xoxo

So, now, whenever your phone lit up with another 911, every horrifying possibility imaginable crashed into your mind. You didn't remember grabbing your keys. You barely remembered sprinting out of your dorm. The drive to the Briar hockey house became a blur of red lights you definitely should've stopped for and speed limits you absolutely ignored. Your pulse pounded so violently against your ribs that it drowned out the music blasting through your speakers.

Please be okay.

Please let everyone be okay.

By some miracle, or sheer reckless determination, your Jeep screeched into the hockey house driveway in under five minutes. The engine hadn't even finished rumbling before you were out of the car. You bounded up the porch steps two at a time, shoved the front door open without knocking. Your breathing came in short, uneven bursts as your eyes swept frantically across the first floor, searching for blood, paramedics... anything.

Instead you were met with silence. Garrett, Beau, Logan, and Tucker stood shoulder to shoulder around the kitchen island, all four wearing expressions that ranged from concerned to thoroughly exasperated. Not a single one of them looked injured. They all looked far too relaxed. What the hell was happening? "Oh, thank God, she's here." Logan dragged a hand down his face, relief washing over his features.

Before you could demand an explanation, Garrett and Beau crossed the room. You reached your brother first, immediately grabbing both of his forearms. "I got your text," Your voice came out higher than you intended, adrenaline still coursing through your veins as your gaze traveled from his face to his shoulders, down his arms and legs, cataloging every inch of him for any kind of injuries. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?" He shook his head, making you let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

"I'm fine," Garrett assured gently, giving your elbows a reassuring squeeze to still your frantic inspection. "Promise." Releasing your wrists he gestured toward the staircase with the exhausted resignation of a man who'd reached his breaking point. "It's your knucklehead boyfriend." That alone was enough to make you wary. Ever since Garrett had become captain of the Briar hockey team, he'd made one rule abundantly clear, none of his teammates were to date his little sister.

He'd delivered the threat with the same intensity he reserved for playoff games, and every guy in the locker room had been smart enough not to test him. Well, everyone except Dean Di Laurentis. By the time the two of you had finally stopped pretending the feelings between you didn't exist, Garrett had nearly blown a gasket. It had taken months of Dean shamelessly kissing his ass, both on and off the ice, before Garrett reluctantly accepted that this wasn't another one of Dean's flings.

Dean had retired his infamous manwhore reputation without a second thought the moment you'd become his girlfriend, and somehow he'd managed to do the impossible: convincing your overprotective brother that he genuinely loved you. That however, still hadn't stopped him from finding new and creative ways to irritate Garrett. Nearly two years later, Dean could still get under Garrett's skin without even trying, especially if it involved anything to do with you.

"Is he hurt?"

"No."

"Did he get into a fight?"

"No."

"Did he piss you off?"

"Yes!"

All four guys answered in perfect unison which made a laugh escape you before you could stop it. Then a raspy coughing fit echoed from upstairs, followed by an aggressively dramatic sniffle that was somehow even louder than the coughing. Garrett squeezed his eyes shut, every muscle in his jaw flexing. "Dean has a cold." Silence settled over the room. After a few moments, you looked from Garrett to Logan. Then Tucker. Then Beau. None of them looked like they were joking.

"You texted me 911 because Dean has a cold?" Beau let out a sharp bark of laughter at your words before scrubbing a hand down his face, frustration evident in his features. "Normally I'd think it's adorable. You know I love you two together, but, Christ…" He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking every bit as exhausted as Garrett. "He's being so fucking stubborn."

Logan nodded before jumping in. "He won't take his medicine unless you're the one handing it to him. Barely touched any food because apparently it doesn't count unless you bring it to him." You had to practically bite your lip in order to stop another laugh that threatened to escape. "He has been like this all day," Garrett grumbled, you could have sworn you saw his eye twitch. "Every five minutes it's 'Where's my girlfriend?' 'Can someone call my girlfriend?' 'I think I'm dying. My girlfriend should know.'"

"I never realized someone could weaponize the common cold." Tucker admitted shaking his head as he stirred what you assumed was chicken noddle soup from the delicious smell. "You should've heard him this morning," Beau added with a dramatic sigh. "'Beau, if I don't make it, tell her I loved her.'" Your heart, traitor that it was, performed a full somersault inside your chest. Even stuffed up, feverish, and completely delirious, Dean still wanted you. Only you.

Garrett pointed toward the stairs. "Please, go deal with your idiot boyfriend." You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing outright knowing it would infuriate Garrett even more. Without another thought, you headed for the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. As you reached Dean's bedroom, you knocked gently with the back of your knuckles. "Go away, G!" His voice carried through the wood, deep and rough from congestion, ending in a wet cough that sounded painful enough to make you wince.

A teasing smile tugged at your lips as you eased the door open, peeking your head inside. "I sure hope you mean my brother and not me," You teased softly. "I'd hate to have come all this way for nothing." Dean, who'd been curled into an impressive mound of blankets, turned sluggishly toward the sound of your voice. The transformation was immediate. His glassy, fever-heavy eyes widened before melting with unmistakable relief, exhaustion giving way to pure adoration.

"Babydoll." The nickname came out as little more than a dreamy sigh. Every ounce of misery on his face seemed to disappear the second he saw you. Well, almost every ounce. Your heart clenched painfully as you stepped fully into the room. Dean looked awful. His usually perfectly styled hair stuck out in every direction, flattened with sweat where it clung to his forehead. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink from the fever, while the tip of his nose had been rubbed so raw it was nearly the same shade.

Dark circles rested beneath bloodshot hazel eyes that struggled to stay open. He was shirtless despite being cocooned beneath two comforters, a sheen of sweat covering the broad planes of his chest and shoulders. A half-empty bottle of water, several packets of cough drops, a digital thermometer cluttered his nightstand. Used tissues surrounded the bed in messy little piles, some tossed toward the trash can with embarrassingly poor aim, others simply abandoned wherever they'd landed.

"Oh baby, you look absolutely miserable." You coaxed, gently shutting the door behind you. "I am miserable." His lower lip actually jutted out. Then, without the slightest hint of shame, he lifted both arms toward you. "Come here." Not a request, a demand. Or perhaps even a plea. Grabby hands opened and closed impatiently in your direction and your smile grew despite yourself. "Big, tough, hockey player, yet here you are being a big baby."

"Don't be mean, I have the plague."

"You have a cold."

A cough interrupted whatever dramatic speech he'd been preparing, forcing him to curl forward and cough into the crook of his elbow. By the time it subsided, he looked even more exhausted. You kicked off your shoes before crossing the room. The instant you were within reach, Dean's hands found your waist. With surprising strength for someone who'd apparently been on death's doorstep all day, he tugged you forward until you stumbled against the side of the mattress.

"There you are, missed you so much." He mumbled, sounding infinitely more content as he placed a chaste kiss to your clothed shoulder. Your chest warmed at the affection, as he buried his face against your stomach with a relieved sigh, wrapping both arms around your waist like he was afraid someone might steal you away. His warm cheek pressed against your shirt, and despite the fever radiating from him, he melted into your touch the moment your fingers threaded through his damp hair.

"Everything already feels better." He whispered, eyes fluttering closed. "You've been giving the guys a hard time, haven't you?" You felt him shrug against you, his face showcasing the perfect picture of innocence. "I've been perfectly pleasant." A loud, disbelieving snort drifted up from downstairs, followed immediately by Garrett's voice. "FUCKING LIAR!" Dean didn't even bother lifting his head. "They're exaggerating." You laughed so hard you had to bite your lip.

"Beau told me you refused your medicine."

"I was waiting for you."

"Logan offered you soup."

"It wasn't your soup."

"Tucker made grilled cheese."

"Grilled cheese isn't Tuck's strong suit."

That was a complete and total lie and you knew he knew it.

"You are unbelievable."

"So I've been told."

His arms tightened around your waist, followed by another sleepy sigh that sounded almost blissful.

"I missed you, babydoll."

"I've only been gone since this morning."

"Longest day of my life."

His voice had gone quieter now, rough with exhaustion rather than theatrics. "I just wanted my girl." The confession, so simple and so genuinely vulnerable, melted of whatever amusement remained. You leaned down to press a lingering kiss against his warm forehead before brushing another across the bridge of his reddened nose. "I'm here now." Dean hummed happily, his entire body relaxing. "Yeah, you are." He murmured, already sounding sleepier than before.

His hair was still damp at the edges from his post-game shower, curling slightly where he’d shoved his hand through it too many times, and the dark blue Briar letterman jacket had stayed on for maybe twelve minutes before the house got too hot and he dumped it over the back of a chair.

He was, by every reasonable standard, doing great. His girlfriend was not. His girlfriend had arrived at the party with Allie and a plan that had included one drink, maybe two, and absolutely no consideration for the fact that girls pouring vodka cranberries in hockey houses tended to treat measurements as a loose concept. 

Garrett had been across the living room when she’d taken the first one. He’d been in the kitchen with Tucker when she’d finished the second. By the time he saw her again, she was standing near the bottom of the stairs with one hand wrapped around a red cup, smiling at something Allie said with the bright, floaty concentration of a girl whose whole body had started operating on a two-second delay.

He could notice a winger drifting out of formation from half a rink away with two guys trying to take his head off. He could absolutely notice his girlfriend blinking too slowly under the hallway light, her cheeks warm from alcohol and the heat of too many bodies packed into the house, her mouth glossy and parted slightly like she kept forgetting whether she was meant to be talking or laughing. 

She looked happy, which helped. Loose and giggly and pleased. But she also kept shifting her weight like the floor had become more wobbly than usual, and Garrett had not fought for his life against Harvard’s second line that afternoon just to let his girlfriend get taken out by hardwood.

So he left Logan mid-sentence. Logan didn’t even pretend to be offended. He just followed Garrett’s line of sight, saw her trying to drink from the cup and missing her mouth by half an inch, and winced. “Oh, buddy.”

Garrett pointed at him without looking back. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was gonna say she looks graceful.”

“Die.”

Garrett crossed the room with the easy confidence of someone everyone automatically moved for, red cup of water in hand because Tucker, thank God, had seen the situation unfolding and passed it over like a medic on a battlefield. 

She didn’t see Garrett coming. She was too busy nodding very seriously at Allie, who was holding both her hands and saying something that involved the words no, babe, I’m so serious and eyebrow blindness.

Garrett stepped into her space, close enough that his knee brushed hers. “Hey, baby.”

She turned toward him. For one beautiful second, her face went blank. Then her entire expression rearranged itself into scandalised horror.

“Excuse you,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height, which was less effective than usual because she swayed slightly at the top and had to catch Allie’s wrist. “I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett blinked.

Allie made a noise like she’d swallowed a firework. Garrett looked at his girlfriend. His girlfriend looked back at him with genuine, drunken offence, like he’d approached her in a bar wearing a leather bracelet and too much confidence.

“Uh huh,” he said slowly, because there were moments in life that required leadership and moments that required not laughing directly in the face of the girl you loved while she was doing her best. “That’s great.”

“It is great,” she said, lifting her chin. “He’s very tall.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. “Good for him.”

“And he plays hockey.”

“No shit?”

“And he’s, like, really good at it.”

Allie had turned away now, one hand clamped over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Garrett refused to look at her because if he did, he was going to lose it, and that felt like the sort of thing his girlfriend would interpret as disrespect from a strange man at a party, which apparently he was now.

He held out the cup. “Can you drink some water for me?”

Her eyes narrowed. Suspicious. Wobbly. Deeply loyal to the absent boyfriend currently standing less than a foot in front of her. “Why?”

“Because you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Baby.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Don’t call me baby.”

“Right. Sorry.” He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, nodding with a level of solemnity he absolutely did not feel. “My bad.”

“My boyfriend calls me baby.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds annoying.”

“He’s not annoying.” She frowned at him with such force that it seemed to briefly take all her balance with it. Garrett’s free hand shot out to her waist before she could tip sideways into Allie. She looked down at it, then back up at him, appalled. “Don’t touch my waist.”

Garrett removed his hand at once, palms lifting. “Alright.”

Allie, still dying, leaned in and said, “Babe, maybe just drink the water.”

She looked betrayed. “You’re taking his side?”

“I’m taking hydration’s side.”

Garrett offered the cup again. “Just a couple sips.”

She stared at him for another second, clearly weighing the moral implications of accepting water from a man who looked suspiciously like her boyfriend but who she had, for reasons unclear to everyone except the vodka, decided was not. 

Finally, she took the cup with great caution, like he might use the transfer to propose something criminal, and drank.

Garrett watched her swallow three obedient little sips, then nodded. “Good girl.”

The look she gave him could have killed a weaker man. “Nope.”

“Right. Yep. Forgot.”

“My boyfriend says that.”

“Bet he does,” Garrett muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She handed the cup back, pleased with herself and still indignant, and then immediately turned toward Allie like the conversation had been handled.

Garrett stood there for half a second, holding the water, staring at the side of her face.

Dean appeared beside him like he had been summoned by humiliation itself. “Hey, man.”

Garrett didn’t look over. “Do not.”

Dean’s grin was audible. “She knows you’re her boyfriend, right?”

“She’s drunk.”

“She just told you she has a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, Dean, I was here.”

Dean leaned around him to look at her, delighted. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Garrett finally turned his head and gave him a flat look. “That’s sad.”

“No, what’s sad is getting rejected by your own girlfriend.” Dean clapped him once on the shoulder and immediately stepped out of reach. “Tough shift, captain.”

Garrett pointed at him. “I will put you through a wall.”

“Wow.” Dean called over his shoulder, already retreating. “Her boyfriend would never.”

Garrett took a slow breath through his nose and looked back at her. She was laughing at something Allie said now, one hand pressed to her own chest, head tipping forward so her hair fell around her face. 

She looked ridiculous. Beautiful and unsteady and way too warm in the cheeks, standing under the hallway light like the world had gone pleasantly fuzzy and she trusted it not to hurt her because she hadn’t yet noticed Garrett had been replaced by some guy bothering her with cups.

His annoyance softened before it could become anything real. Fine. He could work with this.

For the next twenty minutes, Garrett kept orbiting. That was the only word for it. He didn’t hover, because hovering would get him accused of being controlling by Dean, and probably by her if she remembered how to form an argument. 

He orbited. Close enough to keep an eye on her, far enough that she didn’t look up and accuse him of trying to steal girlfriend privileges from Garrett Graham, who was both beloved and missing.

She danced with Allie in the living room, mostly from the waist up because her coordination had started giving its two weeks’ notice. 

She complimented Tucker’s shirt with extreme sincerity even though Tucker was wearing the same plain black t-shirt he wore to every party. 

She told Logan he looked so tall tonight, which made Logan look down at himself like height might have happened recently and without his permission.

Garrett found her again near the back door, rubbing both hands over her bare arms.

The house was hot, but the door kept swinging open whenever someone stepped out to smoke or yell into the yard, letting in cold spring air that slipped over her skin and made her shoulders inch up toward her ears. 

Garrett saw the little shiver move through her before she did. He grabbed his letterman jacket off the chair and came up behind her, careful this time, no hands first. Just the jacket, warm from the room and heavy with him, settled over her shoulders.

“There,” he said, low near her ear. “You’re cold.”

She froze.

Garrett closed his eyes for one second. “Please don’t.”

She shrugged the jacket off so fast it nearly hit the floor. Garrett caught it by the collar.

“Nope,” she said.

“Baby.”

Her head snapped around. “I said no.”

Garrett looked at the ceiling. The ceiling offered no help. “You’re shivering.”

“I only wear my boyfriend’s jacket.”

“This is your boyfriend’s jacket.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It literally has my name on it.”

She squinted at the embroidered Graham on the chest like letters were a personal challenge. “Lots of people are named Graham.”

“Not on this team.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually. I’m the captain.”

Her face twisted with immediate doubt, like that was exactly the sort of lie a jacket predator would tell at a party. “You’re the captain?”

Garrett stared at her. “Oh my God.”

From the couch, Logan made a strangled sound into his beer.

She pointed at Garrett’s chest, very serious now. “My boyfriend is the captain.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard great things.”

“He’s very hot.”

“Is he?”

“So hot,” she said, and then sighed, soft and dramatic and so genuinely fond that Garrett’s irritation had nowhere to land. “Like, stupid hot. It’s actually kind of annoying.”

Garrett’s face moved before he could stop it, warmth pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “And he has really nice hands.”

Logan choked.

Garrett didn’t look away from her. “Good hands are important.”

“They are,” she agreed solemnly. “And he’s not some random guy trying to give girls jackets.”

“Right.” He held up the jacket between them, helpless now. “Can I just–”

“No thank you.”

“You’re gonna freeze.”

“I’ll wait for Garrett.”

“You do that,” he said, because love was standing in a hockey house holding your own jacket while your drunk girlfriend faithfully rejected you on your own behalf. “Sounds like a plan.”

She smiled at him then, bright and polite. “Thank you for understanding.”

Garrett looked at her for a long moment, then at the jacket, then back at her. “Anytime.”

He walked away to the sound of Logan losing the fight against laughter so badly he had to bend over his own knees.

“You’re not helping,” Garrett said.

Logan wiped under one eye. “I’m sorry, man, but she’s loyal as hell.”

