fanfiction is so beautiful because what do you mean i can read the same characters falling in love 92737389 times in different scenarios and not get tired of it.
Xuebing Du


JBB: An Artblog!

titsay

tannertan36
Show & Tell
🪼
d e v o n
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Stranger Things
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

Kiana Khansmith

blake kathryn
Sade Olutola
dirt enthusiast
todays bird

@theartofmadeline

oozey mess
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

seen from Germany
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Germany

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from Switzerland
seen from Türkiye

seen from T1
seen from Israel

seen from United States
seen from Türkiye

seen from France
seen from Türkiye
seen from United Kingdom

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Germany
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
@dreamer-reader-lover
fanfiction is so beautiful because what do you mean i can read the same characters falling in love 92737389 times in different scenarios and not get tired of it.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
The Podcast clip
Tags: @qrrieterisunnq
A/N: a big thanks to Rez, she really helped me with the dialogue because man.. there was a lot and I hate writing dialogue. She also helped me with the idea, big love!!
Pairing: Timo Meier x reader
Words: 9,4k
Warning(s): none
"Okay, but hear me out.” You pointed dramatically at your co-host and best friend from across the small recording studio you had built in the spare bedroom of your apartment.
“No,” Emma immediately said, already laughing. “Every time you start a sentence with 'hear me out,' I know I'm about to hear the most ridiculous take imaginable.”
“It is not ridiculous,” you try to argue.
“It always is.”
“It is not.”
“It literally always is.” You stared at each other for three seconds before both dissolving into laughter. The red recording light glowed on the microphone between you.
Your podcast “Same Brain Cell” had started as a joke. Just two friends sitting in a living room talking nonsense. You never expected that now three years after the launch, somehow thousands of people would listen to it every week. There wasn’t even a real theme anymore. You would just happily yap about anything and everything: movies, relationships, conspiracy theories, celebrity gossip, sports, and literally anything that felt worth talking about or whatever happened to be interesting that day.
Which was exactly how the conversation had somehow drifted toward the Ice Hockey World Championship.
“You know what's funny?” Emma said. “I've never watched hockey before this tournament.”
“Neither had I,” you added.
“And now?”
“Now I'm emotionally invested in the success of several nations.”
Emma pointed accusingly. “Exactly. Why do we care so much?”
“I don't know. It's dramatic,” you tried to explain.
“Very dramatic.”
“Everyone's missing teeth,” you listed. “The fights are entertaining.”
“That's true, very true.” Emma nodded her head, agreeing with you.
“The players are attractive,” you continued, smiling a little to yourself.
Emma's eyes narrowed. “Ah.”
“Here we go.” You immediately started laughing.
“Ah,” she repeated. “Now we're getting somewhere.”
“No.”
“Yes, you have a hockey crush.”
“I do not,” you tried to defend yourself, but you had no arguments.
“You absolutely do.”
“I don't!” You threw a pillow at her.
“You absolutely do.”
You buried your face in your hands. The listeners loved moments like these, mostly because Emma would never let anything go.
“Who is it?”
“No.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me.”
You sighed dramatically, and Emma slapped the desk triumphantly.
“I KNEW IT.”
“You knew nothing.”
“Who is it?”
You groaned, “Fine.”
Emma leaned forward, clearly eager to hear you answer. “So, there is someone.”
“There might be.”
“Name.”
“Emma,” you groaned, hiding your head behind your hands with silent laughter.
“Name.”
“Okay, fine!” You pointed at her. “But this is not staying in the podcast.”
“Obviously.”
“I'm serious.” You looked at her, your smile now gone from your face.
“It absolutely is staying in the podcast.”
“You just said obviously.”
“I lied." She shrugged and smirked at you.
You rolled your eyes before you finally admitted it. “I think Timo Meier is really attractive,” you said quietly.
“Repeat that again, please. I don’t think the mic picked that up.”
“I think Timo Meier is really attractive,” you said a little louder this time. There was a short silence that followed your confession, and then Emma started screaming.
“Oh my God.”
“Stop.”
“Oh my God.”
“Please stop.”
“You have a hockey crush!” she sang the last word, drawing a groan from you.
“I do not!”
“You just admitted it on the internet.”
“I said he's attractive.”
“That's a crush.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
You laughed helplessly. “I literally don't even know anything about him.”
“That somehow makes it worse,” Emma commented.
“How?”
“You saw a handsome man and immediately folded.”
“I did not fold.”
“You folded.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely folded.”
You groaned, “Can we move on?”
“No.”
“Emma.”
“Does he know?”
“What?” You stared at her.
“Does he know?”
You laughed so hard you nearly fell out of your chair. “Yes, Emma. I'm sure an NHL player is listening to our random podcast.”
“You never know.”
“I do know.”
“You never know.”
“Trust me.”
However, little did the two of you know that across the Atlantic, somebody was absolutely listening or at least to a clip of it.
The Swiss national team had returned to their hotel after practice. The atmosphere was relaxed. The players were scattered around the lobby, some of them were gaming, some just talking, and one particular Swiss alternate captain was scrolling through social media. Nico sat on the couch with his phone balanced on one knee. A grin was slowly appearing on his face.
“Oh, this is gold.”
Across the room, Timo looked up. “That can't be good.”
“Oh, it's very good.”
“That's worse.” Nico was already walking over. “What did I do now?” Timo sighed.
“You exist.”
“Okay?”
Nico dropped onto the couch beside him. “Listen to this.”
“I don't want to.”
“You do.”
“I don't.”
“You really do.” Without waiting for permission, Nico pressed play. Timo immediately heard a woman’s voice and then another. There was a lot of laughter before he heard his own name.
“I think Timo Meier is really attractive.”
The clip ended, Timo blinked. Nico stared at him, and Timo stared back. Neither of them said anything before Nico completely lost it. He doubled over laughing. “Oh my God.”
“Shut up.”
“She likes you.” Nico pointed out teasingly, his eyes wide with laughter.
“She doesn't know me,” Timo argued back, but his thoughts were already on the fact that you might like him even though you didn't know him.
“She likes your face.”
“That's not better.”
“It's definitely better.”
Timo rubbed a hand over his face. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Because it's funny.”
“It is not.”
“It absolutely is.” Nico restarted the clip.
Timo immediately grabbed for the phone. “No.”
“Listen to the way she says it.”
“Nico.”
“She's embarrassed.”
“Nico.”
“She thinks you're hot.”
“Nico.”
“She absolutely thinks you're hot.”
“Nico!” The two of them nearly wrestled over the phone while several teammates watched from nearby.
One player called out. “What's happening?”
Nico looked up. “Timo has an admirer,” he simply said, and the room exploded.
“Oh no,” Timo muttered.
“Oh yes,” Nico said.
Within seconds everyone wanted to see the clip.
“Timo's famous.” “Apparently.” “She's cute.”
That made Timo immediately look up. “What?”
Nico grinned. “Oh, I checked.”
“You checked?”
