…that’s it?” she says, suspicious.

“that’s it.”

“that’s so lame.”

you let out a breath that sounds halfway between a laugh and a nervous exhale. “it’s not lame,” you mumble. “it’s…normal.”

“it’s boring.”

“he’s a hockey player, what do you want him to say.”

“i don’t know, something with flavor?”

you roll your eyes, but you can’t stop staring at the message. safe flight back. simple. easy. thoughtful. he noticed you were leaving. he thought about it. he texted. your heart does something weird. again.

“okay,” your friend says, suddenly serious. “what are you gonna say back.”

“…i don’t know.”

“y/n.”

“i don’t!” you chew on your bottom lip, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. don’t overthink it. be normal. be professional. at the same time, this is literally just a text. from connor bedard. who you may or may not like. who you have spent two years arguing with on camera. no pressure. you start typing.

stop. delete it. start again. “oh my god just send something,” your friend groans.

“i’m trying.”

finally, you type:

thanks. try not to miss me too much at your game tomorrow.

you stare at it. “…is that too much. like i know he has a game tomorrow, is that weird to say…”

“no send it RIGHT NOW.”

you hit send before you can think about it, then immediately regret it.

“oh my god.”

“RELAX.”

“that was too flirty.”

“that was barely flirty.”

“that was flirty for us.”

you pace your room now, phone clutched in your hand like it might explode. “what if he doesn’t respond.” your bed is now long forgotten about, now pacing in the room.

“he will.”

“what if he doesn’t.”

“he will.”

your phone buzzes. you freeze. “…he responded.”

“READ IT.” you open the message.

_connorbedard: don’t worry. i won’t. you make the interviews a little more interesting.

your stomach drops. in a good way. a very, very dangerous way. you press your lips together, trying not to smile like an idiot.

“…oh.”

“OH??” your friend practically screeches. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN OH.”

you sink back onto your bed, staring at the screen. “he’s flirting.”

“OBVIOUSLY HE’S FLIRTING.” you shake your head, even though you’re full on smiling now.

“no, it’s like…subtle.”

“that is not subtle.”

--------

the next game your teams meet again, everything feels off. or maybe… not off? just way different. you step up to the mic like always, but there's a new feeling. you're buzzed off watching connor play, even very (lowkey) cheering for him. and he succeeds of course with two goals. you're almost excited to see him, to annoy him, to banter like you usually do.

“y/n l/n, red wings media.” he’s already looking at you. of course he is. but he's smirking this time. something only for you.

you tilt your head slightly. “tough game tonight,” you start, tone light, familiar. “anything you’d like to not comment on?” a few reporters laugh.

there it is. your usual jab. he pauses. just for a second, thinking. then, he smirks.

“yeah,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “probably your questions.”

the room reacts. audible laughter.someone actually goes “oh shit—”

your eyebrows lift. you’re smiling before you can stop yourself. “funny,” you shoot back. “you seem to like answering them.”

“only yours.”

the room goes quiet. again. it's that shift again. not tension. not annoyance. something dangerously close to…

you clear your throat.

look down at your notes.

professional. "right. no more from me. unfortunately."

right.

at the end of the night, the press conference wraps up. “alright everyone, thanks for all the questions,” someone from PR calls, stepping in like they always do. “have a good night.”

chairs scrape. people start packing up. the low hum of conversation fills the room again. you exhale, rolling your shoulders slightly, already glancing down at your notes. professional. normal. done.

you turn to leave, but you hear your name being called behind you.

“hey.”

you freeze. you know that voice. the voice that's been your job to press for the last two years. you turn back. he’s still sitting there, half out of his chair now, towel slung over his shoulder again, eyes on you. not the usual look. not sharp. not challenging. just focused.

“yeah?” you say, trying to sound normal. you were absolutely not feeling normal.

he jerks his head slightly toward the hallway.

“one second, please.”

you hesitate. this is already a bad idea. you follow him anyway.

the hallway is quieter. a lot cooler. away from the cameras, the noise, the expectations. just the faint echo of footsteps and distant voices. he leans back against the wall, crossing his arms, watching you like he’s trying to figure something out.

you cross your arms too, more out of instinct than anything.