“She thinks I’m a stranger.”

“She thinks you’re a stranger with bad intentions. There’s a difference.”

“Great. That makes it better.”

Tucker came up beside them, looking far too amused for somebody usually committed to being the reasonable one. “You know, technically, this is a very good sign for your relationship.”

Garrett gave him a look. “Don’t start.”

“She’s hammered and still refusing men for you.”

“She refused me.”

“Exactly. Nobody is safe.”

Dean reappeared then, because joy, unfortunately, had a way of finding him. “I just heard she wouldn’t wear your jacket.”

Garrett’s jaw tightened. “You heard wrong.”

Dean grinned. “Did I?”

“I’m gonna kill you before playoffs.”

“No, you’re not. You’re too busy getting friend-zoned by your girlfriend.”

Garrett shoved him in the chest. Dean laughed all the way into the kitchen.

By the time Garrett found her again, she had somehow migrated to the old armchair near the stairs, sitting sideways with her knees tucked up and Dean perched on the arm like some kind of terrible emotional support animal. 

Her bare arms were folded tight over her chest now, because she was still cold and still deeply committed to jacket monogamy. Her face had changed too. Gone softer around the edges, bottom lip pushed out, all the earlier moral outrage curdled into something wounded and grumpy.

Garrett stopped a few feet away. Dean saw him first and his grin turned wicked. “Oh, thank God.”

She frowned up at Dean. “What?”

“Nothing.” Dean patted the top of the chair. “Your night’s about to improve.”

She slumped deeper into the cushion, still looking at Dean. “I haven’t seen Garrett all night.”

Garrett blinked.

Dean pressed his lips together so hard his whole face went strange.

She kept going, mournful now, eyes glossy from alcohol and the kind of drama that only really existed after midnight in a crowded house. “He’s, like, disappeared.”

Garrett slowly looked at Dean.

“He had a game,” she said, to no one in particular, or maybe to Dean’s knee. “And I wanted to tell him he played really good.”

“He knows,” Dean said, voice suspiciously tight.

“No, but I wanted to tell him.” She rubbed at one eye with the heel of her hand, then stopped halfway as if remembering makeup existed. “And there’s this guy who keeps talking to me.”

Garrett’s eyebrows went up.

Dean made direct eye contact with him and looked like he might actually pass away.

“He keeps calling me baby,” she muttered. “And trying to make me drink water.”

Garrett bit the inside of his cheek.

“Sounds awful,” Dean managed.

“So annoying,” she said. “Like, okay, hydration police. I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett stepped closer then, because there were only so many times a man could be called the hydration police by the love of his life before he had to intervene. “Hey, baby.”

Her head lifted. The transformation was immediate and almost violent. Her whole face opened, bright and relieved and suddenly so happy to see him that it genuinely knocked the joke sideways in his chest. “Garrett!”

He froze. “Hi?”

“Baby!” She reached both arms out toward him from the chair, nearly tipping herself forward in the process. Garrett crossed the last step fast and caught her by the hands before she could slide off the cushion. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said again, slower this time, looking down at her. “You recognise me now?”

She frowned like he’d said something deeply strange. “What are you talking about?”

Dean made a sound that might have been a cough if he had not immediately turned away with his shoulders shaking.

Garrett stared at her. “Nothing.”

She squeezed his face, delighted and fully unaware of the damage she’d caused him tonight. “I missed you.”

His mouth softened despite himself. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” She tugged at him, needy and uncoordinated, until he stepped properly between her legs where she’d moved to sit properly in the chair. Her knees bracketed his thighs, her fingers curling in the front of his shirt like now that she had found him, she intended to physically prevent further abandonment. “You were gone for so long.”

Garrett looked at her for one second, then over her head at Dean, who was wiping tears out of the corner of his eye. “I was around.”

She shook her head, very firm. “No.”

“No?”

“No. There was just this guy.”

Garrett nodded, face serious. “Right. The water guy.”

She gasped softly, looking up at him with genuine alarm. “You saw him?”

Dean slid off the arm of the chair. “I need to go tell Logan something immediately.”

Garrett didn’t even try to stop him. His hands had settled at her waist now, thumbs pressing lightly over the fabric of her top because she was still swaying in tiny increments even while sitting down. “Yeah, baby, I saw him.”

“You should talk to him.”

“Oh, I should?”

“Yes.” Her voice dropped into a whisper that wasn’t remotely quiet. “He was flirting with me.”

Garrett’s eyes flicked over her face. “Was he?”

“He kept calling me baby.”

“That’s crazy.”

“And he tried to give me his jacket.”

“What a dick.”

She nodded, relieved that he understood the severity. “I know.”

Garrett’s grin finally broke free, slow and helpless. He stepped closer until her forehead could tip against his stomach, and when it did, she sighed like the entire night had been restored to its proper axis by the smell of his shirt. 

He looked down at the crown of her head, at the way her hands had found the hem of his t-shirt and held on loosely, and brushed his fingers once over the back of her hair.

She had rejected him all night. She had accused him of being a stranger, declined his water on principle, refused his jacket with the ferocity of a woman defending a sacred oath, and still somehow the inside of him went soft at the way she leaned into him now, trusting and warm and gone enough to be ridiculous but not gone enough to forget where she wanted to end up.

“Baby,” he murmured.

“Mhm?”

“You wanna get outta here?”

Her head lifted at once. “Yes, please.”

“Yeah?” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, watching the way her eyes followed his face now with no suspicion at all. “You done?”

“So done.” She nodded, then winced faintly at the motion like her brain had moved one direction and her skull another. “Can we go home?”

“Yeah, we can go home.”

“And maybe get McDonald’s?”

Garrett laughed under his breath, and the sound made her smile like she’d won something. “Sure, baby.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But you gotta stand up first.”

She looked down at her own legs with sudden doubt. “Okay.”

“Confident.”

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.” He took both her hands and backed up half a step, giving her room. “Come on. Up we go.”

She stood with the intense focus of someone attempting a field sobriety test on a ship. Garrett’s hands went to her waist at once, steadying her as her knees straightened and her body tipped forward into his. 

He didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t laugh when she grabbed his forearms and blinked hard at the room. He only held her until she found the floor again, fingers spread warm and firm at her sides.

“There we go,” he said softly. “You good?”

She nodded, then thought about it. “Mostly.”

“Mostly works.” He leaned around her just enough to grab his letterman jacket from the back of the chair “Can I put this on you now, or are we still being loyal to your boyfriend?”

She looked at the jacket. Then up at him. Then back at the jacket.

“That’s yours,” she said, like he was the one struggling to keep up.

Garrett pressed his lips together. “Yeah.”

She smiled, sweet and pleased. “Okay.”

He slid it over her shoulders. This time she pushed her arms into the sleeves with immediate enthusiasm, even though they swallowed her hands completely. 

Garrett zipped it halfway because she was too busy smelling the collar with a happy little hum that did absolutely nothing for his ability to remain normal.

“You smell good,” she told him.

“Thanks.”

“Like Garrett.”

“Crazy coincidence.”

She nodded, accepting that, and slipped her hand into his when he offered it. Her fingers were warm and clumsy between his, squeezing twice like she was checking he was real. He squeezed back once and started guiding her through the house.

The party kept moving around them. Someone called his name from the kitchen and Garrett lifted his free hand without stopping. Logan appeared near the doorway, took one look at them, and grinned.

“She found you,” he said.

Garrett pointed at him. “Not a word.”

She turned toward Logan, solemn and slightly off-balance. “There was a guy bothering me all night.”

Logan’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked at Garrett, then back at her. “No way.”

She nodded. “Way.”

Garrett kept walking. “Let’s go.”

Behind them, Logan said, “Hope your boyfriend handles that.”

She turned around while still moving, which forced Garrett to catch her by the waist and redirect her like a shopping cart with a bad wheel. “He will!”

“I’m sure he will,” Logan called, voice cracking around laughter.

Outside, the cold hit her properly. She shrank into the jacket at once, shoulders rising, Garrett’s hand still wrapped around hers while they moved down the front steps and along the path toward his car. 

The night was damp and dark around the edges, grass glittering faintly under the porch light, the music dulling behind the shut door until it became a pulse more than a song. She walked close to him, not quite straight, occasionally bumping into his side and then apologising to his arm.

“Baby,” she said halfway down the walk.

“Yeah?”

“That guy was so annoying.”

Garrett glanced down at her. “Still thinkin’ about him?”

“He was talking to me all night.”

“Sounds like a loser.”

“He was kind of hot, though.”

Garrett stopped walking.

She stopped too, delayed, then looked back at him with wide innocent eyes. “What?”

He stared at her. “Hot?”

She nodded, very serious. “But not as hot as you.”

“Uh huh.”

“And he had your jacket.”

“My jacket?”

“Yeah.” Her brows pulled together. “Actually, that was weird.”

Garrett looked up at the sky for patience. “So weird.”

“You should talk to him, baby. I’m serious.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Good.” She nodded once, satisfied, and started walking again. “Don’t fight him though. You had a game.”

His mouth twitched. “Right. Wouldn’t wanna overdo it.”

“And you already won.”

“I did.”

“You were really good,” she said, and the words came out softer now, slipping under the joke with no warning at all. Her fingers tightened around his. “I forgot to tell you.”

Garrett’s steps slowed by a fraction. He looked down at her, at her messy hair and flushed cheeks and his too-big jacket hanging off her shoulders, at the careful way she was watching the pavement. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. You did that thing.” She lifted their joined hands vaguely, as if the thing might be available in the air somewhere. “Where you went really fast and then the other guy was stupid.”

Garrett laughed, warm and surprised. “That was my favourite play.”

“It was good. I’m real proud of you.”

“Thanks, baby.”

She leaned into his arm, pleased. “You’re welcome.”

At the car, he opened the passenger door and turned her gently by the hips before she could attempt entry at a dangerous angle. “Alright. Watch your head.”

“I always watch my head.”

“You don’t.”

“I have one.”

“Having one and watching it are different.”

She ducked into the car with exaggerated care, one hand on the roof, one hand still gripping his. Garrett waited until she was seated, then crouched slightly and drew the seatbelt across her. 

She looked down at him while he clicked it into place, her expression suddenly soft and sleepy. “Baby.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m so glad I found you.”

His hand paused on the belt for half a second.

She sighed, sinking back into the seat, eyes half-lidded now that the car’s quiet had started wrapping around her. “I missed you tonight.”

Garrett looked at her in the blue dashboard glow, and something in his chest pulled tight and fond and a little ridiculous. “Missed you too.”

“There was this guy–”

“I heard.”

“–and he kept trying to give me water.”

“So rude.”

“Exactly.” Her head tipped against the seat, eyes closing for one beat before opening again. “Can you get me nuggets?”

Garrett smiled and brushed his thumb over her knee before standing. “Yeah, babe. I’ll get you nuggets.”

“And fries.”

“Obviously.”

“And a Sprite.”

“You need water.”

She made a face. “The guy said that too.”

Garrett leaned one arm on the open door and looked down at her, trying very hard not to smile too much because she would see it and accuse him of something. “The guy sounds smart.”

She frowned. “Don’t compliment him.”

“My bad.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

“I am.”

“And I love you.”

The words came out simple and softened by vodka and sleepiness and the warm cocoon of his jacket around her, but real enough that Garrett felt them land under his ribs.

He bent and kissed her forehead. “I love you too.”

She smiled, eyes closed now. “Good.”

“Good,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face before shutting the door. 

He walked around the front of the car with a grin he couldn’t quite get rid of, hearing the muffled thump of the party behind him and the faint sound of her shifting around in the passenger seat like she was trying to get comfortable in sleeves three sizes too big. 

When he got in, she was already curled toward his side, cheek against the seat, looking at him with heavy eyes and total, trusting recognition.

Garrett started the car. She reached blindly for his hand. He gave it to her.

For a minute they sat there in the dim quiet before he pulled away from the curb, her fingers woven through his, his thumb moving once over her knuckles. Then she inhaled like she had remembered something important.

“Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re gonna talk to that guy, right?”

Garrett smiled at the road, the house falling behind them, McDonald’s glowing somewhere ahead like a drunken little lighthouse.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll give him a stern talking-to.”

“Good,” she mumbled, already drifting. “Tell him I have a boyfriend.”

His grin widened.

“Trust me, baby,” Garrett said, squeezing her hand once as he turned out onto the street. “He knows.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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bc!reader and bc!will

→ bc!reader is the sweetest girl. she’s majoring in sports media and communications with the lifelong dream of working as a broadcaster in the nhl. ever since she was a little girl, hockey was something she loved. it was her safe haven, the one thing she could run back to if life was sucky. she grew up in the rink, the cold biting at her cheeks, the familiar shivers because she refused to wear a coat as to not ruin her cute outfit. she’s not very popular, which means has her small group of friends. lexi, her best friend since elementary, will, ryan and gabe. they were her home away from home. along with her love for sport, she loved songwriting. instead of a journal, she carried around her iconic ‘lyric diary’. song writing was the one way she knew how to express her feelings. it had been that way since she was little, and she had hundreds of those books lying around her childhood home.

→ bc!will is everybody’s favorite eagle. will was similar to y/n in so many ways. he was sunshine in human form, and that’s where y/n’s nickname for him came from. he was always selfless, constantly putting everybody above himself if it meant their happiness. he was also the best player on the hockey team, which meant popularity came easy for him. girls and guys alike cheering his name throughout the rink, girls shooting their shot with him only to get kindly rejected as he always had y/n attached to his hip, guys coming up to him to tell him they admired his play style. despite that popularity though, he stuck to his close group of friends which was his teammates, lexi, and y/n. will’s love for hockey was just as strong as y/n’s, if not more. his earliest memory was on the rink, and he was forever so grateful for the opportunities the sport had given him.

→ bc!reader and bc!will’s relationship started back in highschool. y/n’s best friend was ryan leonard, who also happened to be will’s best friend. they’d never quite crossed paths as they went to different schools, until ryan threw a party. he’d invited her, and of course will was there. why wouldn’t he be? so, the moment the two were introduced to each other, they hit it off. for the next year and some, they were best friends, nothing more. until their first year of college. it happened one night, right after boston college had just blown out boston university. will was high off the win, y/n was forever proud of her best friend, and then it happened. they swore they wouldn’t tell anyone they kissed, but fate had a funny way of working. eventually, those feelings they tried so hard to hide were killing them slowly. so, because they were two stupid eighteen year olds, they decided they’d do something about it. they’d never date, never make things official, but they’d act like it.

they did the casual couple things. she’d wear his jersey to the games, he’d dedicate his goals to her and give her a big fat kiss after the game. she’d spend her nights at his dorm, he’d spend his at hers. but, when things got too close to serious, they’d pull away, will specifically, and for a few weeks they’d act like friends until they broke and started their couple-y act again. it went on like that for almost three years, until one day will cut it off. he told her it had nothing to do with her, but all to do with his career. he’d just gotten drafted to the nhl, and he needed to focus on that. he failed to mention that wasn’t the real reason. the real reason was that he was so in love with her it scared him. he was afraid he wouldn’t be enough for her, afraid she wouldn’t be able to deal with him traveling constantly. he loved her so much that it literally scared the living shit out of him.

popstar!reader and shark!will

→ popstar!reader is the it girl. it all started when will ended things. sure, song writing had always been her thing, but her only way of coping with the loss of her best friend, the boy she was in love with, was putting those feelings out to the world. it started with an upload to youtube, expecting a few views, but those few turned into millions, and those millions turned into a record deal. it wasn’t the way she expected life to go, but she would never, ever take the way things went for granted. she officially dropped her first single, ‘siren sounds’ in october of 2024, and it had done wonders. eventually, less than a year later, her debut album ‘short n sweet’ released. it was a mix of growing up, nostalgia, and will. of course. there were a few tracks on the album written about him, two being written while her and will were still ‘together’, one being siren sounds, which was written after her and will went their separate ways. the album was topping charts, breaking records, and that meant she could call ‘short n sweet’ a triple platinum album.

→ shark!will is everybody’s favorite blonde. seriously. from the moment he first stepped onto the ice in san jose, everybody loved him. he was talented, he was sweet, and he had girls fawning over him like it was a super power. him and macklin celebrini, the first overall pick of the 2024 draft had become best friends quickly, and that friendship went viral. there were clips, interviews, pictures that had people reeling into the sport just to watch the two of them. people fell in love with their chemistry on and off the ice, the talent that radiated off of them in waves, and it definitely helped that they were both attractive. will was doing amazing, had 90 career points throughout only two seasons in the nhl, and he was living his dream. playing in the nhl was the one thing he’d wanted since he laced up his skates for the first time, and he was so forever grateful for this opportunity.

→ popstar!reader and shark!will were their own worst enemies. despite the fame, both of them riding off living the dream life, the reminders of each other drove them mad. y/n was plastered all over the place. on tv, on the radio, posters and billboards scattered all over cities, states, countries. will was all over social media, instagram, twitter, tiktok, on tv. despite telling herself she didn’t need to watch him play, he was just someone from her past, she was tuned into every single sharks game. if she missed one due to a show or a flight, she’d go back and watch the game recap. will seemed to have been the better of the two when it came to their history, but he wasn’t. not really. it only seemed that way because of his new girlfriend, sarah. they met one night in april, 2025 at a bar after a sharks win. she came up to him, too drunk for her own good, telling him she thought he was the prettiest man she’d ever seen.