“Obviously,” Nico shrugged because, to him, it seemed like a normal thing to do. He had to know which girl had a crush on his best friend.
“Nico!”
“What?”
“You stalked her?” Timo looked up at his best friend in disbelief.
“I used Google," Nico shrugged again.
“That is still weird.”
“Not as weird as the fact you've gone red.” Nico chuckled as he pointed out the red plush on Timo's cheeks.
“I have not.”
“You absolutely have.” The entire room agreed.
“This is the worst day of my life,” Timo groaned.
“It is literally the opposite.”
One teammate leaned over Nico's shoulder. “Wait, she has a podcast?”
“Yeah.”
“That's cool.”
“She's funny.”
Timo froze. “You watched more?”
Nico looked completely unapologetic. “Yes.”
“How much more?”
“A few clips?” Timo's eyes widened with disbelief. His best friend is a different type of crazy.
“Maybe an hour," Nico admitted.
“You watched an hour?”
“She was entertaining.” Nico looked up from his phone, completely unfazed by Timo's horrified expression.
Timo stared at him. “You have issues.”
“Maybe.” Then Nico smirked. “Are you going to message her?”
“What?”
“Message her.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because that would be insane,” Timo exclaimed, raising his hand towards the ceiling.
“Would it?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Absolutely yes.” Nico looked around the room. “Vote.” Every hand immediately went up.
Timo dropped his head into his hands. “You people are terrible.”
“You love us.”
“I really don't.”
“Message her.”
“No.”
The chanting began: “Message her. Message her. Message her.” Which made Timo stare at the ceiling, honestly contemplating why he was hanging out with his teammates. Somewhere in another country, a podcast host had casually admitted she found him attractive. Now his teammates were acting like it was the greatest thing that had ever happened. And judging by Nico's grin, he had absolutely no intention of letting it go. Not anytime soon. Especially because, later that night, Nico secretly sent Timo another podcast clip and another and another. By the third episode, Timo found himself smiling whenever your voice came through his headphones, which was probably how the trouble started.
The message arrived on a Tuesday afternoon, which, in hindsight, was probably the worst possible time. Because you were sitting on your couch eating leftover pasta while half-watching a reality show when your phone suddenly exploded with notifications. Your phone buzzes once, twice, seven times, then twenty. Your screen lit up with message after message from Emma.
EMMA: ANSWER YOUR PHONE. NOW. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD.
You stared, sighed to yourself, and then decided to call her. She answered the phone before the first ring even finished.
“LOOK AT THE PODCAST’S INSTAGRAM.”
You nearly dropped the phone because of the volume she produced. “What happened?”
“JUST LOOK.”
“What happened?!”
“LOOK.”
Then the phone call disconnected. You pulled your phone away from your ear, looking at the screen and blinked. Then you opened Instagram, clicked on the podcast account, and opened the inbox. You stopped breathing immediately because there was a verified message request. Your eyes widened. No way, no actual way. You clicked on it, and there it was.
Nico Hischier
Your heart stopped. You knew that name, of course, because you have been obsessing over the Swiss team ever since the World Cup started.
You clicked on his name and then the message loaded.
“Hey! Nico here. A few teammates and I discovered your podcast recently and we've been enjoying it.”
You stared at it, your brain had completely stopped functioning, then you kept reading.
“I was wondering if you'd ever be interested in having me on as a guest. I can bring a friend too. I think it could make for a fun episode.”
You screamed, actually screamed, loud enough that your neighbour banged on the wall. However, you chose to ignore them. Instead, you called Emma back immediately. She picked up on the first ring.
“You saw it.”
“I SAW IT.”
“You saw it.”
“I SAW IT.”
The two of you screamed simultaneously, then neither of you could form words, then somehow Emma managed, “HE SAID HE'S BRINGING A FRIEND.”
You sat upright, your eyes widening. “Oh my God.”
“RIGHT?”
“Oh my God.”
“RIGHT?!”
There was a long pause before the two of you said the same thing. “IT'S TIMO.” There was a short silence on both ends of the line before you erupted with more screaming.
“It has to be!” Emma screamed.
“It absolutely has to be!”
“It can't be anyone else!”
“Who else would it be?” You stood up and started pacing. “No. No, no, no.”
“What?”
“What if it's not him?” you whined. You actually whined over the thought that Nico would bring anyone else besides Timo.
Emma paused. “...Okay, that's actually worse.”
“Exactly!”
“If it's not Timo, we're going to spend the whole episode wondering where Timo is.”
“THANK YOU,” you said, your hands making an appreciative motion with the energy you put into your words.
“Imagine if he brings someone completely random,” Emma said in between laughter.
You groaned, “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“What if it's some defenseman we've never heard of?”
“Don't say that.”
“What if it's the equipment manager?”
“EMMA,” you shrieked, trying to stop her, because her thoughts about who might join were making you even more nervous.
“What if—”
“Stop talking.”
Emma laughed, and then suddenly she became serious. “Wait.”
“What?” you asked curiously.
“What if it actually is him?”
Your stomach dropped because somehow you hadn’t thought that far ahead. You sat back down on your couch, slowly. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
The reality was beginning to set in. If Nico was messaging the podcast and if Nico had heard the episode, then—
“Oh my God.”
Emma's voice became dangerously amused. “What?”
“He definitely heard it.” You buried your face in a pillow. “No.”
“He definitely heard it,” Emma repeated. “He absolutely heard it.”
“No.”
“There's no way Nico heard that clip and didn't immediately show Timo,” Emma tried to reason. You let out a muffled groan as Emma was laughing too hard to continue.
“He knows,” you choked out, your eyes wide with embarrassment.
“He doesn't,” Emma tried to comfort you, but she didn’t even believe her own words.
“He absolutely does.” You wanted the floor to swallow you whole because she was probably right. The clip had gone mildly viral among your listeners. There was no way Nico had found your podcast without finding that clip. Which meant... “Oh my God.”
“What now?”
“He knows I called him attractive.”
Emma burst out laughing again. “That's the part you're worried about?”
“YES.”
“Not the fact that a professional hockey player wants to come on our podcast?” Emma asked you in disbelief.
“No.” You shook your head. Your mind focused on the fact that the man you have a stupid high school type crush on knows that you called him attractive.
“Not the fact that this is incredible for the show?”
“No.” You shook your head again.
“Not the fact that thousands of people are going to listen?” Emma continues to ask with an amused smirk on her face.
“No.”
“You're worried because your celebrity crush might know you think he's hot,” Emma wheezed.
“Exactly.”
“You're unbelievable.”
You collapsed backward onto the couch. “How am I supposed to interview him?” You looked up at her with a terrified look on your face.
“You'll survive.” She smirked as if she weren't there, too.
“No, I won't.”
“You absolutely will.” Emma grinned, enjoying the fact that her best friend was on the edge of a panic attack.
“I'll accidentally die,” you cried out, which earned you a loud laugh from Emma.
“That's dramatic,” Emma laughed.
“It isn't.”
“It is.”