“what,” you say, raising a brow slightly, slipping back into something familiar. “run out of ‘no comments’ in there?”

he huffs a quiet laugh.

“you wish.” a pause. it lingers longer than usual. and suddenly, there’s no script for this. no mic. no audience. no easy way out. you shift your weight slightly.

“…so? you come out here to chirp me some more? give me a review on my media performance”

he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more, something almost nervous in the motion. you’ve never seen that before. not from him. not from connor bedard, the nonchalant, calm player.

“no,” he says, quieter. “i—”

he exhales, like he’s deciding to just say what comes out of his mouth. “i like it.”

you blink, lost a bit. “…like what.”

“this,” he gestures between you, small but certain. “the banter. the interviews. you.”

that lands. harder than anything he’s said to you in the last two years. you don’t say anything, so he keeps going. a little faster now, like if he stops he won’t start again.

“i noticed you the first time,” he says. “your first press conference. this insanely beautiful girl walked in like she owned the room. and she absolutely did.”

your stomach flips. he lets out a small breath, almost a laugh.

“no one talks to me like that. not like you do.” you swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is. how quiet it is. how there’s nothing to hide behind now.

“…yeah?” you manage, softer.

he nods once. “yeah. and i should’ve been annoyed,” he adds, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “and i was. a little.”

you let out a quiet huff, an easy grin falling on your face. “just a little?”

“okay, a lot,” he admits. “but,” he shrugs, glancing at you again. “i kept waiting for it. every game. every interview.”

your heart is beating too fast now. loud enough you’re convinced he can hear it.

“you make it…” he pauses, searching. “better.” there’s no teasing in it. no smirk. just honest. and that, that’s what gets you. you drop your gaze for a second, then look back up at him.

“connor bedard…you’re saying you like me,” you say, like you need to hear it clearly. like you need to make sure this is real.

he doesn’t hesitate this time. “yeah.. i do.”

something in your chest gives. just a little. you shake your head, almost laughing under your breath.

“you’re unbelievable.”

“you love it.”

you don’t argue. you take a small step closer before you can stop yourself.

“…and if i said i do?” quiet. honest. a little dangerous.

his eyes flick down to your lips. back up. and suddenly, the space between you feels very, very small.

“so,” he says, voice lower now and you feel the bass in his voice, a little more certain this time. “we could… do this without all the cameras.”

you raise a brow, but there’s no real bite to it anymore. “do what, exactly?”

he lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, like he can’t believe he’s actually saying this. “talk. normally,” he says. “without you trying to trip me up and me pretending i don’t like it.”

your lips twitch. “i do not try to trip you up.”

he gives you a look. you sigh, but you’re smiling now.

“…okay. maybe a little.” he shakes his head, amused, then meets your gaze again.

“i was thinking coffee,” he adds, more casually, like it’s no big deal. like your heart isn’t about to beat out of your chest. “or something.”

you stare at him for a second. “or something…you’re asking me out.”

he shrugs, but there’s that hint of nerves again, softer this time. “yeah.”

“unless you’re gonna turn it into a question.”

you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. unbelievable. after two years of this, this is how it happens. not in front of cameras. not in some dramatic moment. just… here. quiet hallway. post-game. him, finally not deflecting. you take a small step closer before you can stop yourself.

“…and if i said yes?” quiet. honest. a little dangerous.

his eyes flick down to your lips again. back up.

“then i’d say i should’ve asked sooner.”

that does it.

his hand comes up, hesitant for half a second before settling lightly at your waist, like he’s giving you time to pull away.

you don’t. of course you don’t.

and then, he finally leans in. it’s not rushed. not messy. just straight passion. like all that tension, all that back-and-forth, all those interviews finally had somewhere to go. the lips you've looked at for the last two years are warm, soft, and for a second you forget entirely where you are. who you are. that you’re supposed to be professional.

your hands grip the front of his shirt without thinking, grounding yourself. he pulls back just slightly, forehead almost brushing yours. both of you breathless. a little stunned.

“…we’re gonna get in so much trouble,” you murmur. he huffs out a quiet laugh, still close enough that you feel it through his body.

“probably.” you smile.