The pass that’s currently being examined with deep suspicion by a security guard who clearly thinks you’re a liar.

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to come with me,” the guard says for the third time. He’s a large man, probably in his fifties, with the kind of face that suggests he’s seen every scam in the book.

“I told you,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “Sidney Crosby arranged this pass for me. If you just call up to the box, someone can verify-”

“Sidney Crosby,” he repeats, his tone making it clear he doesn’t believe a word. “Right.”

“Yes,” you insist. “I’m his girlfriend. He gave me this pass. My name should be on the list.”

The attendant who first stopped you — a woman in her forties with a severe ponytail and a name tag that reads KAREN — crosses her arms. “Honey, do you have any idea how many girls try this? ‘I’m Sidney Crosby’s girlfriend,’ ‘I’m Evgeni Malkin’s cousin,’ ‘I’m Kris Letang’s dog walker.’ We hear it all.”

“But I actually am-”

“You look about twenty years old,” Karen interrupts. “Sidney Crosby is not dating someone barely out of high school.”

“I’m twenty-three,” you say, frustration building. “I’m getting my PhD. And if you would just-”

“The pass is clearly fake,” she continues, ignoring you. “Probably Photoshopped. You can tell by the quality of the printing.”

“It’s not fake!” Your voice is climbing now, anxiety making you shrill. “Sidney literally gave this to me this morning. He had it specially made because this is my first game in the family box.”

“Uh huh,” Karen says. “A crazy fan with a parasocial complex and a fake pass to the family box. This is exactly the kind of thing security is here to prevent.”

“It’s not fake,” you repeat desperately. “Please, just call someone. Ask one of the other partners. Get the team liaison. Call anyone who can verify this.”

The security guard puts a hand on your elbow. “Ma’am, you need to leave the suite level. If you cooperate, we won’t have to involve arena security.”

“I am cooperating!” You pull your arm away. “I’m trying to tell you there’s been a mistake. I’m supposed to be here. Sidney is expecting me.”

“Sidney Crosby is downstairs preparing for a game,” Karen says firmly. “He’s not thinking about some random girl who claims to be his girlfriend. Now, you can either leave voluntarily or we can have you escorted out of the arena entirely.”

“This is insane,” you say, your voice breaking. “I’m not some crazy fan. I live with him. I can prove it—look, I have pictures on my phone-”

“Pictures can be Photoshopped too,” Karen says dismissively. “I’ve seen girls show up with entire fake Instagram accounts. You’re going to have to try harder than that.”

The security guard’s hand is on your elbow again, firmer this time. “Let’s go.”

“No, wait-” You’re actively trying not to cry now, which is only making you look more unstable. “Please, I’m telling the truth. Just let me talk to someone who knows Sidney. Catherine Letang is supposed to be in the box tonight — she knows me. Or Anna Malkin. Or Kelsey Rust. Any of them can tell you I’m supposed to be here.”

“Ma’am-”

“Please,” you beg. “I’m not causing a scene. I’m not trying to sneak in anywhere. I just want to watch my boyfriend play hockey. That’s all.”

Karen’s expression softens slightly, but not enough. “I’m sure you believe that. But we have protocols for a reason. If you really are who you say you are, you can contact Mr. Crosby after the game and sort this out.”

“But he’s expecting me now,” you protest. “He’ll wonder where I am-”

“Then he’ll contact you,” she says. “But right now, you need to leave the suite level.”

The security guard is actively pulling you away now, and you don’t resist because what choice do you have? Fighting will only make this worse. So you let yourself be led away from the suite level, down the elevator, your face burning with humiliation and frustration.

“Where are you taking me?” You ask quietly.

“Security office,” the guard says, not unkindly now that you’re cooperating. “We need to document the incident.”

“Document-” You stop. “You’re treating me like a criminal.”

“We’re treating you like someone who tried to access a restricted area with a suspicious pass,” he corrects. “Standard protocol.”

You want to scream. You want to call Sidney, but his phone will be in his locker and he won’t see it until after the game. You want to call someone, anyone, but who? 

So you sit in the security office, giving your information to a bored-looking officer who types it into a computer with two fingers, and try not to think about the fact that the first period is starting and you’re missing it. Try not to think about Sidney looking for you in the box between warm-ups and the game, wondering where you are. Try not to think about how excited he was this afternoon when he kissed you goodbye and told you he couldn’t wait to see you in the stands.

“Can I at least text someone?” You ask. “To let people know where I am?”

“Who would you text?” The officer asks.

“My boyfriend,” you say tiredly. “Sidney Crosby.”

The officer gives you the same skeptical look everyone else has. “Sure. Go ahead.”

You pull out your phone with shaking hands and text Sidney, knowing he won’t see it but needing to do something.

Hey. Got stopped by security. They don’t believe my pass is real. I’m in the security office. I’m so sorry. I’ll try to sort this out. Good luck tonight. Love you.

You hit send and put your phone face-down on the table, blinking back tears.

This is a nightmare.

***

Meanwhile, up in the Friends and Family box, Catherine Letang is looking around with a frown.

“Has anyone seen Y/N?” She asks Anna Malkin.

Anna looks up from helping her daughter with a juice box. “Who?”

“Sidney’s girlfriend. She was supposed to be here tonight, her first game in the box.”

“Oh!” Anna’s face lights up. “Yes, he mentioned that. But I haven’t seen her.”

“Neither have I,” Catherine says, checking the time. “The game’s about to start. That’s strange.”

Kelsey Rust joins the conversation. “Maybe she got held up? Traffic?”

“Maybe,” Catherine says, but something feels off. Sidney had been so excited about this, so insistent that they make you feel welcome. It seems unlike you to just not show up.

The puck drops and the game begins, but Catherine can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. Catherine frowns, then makes a decision. She finds one of the suite attendants and asks if they can check whether you checked in anywhere else in the arena.

The attendant makes a call, listens, then looks up with surprise. “There was an incident on the suite level about thirty minutes ago. A young woman claiming to be Sidney Crosby’s girlfriend was removed by security. She’s currently in the security office.”

“What?” Catherine’s voice climbs. “She was removed? Why?”

“Suspicious pass, apparently. The attendant thought it was fake.”

“It’s not fake!” Catherine says, incredulous. “She’s actually his girlfriend. This is her first game here — Sidney arranged everything.”

The attendant looks uncomfortable. “I’ll make some calls.”

“Yes, you will,” Catherine says firmly. “And someone needs to tell Sidney. Now.”

***

You’re still in the security office, watching the game on a small TV in the corner because apparently even while detaining you they’re not cruel enough to make you miss it entirely, when your phone rings.

Unknown number. You answer anyway, desperate.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Sidney Crosby’s guest?” A woman’s voice, professional and slightly stressed.

“Yes,” you say. “I’m his girlfriend. I was trying to get to the family box but-”

“I know, I’m so sorry,” the woman interrupts. “There’s been a terrible misunderstanding. I’m Rebecca, the team’s family liaison. Catherine Letang just contacted us. We’re sorting this out right now.”

Relief floods through you. “Thank god.”

“I can’t apologize enough,” Rebecca continues. “Your pass was completely legitimate. There was no reason for you to be detained. Where are you now?”

“Security office. Lower level.”

“Stay there. I’m coming to get you personally, and I’m bringing someone from team management. We’ll have you in the box in ten minutes.”

“Thank you,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “I wasn’t trying to cause trouble. I just wanted to watch the game.”

“I know,” she says kindly. “This never should have happened. We’ll make this right.”

She hangs up and you look at the security officer, who’s been listening to your side of the conversation.

“That was the team’s family liaison,” you tell him. “She’s coming to get me.”

He has the grace to look embarrassed. “If there’s been a mistake-”

“There has been,” you say quietly. “I told you I was telling the truth.”

“We were following protocol,” he says defensively.

“Your protocol humiliated me and made me miss watching my boyfriend play,” you counter. “So forgive me if I’m not particularly understanding right now.”

He doesn’t have a response to that.

Rebecca arrives seven minutes later with a man in a suit who introduces himself as the arena’s operations manager. They’re both apologetic, both clearly stressed, and both very keen to get you out of the security office and into the box as quickly as possible.

“We’ll be reviewing our security protocols,” the operations manager assures you as you’re escorted back up to the suite level. “This should never have happened.”

“Thank you,” you say, because you’re too tired to be angry anymore. You just want to watch hockey and pretend this nightmare didn’t happen.

But when you arrive at the suite level, Karen is still there. And she goes pale when she sees you walking with Rebecca and the operations manager.

“Oh,” she says faintly.

“This is Sidney Crosby’s girlfriend,” Rebecca says, her voice cool and professional. “The pass you confiscated was legitimate. She should have been admitted to the family box over an hour ago.”

“I-I didn’t know,” Karen stammers. “She looked so young, and the pass seemed-”

“The pass was issued by our office this morning,” the operations manager interrupts. “It was completely authentic. Your job is to check credentials, not make judgments about who looks like they belong somewhere.”

“I was trying to protect the families,” Karen protests weakly.

“You were making assumptions,” Rebecca corrects. “And those assumptions led to a guest being detained and missing part of the game. We’ll discuss this later.”

Karen looks like she wants to disappear into the floor. You almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

“Come on,” Rebecca says to you gently. “Let’s get you to the box.”

She leads you down the hallway and opens the door to the family box, and suddenly you’re surrounded by concerned faces — Catherine and Anna and Kelsey and several other women you recognize from previous brief encounters.

“Oh thank god,” Catherine says, immediately pulling you into a hug. “Are you okay? We heard what happened.”

“I’m fine,” you say, though your voice is shaky. “Just—that was really stressful.”

“I can imagine,” Anna says sympathetically. “Come, sit. We saved you a seat next to us.”

You’re settling into your seat when Rebecca touches your arm. “I need to inform Sidney about what happened. He’ll want to know.”

“Oh god, please don’t tell him during the game,” you beg. “He needs to focus. Tell him after.”

Rebecca hesitates. “He’s already asked about you twice. Between periods they told him you were delayed but that you’d be here for the second. If I don’t give him an update-”

“Then tell him I’m here and I’m fine,” you say. “Please. Don’t tell him the rest until after the game.”

She nods reluctantly. “Okay. But he’s going to find out.”

“I know,” you sigh. “I’ll tell him myself after.”

Rebecca leaves and you turn your attention to the ice, trying to find Sidney. He’s in the middle of a shift, skating hard, and even from up here you can read the tension in his shoulders.

“He was worried,” Catherine says quietly. “When you weren’t here for warm-ups.”

“I’m so sorry,” you say miserably. “This is exactly the opposite of how this was supposed to go.”

“It’s not your fault,” Kelsey assures you. “That attendant was completely out of line.”

“She didn’t believe I was actually dating him,” you explain. “She thought I was some obsessed fan with a fake pass.”

Anna makes an outraged sound. “Because you look young? That’s ridiculous.”

Catherine shakes her head. “People make the strangest assumptions. I’m so sorry your first time in the box was like this.”

“At least I’m here now,” you say, watching Sidney skate. “That’s what matters.”

The second period ends with the Penguins up 2-1, and you watch Sidney skate off the ice, his helmet tucked under his arm. Even from here, you can see him scanning the stands, and you wonder if he knows you’re finally here.

You look up and find Catherine watching you with an amused expression.

“He’s upset,” she observes.

“He’s going to be very upset,” you confirm. “But hopefully after they win.”

“Oh, they’re definitely going to win now,” Anna says. “Sidney plays angry very well.”

She’s right. The third period is absolute dominance. Sidney is everywhere — backchecking, forechecking, setting up plays, taking shots. He scores a goal seven minutes in, a perfect wrist shot top shelf, and you’re on your feet screaming before you can stop yourself.

The other women laugh, clearly delighted by your enthusiasm.

“First goal you’ve seen in person?” Kelsey asks.

“First game I’ve seen in person,” you admit. “I’ve been watching on TV, but this is different.”

“It is,” Catherine agrees. “Welcome to the family box. Properly, this time.”

The Penguins win 4-1. Sidney gets a goal and two assists and is named first star, and as he takes his lap you’re clapping so hard your hands hurt.

“He’s going to come find you,” Anna warns. “The moment he’s out of the locker room.”

“I know,” you say.

“And he’s going to want names,” Catherine adds.

“I know that too,” you sigh.

Twenty minutes later, Rebecca appears at the box door. “Sidney’s asking for you. He’s in the family waiting area.”

You follow her down, your stomach in knots. The family waiting area is where players meet their families after games, and you’ve never been here before. Several other WAGs are already there, collecting kids and husbands, and then you see him.

Sidney is leaning against the wall, still in his suit from the bus, his hair damp from the shower. The moment he sees you, he’s moving, crossing the space in long strides.

“Hey,” you start, but he’s already pulling you into a hug, tight and almost desperate.

“Are you okay?” He asks into your hair.

“I’m fine,” you assure him. “Really. I’m sorry I worried you.”

He pulls back to look at you, his hands cupping your face. “Tell me what happened. All of it.”

So you do. You tell him about Karen and the security guard, about them not believing your pass was real, about being detained in the security office while he played the first period. His expression gets darker with every sentence.

“They detained you,” he repeats, his voice dangerously quiet. “They thought you were a crazy fan.”

“I mean, I am kind of crazy about you,” you try to joke.

“Not funny,” he says. “This is—who did this? Give me names.”

“Sid-”

“Names,” he repeats, and there’s that captain voice again.

“Karen,” you say reluctantly. “The attendant. And a security guard, I don’t remember his name. But Rebecca and the operations manager already handled it-”

“Not well enough if you’re here telling me about it instead of having watched the whole game like you were supposed to,” he counters. He pulls out his phone. “I’m calling Kyle.”

“Who’s Kyle?”

“Team president and GM,” he says grimly, already dialing.

“Sidney, it’s almost 10 PM-”

“Don’t care.” The call connects. “Kyle, it’s Sidney. Sorry to call so late, but we have a problem.”

You watch, equal parts mortified and touched, as Sidney explains the situation to the team president with barely controlled anger. His free hand stays on your waist the whole time, keeping you close, and you can see other players and their families watching with interest.

“I don’t care about protocols,” Sidney says into the phone. “My girlfriend had a legitimate pass that I personally arranged through Rebecca. She was humiliated and detained and missed part of the game because some attendant decided she didn’t look like she belonged.”

There’s a pause as he listens.

“Yes, I’m aware the team has security concerns. I’m also aware that we give credentials to family members and partners specifically so they can watch games. If those credentials aren’t being honored, what’s the point?”

Another pause.

“I appreciate that, Kyle. Yes. Thank you.” He hangs up and looks at you. “He’s reviewing the security footage and the incident report. The attendant and the guard will both be reprimanded. And he’s implementing new training for all suite-level staff.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say quietly.

“Yes, I did,” he counters. “You’re important to me. You’re part of my life. And nobody gets to treat you like that. Nobody.”

“I just feel bad that-”

“Don’t,” he interrupts. “Don’t feel bad. They screwed up, not you. You did everything right. You showed your pass, you tried to explain, you gave them multiple ways to verify your identity. They chose not to believe you.”

“Because I look young,” you say.

“Because they made assumptions,” he corrects. “And those assumptions cost you your first game in the family box. That’s not okay.”

You lean into him, suddenly exhausted. “Can we go home?”

“Yeah,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Let’s go home.”

He keeps his arm around you as you walk out to the parking garage, and you’re almost to his car when someone calls his name.

You turn to see the security guard from earlier, the one who detained you. He looks uncomfortable.

“Mr. Crosby,” he starts. “I wanted to apologize. To both of you. We were following protocol, but-”

“Your protocol needs work,” Sidney says flatly. “My girlfriend showed you a legitimate pass. She gave you her name. She offered multiple ways to verify her identity. What part of your protocol involves ignoring all of that?”

“None of it,” the guard admits. “I should have made more calls. I should have verified harder. I’m sorry.”

He’s looking at you now, genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “You were telling the truth and I didn’t listen.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly, because what else can you say?

The guard nods and walks away, and Sidney opens the car door for you.

“You okay?” He asks once you’re both inside.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just what a night.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching for your hand. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Not your fault,” you remind him.

“Still sorry.” He lifts your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “Next game will be better. I promise.”

“Can’t get much worse,” you point out.

He laughs, some of the tension finally leaving his shoulders. “True. But seriously next game, I’m walking you up to the box myself. No attendants. No questions.”

“You can’t do that every game,” you protest.

“Watch me,” he says.

And knowing Sidney, stubborn and protective and absolutely unwilling to let anyone make you feel unwelcome again, you believe him.

The thing about dating Sidney Crosby is that sometimes people don’t believe you’re dating Sidney Crosby.

He grinned, that boyish charm still as potent as the day you met.

“Name your price. Dinner out? Back rub? I’m at your mercy.”

You laughed, swatting his chest.

“Let’s start with you not being late for practice again. Coach was not happy last time.”

Will’s face fell, his blue eyes clouding with guilt.

“I hate missing their games. Charles and Theo are gonna be out there, probably pulling moves I taught them, and I’m stuck doing line drills.”

You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing his stubble.