“What if he brings it up?” Your eyes bulged out from fear and embarrassment at the same time.
“He won't.”
“What if he does?”
Emma paused, then immediately dissolved into laughter again. “Oh my God.”
“What?” It was now your turn to question her.
“He absolutely might.”
You groaned so loudly that your cat lifted its head from across the room. This was a disaster, an actual disaster.
Meanwhile, several thousand miles away, Nico was sitting beside Timo in the hotel lounge. Nico was watching his phone and waiting patiently. A grin slowly appeared.
Timo immediately noticed. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Nico,” Timo groaned when he noticed the smirk on his lips.
“Maybe I sent a message,” Nico answered, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
“What kind of message?” Timo looked suspicious. Nico turned the phone around. Timo read it and nearly choked. “You absolutely did not.”
“I absolutely did.”
Timo stared at him. “You invited yourself onto their podcast?”
“I invited us.”
“Us?” Timo waves his finger between the two of them.
“Us.”
“Nico.” Timo immediately looked horrified.
“What?” Nico asked innocently.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because.” Timo breathed out, having a hard time finding arguments.
“Excellent argument.”
"Nico," Timo groaned.
“What?”
“What if they say yes?” Timo's shoulders dropped, as if he already accepted his fate.
Nico smiled. The smile of a man who had already caused chaos and intended to cause more. "Oh," he said as he leaned back comfortably, “I really hope they do.”
Across the ocean, you and Emma were staring at the message for the hundredth time. Neither of you had replied yet, neither of you could, because there was one terrifying possibility neither of you could stop thinking about. What if it turned out to be true? The next podcast episode was about to become the most embarrassing experience of your entire life.
For three full days, you and Emma managed to avoid answering the message. Not because you didn't want to, because you absolutely did. The problem was that every time one of you opened Instagram to type out a response, the conversation immediately spiralled into panic. It started with practical questions, like how long the episode should be or what the topic would be and whether it would be recorded during the tournament. Normal and totally reasonable questions. Unfortunately, reasonable questions only lasted about thirty seconds before one of you inevitably said, "What if the friend is Timo?” That’s when everything fell apart.
By Thursday evening, you were sitting cross-legged on Emma's apartment floor surrounded by notebooks, laptops, empty coffee cups, and approximately twelve pages of interview questions. None of which either of you had actually finished, because every five minutes the conversation somehow returned to the same topic.
“I think we should answer,” you started.
“We are answering,” Emma added, already grabbing her phone of the table.
“I know.”
“Then answer,” she said as she pushed the phone towards you.
“You answer.” You were starting to panic and pushed the phone back into her hands. “What if I sound weird?”
“You won't,” Emma tried to reassure you, but her face said something different. She stared at you and then snorted. “You absolutely will.” You threw a pillow at her, and she caught it effortlessly. “You're being dramatic.”
“You're not helping.”
“I know.” She grinned. That was the problem, Emma was enjoying this far too much.
Finally, after nearly an hour of arguing over a six-sentence response, you hit send. The message disappeared into the chat, and suddenly everything became real. The living room went silent. Emma and you stared at the phone, neither of you moved. Then Emma whispered, “Oh my God. We just invited professional hockey players onto our podcast.”
“We did.”
“Oh my God.” Then both of you started screaming.
The reply came less than fifteen minutes later, which somehow made everything worse because that meant that Nico was waiting by the phone to hear you answer. You were halfway through reading it when Emma snatched your phone.
“Let me see.”
“I'm reading.”
“You read too slowly.” She looked down at the screen and immediately froze. Her eyes widened. “Oh.”
“What?”
She slowly turned the phone toward you, you grabbed it and read.
“Sounds great. We'd love to do it. Looking forward to it.” You skimmed the next line, then you read it again. Your stomach dropped because this time Nico had actually named the friend. “I'll bring Timo with me.”
Silence. The kind of silence that only happens when somebody's brain completely shuts down. Emma looked at you, you looked at Emma. Neither of you blinked. Then Emma stood up, walked across the room, opened the balcony door, stepped outside, and closed the door behind her. You stared after her for nearly ten seconds, and then you decided to follow her. “What are you doing?”
Emma was staring at the night sky. “I needed fresh air.”
“It's ten degrees outside,” you said as you shivered.
“I know.”
“What are you doing?”
She turned dramatically. “Timo Meier is coming on our podcast.”
“I know.” You covered your face in embarrassment.
“He is physically coming onto our podcast.”
“I know.”
“Like the one you—”
“Don't,” you said as you lifted your hands up to cover her mouth, but you were too late.
“The one you told the internet was attractive.”
“Please stop.”
Emma doubled over laughing. You wanted to disappear, actually disappear, become invisible, change your name, or literally anything. Because this wasn't a hypothetical anymore. This wasn't some celebrity existing somewhere far away. This was a real person. A real person who was now going to sit across from you. A real person who probably knew exactly what you'd said and who was very likely going to remember it.
“Oh my God.” Was all you could get out.
“He definitely knows.” Emma pointed at you.
“He doesn't,” you groaned.
“Nico absolutely told him.” You groaned louder because she was right, and you knew she was right, and somehow that made it worse.
Meanwhile, on the Swiss team bus, Nico was once again making Timo regret every decision that had led them to becoming friends. “They said yes.”
Timo looked up from his phone. “What?”
“They said yes.”
“Nico.”
“We're doing the podcast.”
Timo slowly lowered his phone. There was a long pause, and then he said, "You told them it was me?”
“Of course,” Nico said as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
“Nico.”
“What?”
“Why did you do that?”
Nico looked genuinely confused. “Because you're coming,” he stated.
“I am?” Timo questioned it because, last time he checked, he didn’t agree with any of it.
“Yes.”
Timo sighed. The entire bus was already listening, which meant he wasn't winning this argument, not even in the slightest. One of the defensemen leaned over the seat and included himself in the conversation, “You should go.”
Another joined in, “Definitely.”
Timo pointed accusingly. “You people are useless.”
“They're right.” Nico grinned.
“They're not.” Timo rubbed his forehead. The truth was that he had listened to more episodes than he wanted to admit. At first, it had been because Nico kept sending clips, and then it became curiosity, and then somehow, he found himself listening during workouts, on flights, and in his hotel room.
You were funny, both of you were. The podcast was easy to listen to, it felt comfortable and authentic. Every time he heard you laugh, he found himself smiling, which was ridiculous, because he had never met you. And yet, somehow, he already felt like he knew you. At least a little.
“You're smiling.” Timo heard a voice from behind him, which made him look up from his phone immediately. Of course, it was Nico, and he was grinning dangerously.
“I am not,” Timo tried to argue even though he knew there was no use.
“You absolutely are.”
Timo rolled his eyes and looked out the window. Missing the knowing looks exchanged by half the team. Because the truth was for the first time since Nico had shown him that podcast clip, he wasn't nervous about doing the interview. He was nervous about meeting you, and somehow that felt much, much worse.