“worth it.”

and this time, neither of you even pretends to argue.

PAIRING ▸ will smith x reader 

GENRES ▸ fluff, established relationship, will smith hobby/baker LMAO

SUMMARY ▸ dating a professional athlete comes with a lot of things. you just didn’t expect one of them to be two a.m. stress baking.

WORD COUNT ▸ 0.9k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ two fics in one day i know....but i am so incredibly endeared by will smith hockey and seemingly his baking hobby? im getting more smittypilled by the second...hes genuinely so beautiful i think i get gender envy when i see him LITERALLY MY PRINCESS DIANA!!! ...anyway here's this enjoy!

i hope we get elevated cupcake experience content just know i will be first in line for it <3

you knew dating a professional athlete came with its highs and lows. 

with dating will, being sucked into the hockey world for the last two years meant different things: weeks without seeing each other while he was on the road, flashes of hugs in various arenas and and sneaky kisses in front of teammates, sleepless nights celebrating wins in bars you can't even remember the names of.

but it wasn't always all bad. will playing professional hockey meant you had him all to yourself (or at least when you could tear him away from macklin) for four months in the off-season, when the schedule slowed down and your days filled with late, sleepy mornings, trips to visit family back on the east coast, and nights spent slow dancing in the kitchen.

what you didn't expect, however, when you started dating will: the boston college alum, usa development hockey team trained, very professional athlete, was his very committed hobby of baking like someone’s suburban mom. of course majority of the time, you loved it. his chocolate chip banana bread could only rival those of french bakeries, and your family was extremely easily charmed by his personalized dessert spread at their first meeting.

at times like this though, in the present moment, you wondered if his love for baking somehow rivaled his love for hockey.

you woke with a bang, some clatter in the kitchen and a subsequent whisper of a very familiar voice cussing, "oh shit."

glancing at the clock in your bedroom, you note it flashed 2:07am. you then realize your bed has a very severe lack of a certain 6 '0 blonde boy who's leg is usually slung around your body like you'll run, and it only takes you a few seconds with a quick whiff in the air to connect the dots as to where your boyfriend is. the kitchen, of course.

you pad your way out of your room to see a sight for sore eyes. flour everywhere. a total count of four bowls laid out on your apartment's kitchen island. and will, in nothing but his sweatpants, aggressively mixing some sort of batter like it wronged him in some way.

"william charles patrick…care to share why you chose to leave our bed to bake…." you glance at the bowl, the ingredients, the few chocolate chips that have somehow strayed and made it across to the room where you stood in the hallway, "cookies….at this hour?"

he startles like he forgot other people live in the apartment, whipping his head up to look at you.

“jesus y/n..” he presses a flour-y hand to his bare chest dramatically, “you scared the hell out of me!”

you scoff, crossing the room to stand next and point at him, “you’re the one committing crimes in the kitchen at two in the morning,” you mumble, stepping closer and flicking a stray chocolate chip off the counter into his face. “i think I’m the victim here, mr. martha stewart!”

he huffs out a quiet laugh, running a hand through his already messy hair and leaving a streak of flour in it. god, you loved his longer hair. you also hated how he barely had to do anything and it always looked so good, even flour-y and at two a.m.

you cross your arms, pouting. “so?” you prompt.

will glances down at the bowl like it might answer for him. “it’s stress baking.”

you stare at him.“stress… baking.”

“yeah,” he says defensively, already scooping another aggressive swirl through the dough. “it’s a thing.”

“you’ve also never baked at two in the morning before.”

“that’s because,” he says, pointing the spoon at you like he’s making a very important point, “i’ve never had a game that annoying before.”

you lean against the counter, watching him with a small smile. so that's what this was. just hours before, the sharks had lost a hard-fought game, one that will talked about all dinner about missed calls and dirty players. 

“so the will smith, level-headed solution to that” you say slowly, “was cookies.”

“exactly, baby.” he smiles boyishly, sending you a smirk only made for when you know he's up to no good. "chocolate chip cookies, in fact." he then dumps an aggressively large handful of chocolate chips into the bowl.

“scientific.” you reach over and steal one from the counter. “very professional athlete behavior, will.”