“You’ll be there tomorrow, and they’ll light up when they see you. I’ve got this. I’m their loudest fan today.”

He leaned down, kissing you, the kind of kiss that reminded you why you’d said yes to him all those years ago.

“You’re the best, you know that?” he said, pulling back.

“Tell the boys I’m proud of them, win or lose. And…”

His tone shifted, taking on that serious dad edge he used before every game. “Make sure they remember the rules.”

You nodded, mimicking his stern voice.

“Enjoy the game, have fun, and be brothers on and off the ice. No rough stuff, just clean hockey.”

“Exactly,” he said, but his expression softened.

“And one more thing, tell them to look out for you. Protect Mom when I’m not there.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart warmed. “Will, it’s a middle school rink, not a war zone.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, stealing one last kiss.

“You’re my world, and they’re my boys. Gotta keep you safe.”

“Love you,” you called as he grabbed his keys and headed for the door.

“Love you more, babe.” he shot back, winking before the door clicked shut.

At 11, the twins were carbon copies of Will, tall for their age, with his sandy blond hair and blue eyes, though Charles had your smile and Theo had your quiet intensity but still they had a big love for hockey. They stumbled downstairs, already in their hockey mindset, their jerseys draped over chairs, Charles in #2, Theo in #43. Those numbers were Will’s from his USA Hockey days and his time with the Sharks, but the boys thought they were just his ‘weekend game’ numbers from pickup games with friends. You and Will had kept his NHL career under wraps, wanting them to grow up as regular kids, not as ‘Will Smith’s sons.’ or whatever nickname others people would gave them. Privacy was sacred, a shield against the media’s prying eyes.

In the car, the boys were a whirlwind of energy, their gear bags rattling in the trunk. Charles, the chattier one, leaned forward.

“I’m scoring at least two goals today, Mom. Watch.”

Theo, in the back, smirked.

“Only if I don’t block you first. My team’s defense is solid.”

You glanced at them in the rearview mirror, grinning.

“Okay, hotshots, what’s Dad’s rule?”

Charles groaned, flopping back. “Have fun, play clean, and be brothers on and off ice.”

“And don’t go too hard on each other. Oh and protect Mom when Dad’s not here.” Theo added, his voice softer but firm.

“Good,” you said.

“You’re on different teams, but you’re a team at home. Dad said he’s proud of you, no matter what.”

Charles puffed out his chest, his jersey crinkling.

“We’ve got you, Mom. Nobody’s gonna mess with us.”

“Yeah,” Theo said, his eyes narrowing. “We’re Smiths.”

You laughed, pulling into the school parking lot. The rink was a hive of activity, coaches barking last-minute instructions. The boys hopped out, hoisting their bags like pros.

“Go get ready,” you called. “Put your gear on, lace up, and I’ll meet you inside.”

They waved, disappearing into the crowd of jersey-clad kids. You parked, grabbed your jacket, and headed to the rink, you spotted Charles and Theo already in their warming up position, their names bold on their jerseys with number #2 SMITH and #43 SMITH. They skated with Will’s effortless grace, weaving through cones, firing pucks with precision. Charles flicked a playful shot at Theo, who blocked it with a grin. Just like their Dad, their focus unbreakable.

You found a seat in the front row, close enough to feel the thud of the puck. Lisa, the mom of Eli, Theo’s teammate, slid in beside you, her red scarf bright against the gray bleachers.

“Hey, girl!” she said, nudging you.

“Your boys look like they’re ready to run today game.”

“They’re hyped,” you said, grinning.

“Their dad gave them the full pep talk before he left for practice.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow. “Will’s not here? That’s new. He’s usually glued to the glass, yelling like he’s coaching the Sharks.”

“Yeah, he’s got practice. He’ll be here tomorrow, though. The boys are counting on it.”

The game kicked off with a roar, the puck zipping across the ice. Charles, left wing for the Blue team, was a blur, dodging defenders and rifling a shot that hit the net five minutes in. The crowd erupted, and you leapt up, screaming,

“That’s my Charlie!”

Theo, right wing for the Red team, wasn’t about to let his brother steal the show. He snagged the puck, deked a defender with a move straight out of Will’s playbook, and snapped a wrist shot into the goal. You clapped wildly, your heart swelling.

“Go, Theo Smith! Go!”

Behind you, parents whisper, their voices a mix of awe and curiosity.

“Those Smith boys are unreal,” one dad said.

“That’s not just practice. They’ve got serious talent.”

“Look at that footwork,” a mom added. “Their dad must’ve been a hell of a player.”

Lisa leaned over, her eyes twinkling.

“That’s all Will’s doing, right? He’s got those boys skating like pros.”

You smiled, keeping your answer vague.

“He’s taught them a lot. They’ve been on skates since they were three.”

You never mentioned Will’s NHL career, not even to Lisa, who was as close as you got to a rink-side confidante. It was a promise you and Will made early on to keep the boys out of the spotlight, to let them be kids. The less people knew, the better.

The first half was a showcase of the twins’ skills. Charles threaded a no-look pass to a teammate, who scored. Theo blocked a shot, then set up a goal with a pinpoint assist. They were competitive but never crossing into dirty play, just as Will had drilled into them. You could see their personalities on the ice for Charles’s flair, Theo’s quiet intensity but they respected eachother, even as opponents.

At the break, you grabbed a hot chocolate drink, chatting with Lisa about the team’s playoff chances. That’s when a man approached, his smile a touch too warm. He was tall, with dark hair and a kid’s Blue team jersey slung over his shoulder, his son probably one of Charles’s teammates. His name tag read ‘Joseph.’

“Hey, you’re Charles and Theo’s mom, right?” he said, offering a handshake.

“I’m Joseph. My son, Max, plays with Charles.”

“Nice to meet you,” you said, shaking his hand out of courtesy.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Those boys are incredible out there,” he said, stepping closer.

“You must be so proud. Raising twins on your own must be a lot, though.”

You frowned, caught off guard.

“Oh, I’m not, my husband’s just at work today.”

He either didn’t hear or chose to ignore it.

“Still, you’re doing an amazing job. Maybe we could grab a coffee sometime, swap stories about the chaos of hockey parenting.”

His tone was unmistakably flirty, his eyes lingering a bit too long.

You’re already felt the discomfort. You hadn’t worn your wedding rings today, they were at the cleaner, and you’d left your engagement ring at home, worried about losing it in the chaos of the game. Maybe that’s why he’d misread the situation.

“Thanks, but I’m okay,” you said, stepping back.

“I need to get back for the second half.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, but his smile didn’t falter.

“Think about that coffee, though.”

The second half was just as intense, with Charles and Theo trading goals and assists. The game ended in a 3-3 tie, the kids spilling onto the ice in a flurry of high-fives and laughter. You stood, clapping, but your smile faded when you saw Charles and Theo skating toward you, their faces etched with concern.

“Mom, you okay?”

Charles asked, his helmet tucked under his arm, sweat matting his hair.

“That guy was weird,”

Theo said, his voice low and protective. He glared toward the stands, where Joseph was chatting with another parent.

“He was talking to you all funny.”

You forced a smile, not wanting to worry them.

“It’s fine, boys. He was just being friendly. Let’s get your gear off and head home. Dad’s waiting”

They exchanged a look, more of Will’s look, all fierce protectiveness and skated to the locker room. You exhaled, relieved they didn’t push it further. On the drive home, the boys were back to their usual selves, dissecting every play and plotting strategies for tomorrow’s game. They didn’t mention about that guy, so you assumed they’d let it go.

When you pulled into the driveway, Will’s car was in its spot. The boys bolted inside, their gear bags thumping against the doorframe.

“Dad!”

They shouted, tackling Will as he stepped out of the kitchen, a dish towel slung over his shoulder.

“Whoa, slow down, champs!”

Will laughed, ruffling their hair. He was still in his practice sweats, his face flushed from a hard skate.

“How’d my superstars do?”

Before you could answer, Charles blurted,

“Some guy was talking to Mom, and she looked super uncomfortable.”

Theo nodded, his arms crossed.

“Yeah, he was all smiley and weird. We told him we had to go, and he backed off.”

Will’s eyebrows shot up, his gaze snapping to you. You saw the jealousy, but it was tempered by humor, his lips twitching into a smirk. He crouched to their level, his voice conspiratorial.

“Is that right? What’d you do, huh? Give me the play-by-play.”

Charles grinned, puffing up.

“We skated over after the game and said we had to leave. He looked like he was gonna run.”

“Good job, boys,” Will said, high-fiving them.

“You gotta protect Mom when I’m not there. No creepy guys allowed near my wife.”

“Will,” you said, rolling your eyes as you kicked off your shoes.

“It was nothing. Can we eat? I’m starving.”

Will stood, slinging an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close.

“Nothing, huh? We’ll talk later,”

He whispered, his tone teasing but with an edge of curiosity.

To the boys, he said, “Go wash up. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Dinner was a lively affair, the kitchen table covered in takeout pizza and garlic bread. Charles and Theo recounted every goal, their voices overlapping in excitement.

“Dad, I used that spin move you showed us!” Theo said, waving his slice of pizza.

“The goalie didn’t even see it coming.”

“And I passed like you do in your games,” Charles added, mimicking Will’s wrist flick.

“It was so smooth.”

Will leaned back, his smile wide and proud.

“You guys had fun out there? That’s what matters. I’m so damn proud of you, you know that?”

“Dad, you said ‘damn,’” Theo pointed out, smirking.

Will laughed, holding up his hands.

“Oops. Don’t tell Mom I’m corrupting you.”

You shook your head, grinning. “Too late for that.”

After the boys went to bed, their gear bags neatly stowed for tomorrow, you and Will settled on the couch, a glass of wine in your hand and his arm around you. Will tilted his head, his voice low.

“So, this guy… what’s his deal? Hitting on my wife when I’m not around?”

You sighed, leaning into him.

“His name’s Joseph. He’s a dad on Charles’s team. I didn’t wear my rings today, they’re at the cleaner, and I left my engagement ring at home so I wouldn’t lose it at the rink… he probably thought I was a single mom. I shut it down, but the boys noticed. I feel bad for not wearing something to make it clear.”

Will’s jaw tightened, but his eyes sparkled with mischief.

“No rings? Babe, that’s like leaving the goal unguarded.” He kissed your temple, his voice softening.

“But seriously, you okay? He didn’t push too hard, did he?”

“No, it was just awkward,” you said.

“I was polite, but he mentioned coffee or something. The boys swooped in before it got weirder.”

Will chuckled, pulling you closer.

“That’s my boys. Got my back. But tomorrow? I’m coming with you, and we’re making sure that whole rink knows you’re mine. Charles and Theo’s mom, my beautiful wife, no question about it.”

You laughed, swatting his chest. “You’re ridiculous, Will Smith.”

“Ridiculous and crazy about you,” he said, kissing you deeply, his hand cradling your face.

“Nobody’s forgetting who you belong to.”

Sunday morning dawned bright and early, the alarm blaring at 6:00 a.m. You groaned, but Will was already up when you shuffled downstairs, wrapping your robe tighter.

Will glanced over, grinning. “Morning, Mrs. Smith. Ready to show that rink who’s boss?”

“You’re way too chipper for this hour,” you muttered, but you smiled, grabbing a coffee.

Will was in full dad mode, checking the boys’ gear with the precision of an NHL veteran. He sharpened Theo’s skates, tested Charles’s stick tape, and packed their water bottles with the same care he put into his own pre-game routine.

“Can’t have dull blades or sticky tape,” he said, more to himself than you.

You woke the boys, who stumbled down, rubbing their eyes but lighting up when they saw Will in his Sharks cap and hoodie.

“Dad’s coming!” Charles cheered, fist-bumping Theo.

“Gonna yell louder than Mom?” Theo teased, dodging Charles’s playful shove.

After a quick breakfast, Will drove, his hand resting on your thigh as the boys chattered in the back. At the school, you spotted Joseph near the entrance, talking to another parent. Theo nudged Charles.

“That’s the guy from yesterday.”

Charles nodded, his eyes narrowing. “The one who made Mom look all weird.”

Will’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, but he kept his cool, his jaw set.

“Don’t worry, boys. I’ve got this.”

Inside the rink, Will claimed a front-row seat by the glass, pulling you close and kissing your cheek for good measure.

“Gonna make sure everyone sees us,”

He whispered, his tone half-teasing, half-serious. You noticed Joseph a few rows back, his expression unreadable.

Will turned, his smile polite but razor-sharp.

“Hey, man, didn’t get to meet you yesterday. I’m Will, her husband. Play for the Sharks. Had practice yesterday, so she was flying solo. You a big hockey fan?”

Joseph’s face went white, and he stammered,

“Uh, yeah, I, uh, my son plays. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,”

Will said, his tone friendly but with an edge that said, Back off. He turned back to the ice, his arm around you, and you bit your lip to keep from laughing.

The game was a thriller. Will was on his feet the whole time, banging on the glass and shouting.

“Nice hustle, Charles! Keep your stick down, Theo!”

When Charles scored with a slick backhand, Will roared, “That’s my boy!” Theo answered with a goal, his shot a carbon copy of Will’s, and Will high-fived you, grinning like a kid.

Theo’s Red team won 2-1, but Charles skated over to hug his brother, their helmets clinking. After the game, kids swarmed Will, recognizing him from Sharks games on TV.

“Mr. Smith, can you sign my stick?”

One boy asked. Another shoved a phone at him for a selfie. Will obliged, his arm around you the whole time, while Charles and Theo stood nearby, confused.

“Dad, why do they know you?” Theo asked, his brow furrowed.

Lisa, Eli’s mom, laughed as she approached.

“No wonder your boys are so good. They’ve got an NHL dad coaching them at home.”

You and Will exchanged a look. It was time. That night, over pizza and root beer, Will sat the boys down.

“Guys, I play hockey for a job. That’s why I’m at practice a lot, why I travel for games. I’m with the San Jose Sharks.”

Charles’s eyes widened. “Like, the real Sharks? On TV?”

“Yup,” Will said, grinning.

“But you two? You’re already better than me. Got your mom’s heart and my moves.”

Theo smirked. “Cool. But we’re still gonna beat you in the backyard rink.”

Will laughed, pulling you into his side.

“That’s my boys. Now, who’s up for ice cream?”

The flight from Boston to San Jose felt like the longest seven hours of your life, not because of turbulence or crying babies, but because every minute brought you closer to the new chapter you’d been dreaming about since Will moved.

You’d graduated two weeks ago, hugged your parents goodbye at Logan Airport, and boarded the plane with two suitcases and a heart full of nervous excitement.

Will had been your best friend since the start of Boston College: late night study sessions in the library, road trips to Cape Cod, inside jokes that made you cry-laugh in the middle of lectures.

When he got drafted by the Sharks and asked, half jokingly, “You should just move out here with me,” you’d stared at your laptop screen for ten seconds and then actually started looking for apartments.

Now you were here. Northern California in June smelled like salt and eucalyptus, and the second you stepped out of arrivals, Will was waiting in his hoodie, arms already open.

“You really did it,” he laughed, spinning you once before crushing you in a hug.

“Told you I don’t back down from a promise,” you mumbled into his shoulder.

That night he had a game and he left you a ticket and his jersey for you to wear. He told you to meet you outside the locker room after the game.

You waited in the hallway, scrolling through your phone, when Will appeared freshly showered, hair still damp, dragging someone behind him.

“Y/n, this is Macklin. Macklin, this is the girl who abandoned Boston for me.”

Macklin looked younger in person than on tv, but taller. Dark hair falling over his forehead, cheeks still flushed from the game. His eyes met yours and something in them flickered, surprise maybe, like he hadn’t expected Will’s best friend to look like you.

“Hi,” he said, voice softer than you thought it would be. He offered his hand, but then pulled you into a quick, polite hug instead. “Will won’t shut up about you.”

“All good things, I hope?” You laughed, trying to ignore the way your pulse jumped when his hand brushed your back.

Will grinned. “Mostly.”

Macklin smiled, he glanced at Will, then back at you, and you caught the tiny tightening of his jaw, like he was cataloging every inch of space between you and his teammate.

After the first night, it became like a pattern.

You wanted to explore your new city, and Will was more than happy to be your tour guide. Brunch in Santana Row, taking you to golf, having dinners. But more often than not, Macklin was there too.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Will would say, sliding into the passenger seat of your car while Macklin climbed into the back. “He’s still figuring out where to get good coffee that isn’t the same coffee shop.”

And in all honesty, you didn’t mind.

Macklin was quiet at the beginning, answering questions with short sentences, laughing mostly when Will said something stupid. But he watched you.

You felt it every time you turned around too fast and caught his eyes on you, on the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, or how you stole fries off Will’s plate without asking.

He was beautiful in the effortless way some boys are before they realize it. Sharp cheekbones, long lashes, the kind of smile that made you understand why people wrote songs about teeth.

You told yourself you were just noticing because he was new. Because everything in California was new.

But then there were moments.

Like the night the three of you ended up at a bonfire on a beach. Will ran into some people and disappeared to say hi, leaving you and Mack on a driftwood log, knees almost touching.

“You cold?” He asked.

“I’m good.”

He shrugged out of his zip up anyway and draped it over your shoulders. It smelled like him, you pulled it tighter and pretended your heart wasn’t sprinting.