Back in your apartment, you were staring at your laptop while Emma paced behind you. The recording was scheduled for next week. Seven days exactly, only seven days. Every second that passed made it feel more real.
Your phone buzzed on your desk. It was another Instagram notification, a new message from Nico. You immediately opened it.
“Looking forward to meeting you both. Try not to be too nervous. Timo is harmless.”
You stared at it for a minute before you showed it to Emma. She read it, and a smile was slowly forming on her face. “Oh, he definitely knows.”
You dropped your head onto the desk, and Emma's laughter echoed through the entire apartment.
The week before the recording somehow managed to be both the longest and shortest week of your life. Every day felt endless, every night disappeared in seconds. One moment, there were seven days until the interview. Next, there were six and then somehow three. And every single day, Emma found a new way to make your life difficult.
“You know,” she said casually one afternoon, flipping through a notebook while sitting at the studio desk, “I think you should ask him about relationships.”
You looked up from your laptop. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Excellent answer." Emma's mouth twitched. You threw a pen at her. She dodged it effortlessly.
“You are the worst.”
“I know.” The grin on her face suggested she was very proud of that fact.
The studio, which was really just the converted spare bedroom of your apartment, was covered in preparation notes. Pages were taped to walls. Potential interview questions littered the desk. Three different coffee mugs sat forgotten around the room. You had never prepared this much for an episode in your life, and Emma had noticed.
“You're nervous,” she said.
“I'm prepared.”
“You're nervous,” she sang the words this time.
“I'm professional.”
“Just say you are nervous.”
You pointed a highlighter at her. “Stop.”
She laughed. The sound echoed around the room as she leaned back in her chair. Then her phone buzzed, her eyes dropped to the screen, and they widened immediately.
“Oh.”
“What?” Your stomach sank.
Emma's eyebrows climbed higher.
“What?” You said again.
She slowly turned the phone around. The screen showed an Instagram story. Specifically, one posted by Nico. Specifically, one featuring Timo.
Your stomach somehow sank further. The story itself wasn't anything special. It just showed the team travelling, a few players walking through an airport. It looked normal, except for the fact that Timo appeared in the background for approximately three seconds. And Emma had apparently decided that was enough material to ruin your day.
“Oh look,” she said sweetly. “Your boyfriend.”
You dropped your head onto the desk with a loud thunk. “He's not my boyfriend.”
“He could be.”
“He doesn't know I exist.”
Emma's laughter filled the room. “Actually...”
You lifted your head, slowly. “What does that mean?”
“Well.”
“Emma.”
“He definitely knows you exist.”
You groaned because you knew that she wasn’t wrong that was the problem. Three weeks ago, you had been completely anonymous. Now a professional hockey player knew your name, knew your face, had listened to your podcast, and was voluntarily coming onto it. The thought alone made you want to crawl into a hole.
Several thousand miles away, Timo was experiencing a surprisingly similar problem. He was sitting in the hotel restaurant eating lunch when Nico dropped into the chair across from him. The look on Nico's face immediately raised alarms.
Timo pointed his fork. “No.”
“I didn't say anything.” Nico blinked.
“You have the face.”
“What face?”
“The face you make before you're annoying.”
Nico looked genuinely offended. “I don't have a face.”
“You absolutely do.”
The grin appeared, there it was again, the face. Timo sighed. “What is it?”
Nico casually slid his phone across the table. Timo looked down, immediately regretting it. It was your Instagram, a recent photo. Nothing particularly glamorous. Just you sitting on a couch holding a microphone while laughing at something off-camera.
The caption was about the upcoming episode. That's all, it was perfectly innocent. Yet somehow, Timo found himself staring for a second too long, and it didn’t go unnoticed.
“Oh, that's interesting.”
“Don't.” Timo shoved the phone back.
“You were looking.”
“I glanced.”
“Timo,” Nico said as he leaned back in his chair.
“What?”
“You're smiling.” Timo immediately stopped smiling, at least he tried to. The problem was that Nico had known him for years, Nico could read him far too well, and half the team had now become invested in whatever weird situation this was.
A defenseman at the next table looked over. “Podcast girl?” Which made Timo nearly choke on his drink.
“Podcast girl,” Nico immediately answered. The entire table burst into laughter. Timo wanted to leave, preferably forever.
The night before the recording, you couldn't sleep even though you had really tried. But every time you closed your eyes, your brain reminded you that in less than twenty-four hours you would be interviewing two professional hockey players. One of whom happened to be your very public crush.
At two in the morning, you finally gave up. The glow from your laptop illuminated the dark living room as you sat wrapped in a blanket, reviewing your notes for the hundredth time. The apartment was silent, the city outside was quiet, and somehow everything felt calm. That was until your phone buzzed, which made you frown because who would be messaging you at two in the morning?
Then you saw the notification. It was from the Podcast’s Instagram and your heart immediately started racing.
You opened the message. Of course it was from Nico. “Quick question.”
You stared and then typed back. “Sure?”
Three dots appeared almost instantly, and then, “How badly is Emma teasing you?”
You froze, then instantly started laughing. The laugh escaped before you could stop it. And you typed back. “How do you know she's teasing me?”
The response came seconds later. “Because Timo has been getting the same treatment from our team for a week.”
You stared at the screen that message made you sit up straighter. You reread the message again and again because there was only one reason the team would be teasing Timo. And suddenly your face felt very warm.
The typing bubble appeared again, then disappeared, then appeared once more. As though Nico was debating whether to send something. Finally, a new message arrived. “See you tomorrow. Try not to panic.”
You laughed because it was far too late for that. Tomorrow was the interview. Tomorrow, you would finally meet them. And somewhere in another hotel room, Timo was probably staring at the ceiling unable to sleep either.
The morning of the interview arrived far too quickly. You had slept maybe four hours, possibly less. Your alarm went off at seven, but you had already been awake for twenty minutes, staring at your ceiling and mentally preparing for every possible way the day could go wrong. You could trip when answering the door. You could spill coffee on a professional hockey player. You could completely forget how to speak. You could accidentally remind everyone that you had publicly admitted to finding Timo attractive. That last possibility was by far the most terrifying.
By nine o'clock, you were pacing around the studio while Emma sat cross-legged on the floor pretending to review questions. "Pretending" being the key word. She hadn't looked at the notebook in at least ten minutes. Instead, she was staring at the wall.
“You know what?” she suddenly said.
“What?”
“If I pass out, tell my family I loved them.”
You looked up from the microphone you were unnecessarily adjusting. “You are so dramatic.”
“I'm serious.”
“You are not.”
Emma pointed at you. “You changed outfits four times.”
“It was three.”
“Four.”
You opened your mouth to keep arguing, but then you closed it, because it had actually been four. Emma's triumphant smile appeared immediately. “Thought so.”
You threw a rolled-up sheet of paper at her, however, she caught it without looking. The studio was ready, everything was ready. The microphones were set up, the batteries in the cameras were changed, the snacks were arranged, and the water bottles were neatly lined up on the table. There was literally nothing left to do, which somehow made the waiting worse. Every sound from outside made both of you look toward the front door. Every passing car made your heart jump. Every vibration from your phone felt like an incoming disaster. Then, finally, the doorbell rang.