“hey,” he says, offended, whipping the bowl away from you, “toff and macklin stress game.”

“that’s not even a verb.”

“well it should be.”

you laugh quietly at the silliness of the entire situation, the sound filling your warm little kitchen in your shared san jose apartment, and he relaxes a little at the sight of it.

for a moment then, in your half-awake daze, you just watch him, flour on his cheek, hair sticking up everywhere, shirtless except for a pair of sweatpants, determinedly mixing cookie dough like he’s about to gear up to go into overtime.

then he glances up at you again. “…you wanna taste test?”

you pretend to think about it for a moment.

“someone has to make sure the suburban mom of the nhl doesn’t poison us.”

will grins, taking you in his arms and scooping a bit of dough onto the spoon. pressing a messy kiss to your face, he feeds you. 

you know he's getting his floury mess all over you, but honestly, at two in the morning, standing barefoot in your kitchen with your talented hockey player boyfriend turned self-proclaimed amateur baker, 

you think this might be one of your favorite versions of him.

PAIRING ▸ macklin celebrini x reader 

GENRES ▸ fluff, established relationship, mc being silly

SUMMARY ▸ a late-night stroll with your boyfriend leads you to an unexpected surprise.

WORD COUNT ▸ 0.5k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ hi!!!!!!!! FIRST HOCKEY FIC POST, BLOG UPDATED, SOOOOO MUCH MORE TO COME IM SO EXCITED!!!!

(also hi if ur new, im dana! i literally just got into hockey like a week ago due to the olympics (huge sigh omg) and elevated cupcake experience so i would looooove support and moots ty bye!)

it's yours and macklin's third year anniversary, and in the night, you two are stumbling along the dark, dimly-lit, downtown san jose sidewalks post a very romantic dinner. 

he's currently on a week-break from any games, which has now led to you both tipsy off of too-expensive italian wine and high off of the laughs that you've shared in the last couple of hours. a warm, familiar feeling courses through you and settles between your ribs in your chest. you know it's love; you feel it at its core when macklin smiles at you, canines and all, when you two bump shoulders after possibly drinking a tiny-bit too much, and when he finally wraps his arm around your waist to steady your (or his?) teetering footsteps.

it's an all-consuming feeling that takes over your entire being; you don’t even seem to notice the busy, night streets clearing as the ongoing light drizzle turns into a pouring rain.

both your shared giggles turn into full-on laughs under the rainfall, and before you know it, macklin, from his dark trench coat to his gleaming dress shoes, and you, with your slip dress and kitten heels, are thoroughly soaked. but honestly, you couldn't care less.

if anything, the sensation is electrifying: while the pouring rain is icy on your bare, exposed skin, the mischievous look macklin shoots at you after sharing another laugh warms you up like direct californian sunlight.

he suddenly pulls you close to his body, where you feel all the lean, hockey built muscle beneath his soaked jacket, and gazes at you right into your eyes. his stare makes you feel vulnerable down to your core, but the feeling is dismissed right away when he closes the distance between the two of you and kisses you.

it takes you a little off center how abrupt the moment is, as it's the type of kiss that makes your toes curl and all the hair on your neck stand up. when you finally separate, you think you probably look like a cartoon character with stars floating around your head.

but if that was what you currently looked like, the look macklin was shooting you would probably be most similar to a cartoon character struck by cupid's arrow with hearts in his eyes.

it was an obsessive feeling, the attention, the intensity. you giggle, "mack, what was that for?"

"y/n," he starts slowly, his eyes bold and intense, "would this be a bad time to ask you to marry me?"

you shoot him a quizzical look. "hmmm, currently soaking wet and slightly drunk? not quite the way i pictured in my dreams, but if you're the one doing the asking, i guess i could consider it…"

suddenly, he laughs with his canines out for full viewing, and it's almost like the rain comes to a halt the way you hear nothing at all but his deep chuckles reverberating through his body.  "perfect, i wouldn't want it any other way."

the rest of the walk back to your shared apartment is spent splashing around in puddles and sharing more kisses in the rain. its cliche, but you couldn't think of a better way to spend your evening.

someone please write about cowboy mark RN IM BEGGING!!!! (could be me soon) i love riding horses 🐴