“Thanks,” you said, smiling.

He nodded, staring into the flames. “Will’s lucky, you know. Having someone who’d move across the country for him.”

You laughed softly. “I didn’t move for him. I mean.. yeah, he made it easier, but I needed a change. Boston was great, but it started feeling small.”

Macklin’s jaw flexed. He poked the fire with a stick, sending sparks into the dark. “Still. Pretty big gesture.”

You studied his profile. “You jealous?”

His head snapped toward you, eyes wide for half a second before he recovered. “No. Just happy for you.”

Will came bounding back, and whatever strange tension had been building snapped like a guitar string.

It kept happening. Will would rest his arm across your shoulders in photos. You’d shove him playfully when he teased you. You’d fall asleep on his couch during movie nights and wake up with a blanket tucked around you.

Normal best friend stuff. Except every time, Macklin went quiet: his smiles got thinner, he would find reasons to sit on the opposite side of the booth, or check his phone more than usual, or suddenly remember he had things to do.

Will, of course, noticed the way his best friend was acting when you were around.

They were doing bag skates after a practice, when Will cornered Macklin by the benches. “Dude. What is your deal?”

Macklin peeled off his gloves. “What?”

“Everytime Y/n’s around, you turn into a moody teenager. Did she say something? Do something?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Macklin stared at the ice. “Nothing. Forget it.”

Will wasn’t having it. He stepped closer, voice low so anyone else wouldn’t hear. “Mack, talk.”

Macklin exhaled through his nose. “This is hard to say, I’m sorry.. I just like her, okay? And I know you two have.. whatever you have. And I’m trying to be cool about it, I swear. I’m not gonna be that guy. You were friends with her first. I just-” he dragged a hand through his hair. “I see how she looks at you. How you touch her all the time. I’m not blind.”

Will blinked once, twice, then started laughing so hard he had to lean on his stick.

Macklin’s face went red. “Forget anything I said.”

“No, no, wait-” Will wheezed. “You think me and Y/n are together?”

“..aren’t you?”

“Bro. She’s literally my sister. Like platonically. One hundred percent, I’ve seen her throw up on the T after too many Mike’s Hard. There is no universe where that’s romantic.”

Macklin stared at him. “But she moved here. For you.”

“She moved here because her lease was up, her job let her go remote, and she wanted to live somewhere that isn’t negative degrees in March. I was the excuse, not the reason.”

Macklin opened his mouth, closing it and opening it again. “You hug her, like a lot.”

“Because it’s a sickness.”

Macklin looked like the ice had just cracked under his skates and he wasn’t sure whether to fall or fly.

Will’s expression softened. “If you like her, ask her out. She thinks you’re cute, by the way. Keeps calling you ‘pretty’ when she thinks I’m not listening.”

Macklin’s head snapped up. “She said that?”

“Multiple times. Also quoted you as ‘stupidly handsome.’ Her words.”

Macklin swallowed. “I thought I didn’t have a shot.”

Will clapped him on the shoulder, grinning wide. “You do now, buddy. Just don’t take her to chain restaurants, she’ll riot. She likes rooftop bars, Thai food, and those movie theaters that smell like popcorn. And if you hurt her, I’ll put you into the boards so hard your grandchildren will feel it.”

Two nights later, your phone buzzed while you were unpacking the last box in your apartment.

unknown number: hey, it’s macklin. will gave me your number (hope that’s okay) unknown number: was wondering if you’re free tomorrow night? there’s a rooftop in campbell with really good cocktails and a view of the mountains at sunset. thought maybe you’d want to check it out with me?

You stared at the text so long your screen dimmed. You typed three different replies and deleted them all.

You: I’d love that.

He picked you up at seven in a black Henley that should’ve been illegal. When you opened the door, his eyes did that thing again: wide, then soft, like he was seeing something he’d been waiting for.

“You look-” He stopped, laughed under his breath. “Will’s gonna kill me for saying this, but you look beautiful.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Mack.”

The rooftop was perfect: string lights, heat lamps, the mountains turning pink and gold behind the skyline. He ordered you a spicy margarita because Will had apparently ratted out your drink order, and you laughed so hard you snorted when he admitted it.

Conversation came easy after that. He told you about growing up in Vancouver, about being the youngest in every room his whole life, about how weird it still felt to have people recognize him at the grocery store.

You told him about how it was studying for you at Boston, about your mom crying at graduation, about how terrified you were that moving here was impulsive and insane.

“It wasn’t,” he said quietly, rolling the condensation on his glass. “Impulsive, maybe. Insane, no. You seem braver than most people.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve known me for like three weeks.”

“I’ve known you long enough.”

He set his drink down. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay..”

“I thought you and Will were together. Like, together together. That’s why I was weird and distant or whatever. I liked you the first night I met you, outside the locker room. And every time after that, it got worse. Better? Both, but I thought I didn’t have a chance, so I tried to get over it. Badly, apparently.”

You stared at him. “You were jealous of Will?”

“Painfully.”

“That’s really stupid,” you said, and then you were laughing, and he was laughing, and the space between you on the bench disappeared when you leaned in to kiss him.

His hand came up to cup your face like he was scared you’d vanish. When you pulled back, his eyes were closed, forehead resting against yours.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi,” you whispered back.

Later, when he walked you to your door and kissed you again, slower this time, like he was memorizing it, you texted Will a single shark emoji.

His reply came immediately.

Will: fucking finally.. Will: tell Mack he owes me dinner for the assist

You smiled, looked up at Macklin still lingering on your doorstep, and pulled him inside by the collar of that unfairly perfect Henley.

When he sat down on the couch, he turned to you, “Hey, I want to do this right. Like.. tomorrow I’m taking you on a real date. Somewhere you wear a dress.”

You bit back a grin. “Macklin Celebrini, are you trying to tell me you’re a gentleman?”

“Trying being the operative word,” he muttered, kissing you again before you could laugh at him again.

connor notices you because you’re the only one not looking at him.

it’s warmups, which means half the arena is already pressed against the glass like it’s a meet-and-greet instead of a hockey game. signs with blocky writing. jerseys with sharpies ready. phones held up for blurry pregame photos. the usual.

he’s used to it. he keeps his head down, runs through his reps, takes his shots, nods politely if someone catches his eye.

but then there’s you.

you’re sitting at the glass, front row, close enough that if he fires a puck over the glass wrong it could hurt. you’re wearing black jeans and a hoodie that very clearly is not team merch. your hair is down and you're scrolling on your phone like you’re waiting at an airport gate instead of sitting two feet from nhl warmups.

you don’t look up once.

not when he skates by. not when the crowd cheers. not when someone taps the glass to get his attention.

he skates past again, slower this time.

still nothing.

he tells himself it doesn’t matter. why would it matter? people ignore him all the time. not everyone is a fan.

but this feels different. you look…unimpressed. like you’re here against your will. and for some reason, that bothers him.

he circles back again, pretending to chase down a loose puck near your section. he glances up, just briefly.

you’re still staring at your phone.

he huffs quietly through his nose.

fine.

challenge accepted.

he picks up a puck and skates toward the boards directly in front of you. he taps the glass lightly with his stick.

nothing.

he taps again, a little louder.

you blink once, mildly annoyed, and finally look up.

your eyes meet his.

there’s a pause.

not a squeal. not a gasp. not even a smile.

just a neutral, slightly confused expression like you’re trying to figure out why a hockey player is trying to get your attention.

connor lifts the puck slightly, eyebrows raising in a subtle question. you want it?

you glance behind you, like maybe he means someone else.

he shakes his head faintly. you.

“what?” you mouth.

he gestures again with the puck.

your face shifts from confusion to mild horror.

you shake your head immediately.

no.

connor blinks.

no?

no one says no.

you wave your hand dismissively and point at the ice, clearly indicating: i’m good.

he feels something weird in his chest. is she…rejecting a warmup puck? he should skate away. he knows he should. instead, something stubborn kicks in.

he shrugs slightly, like okay, suit yourself, and flips the puck lightly up toward the top of the glass, planning for it to arc gently over and land near your lap.

it does not arc gently.

it catches the very top of the glass wrong.

it ricochets.

and in one horrifying, slow-motion second, the puck clips the frame, redirects sharply, and smacks directly into your forehead. the sound is awful. a dull, unmistakable thud. the section you're in gasps collectively. your head snaps back slightly and your phone clatters to the floor.

connor freezes. actually freezes.

you blink once.

twice.

then you very calmly put your hand to your forehead.

and when you pull it away, there’s blood.

“shit,” he breathes.

you look down at your hand, stare at the red, and then look back at him.

your expression is not angry.

it’s not shocked.

it’s deeply, deeply annoyed.

trainers are already rushing toward your section. security is unlocking the gate by the glass.

connor’s stomach drops to his skates.

he’s not thinking when he skates over toward the bench, ripping off his gloves and helmet.

“bedsy!” someone calls after him.

he ignores it.

he hops over the boards before anyone can stop him and heads straight toward the tunnel where they’re guiding you.

you seemed to have walked on your own, which is good. but there’s a towel pressed to your forehead and you look like you just want to disappear.

“i’m so sorry,” he blurts the second he’s close enough.

you look up at him.

up.

because you’re sitting now on the medical bench and he’s hovering awkwardly in front of you, tall and panicked and helmet-less, hair a mess from ripping it off.

“you’re sorry?” you repeat flatly.

“i didn’t mean— it hit the glass wrong— i was just—”

“trying to give me a puck?”

he swallows. “yeah.”

“i said no.”

“i know.”

you stare at him for a long second.

the medic dabs at your forehead and winces. “you’re gonna need a couple stitches.”

you close your eyes briefly.

connor feels like the worst person alive.

“i can leave,” he says quickly. “i just— i needed to say sorry. like really sorry. that was—”

“stupid?” you offer.

“yeah.”

you sigh, lowering the towel slightly.

“i don’t even like hockey,” you mutter.

his brain short-circuits.

“what?”

“my friend had an extra ticket. she bailed last minute. i figured i’d come anyway.” you gesture vaguely at the ice. “i was just trying to kill time.”

he blinks.

he concussed a girl who doesn’t even like hockey. this is worse than he thought.

“okay,” he says carefully, because he has no idea what else to say. “that makes this worse.”

you almost smile. almost.

the medic begins stitching carefully and you wince but don’t complain.

connor shifts awkwardly, hands flexing at his sides.

“i’ll pay for it,” he blurts. “whatever it costs. and like— if you need anything. ice. or—”

“it’s fine,” you say.

“it’s not fine.”

“it’s just a forehead.”

“it’s your forehead.”

that makes you pause.

you look at him properly this time.

he looks genuinely distressed. not annoyed. not embarrassed. actually worried.

it’s disarming.

“you just left the ice?” you ask slowly.

“yeah.”

“is that allowed?”

“not really.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“so you could get in trouble.”

“probably.”

“for hitting a girl who didn’t want your puck.”

he grimaces. “when you put it like that.”

you watch him for another long second.

“you’re very dramatic,” you say finally.

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

“i’m just— i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

the medic finishes up and steps back. “you’re good. small cut. you’ll have a bruise.”

you nod and carefully slide off the bench.

connor instinctively reaches out like he’s going to steady you, then hesitates.

you notice.

“i’m fine,” you say.

“right. yeah. obviously.”

there’s an awkward beat.

the crowd is still buzzing faintly outside. warmups are probably ending.

he should go. he doesn’t.

“i really am sorry,” he says again, softer now. “i thought you were ignoring me.”

you blink.

“i was.”

“yeah, i— i know.”

you cross your arms lightly. “why did that bother you?”

he opens his mouth.

closes it.

thinks.

“i don’t know,” he admits. “you just looked like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

“i would’ve rather been literally anywhere else,” you say dryly.

he lets out a small laugh.

“okay,” he says. “that’s fair.”

you tilt your head slightly, studying him.

“you’re not what i expected.”

“what did you expect?”

“arrogant.”

he flinches slightly. “oh.”

“you’re just…awkward.”

he exhales quietly. “yeah. that tracks.”

for the first time, you actually smile.

it’s small, but it’s there.

and it hits him harder than the puck hit you.

“are you staying for the game?” he asks before he can stop himself.

you glance toward the ice.

“i mean. i already have a concussion story.”

“it’s not a concussion.”

“that’s reassuring.”

“i promise i won’t aim at you again.”

“again?”

he winces.

you sigh.

“i’ll stay.”

his heart does something weird and fluttery.

“okay.”

“but,” you add, “if you score, you owe me dinner.”

he blinks.

“what?”

“you heard me.”

“i—you don’t even like hockey.”

“exactly. so if i have to sit through it, i deserve something.”

he considers this very seriously.

“deal,” he says finally.

“and if you don’t score?”

he shrugs. “i’ll still buy you dinner.”

you laugh softly, taking out your phone and handing it to him so he can type in his number.

“that’s not very confident.”

“i am confident.”

“you just offered to lose either way.”

he thinks about that.

“yeah,” he says slowly. “i guess i did.”

you hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary.

then you turn toward the arena.

“don’t hit me again,” you call over your shoulder.

he actually smiles this time.

“i won’t.”

he jogs back toward the ice, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the game.

and when he steps back onto the rink, he glances once toward the glass.

you’re back in your seat. watching him.

he scores. of course he does. second period. breakaway. clean, sharp, inevitable. the crowd explodes. he doesn’t celebrate big, he just turns slightly toward your section. and for the first time all night, you’re smiling at him.

later, when the game ends and he checks his phone, there’s a message from an unknown number.

Y/N you owe me dinner. also i’m keeping the bloody puck.

he stares at it.

meet cute gone wrong.

you hadn’t planned on staying that long.

you told yourself you’d hang around for ten minutes, maybe fifteen—just long enough for your friends to get their jerseys signed and take a few blurry photos before security started herding everyone out. you weren’t even the biggest hockey fan in the group; you liked the games well enough, liked the energy, liked the ritual of it all. but mostly you’d come because your friends begged and promised dinner after.

so you stand there now, leaning against the cool metal barrier near the player parking lot, arms folded loosely across your chest as the night air settles in. the arena lights glow behind you, bright enough to make everything feel surreal, like you’re standing just outside a movie set.

players trickle out one by one.

some stop. some don’t.

your friends squeal and surge forward every time a recognizable face appears, hands full of sharpies and phones, voices overlapping. you hang back a little, smiling, holding jackets and bags, watching the choreography of it all—security nodding, players laughing, fans buzzing with adrenaline.

then someone nudges your arm.

“oh my god,” your friend whispers, breathless. “that’s him.”

you look up without thinking.

and immediately forget what you were about to say.

macklin celebrini walks out with his hair still damp from the shower, falling messily over his forehead. he’s dressed nicely—nice sweater and slacks—but there’s something unmistakable about him. maybe it’s the way he moves, loose but purposeful. maybe it’s the quiet confidence that follows him like a shadow.

or maybe it’s the fact that he looks younger up close, softer around the edges than he does on the ice.

your stomach does a weird little flip.

he stops for the first group of fans, signs a jersey, laughs at something someone says. it’s not flashy or performative—he seems genuinely present, eyes focused, nodding along, thanking people like he actually means it.

your friends immediately lose their minds.

they shove forward, calling his name, holding out their things. you step closer by default, still half a step behind them, watching as he signs their jerseys, poses for photos. he’s polite, warm, a little shy in a way that feels real.

then—unexpectedly—his eyes lift.

and land on you.

it’s not dramatic. not a freeze-frame moment. just a brief pause, like his brain stutters for half a second.

you feel it anyway.

he looks away first, cheeks faintly pink as he hands your friend her marker back. you tell yourself it means nothing. athletes look at fans all the time. this is nothing.

but when he finishes with them and starts to move on, he hesitates.

turns back.

“hey,” he says, voice softer now. closer.

you blink. “hi.”

he gestures vaguely between you and your friends. “uh—did you want something signed too?”

you shake your head, suddenly hyper-aware of your hands, your posture, the way your heart is doing entirely too much. “no, i’m okay. i was just… moral support.”

your friends immediately betray you.

“she’s lying,” one of them says. “she just didn’t bring anything.”

you shoot her a look. “traitor.”

macklin laughs quietly, the sound warm and surprised, like he didn’t expect himself to. he shifts his weight, shaking his hair back so its out of his eyes.

“oh,” he says. “well. still.”

still.

you’re not sure what he means by that, but your chest tightens anyway.

he glances around, then back at you. “are you—um—heading out now?”

“yeah,” you say. “probably.”

“okay,” he says again, nodding like he’s psyching himself up. “cool. um.”

there’s a beat.

then another.

your friends go silent, eyes darting between the two of you, barely containing themselves.

macklin clears his throat.

“i was wondering,” he says, carefully, “if you’d want to—like—not now, obviously—but maybe… go out sometime?”

your brain stalls.

“what?” you blurt, then immediately cringe. “sorry—I just—what?”

he smiles, small and nervous, but he doesn’t look away. “i mean—dinner? or coffee? whatever you want. if you want. totally fine if not.”

your friends make strangled noises behind you.

you swallow.

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

the relief on his face is immediate and unguarded, like he forgot to keep it cool. his shoulders relax, smile widening just a little.