Everything seemed to stop. Emma and you both froze, and you didn’t move for a moment. Then Emma grabbed your arm.
“Oh my God.”
“Don't,” you warned her, “Emma.”
“They're here.”
“I know they're here,” you said as you stood up from the couch you were sitting on.
“They're actually here.”
“I know.”
“No, but they're actually here.”
You closed your eyes, took one deep breath, and then walked towards the front door. Emma followed directly behind you like emotional support or possibly like someone wanting front-row seats to a train wreck. You weren't entirely sure. Your hand landed on the doorknob, and your stomach immediately attempted to leave your body, but you opened the door anyway, and there they were. For one completely surreal moment, your brain refused to process the scene in front of you. Nico stood closest to the door, smiling easily, one hand shoved into his jacket pocket. Beside him stood Timo, who was much taller than you’d expected, which was saying something because you’d known that he was tall. Still, seeing someone in person was completely different from seeing them on a screen.
For half a second, nobody said anything. But then Nico grinned. “You must be Y/N.”
“Hi,” you said when your brain finally restarted. Wonderful, a brilliant first word, a true conversational masterpiece.
Beside you, Emma made a noise suspiciously close to a squeak. Nico's grin widened, and Timo looked amused.
“Oh no,” Nico said. “You're both nervous.”
“We're not nervous,” you said it far too quickly.
Emma nodded immediately. “Not nervous at all.”
Nico laughed while Timo looked down for a second, clearly trying not to laugh too. The sight somehow made your stomach flip.
“Sure,” Nico said. “We believe you.”
Emma pointed at him. “You're not allowed to make fun of us.”
“Oh, we're definitely allowed.”
“No.”
“Absolutely.”
The conversation immediately became easier after that. Thankfully because the alternative was you standing frozen in the doorway forever. You stepped aside and let them enter. The studio suddenly felt much smaller.
Nico immediately looked around. “This is cool.”
“Thanks.”
“We've never actually seen where podcasts get recorded.”
“It sounds way more impressive when you say it like that.” Emma snorted.
The four of you moved into the studio area, and for a few minutes everyone settled in. Jackets were hung up. Water bottles were handed out. Microphones were adjusted. The normality of it all helped, a little, until Timo sat down directly across from you. Then the panic returned because now there was nowhere else to look. Every time your eyes wandered, they inevitably landed on him. And every time they did, you immediately looked somewhere else. Unfortunately, Emma noticed. Of course she noticed. Emma noticed everything.
She was adjusting her microphone when she suddenly looked at you, then at Timo, and then back at you. The look in her eyes promised future blackmail. You hated her, only a little. Across the table, Nico was noticing things too, which was somehow worse. The smile he was trying to hide suggested he was putting pieces together. And judging by the glance he shot toward Timo, he wasn't the only one.
Thankfully, before anyone could say anything embarrassing, Emma clapped her hands together. “Okay.” Everyone looked over, and she pointed dramatically. “We are professionals.”
You nearly choked. Nico laughed immediately. Timo actually leaned back in his chair, laughing.
“You?” Nico asked.
Emma pointed at herself. “Yes.” Then she pointed at you. “Mostly me.”
“That's fair.” You nodded.
“Thank you.” The room relaxed again, the tension slowly disappeared, and conversation started flowing naturally. Funny stories were being shared, as well as travel disasters and discussions about the weather that somehow lasted five full minutes. By the time the microphones were finally switched on, it felt less like four strangers meeting for the first time and more like four friends hanging out, almost, at least until Nico casually ruined everything. The recording light had just turned red when he leaned toward his microphone.
“So.” Your heart immediately sank because the tone of his voice was dangerous, very dangerous.
Emma recognised it too. “Oh no,” she said quietly.
“Oh yes.” Nico looked directly at you and smiled. “Before we start...”
You already knew where this was going. You could feel it. “Nico,” you warned him.
“One quick question,” he said with a smug look on his face.
“Nico.”
His grin became enormous. Across from him, Timo immediately covered his face with one hand, which was somehow the biggest warning sign of all.
“You mentioned on the podcast once that someone from the Swiss team was attractive...”
Emma doubled over laughing, you dropped your head onto the table, Nico was cackling, and even Timo was laughing now. The kind of laugh that made his eyes crinkle. The kind of laugh that made it impossible not to smile too.
“Oh my God,” Emma gasped, “I can't believe you did that.”
“I absolutely can,” you muttered from the tabletop.
And as the laughter continued around the studio, Timo looked over at you, still smiling. “You know,” he said, amusement dancing in his eyes, “for the record...”
“For the record, what?” You looked up. His smile widened slightly.
“For the record, Nico has not shut up about that clip for weeks.” The room immediately dissolved into chaos all over again. The laughter took an embarrassingly long time to die down. You were still hiding your face in your hands while Emma had practically slid out of her chair. Across the table, Nico looked far too pleased with himself, while Timo sat shaking his head, a grin lingering on his face as he took a sip from his water bottle.
“You all suck,” you finally announced, lifting your head.
“That's fair,” Nico admitted immediately.
“I've never done anything to you,” you said with a confused look on your face.
Nico raised an eyebrow. “You publicly ranked my teammate.”
Emma immediately lost it again. The laugh that escaped her was so sudden she nearly hit her microphone. “Oh my God.”
“You are not helping,” you told her.
“I'm helping myself,” she managed between laughs.
Timo leaned forward slightly, resting one forearm on the table. “To be fair,” he said, looking at Nico, “you were way more excited about it than I was.”
Nico pointed across the table. “That is not true.”
“It absolutely is.” Timo laughed softly and shook his head. “You sent me clips for like two weeks.”
The room fell silent, and everyone froze in their seats. Slowly, very slowly, Emma turned toward Nico. “You sent him clips?”
The smile vanished from Nico's face immediately. “Oh no.”
“You sent him clips?” Emma repeated, leaning forward like a detective who had just found the missing piece of evidence. Nico looked around for help, but there was no one.
Timo looked downright delighted now. “You told me it was funny.”
“It was funny.”
“You sent multiple clips?” Emma asked, a look of delight on her face.
“Maybe.”
“How many?” Emma slapped the table.
Nico groaned that sound made everyone laugh. “Why does it matter?” he asked.
“Because,” Emma said, pointing dramatically, “this changes everything.”
“No, it doesn't.” You looked at her.
“It absolutely does.”
“It doesn't,” you argued, not really having a solid argument.
“It means he knew who you were before this.”
You immediately grabbed the nearest pillow from the couch behind you and threw it at her. Unfortunately, she caught that too. “Stop.”
“I'm making observations,” Emma said and shrugged her shoulders.
“You are causing problems.”
“I'm creating content.”
Nico nodded approvingly. “See? I like her.”
“Traitor,” you muttered.