“okay,” he says. “okay, cool.”

he pulls his phone out with slightly clumsy fingers. “could i—uh—get your number?”

you give it to him, heart racing, hands barely steady as he types it in. he double-checks it like it’s precious, then looks up again.

“i’m macklin,” he says, as if you don’t already know.

you tell him your name.

he repeats it softly, like he’s testing how it feels in his mouth.

“i’ll text you,” he promises. “like—soon. not in a weird way.”

you laugh. “i trust you.”

he smiles at that, really smiles, and something about it feels like the beginning of something rather than the end of a chance encounter.

“goodnight,” he says.

“goodnight,” you echo.

and then he’s gone, heading toward his car, leaving you standing there in a daze while your friends absolutely lose it.

he’s early.

you know this because you check your phone twice, then peer out the window, then check again—because there’s already a dark car parked neatly along the curb, hazards off, engine still running like he didn’t want to announce himself too loudly.

your stomach flips.

you grab your purse, take one last look at yourself in the mirror, and tell your reflection to relax. this is just a date. a first date, sure—but still just a date.

when you step outside, the porch light flicks on automatically, casting a warm glow over the driveway. he’s already out of the car by the time you reach the steps.

like he couldn’t wait.

macklin celebrini stands there with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders a little tense, posture straight in a way that feels practiced. he looks good—clean, casual, comfortable—but his eyes soften the second he sees you.

“wow,” he says, like the word slipped out on its own. “hey.”

“hey,” you answer, smiling despite yourself.

he glances you over—not in a way that feels intrusive or bold, just quick and instinctive, like he’s cataloging you in real time. his cheeks pink immediately, and he clears his throat.

“you look… um. you look really nice.”

you laugh lightly. “so do you.”

that seems to short-circuit him for a second. he ducks his head, smiling to himself as he opens the passenger door.

“i—thanks. uh, here.”

you slide into the seat, and he closes the door carefully, like he’s afraid of doing it too hard. when he gets back into the driver’s side, there’s a moment where neither of you say anything—just the quiet click of seatbelts and the soft hum of the engine.

“so,” he says eventually, glancing over. “i hope italian is okay. or—if not, we can change it. i mean, i checked the menu and they had other stuff too, i just—”

italian is more than okay. you tell him that, smiling, and he visibly relaxes, shoulders dropping as he pulls away from the curb.

the drive is easy.

not in the way where conversation flows nonstop, but in the way where silence doesn’t feel awkward. he asks about your day, about work, about your friends from the game. he listens—really listens—nodding along, asking follow-ups, laughing at the parts that are meant to be funny.

at a red light, he drums his fingers nervously against the steering wheel.

“can i ask you something?” he says.

“yeah.”

“were you actually going to stay after the game?” he asks. “or did your friends, like… drag you?”

you smile, glancing out the window. “a little of both.”

he grins. “i’m glad they did.”

the restaurant is small and warm and softly lit, the kind of place that feels intimate without trying too hard. he opens the door for you again, apologizes when he realizes he doesn’t need to, then does it anyway.

inside, the hostess leads you to a corner table. he pulls out your chair before sitting down across from you, hands folding together on the table like he’s bracing himself.

menus in hand, he frowns slightly.

“everything sounds good,” he admits. “i panic every time.”

you tease him gently for it, and he laughs, the sound quiet but genuine.

dinner unfolds slowly.

he talks about hockey only when you ask, and even then it’s thoughtful rather than showy—stories about routines, teammates, the weirdness of being recognized in places he doesn’t expect. he admits he still gets nervous before games, that he overthinks things, that he sometimes feels like he’s playing catch-up in a world that moves too fast.

“i’m not great at pretending,” he says, poking at his food absently. “i don’t really know how to be…casual.”

you meet his eyes. “you don’t have to be.”

he looks at you like that matters.

at some point, his knee brushes yours under the table.

neither of you move.

his hand rests close to yours, fingers curled slightly, like he’s debating something. you can practically see the moment he decides to be brave—his breath hitching, his hand shifting just enough that his pinky brushes against yours.

you hook your finger around it.

the smile that spreads across his face is immediate and unguarded.

by the time dessert menus arrive, you’re leaning in closer, voices softer, sharing small things—favorite movies, comfort foods, the music you put on when you can’t sleep. he admits he still gets homesick sometimes, even though he’s technically living his dream.

“i didn’t expect it to feel this…big,” he says quietly. “all the time.”

you nod. “big things usually do.”

when the check comes, he insists—politely, earnestly—and thanks the server twice. outside, the night air is cool, and he offers you his jacket without even thinking about it.

“you don’t have to—” you start.

“i want to,” he says simply.

you slip it on, and he watches you like he’s storing the moment away.

the drive back is quieter, heavier with something tender. when he pulls up outside your place, he doesn’t rush to turn the engine off.

“i had a really good time,” he says, voice low. “i was—uh—kind of worried i’d be bad at this.”

“at dinner?”

“at…dating,” he admits.

you smile at him. “you weren’t.”

he exhales, relieved.

when you open the door, he gets out too, walking you up to the porch like it’s instinct. you stop in front of the door, turning back to face him.

there’s a pause.

he shifts his weight, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides. “can i—um. can i kiss you?”

“yes,” you say, softly.

he leans in carefully, like he’s making sure you won’t disappear. the kiss is gentle, brief, all warmth and restraint—his hand hovering at your waist, not quite touching, until you lean closer and give him permission without words.

when you pull back, his forehead rests against yours for a second.

“goodnight,” he says.

“goodnight, mack.”

“Dude,” Will says. “You good?”

“Who was that?”

Will glances back. “Oh, that’s the new legal intern. Started last week, I think? Why?”

“No reason,” Macklin lies, but he’s already calculating how quickly he can manufacture a reason to visit the legal department.

***

He finds out your name is Y/N Y/L/N. You’re twenty-three, which makes you four years older than him — a fact that Will points out is “not that much, bro” when Macklin mentions it, which Macklin definitely wasn’t asking about. You went to Stanford for undergrad, you’re doing your law degree at Santa Clara, and you’re apparently the most organized person the Sharks’ legal team has ever seen.

Macklin thinks you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen, but he keeps that part to himself.

For about three days.

“So,” he says, catching up to you in the hallway on Thursday afternoon. “Y/N, right?”

You don’t slow down. “Right.”

“I’m Macklin. Macklin Celebrini.”

“I know who you are.” You shift the folders in your arms. “You’re kind of hard to miss.”

His heart does a stupid little flip. “Yeah? I mean—cool. That’s cool. So, I was thinking-”

“I’m not interested.”

He blinks. “I didn’t even-”

“You were going to ask me out.” You finally stop walking, turning to face him with a look that’s equal parts amused and exasperated. “The answer is no, but I appreciate the interest.”

“How did you-”

“You’ve been staring at me for three days straight, Macklin. You’re not exactly subtle.” But you’re smiling a little, and it gives him hope.

“Okay, fair,” he admits. “But hear me out-”

“No.”

“Just coffee-”

“No.”

“Lunch?”

“No.”

“Breakfast?”

“Still no.”

He grins, undeterred. “What about second breakfast?”

You actually laugh at that, short and surprised. “Did you just make a Lord of the Rings reference?”

“Is it working?”

“No.” But you’re still smiling as you walk away, and Macklin counts it as a win.

***

Will thinks he’s lost his mind.

“She’s said no, like, fifteen times,” he points out a week later, watching Macklin check his hair in his phone camera before heading to a “random” stop by the legal department.

“Sixteen,” Macklin corrects. “But who’s counting?”

“Apparently you are.”

“She laughs at my jokes, dude. That’s a good sign.”

“Or she thinks you’re funny-looking.”

Macklin flips him off and heads out.

He finds you in the break room, heating up leftovers in the microwave. You see him coming and immediately shake your head.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were thinking it.” The microwave beeps, and you pull out your container. “The answer is still no, Macklin.”

He leans against the counter, watching you stir your pasta. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“Let me guess.” You cap your container, turning to face him. “Coffee, lunch, dinner, or some creative variation thereof. Am I close?”

“I was actually going to ask if you wanted to come to the game on Saturday,” he says. “We’re playing Vegas. Should be a good one.”

“I have season tickets,” you say. “Section 107.”

“Oh.” He brightens. “So you’ll be there anyway?”

“With my dad, yes.”

“Cool, cool. So after the game-”

“No.”

“Come on.” He’s smiling because he can’t help it, because you’re standing there in your perfect blazer and your hair is coming loose from its bun and you’ve got a tiny bit of sauce on your chin. “One date. That’s all I’m asking.”

You grab a napkin, wiping your chin like you can read his mind. “Macklin, you’re nineteen.”

“So?”

“So I’m twenty-three. That’s-”

“Four years. Which is nothing.”

“It’s not nothing when you’re nineteen.” But your voice is gentler now. “You’re a baby.”

“I’m not a baby,” he protests. “I’m in the NHL. I have a 401k.”

That gets another laugh out of you. “Oh, well, a 401k. That changes everything.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No.” You pick up your lunch, heading toward the door. “You’re very sweet, Macklin. But the answer is no.”

“For now,” he calls after you.

You don’t disagree, and he takes that as progress.

***

By mid-November, the rejections have become routine. He asks, you say no, you both smile about it, and life goes on. It’s become a thing, he realizes. Your thing.

“This is sad,” William Eklund tells him after watching Macklin’s latest attempt get shot down in the parking lot. “Like, genuinely sad.”

“She’s going to say yes eventually,” Macklin insists.

“Based on what evidence?”

“She hasn’t told me to stop asking.”

“Maybe she’s just being polite.”

Macklin shakes his head. “You don’t know her like I do.”

“You don’t know her at all, dude. You’ve had, what, maybe five actual conversations?”

“Fourteen,” Macklin corrects. “And a half.”

“What’s half a conversation?”

“She said good morning to me once.”

Ekky stares at him. “You need help.”

But the thing is, Macklin does know you. He knows you take your coffee black with exactly one sugar. He knows you’re always exactly seven minutes early to everything. He knows you chew on your pen cap when you’re thinking and that you organize your folders by color and date. He knows you’re funny and sharp and kind, and that you always stop to talk to the arena staff, asking about their kids and remembering their names.

He knows that when you smile — really smile, not the polite professional one — your whole face lights up.

And he knows that you’re not entirely unaffected by him, even if you pretend to be. He catches you watching him sometimes, quickly looking away when he notices. You always know his stats from the previous game. You laugh at his jokes even when they’re terrible.

There’s something there. He’s sure of it.

***

The breakthrough comes in early December, before a game against Utah.

You’re walking past the locker room — which you normally avoid like the plague — when Macklin spots you and jogs over, still in his suit.

“Y/N, hey.”

You sigh, but you’re smiling. “Macklin.”

“Big game tonight.”

“I’m aware.”

“You coming?”

“Section 107, same as always.”

He takes a breath. This is it. His last shot. “What if I made you a deal?”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

“If I score a hat trick tonight-”

“You’re playing Utah,” you interrupt. “No offense to them, but come on.”

“Okay, fair point.” He thinks for a second. “If I score a hat trick, and we win, you go out with me. One date.”

You cross your arms, considering. “And if you don’t?”

“Then I’ll stop asking.” The words hurt coming out, but he means them. “Completely. You’ll never have to say no again.”

You study him for a long moment. He can see you weighing it, calculating the odds. Three goals plus a win is a tall order against any team.

“You’ll really stop?” You ask quietly.

“If that’s what you want, yeah.”

Something flickers across your face, too quick to read. “Okay,” you say finally. “Deal.”

His heart jumps. “Yeah?”

“But Macklin?” You step closer, and he can smell your perfume. “I’m not saying yes because I think you’ll do it. I’m saying yes because I think you won’t, and maybe this way you’ll finally move on.”

It should sting, but he’s too busy grinning. “We’ll see.”

“Yes,” you say, already walking away. “We will.”

***

In the locker room, Macklin is vibrating with energy.

“You good?” Tyler Toffoli asks, watching him bounce on his toes.

“I need a hat trick.”

“Okay …”

“Tonight. I need a hat trick tonight.”

Ryan Reaves looks up from taping his stick. “Why?”

“Because if I get one, Y/N finally has to go out with me.”

The room goes quiet. Then everyone starts talking at once.

“Wait, the legal intern?”

“You bet a date on a hat trick?”

“Dude, that’s actually kind of smooth.”

“He’s been chasing her for months-”

“Two months,” Macklin corrects. “And one week.”

Will throws a tape roll at him. “You’re insane.”

“I prefer determined.”

“What happens if you don’t get it?” Will asks.

Macklin swallows. “I have to stop asking her out. Forever.”

The room goes quiet again.

“Well,” Ryan says finally, “better make it count then.”

***

The game starts badly.

Utah scores first, a garbage goal that somehow squeaks past the goalie. Then they score again midway through the first period, and Macklin can feel the opportunity slipping away.

He can see you in Section 107, sitting with an older man who must be your dad. You’re wearing a Sharks jersey — his number, he notices with a jolt — and you’re watching the ice intently.

Focus, he tells himself. Focus.

He gets his first goal with three minutes left in the first period. A quick wrist shot from the slot that goes top shelf. He doesn’t celebrate much, just taps his gloves and gets back to the bench.

“One down,” Will says, bumping his shoulder.

“Two to go.”

The second period is a grind. Utah’s defense tightens up, and Macklin can’t find any space. He takes a penalty for holding, spends two minutes in the box hating himself, and comes out determined to make up for it.

With six minutes left in the second, he gets his chance. A beautiful feed from Dmitry Orlov, and Macklin one-times it past the goalie.

2-2.

And more importantly: two goals.

The arena erupts, and Macklin lets himself look up at Section 107. You’re on your feet, clapping, and even from here he can see that you’re smiling.

One more, he thinks. Just one more.

***

The third period is agony.

Utah scores again, making it 3-2. Then Will ties it up with eight minutes left, and the game becomes a desperate scramble. Both teams are exhausted, sloppy. The ice is choppy.

Macklin gets chance after chance, but nothing falls. He hits the post twice. Once, he has an open net and somehow puts it wide.

“It’s okay,” Ekky tells him during a TV timeout. “We’re going to OT. You’ll get another chance.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then you don’t. But you’re not giving up now.”

Regulation ends 3-3. Overtime.

***

Three-on-three hockey is chaos at the best of times. Tonight, it’s absolute mayhem.

Utah nearly ends it thirty seconds in. Then the Sharks almost score. Back and forth, both goalies standing on their heads.

Macklin is exhausted. His legs are burning, his lungs are screaming, and all he can think about is you in Section 107, watching.

Two minutes left in OT.

Macklin gets the puck at center ice. He sees Ekky streaking down the right side, Tyler driving the middle. The Utah defenseman commits to Will, leaving a gap.

Macklin takes it.

He’s never skated faster in his life. The Utah goalie is sliding across, trying to cover the angle. Macklin fakes the pass to Tyler, pulling the goalie even further-

And then he shoots.

Time slows down. He can see the puck spinning, can see the goalie reaching, can see the tiny space between the glove and the post-

The puck goes in.

The horn sounds.

The arena explodes.

Macklin’s teammates mob him, screaming and laughing, but all he can think about is looking up at Section 107. You’re standing, hands over your mouth, and even from the ice he can see that you’re shaking your head.

But you’re smiling.

***

After the game, after the media and the showers and the endless chirping from his teammates, Macklin finds you waiting outside the locker room.

“Hi,” he says, suddenly nervous.

“Hi.” You’re still in his jersey, and it does something to his heart. “That was-”

“A hat trick?”

“Show-off.”

He grins. “A deal’s a deal.”

You sigh, but there’s no heat in it. “I can’t believe you actually did it.”

“Did you watch the whole game?”

“Of course I did.” You say it like it’s obvious. “I had to see if I was going to owe you a date.”

“And?”

“And apparently I do.” You’re trying to sound annoyed, but you’re failing. “When?”

“Now?”

You laugh. “You just played almost seventy minutes of hockey. You’re exhausted.”

“I’m not tired at all,” he lies. He’s pretty sure he could fall asleep standing up.

“Macklin.” You step closer, and his breath catches. “I know you’re not tired. But I am. And I’d rather our first date not be at eleven PM when we’re both dead on our feet.”

“Our first date,” he repeats, grinning like an idiot. “So there’s going to be a second one?”

“Let’s see how the first one goes.”

“When?”

You consider. “Friday? After work?”

“Done. Yes. Perfect.”

“There’s a Thai place near my apartment-”

“I’ll eat anything,” he says quickly. “Whatever you want.”

You smile that real smile, the one that lights up your whole face. “Okay. Friday.”

“Friday,” he agrees.

You turn to leave, then pause. “Macklin?”

“Yeah?”

“That was a really good game.” Your voice is soft. “Really good.”

“I had motivation.”

“Apparently.” You shake your head, still smiling. “Get some rest. I’ll see you Friday.”

“Wait-” He catches your hand without thinking, then immediately lets go, embarrassed. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Did you actually think I couldn’t do it? Or were you hoping I would?”

You’re quiet for a moment, and when you speak, your voice is honest. “I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe both? I told myself you wouldn’t do it, that it was impossible. But then you kept getting chances, and I kept thinking-” You break off, laughing a little. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Were you cheering for me?”