The conversation somehow only got easier after that. Once the embarrassing story was out in the open, the tension that had followed you around for the entire week started disappearing. The episode settled into its normal rhythm. Questions turned into stories. Stories turned into jokes. Jokes turned into complete tangents. At one point, Nico spent ten straight minutes telling an increasingly ridiculous story about a travel mishap involving a missing suitcase. At another, Emma somehow convinced Timo to reveal his most embarrassing childhood sports memory.
“You promised not to laugh,” he said.
“No, we didn't,” Emma replied immediately.
Timo looked genuinely offended. “You absolutely implied it.”
“We implied nothing.”
“You're dangerous.” He pointed at her. Emma looked pleased by the compliment.
You found yourself laughing more than talking at some points, which was unusual for you. Normally you were one of the more confident hosts. Usually, you could guide a conversation effortlessly. Today, however, there was a problem. Every time you forgot Timo was sitting across from you, things felt normal. Then you'd look up, and remember, and your brain would briefly stop functioning. Apparently, you weren't as subtle as you thought.
About an hour into the recording, Emma casually reached for her water bottle and kicked your foot under the table.
You nearly jumped. “What?”
“Nothing.” She smiled sweetly. The look in her eyes said otherwise. Across from you, Nico noticed the interaction immediately. His eyes narrowed, then a grin slowly spread across his face. Oh no, he knew. Whatever he thought he knew, he knew it. The realisation arrived at the exact same moment Emma realised it too. Both of them looked at each other, then at you, then at Timo, and then back at each other. The silent communication was horrifying, absolutely horrifying.
You pointed at both of them. “No.” But neither of them responded, which somehow made it worse.
The recording eventually wrapped up nearly two hours later. Longer than any of you had planned. However, nobody seemed to mind. The red recording light switched off, and the room immediately relaxed. Headphones came off, chairs rolled backwards, and everybody stretched.
“I think that's our longest episode ever,” Emma said, checking the timer.
“Really?” Nico looked impressed.
“By a lot.”
Timo stood and stretched his arms above his head. You immediately looked away, then immediately became annoyed with yourself for looking away. This was ridiculous, you were an adult, act normal.
“That's because you two talk a lot,” Emma said.
“Excuse me?” Nico asked.
“You heard me.”
“I've never talked in my life.” The room erupted into laughter again. While everyone was still talking, you moved toward the small counter in the corner to grab more water. The conversation continued behind you in a comfortable blur of voices and laughter. For the first time all day, you relaxed. The interview was over, and you had survived. There were no disasters, no humiliation, well… no major humiliation that counted as a win.
You were reaching for a bottle when another hand reached for the same one. Your fingers brushed, making you both freeze. For half a second, neither of you moved. Then you looked up. It was Timo.
“Sorry,” you said immediately.
“No, you're good.” Both of you grabbed different bottles instead. An awkward silence settled for a moment, not uncomfortable exactly, just uncertain.
Behind you, Nico and Emma were still deep in conversation, completely occupied. For the first time all afternoon, neither of you had anyone else around. Timo twisted the cap off his bottle before glancing over at you.
“You know,” he said, smiling slightly, “I was actually pretty nervous about today.”
You blinked before you quietly asked, “You were?”
“Yeah.”
You stared at him, and then you started to laugh. “No way.”
“I'm serious.” He laughed too, shaking his head.
“You're telling me professional athletes get nervous?”
“Only when our friends spend weeks making fun of us.” That earned another laugh from you. The smile that appeared on his face seemed to widen in response, and suddenly you understood something. For weeks, you'd been thinking about Timo Meier the hockey player, the NHL player, the public figure, the guy you’d seen on television, but standing here beside the counter, holding a water bottle and laughing about Nico being annoying, he didn't feel like any of those things. He just felt like Timo, and somehow, that realisation was far more dangerous.
The moment between you and Timo by the counter might have lasted thirty seconds, maybe a minute, but it felt strangely suspended, as though the rest of the room had faded into the background. The sounds of Emma laughing at something Nico had said and the hum of the air conditioning became distant noise while you stood there with matching water bottles in your hands and smiles neither of you seemed in a hurry to hide.
“You know,” you said, leaning against the counter with a laugh, “I spent the entire week convinced I'd embarrass myself.”
Timo chuckled softly and rested one shoulder against the cabinet opposite you. “Really?”
“Really.”
“I thought you seemed pretty relaxed,” he said. You stared at him, he stared back, and then both of you burst out laughing.
“Relaxed?” you repeated.
“Okay, maybe not relaxed.”
“I nearly had a heart attack when you walked through the door.”
His grin widened. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, that's fair.”
“You?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
You blinked. “You did not almost have a heart attack.”
“I didn't say almost.”
“You were nervous?” you asked him, really not believing that he would be nervous to go on the podcast.
Timo shrugged, his expression warm and slightly amused. “Nico had me convinced I was walking into some kind of interrogation.”
You laughed. “That sounds like him.”
“It really does.”
“And instead, you got us.”
“Yeah.” He smiled down at the bottle in his hands before looking back up at you. “And honestly?”
“Hm?”
“This was better.”
Your stomach flipped, not dramatically, not like in the movies, just enough to make your smile widen despite yourself. Neither of you seemed to notice that the conversation behind you had gone suspiciously quiet. Or maybe you were too distracted to care.
Because across the room, Emma and Nico had stopped talking entirely. Emma slowly lowered the cookie she'd been reaching for. Nico, halfway through saying something, froze. The two of them looked at each other, then toward the kitchen, and then back at each other. Emma's eyes widened.
Nico's grin appeared immediately. “Oh,” he whispered.
“Oh.” Emma slapped his arm.
“Oh, I know that look.”
“Shut up,” Emma said as she raised her hand to slap his arm again.
“You shut up.”
“Look at them,” Emma whispered.
“I'm looking.” They both turned again. From where you and Timo stood, all they could really see was the two of you smiling and talking quietly, but that was apparently enough.
Nico leaned closer to Emma. “I think they're ignoring us.”
“They are ignoring us," Emma grinned.
“I feel abandoned.”
“You should.”
“I introduced them.”
Emma snorted, “You absolutely think you deserve credit.”
“I do deserve credit,” Nico said as he raised his hand over his heart.
“You absolutely do not.”
“I literally brought him here.”
“And I kicked her under the table six times,” Emma argued back.
They both nodded solemnly. “Team effort,” they said at the same time.
Meanwhile, blissfully unaware that you were being observed like animals in a documentary, you and Timo had somehow wandered from talking about hockey to favourite movies to travel disasters to why Emma somehow managed to injure herself in increasingly ridiculous ways.
“No, seriously,” you said through laughter. “She sprained her ankle getting out of a hammock.”
Timo stared. “That's impressive.”
“That's what I said.”
“How?” he asked you, genuinely interested in the story.
“We still don't know,” you answered truthfully.
“Was she okay?”
“Eventually.” He laughed again, and there it was that laugh you'd noticed earlier. The one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him lean forward slightly. The genuine one. And somehow, every time you heard it, you found yourself smiling too.