“I was cheering for the Sharks.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You bite your lip, and he’s never wanted to kiss someone more in his life. “Maybe a little,” you confess. “When you scored the third goal, I-” You shake your head. “Never mind.”

“Tell me.”

“I thought, ‘Oh no.’” You’re smiling now, embarrassed. “Because I realized that some part of me wanted you to do it. Wanted an excuse to say yes.”

His heart is going to explode. “You could have just said yes.”

“I know.” You meet his eyes. “But where’s the fun in that?”

“You made me work for it.”

“You needed to work for it.” Your voice is gentle. “You’re nineteen, Macklin. You’ve had everything come easy to you your whole life. Hockey, school, girls probably-”

“Not this girl.”

“No,” you agree. “Not this girl. And maybe that’s good. Maybe you needed to want something you couldn’t just have.”

“And now?”

“Now you can have it.” You reach out, squeezing his hand quickly. “One date. Friday. Don’t be late.”

“I’ll be early.”

“I know you will.” You’re already walking away. “Goodnight, Macklin.”

“Night, Y/N.”

He watches you go, and this time when you reach the end of the hallway, you look back. You catch him staring and shake your head, but you’re smiling.

He’s smiling too.

***

Friday takes forever to arrive.

Macklin changes his outfit four times, shows up twenty minutes early, and has to walk around the block three times to avoid looking desperate. When he finally knocks on your apartment door at exactly 6:30, his palms are sweating.

You answer in jeans and a soft sweater, your hair down for the first time he’s ever seen, and he forgets how to speak.

“Hi,” you say, amused.

“Hi. You look-” He clears his throat. “Really pretty.”

“Thanks.” You grab your jacket. “You clean up nice yourself.”

The Thai restaurant is small and warm, tucked into a strip mall. You clearly come here often — the owner greets you by name and gives Macklin an appraising look that makes him sit up straighter.

“So,” you say once you’ve ordered. “Tell me about yourself.”

“You know about me.”

“I know you’re a hockey player. I don’t know you.”

So he tells you. About growing up in Vancouver, about his family, about the pressure of being first overall and the weight of expectations. He tells you about his teammates, about learning to do his own laundry for the first time, about how sometimes he still feels like a kid playing dress-up in an adult’s life.

You listen like everything he says matters, asking questions, laughing in the right places. And when he asks about you, you tell him about law school, about wanting to work in sports law, about your dad who brought you to Sharks games since you were six.

“He was pretty excited about the hat trick,” you admit. “He might be more invested in you asking me out than you were.”

“Impossible.”

You laugh. “He said any guy who works that hard for a date probably deserves one.”

“Smart man.”

“He has his moments.”

The food comes, and you steal bites off his plate without asking. He pretends to be annoyed but immediately offers you more. You argue about the best Sharks players of all time, about whether the 2000s or 2010s had better rom-coms, about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.

“It absolutely does not,” you insist.

“It’s fruit! It’s healthy!”

“It’s an abomination.”

“You’re an abomination.”

You throw a napkin at him, and he catches it, grinning.

Somewhere between the pad thai and the mango sticky rice, he realizes he’s never been this happy. Not after winning games, not after scoring goals. Just sitting here, watching you laugh at his stupid jokes, arguing about pizza toppings.

This. This is what he wanted.

***

After dinner, you walk slowly back toward your apartment. It’s cold, and you huddle into your jacket. Without thinking, Macklin puts his arm around you.

You don’t pull away.

“So,” you say as you reach your building. “Verdict?”

“Best date of my life.”

“You’re nineteen. How many dates have you been on?”

“Enough to know this was the best one.”

You smile, looking down. “It was pretty good.”

“Just pretty good?”

“Okay, really good.” You look up at him. “You’re not what I expected, Macklin Celebrini.”

“Better or worse?”

“Better,” you admit. “A lot better. You’re-” You pause, searching for words. “You’re genuine. And funny. And you actually listen when people talk. That’s rare.”

“Especially for a nineteen-year-old?”

“Especially for anyone.” You lean against your door. “I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”

“I’m not.” He steps closer. “You were right. I needed to work for it. And now-” He doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Now?”

“Now I appreciate it more.” He’s looking at your lips. “Can I kiss you?”

You pretend to think about it. “I don’t know. Maybe you should score a hat trick for that too.”

“If I need to, I will.”

You laugh, and then you’re kissing him, and it’s better than scoring any goal, better than anything he’s ever felt. You taste like mango and you’re smiling against his mouth and his hands are in your hair and-

You pull back, breathless. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“So,” you say, still in his arms. “About that second date …”

He grins. “I thought we had to see how the first one went?”

“It went pretty well.”

“Just pretty well?”

You kiss him again, slower this time. “Really, really well.”

“Tomorrow?”

“You have a game tomorrow.”

“Sunday, then.”

“Pushy.”

“Determined,” he corrects.

You laugh against his neck. “Sunday. But only if you promise to actually focus on the game, not just stand around thinking about kissing me.”

“I can multitask.”

“Macklin.”

“Fine, fine. Hockey first, kissing second.”

“Good boy.”

He groans. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it does things to me.”

You pull back, grinning wickedly. “Good boy?”

“You’re evil.”

“And you’re nineteen and adorable and way too into me.”

“Guilty on all counts.” He kisses your forehead. “But you like it.”

“Unfortunately,” you say, but you’re smiling. “I really do.”

***

Later, after he’s left (and texted you goodnight, and good morning, and a meme he thought you’d like), Macklin lies in bed staring at his ceiling.

Joe Thornton pokes his head in. “So? How’d it go?”

“She kissed me.”

“I gathered, from the stupid grin you haven’t stopped doing.”

“I’m going to marry her.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’ve been on one date.”

“Best date of my life,” Macklin says dreamily.

Joe heaves a heavy sigh. “You’re hopeless.”

“Hopelessly in love.”

“Oh my god, I’m leaving.”

But Macklin doesn’t care. He’s already planning Sunday’s date, already thinking about how to make you laugh, already counting down the hours until he sees you again.

He thinks about you saying he worked for this, that he needed to. And maybe you were right. Maybe that’s why it feels so good now — because he earned it. Because you made him prove that he wasn’t just some kid with a crush, but someone who could be patient and persistent and worth your time.

His phone buzzes. A text from you: Stop smiling at your ceiling and go to sleep. You have practice tomorrow.

He laughs out loud. How did you know?

Because I’m doing the same thing.

His heart soars. He types back: Goodnight, Y/N. Thanks for saying yes.

Thanks for scoring a hat trick.

Thanks for wearing my jersey.

Goodnight, Macklin.

He falls asleep smiling, dreaming of Thai food and arguments about pizza and the way you look when you laugh.

Tomorrow, he’ll go to practice. He’ll take the chirping from his teammates about being whipped. He’ll count down the hours until Sunday.

But tonight, he’s just a nineteen-year-old kid who worked his ass off for one date with the most amazing girl he’s ever met.

And it was worth every single rejection, every single no, every single moment of doubt.

Because in the end, he got his hat trick.

And he got the girl.

***

On Sunday, you wear his jersey again. And when he scores (just one goal this time, but it’s enough), he points up at Section 107.

You’re already smiling.

After the game, he takes you for ice cream even though it’s December and not nearly warm enough. You get chocolate, he gets vanilla, and you share like you’ve been doing this forever.

“So,” you say, stealing his cone. “Three dates in one week. That’s pretty serious.”

“Is it?”

“For a nineteen-year-old and a sophisticated twenty-three-year-old? Absolutely.”

He steals your cone back. “What about for just two people who really like each other?”

You soften. “Then I guess it’s just right.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You lean into him, and he wraps his arm around you, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. “You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“I knew you were going to get that hat trick.” You look up at him. “The whole game, I kept thinking, ‘He’s going to do it. He’s actually going to do it.’”

“And?”

“And I was terrified.” You laugh. “Because I knew that if you did, I’d have to admit I wanted you to. That I’d been wanting to say yes for weeks. That maybe you weren’t just some kid with a crush, but-” You break off.

“But what?”

“But someone I could actually fall for.” Your voice is quiet. “If I let myself.”

He stops walking, turning to face you. “So let yourself.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re nineteen, and I’m twenty-three, and you’re an NHL player, and I’m just-”

“You’re not just anything.” He cups your face in his hands. “You’re brilliant and beautiful and funny and kind. And yeah, I’m nineteen. But I know what I want. And I want this. I want you.”

Your eyes are shining. “Macklin-”

“You don’t have to say it back. Not yet. Just-” He swallows. “Just don’t count me out because of a number, okay? Give me a chance to prove I’m not just some kid.”

You’re quiet for a long moment. Then you smile, slow and sweet. “You already have.”

And when you kiss him this time, right there on the sidewalk with ice cream melting in your hands and the December wind biting at your faces, he knows.

This is it. This is everything.

Four years, four months, four decades — it doesn’t matter. When you know, you know.

you hadn’t planned on staying that long.

you told yourself you’d hang around for ten minutes, maybe fifteen—just long enough for your friends to get their jerseys signed and take a few blurry photos before security started herding everyone out. you weren’t even the biggest hockey fan in the group; you liked the games well enough, liked the energy, liked the ritual of it all. but mostly you’d come because your friends begged and promised dinner after.

so you stand there now, leaning against the cool metal barrier near the player parking lot, arms folded loosely across your chest as the night air settles in. the arena lights glow behind you, bright enough to make everything feel surreal, like you’re standing just outside a movie set.

players trickle out one by one.

some stop. some don’t.

your friends squeal and surge forward every time a recognizable face appears, hands full of sharpies and phones, voices overlapping. you hang back a little, smiling, holding jackets and bags, watching the choreography of it all—security nodding, players laughing, fans buzzing with adrenaline.

then someone nudges your arm.

“oh my god,” your friend whispers, breathless. “that’s him.”

you look up without thinking.

and immediately forget what you were about to say.

macklin celebrini walks out with his hair still damp from the shower, falling messily over his forehead. he’s dressed nicely—nice sweater and slacks—but there’s something unmistakable about him. maybe it’s the way he moves, loose but purposeful. maybe it’s the quiet confidence that follows him like a shadow.

or maybe it’s the fact that he looks younger up close, softer around the edges than he does on the ice.

your stomach does a weird little flip.

he stops for the first group of fans, signs a jersey, laughs at something someone says. it’s not flashy or performative—he seems genuinely present, eyes focused, nodding along, thanking people like he actually means it.

your friends immediately lose their minds.

they shove forward, calling his name, holding out their things. you step closer by default, still half a step behind them, watching as he signs their jerseys, poses for photos. he’s polite, warm, a little shy in a way that feels real.

then—unexpectedly—his eyes lift.

and land on you.

it’s not dramatic. not a freeze-frame moment. just a brief pause, like his brain stutters for half a second.

you feel it anyway.

he looks away first, cheeks faintly pink as he hands your friend her marker back. you tell yourself it means nothing. athletes look at fans all the time. this is nothing.

but when he finishes with them and starts to move on, he hesitates.

turns back.

“hey,” he says, voice softer now. closer.

you blink. “hi.”

he gestures vaguely between you and your friends. “uh—did you want something signed too?”

you shake your head, suddenly hyper-aware of your hands, your posture, the way your heart is doing entirely too much. “no, i’m okay. i was just… moral support.”

your friends immediately betray you.

“she’s lying,” one of them says. “she just didn’t bring anything.”

you shoot her a look. “traitor.”

macklin laughs quietly, the sound warm and surprised, like he didn’t expect himself to. he shifts his weight, shaking his hair back so its out of his eyes.

“oh,” he says. “well. still.”

still.

you’re not sure what he means by that, but your chest tightens anyway.

he glances around, then back at you. “are you—um—heading out now?”

“yeah,” you say. “probably.”

“okay,” he says again, nodding like he’s psyching himself up. “cool. um.”

there’s a beat.

then another.

your friends go silent, eyes darting between the two of you, barely containing themselves.

macklin clears his throat.

“i was wondering,” he says, carefully, “if you’d want to—like—not now, obviously—but maybe… go out sometime?”

your brain stalls.

“what?” you blurt, then immediately cringe. “sorry—I just—what?”

he smiles, small and nervous, but he doesn’t look away. “i mean—dinner? or coffee? whatever you want. if you want. totally fine if not.”

your friends make strangled noises behind you.

you swallow.

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

the relief on his face is immediate and unguarded, like he forgot to keep it cool. his shoulders relax, smile widening just a little.

“okay,” he says. “okay, cool.”

he pulls his phone out with slightly clumsy fingers. “could i—uh—get your number?”

you give it to him, heart racing, hands barely steady as he types it in. he double-checks it like it’s precious, then looks up again.

“i’m macklin,” he says, as if you don’t already know.

you tell him your name.

he repeats it softly, like he’s testing how it feels in his mouth.

“i’ll text you,” he promises. “like—soon. not in a weird way.”

you laugh. “i trust you.”

he smiles at that, really smiles, and something about it feels like the beginning of something rather than the end of a chance encounter.

“goodnight,” he says.

“goodnight,” you echo.

and then he’s gone, heading toward his car, leaving you standing there in a daze while your friends absolutely lose it.

he’s early.

you know this because you check your phone twice, then peer out the window, then check again—because there’s already a dark car parked neatly along the curb, hazards off, engine still running like he didn’t want to announce himself too loudly.

your stomach flips.

you grab your purse, take one last look at yourself in the mirror, and tell your reflection to relax. this is just a date. a first date, sure—but still just a date.

when you step outside, the porch light flicks on automatically, casting a warm glow over the driveway. he’s already out of the car by the time you reach the steps.

like he couldn’t wait.

macklin celebrini stands there with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders a little tense, posture straight in a way that feels practiced. he looks good—clean, casual, comfortable—but his eyes soften the second he sees you.

“wow,” he says, like the word slipped out on its own. “hey.”

“hey,” you answer, smiling despite yourself.

he glances you over—not in a way that feels intrusive or bold, just quick and instinctive, like he’s cataloging you in real time. his cheeks pink immediately, and he clears his throat.

“you look… um. you look really nice.”

you laugh lightly. “so do you.”

that seems to short-circuit him for a second. he ducks his head, smiling to himself as he opens the passenger door.

“i—thanks. uh, here.”

you slide into the seat, and he closes the door carefully, like he’s afraid of doing it too hard. when he gets back into the driver’s side, there’s a moment where neither of you say anything—just the quiet click of seatbelts and the soft hum of the engine.

“so,” he says eventually, glancing over. “i hope italian is okay. or—if not, we can change it. i mean, i checked the menu and they had other stuff too, i just—”

italian is more than okay. you tell him that, smiling, and he visibly relaxes, shoulders dropping as he pulls away from the curb.

the drive is easy.

not in the way where conversation flows nonstop, but in the way where silence doesn’t feel awkward. he asks about your day, about work, about your friends from the game. he listens—really listens—nodding along, asking follow-ups, laughing at the parts that are meant to be funny.

at a red light, he drums his fingers nervously against the steering wheel.

“can i ask you something?” he says.

“yeah.”

“were you actually going to stay after the game?” he asks. “or did your friends, like… drag you?”

you smile, glancing out the window. “a little of both.”

he grins. “i’m glad they did.”

the restaurant is small and warm and softly lit, the kind of place that feels intimate without trying too hard. he opens the door for you again, apologizes when he realizes he doesn’t need to, then does it anyway.

inside, the hostess leads you to a corner table. he pulls out your chair before sitting down across from you, hands folding together on the table like he’s bracing himself.

menus in hand, he frowns slightly.

“everything sounds good,” he admits. “i panic every time.”

you tease him gently for it, and he laughs, the sound quiet but genuine.

dinner unfolds slowly.

he talks about hockey only when you ask, and even then it’s thoughtful rather than showy—stories about routines, teammates, the weirdness of being recognized in places he doesn’t expect. he admits he still gets nervous before games, that he overthinks things, that he sometimes feels like he’s playing catch-up in a world that moves too fast.

“i’m not great at pretending,” he says, poking at his food absently. “i don’t really know how to be…casual.”

you meet his eyes. “you don’t have to be.”

he looks at you like that matters.

at some point, his knee brushes yours under the table.

neither of you move.

his hand rests close to yours, fingers curled slightly, like he’s debating something. you can practically see the moment he decides to be brave—his breath hitching, his hand shifting just enough that his pinky brushes against yours.

you hook your finger around it.

the smile that spreads across his face is immediate and unguarded.

by the time dessert menus arrive, you’re leaning in closer, voices softer, sharing small things—favorite movies, comfort foods, the music you put on when you can’t sleep. he admits he still gets homesick sometimes, even though he’s technically living his dream.

“i didn’t expect it to feel this…big,” he says quietly. “all the time.”

you nod. “big things usually do.”

when the check comes, he insists—politely, earnestly—and thanks the server twice. outside, the night air is cool, and he offers you his jacket without even thinking about it.

“you don’t have to—” you start.

“i want to,” he says simply.

you slip it on, and he watches you like he’s storing the moment away.

the drive back is quieter, heavier with something tender. when he pulls up outside your place, he doesn’t rush to turn the engine off.

“i had a really good time,” he says, voice low. “i was—uh—kind of worried i’d be bad at this.”