“Okay,” he said, shaking his head. “I need to know more about this hammock.”
Behind him, Nico stood up. Emma immediately grabbed his sleeve. “What are you doing?”
“We need to leave,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“We are in her apartment,” Emma pointed out.
“We need to leave the room.”
Emma burst out laughing. “We cannot just disappear.”
“Why not?”
“Because they'll know.”
“Will they?” Nico frowned.
“Yes.”
He looked unconvinced. “I think they're busy.”
Emma glanced over. Unfortunately, he wasn't wrong. You and Timo were laughing about the hammock incident now, neither of you having noticed that your audience had become increasingly invested.
Emma covered her face with both hands. “This is insane.”
“I know.”
“This was supposed to be a podcast.”
“I know,” Nico repeated.
“This is not what I expected.”
“This is exactly what I expected.” Nico smiled proudly.
Emma looked at him. “You expected this?”
“From the second she called him attractive.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“No.” He grinned. “I'm observant.”
“You are a menace.”
“And yet, I'm right.” Emma hated that he was.
A few minutes later, you finally looked over and realized the room had gone strangely quiet. Both Emma and Nico were sitting side by side on the couch, wearing identical expressions. Smug, terrifyingly smug.
You narrowed your eyes as you looked at them. “What?”
“Nothing,” Emma answered immediately.
“Nothing,” Nico echoed.
“Why are you sitting like that?” You looked between them suspiciously.
“Like what?” Emma asked innocently.
“Like evil twins.”
Nico burst out laughing. “Evil twins?”
“Yes.”
Emma nodded seriously. “I can live with that.”
Timo glanced over his shoulder and frowned. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing,” Nico said.
“Absolutely nothing,” Emma added. Neither of them could stop smiling, which meant something was very wrong.
You pointed. “Stop whatever you're doing.”
“We aren't doing anything.”
“Nico.”
“I'm innocent.”
“Emma.”
“So, innocent.”
Timo looked between all four of you and shook his head with a smile. “You know, I think we should be worried.”
“You should,” Emma agreed.
“We absolutely should,” Nico added. And somehow, despite the chaos and teasing and the fact that your cheeks hurt from laughing for the past three hours, none of you made any move to leave. Because the podcast episode had ended hours ago but somewhere between the microphones, the jokes, and the embarrassing stories, nobody had really wanted the afternoon to end. Least of all you and Timo. And if the knowing look Emma and Nico shared over your heads was any indication, they had absolutely no intention of letting it.
Eventually, reality ruined everything. Not because anyone wanted it to but because phones buzzed, schedules existed, and apparently professional athletes couldn't spend all day sitting in your studio laughing about hammock accidents and airport disasters.
The first warning came from Nico's phone. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and immediately groaned dramatically, throwing his head back against the couch. “No.”
“What?” Timo asked as he looked over at him.
“We have to go.”
The smile on his face faltered slightly. “What time is it?” Nico held up the screen, and Timo's eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Oh?” Emma frowned. You already didn't like that “oh.” “What kind of "oh" is that?”
“The kind where we're going to be late if we don't leave,” Nico admitted, pushing himself off the couch with another theatrical sigh.
Emma looked equally offended. “No.”
“What do you mean no?” Nico blinked.
“No,” she simply repeated.
He laughed. “I don't think that's how time works.”
“I reject reality,” she added.
“That's unfortunate.”
“I'm serious.”
“We have team meetings,” Nico explained.
Emma crossed her arms. “Cancel them.”
“See, I like you.” Nico pointed at her. You laughed, watching the two of them argue while Timo stood and stretched beside the couch. The room suddenly felt different. Quieter somehow because for the first time all afternoon, the thought entered your head. They're leaving. And judging by the slight change in Timo's expression when he checked the time himself, he wasn't thrilled about it either. Nobody said anything about it, but it was there lingering in the room.
You all moved around gathering things. Empty bottles found their way to the recycling bin. Microphones were unplugged. Cameras were packed away. Emma was somehow still arguing with Nico about the unfairness of schedules while he laughed at everything she said. It was comfortable and easy, which somehow made the thought of everyone leaving feel strange.
Eventually, the four of you found yourselves standing in the hallway near the front door. Jackets were back on. Shoes were tied. And despite the fact that everyone had been laughing five minutes earlier, a strange awkwardness settled over the group. Not bad, just reluctant, like nobody really wanted to be the first person to say goodbye.
“Thanks for having us,” Nico said eventually, smiling warmly. “Seriously, this was fun.”
“We expect a sequel.” Emma pointed at him.
“Oh, absolutely.”
“And I still want the suitcase story in greater detail.”
Nico laughed. “You'll get the director's cut.”
“Perfect,” she said and clapped her hands. The two of them were already making plans for stories that would probably never make it onto a podcast, but somehow you had drifted slightly toward Timo without noticing. Or maybe he'd drifted toward you. You weren't sure. All you knew was that everyone else's conversation had become background noise.
“It really was fun,” he said quietly, his smile small but genuine.
“I'm glad.”
“No, I mean it.” He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and let out a soft laugh. “I wasn't just saying that earlier. I was nervous.”
“I still don't believe that.” You smiled.
“It's true.”
“You hid it better.”
“You hid it terribly.” He grinned.
“I know.” You groaned.
“The panic in your eyes when you opened the door was impressive.”
You covered your face. “No.”
He laughed, and you couldn't help laughing too. Behind you, Emma and Nico had gone suspiciously quiet. Very suspiciously quiet. In fact, when you glanced over, you discovered both of them watching. Not even subtly. Emma's smile was enormous. Nico looked like Christmas had come early.
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
“Nothing,” Emma answered immediately.
“Nothing at all,” Nico agreed. Neither of them looked convincing.
Timo shook his head, muttering under his breath, “They're impossible.”
“They really are.”
He smiled. “Good thing they found each other.” That made you laugh.
Then, before either of you could say anything else, Nico looked at his watch. “Timo.”
“Yeah?”
“We seriously have to go.”
Timo sighed. “Right.”
The group slowly shuffled toward the front door. Hugs were exchanged. Emma hugged Nico like they'd known each other for years instead of one afternoon.
“You better come back,” she said to him.
“Oh, I will,” he promised her.
“I'm holding you to that.”
“You should.” You hugged Nico too, laughing when he whispered, “Thanks for not banning me after the attractive comment.”
“You deserved to be banned.”
“I know.” Then he stepped outside and headed toward the car parked by the curb. Timo lingered, not by much, but enough. You noticed and he noticed that you noticed. And suddenly it was just the two of you in the doorway while Emma pretended very badly not to stare.
Timo shifted his weight, one hand in his pocket. “So…”
“So…” you repeated, but neither of you continued. Both of you laughed awkwardly.
He looked down for a moment, then back at you. “I was wondering…” he began, his voice quieter now. “Would it be okay if I gave you my number?”
Your brain stopped completely, not permanently, just enough to make him smile nervously.