“at dinner?”

“at…dating,” he admits.

you smile at him. “you weren’t.”

he exhales, relieved.

when you open the door, he gets out too, walking you up to the porch like it’s instinct. you stop in front of the door, turning back to face him.

there’s a pause.

he shifts his weight, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides. “can i—um. can i kiss you?”

“yes,” you say, softly.

he leans in carefully, like he’s making sure you won’t disappear. the kiss is gentle, brief, all warmth and restraint—his hand hovering at your waist, not quite touching, until you lean closer and give him permission without words.

when you pull back, his forehead rests against yours for a second.

“goodnight,” he says.

“goodnight, mack.”

connor notices you because you’re the only one not looking at him.

it’s warmups, which means half the arena is already pressed against the glass like it’s a meet-and-greet instead of a hockey game. signs with blocky writing. jerseys with sharpies ready. phones held up for blurry pregame photos. the usual.

he’s used to it. he keeps his head down, runs through his reps, takes his shots, nods politely if someone catches his eye.

but then there’s you.

you’re sitting at the glass, front row, close enough that if he fires a puck over the glass wrong it could hurt. you’re wearing black jeans and a hoodie that very clearly is not team merch. your hair is down and you're scrolling on your phone like you’re waiting at an airport gate instead of sitting two feet from nhl warmups.

you don’t look up once.

not when he skates by. not when the crowd cheers. not when someone taps the glass to get his attention.

he skates past again, slower this time.

still nothing.

he tells himself it doesn’t matter. why would it matter? people ignore him all the time. not everyone is a fan.

but this feels different. you look…unimpressed. like you’re here against your will. and for some reason, that bothers him.

he circles back again, pretending to chase down a loose puck near your section. he glances up, just briefly.

you’re still staring at your phone.

he huffs quietly through his nose.

fine.

challenge accepted.

he picks up a puck and skates toward the boards directly in front of you. he taps the glass lightly with his stick.

nothing.

he taps again, a little louder.

you blink once, mildly annoyed, and finally look up.

your eyes meet his.

there’s a pause.

not a squeal. not a gasp. not even a smile.

just a neutral, slightly confused expression like you’re trying to figure out why a hockey player is trying to get your attention.

connor lifts the puck slightly, eyebrows raising in a subtle question. you want it?

you glance behind you, like maybe he means someone else.

he shakes his head faintly. you.

“what?” you mouth.

he gestures again with the puck.

your face shifts from confusion to mild horror.

you shake your head immediately.

no.

connor blinks.

no?

no one says no.

you wave your hand dismissively and point at the ice, clearly indicating: i’m good.

he feels something weird in his chest. is she…rejecting a warmup puck? he should skate away. he knows he should. instead, something stubborn kicks in.

he shrugs slightly, like okay, suit yourself, and flips the puck lightly up toward the top of the glass, planning for it to arc gently over and land near your lap.

it does not arc gently.

it catches the very top of the glass wrong.

it ricochets.

and in one horrifying, slow-motion second, the puck clips the frame, redirects sharply, and smacks directly into your forehead. the sound is awful. a dull, unmistakable thud. the section you're in gasps collectively. your head snaps back slightly and your phone clatters to the floor.

connor freezes. actually freezes.

you blink once.

twice.

then you very calmly put your hand to your forehead.

and when you pull it away, there’s blood.

“shit,” he breathes.

you look down at your hand, stare at the red, and then look back at him.

your expression is not angry.

it’s not shocked.

it’s deeply, deeply annoyed.

trainers are already rushing toward your section. security is unlocking the gate by the glass.

connor’s stomach drops to his skates.

he’s not thinking when he skates over toward the bench, ripping off his gloves and helmet.

“bedsy!” someone calls after him.

he ignores it.

he hops over the boards before anyone can stop him and heads straight toward the tunnel where they’re guiding you.

you seemed to have walked on your own, which is good. but there’s a towel pressed to your forehead and you look like you just want to disappear.

“i’m so sorry,” he blurts the second he’s close enough.

you look up at him.

up.

because you’re sitting now on the medical bench and he’s hovering awkwardly in front of you, tall and panicked and helmet-less, hair a mess from ripping it off.

“you’re sorry?” you repeat flatly.

“i didn’t mean— it hit the glass wrong— i was just—”

“trying to give me a puck?”

he swallows. “yeah.”

“i said no.”

“i know.”

you stare at him for a long second.

the medic dabs at your forehead and winces. “you’re gonna need a couple stitches.”

you close your eyes briefly.

connor feels like the worst person alive.

“i can leave,” he says quickly. “i just— i needed to say sorry. like really sorry. that was—”

“stupid?” you offer.

“yeah.”

you sigh, lowering the towel slightly.

“i don’t even like hockey,” you mutter.

his brain short-circuits.

“what?”

“my friend had an extra ticket. she bailed last minute. i figured i’d come anyway.” you gesture vaguely at the ice. “i was just trying to kill time.”

he blinks.

he concussed a girl who doesn’t even like hockey. this is worse than he thought.

“okay,” he says carefully, because he has no idea what else to say. “that makes this worse.”

you almost smile. almost.

the medic begins stitching carefully and you wince but don’t complain.

connor shifts awkwardly, hands flexing at his sides.

“i’ll pay for it,” he blurts. “whatever it costs. and like— if you need anything. ice. or—”

“it’s fine,” you say.

“it’s not fine.”

“it’s just a forehead.”

“it’s your forehead.”

that makes you pause.

you look at him properly this time.

he looks genuinely distressed. not annoyed. not embarrassed. actually worried.

it’s disarming.

“you just left the ice?” you ask slowly.

“yeah.”

“is that allowed?”

“not really.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“so you could get in trouble.”

“probably.”

“for hitting a girl who didn’t want your puck.”

he grimaces. “when you put it like that.”

you watch him for another long second.

“you’re very dramatic,” you say finally.

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

“i’m just— i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

the medic finishes up and steps back. “you’re good. small cut. you’ll have a bruise.”

you nod and carefully slide off the bench.

connor instinctively reaches out like he’s going to steady you, then hesitates.

you notice.

“i’m fine,” you say.

“right. yeah. obviously.”

there’s an awkward beat.

the crowd is still buzzing faintly outside. warmups are probably ending.

he should go. he doesn’t.

“i really am sorry,” he says again, softer now. “i thought you were ignoring me.”

you blink.

“i was.”

“yeah, i— i know.”

you cross your arms lightly. “why did that bother you?”

he opens his mouth.

closes it.

thinks.

“i don’t know,” he admits. “you just looked like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

“i would’ve rather been literally anywhere else,” you say dryly.

he lets out a small laugh.

“okay,” he says. “that’s fair.”

you tilt your head slightly, studying him.

“you’re not what i expected.”

“what did you expect?”

“arrogant.”

he flinches slightly. “oh.”

“you’re just…awkward.”

he exhales quietly. “yeah. that tracks.”

for the first time, you actually smile.

it’s small, but it’s there.

and it hits him harder than the puck hit you.

“are you staying for the game?” he asks before he can stop himself.

you glance toward the ice.

“i mean. i already have a concussion story.”

“it’s not a concussion.”

“that’s reassuring.”

“i promise i won’t aim at you again.”

“again?”

he winces.

you sigh.

“i’ll stay.”

his heart does something weird and fluttery.

“okay.”

“but,” you add, “if you score, you owe me dinner.”

he blinks.

“what?”

“you heard me.”

“i—you don’t even like hockey.”

“exactly. so if i have to sit through it, i deserve something.”

he considers this very seriously.

“deal,” he says finally.

“and if you don’t score?”

he shrugs. “i’ll still buy you dinner.”

you laugh softly, taking out your phone and handing it to him so he can type in his number.

“that’s not very confident.”

“i am confident.”

“you just offered to lose either way.”

he thinks about that.

“yeah,” he says slowly. “i guess i did.”

you hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary.

then you turn toward the arena.

“don’t hit me again,” you call over your shoulder.

he actually smiles this time.

“i won’t.”

he jogs back toward the ice, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the game.

and when he steps back onto the rink, he glances once toward the glass.

you’re back in your seat. watching him.

he scores. of course he does. second period. breakaway. clean, sharp, inevitable. the crowd explodes. he doesn’t celebrate big, he just turns slightly toward your section. and for the first time all night, you’re smiling at him.

later, when the game ends and he checks his phone, there’s a message from an unknown number.

Y/N you owe me dinner. also i’m keeping the bloody puck.

he stares at it.

meet cute gone wrong.

The flight from Boston to San Jose felt like the longest seven hours of your life, not because of turbulence or crying babies, but because every minute brought you closer to the new chapter you’d been dreaming about since Will moved.

You’d graduated two weeks ago, hugged your parents goodbye at Logan Airport, and boarded the plane with two suitcases and a heart full of nervous excitement.

Will had been your best friend since the start of Boston College: late night study sessions in the library, road trips to Cape Cod, inside jokes that made you cry-laugh in the middle of lectures.

When he got drafted by the Sharks and asked, half jokingly, “You should just move out here with me,” you’d stared at your laptop screen for ten seconds and then actually started looking for apartments.

Now you were here. Northern California in June smelled like salt and eucalyptus, and the second you stepped out of arrivals, Will was waiting in his hoodie, arms already open.

“You really did it,” he laughed, spinning you once before crushing you in a hug.

“Told you I don’t back down from a promise,” you mumbled into his shoulder.

That night he had a game and he left you a ticket and his jersey for you to wear. He told you to meet you outside the locker room after the game.

You waited in the hallway, scrolling through your phone, when Will appeared freshly showered, hair still damp, dragging someone behind him.

“Y/n, this is Macklin. Macklin, this is the girl who abandoned Boston for me.”

Macklin looked younger in person than on tv, but taller. Dark hair falling over his forehead, cheeks still flushed from the game. His eyes met yours and something in them flickered, surprise maybe, like he hadn’t expected Will’s best friend to look like you.

“Hi,” he said, voice softer than you thought it would be. He offered his hand, but then pulled you into a quick, polite hug instead. “Will won’t shut up about you.”

“All good things, I hope?” You laughed, trying to ignore the way your pulse jumped when his hand brushed your back.

Will grinned. “Mostly.”

Macklin smiled, he glanced at Will, then back at you, and you caught the tiny tightening of his jaw, like he was cataloging every inch of space between you and his teammate.

After the first night, it became like a pattern.

You wanted to explore your new city, and Will was more than happy to be your tour guide. Brunch in Santana Row, taking you to golf, having dinners. But more often than not, Macklin was there too.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Will would say, sliding into the passenger seat of your car while Macklin climbed into the back. “He’s still figuring out where to get good coffee that isn’t the same coffee shop.”

And in all honesty, you didn’t mind.

Macklin was quiet at the beginning, answering questions with short sentences, laughing mostly when Will said something stupid. But he watched you.

You felt it every time you turned around too fast and caught his eyes on you, on the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, or how you stole fries off Will’s plate without asking.

He was beautiful in the effortless way some boys are before they realize it. Sharp cheekbones, long lashes, the kind of smile that made you understand why people wrote songs about teeth.

You told yourself you were just noticing because he was new. Because everything in California was new.

But then there were moments.

Like the night the three of you ended up at a bonfire on a beach. Will ran into some people and disappeared to say hi, leaving you and Mack on a driftwood log, knees almost touching.

“You cold?” He asked.

“I’m good.”

He shrugged out of his zip up anyway and draped it over your shoulders. It smelled like him, you pulled it tighter and pretended your heart wasn’t sprinting.

“Thanks,” you said, smiling.

He nodded, staring into the flames. “Will’s lucky, you know. Having someone who’d move across the country for him.”

You laughed softly. “I didn’t move for him. I mean.. yeah, he made it easier, but I needed a change. Boston was great, but it started feeling small.”

Macklin’s jaw flexed. He poked the fire with a stick, sending sparks into the dark. “Still. Pretty big gesture.”

You studied his profile. “You jealous?”

His head snapped toward you, eyes wide for half a second before he recovered. “No. Just happy for you.”

Will came bounding back, and whatever strange tension had been building snapped like a guitar string.

It kept happening. Will would rest his arm across your shoulders in photos. You’d shove him playfully when he teased you. You’d fall asleep on his couch during movie nights and wake up with a blanket tucked around you.

Normal best friend stuff. Except every time, Macklin went quiet: his smiles got thinner, he would find reasons to sit on the opposite side of the booth, or check his phone more than usual, or suddenly remember he had things to do.

Will, of course, noticed the way his best friend was acting when you were around.

They were doing bag skates after a practice, when Will cornered Macklin by the benches. “Dude. What is your deal?”

Macklin peeled off his gloves. “What?”

“Everytime Y/n’s around, you turn into a moody teenager. Did she say something? Do something?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Macklin stared at the ice. “Nothing. Forget it.”

Will wasn’t having it. He stepped closer, voice low so anyone else wouldn’t hear. “Mack, talk.”

Macklin exhaled through his nose. “This is hard to say, I’m sorry.. I just like her, okay? And I know you two have.. whatever you have. And I’m trying to be cool about it, I swear. I’m not gonna be that guy. You were friends with her first. I just-” he dragged a hand through his hair. “I see how she looks at you. How you touch her all the time. I’m not blind.”

Will blinked once, twice, then started laughing so hard he had to lean on his stick.

Macklin’s face went red. “Forget anything I said.”

“No, no, wait-” Will wheezed. “You think me and Y/n are together?”

“..aren’t you?”

“Bro. She’s literally my sister. Like platonically. One hundred percent, I’ve seen her throw up on the T after too many Mike’s Hard. There is no universe where that’s romantic.”

Macklin stared at him. “But she moved here. For you.”

“She moved here because her lease was up, her job let her go remote, and she wanted to live somewhere that isn’t negative degrees in March. I was the excuse, not the reason.”

Macklin opened his mouth, closing it and opening it again. “You hug her, like a lot.”

“Because it’s a sickness.”

Macklin looked like the ice had just cracked under his skates and he wasn’t sure whether to fall or fly.

Will’s expression softened. “If you like her, ask her out. She thinks you’re cute, by the way. Keeps calling you ‘pretty’ when she thinks I’m not listening.”

Macklin’s head snapped up. “She said that?”

“Multiple times. Also quoted you as ‘stupidly handsome.’ Her words.”

Macklin swallowed. “I thought I didn’t have a shot.”

Will clapped him on the shoulder, grinning wide. “You do now, buddy. Just don’t take her to chain restaurants, she’ll riot. She likes rooftop bars, Thai food, and those movie theaters that smell like popcorn. And if you hurt her, I’ll put you into the boards so hard your grandchildren will feel it.”

Two nights later, your phone buzzed while you were unpacking the last box in your apartment.

unknown number: hey, it’s macklin. will gave me your number (hope that’s okay) unknown number: was wondering if you’re free tomorrow night? there’s a rooftop in campbell with really good cocktails and a view of the mountains at sunset. thought maybe you’d want to check it out with me?

You stared at the text so long your screen dimmed. You typed three different replies and deleted them all.

You: I’d love that.

He picked you up at seven in a black Henley that should’ve been illegal. When you opened the door, his eyes did that thing again: wide, then soft, like he was seeing something he’d been waiting for.

“You look-” He stopped, laughed under his breath. “Will’s gonna kill me for saying this, but you look beautiful.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Mack.”

The rooftop was perfect: string lights, heat lamps, the mountains turning pink and gold behind the skyline. He ordered you a spicy margarita because Will had apparently ratted out your drink order, and you laughed so hard you snorted when he admitted it.

Conversation came easy after that. He told you about growing up in Vancouver, about being the youngest in every room his whole life, about how weird it still felt to have people recognize him at the grocery store.

You told him about how it was studying for you at Boston, about your mom crying at graduation, about how terrified you were that moving here was impulsive and insane.

“It wasn’t,” he said quietly, rolling the condensation on his glass. “Impulsive, maybe. Insane, no. You seem braver than most people.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve known me for like three weeks.”

“I’ve known you long enough.”

He set his drink down. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay..”

“I thought you and Will were together. Like, together together. That’s why I was weird and distant or whatever. I liked you the first night I met you, outside the locker room. And every time after that, it got worse. Better? Both, but I thought I didn’t have a chance, so I tried to get over it. Badly, apparently.”

You stared at him. “You were jealous of Will?”

“Painfully.”

“That’s really stupid,” you said, and then you were laughing, and he was laughing, and the space between you on the bench disappeared when you leaned in to kiss him.

His hand came up to cup your face like he was scared you’d vanish. When you pulled back, his eyes were closed, forehead resting against yours.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi,” you whispered back.

Later, when he walked you to your door and kissed you again, slower this time, like he was memorizing it, you texted Will a single shark emoji.

His reply came immediately.

Will: fucking finally.. Will: tell Mack he owes me dinner for the assist

You smiled, looked up at Macklin still lingering on your doorstep, and pulled him inside by the collar of that unfairly perfect Henley.

When he sat down on the couch, he turned to you, “Hey, I want to do this right. Like.. tomorrow I’m taking you on a real date. Somewhere you wear a dress.”

You bit back a grin. “Macklin Celebrini, are you trying to tell me you’re a gentleman?”

“Trying being the operative word,” he muttered, kissing you again before you could laugh at him again.