“You know,” he continued, laughing softly and rubbing the back of his neck. “In case you need another embarrassing hockey story.”
You stared at him, you blinked, and then you smiled. “I think I could make room for that.”
“Good.” His smile widened. He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Here.”
Your fingers brushed again when he handed it to you. And somehow, that tiny touch was enough to make your heart do something ridiculous. You typed your number in and handed the phone back. Then he immediately handed you his number. “So it's fair.”
“Very fair.” You laughed.
A horn sounded outside, it was Nico, of course. The window rolled down, and Nico leaned halfway out. “TIMO!” he screamed.
Timo closed his eyes. “Oh no.”
“ARE YOU ASKING FOR HER NUMBER?” Nico grinned. You all froze, and then Emma nearly fell over laughing.
“NICO!” Timo screamed back while he had a horrified look on his face. “Nico, I hate you!”
“You love me!”
“I DON'T!”
The horn honked again. “LET'S GO, ROMEO!”
You burst out laughing. Timo buried his face in one hand. “I am so sorry.”
“No,” you said between laughs. “No, this is actually amazing.”
He looked over at you and, despite his embarrassment, started laughing too. Then he smiled that soft smile you'd noticed all afternoon. The one that made him look less like an NHL player and more like the guy who'd spent the last four hours making you laugh.
“I'll text you,” he promised.
“You better.”
His grin widened. “I will.” Then he stepped outside and headed toward the car. Before getting in, he glanced back and caught you still standing in the doorway. You both smiled, and just before he climbed into the passenger seat, he gave a small wave.
Emma appeared beside you immediately. The second the car disappeared around the corner, she grabbed both your shoulders. “You got his number.”
You blinked, and then you looked down at your phone at the new contact sitting there.
Timo 🏒
And for some reason, that tiny little contact felt completely surreal. Emma screamed. You screamed. And somewhere in the car, Nico was probably screaming too. Because if there was one thing you were absolutely certain about, it was that neither Emma nor Nico was going to shut up about this anytime soon.
Silent Love - Timo Meier
masterlist || wip’s || taglist
✮⋆˙ summary - Y/n has been working for the Devils for a long time now, but no one really hears her speak. So when Timo hears her voice, for what feels like the first time, he needs to hear it again and again. [2,0k] ✮⋆˙ warnings - reader is czech, sweet pure content ✮⋆˙ please reblog guys ˙⋆✮
Working for the Devils as media manager has been y/n’s dream job since she was sixteen, lying in her bed back home in Czechia, while she was in high school, studying sport management.
Her dream came true when she was twenty-three, freshly graduated from university, when an email arrived in her inbox saying she had been accepted for the position of photographer for the Devils.
Now, six years later, she worked herself up to the post she always wanted. A media manager of the team. She is well known among the players. Mostly as the person who saves their asses if they fuck up publicly, or the person who does arrange everything that goes out to the news.
But when someone asks if she is a nice person, or how she acts or talks, they always stop because they realize that they never really heard her talk to them directly, or ever.
That’s just who she is. Y/n isn’t a shy person. She just doesn’t waste her breath on something that isn’t important or on someone she doesn’t trust, because English is not her first language, and she just doesn’t want to embarrass herself.
But today, a few of the people in the department called in sick, so she has to take their work. One of those people was Erin, who was the media girl who did most of the content with the players.
That’s why she is going down to the rink, where the practice is about to happen in ten minutes. She has to make a few videos with them and then a few interviews for the upcoming few days.
The guys are surprised when they see y/n behind the camera as they make their way from the locker room. She is looking down at the papers in her hands when she notices Jesper, who stops in front of the huge banner that holds the question of the day.
“Who would you let babysit your kids?” he reads out loud, his eyes drifting up to y/n, and a surprised look crosses his features. “Oh, hi, y/n.” he smiles at her. “Haven't seen you in ages.”
Y/n smiles back softly. “Yeah, you guys keep me busy,” she explains, the smile disappearing from her face as quickly as it came. Some people would find this behaviour of hers rude, but Jesper now better that to assume that.
He visited Czechia multiple times, and he knows how Czech people are, so he’s not offended by her cold expression. After all, he knows that Slavic people are like that.
“I can imagine,” he grins at her, then looks back at the question. “And my answer will be Hughes’.” With that, he waves y/n goodbye and leaves for the ice.
The boys start slowly, one by one, rolling from the locker room, laughing and answering the questions, but mostly being surprised to see y/n behind the camera instead of Erin.
The last two who walk out are Nico and Timo. They are deep in their conversation about something when they notice the banner, and then y/n, who is already looking at them. Timo stays frozen in his spot, his eyes taking y/n in. He hasn’t seen her since she got promoted, which was almost two years ago now, and let’s just say… she is gorgeous.
“Y/n,” Nico grins cheerfully, walking towards her to give her a quick hug, which she did not expect, but does return it. “I haven’t seen you for so long,” he breaths out in disbelief.
“Work’s been busy,” she says quietly, her voice thick with her accent, which sends a shiver down Timo’s spine. Her voice is deeper than it was two years ago, but still melodic and so good for his ears.
Y/n notices Timo’s eyes on her, so she shoots him a Why are you staring? look. Timo smiles to himself. Fierce.
“Good to see you, y/n.” Her name rolls off his tongue so smoothly, as if he were meant to say it every day. Y/n swallows, trying to suppress the feeling in her core.
“You too, Timo,” she answers softly. She doesn’t want her accent to get as thick as it usually is, even though she knows those two would never judge her.
Before either of them can say something more, Coach Keefe interrupts them, as he calls for Nico and Timo.
“Go,” y/n waves them off. “They need you.”
“Have a nice day, y/n,” Nico smiles as he passes Timo, who is still staring at y/n. “And my answer is Jack.” he nods his head to the question. His eyes then land on Timo. A smirk finds its way on his lips when he notices the look on his face. His best friend is smitten with y/n.
“You coming, Liebesbueb?” Nico says with a teasing smile, which gets only bigger when Timo glares at him.
“My answer is Luke,” he says when his eyes shift back to y/n.
Y/n chuckles at the answer, because she wouldn’t let her kid near both Hughes. “Thank you. Have a nice practice. I will be somewhere around taking pictures.”
A week goes by, and all Timo can think about is y/n and her voice. He doesn’t even know why he thinks about her voice. It’s not like he has never heard her, but he hasn’t heard her voice for almost two years, and he missed the deep sound of her accent.
Timo always had a thing for y/n, but he was good at hiding his feelings. When he was finally brave enough to tell her how he felt, she got promoted, and Erin took her spot as media girl, and y/n got busy with all the work, she stopped attending practices or even games.
So seeing her down at the rink, behind the camera, looking beautiful as he remembered, he felt like things had never changed. But they did. On Friday, Erin returned, fully rested, and y/n got back to her office on the highest floor of Prudential.
“What’s up with you, T?” Nico’s gruffy voice interrupts Timo’s thoughts as he looks up from the puck he has on his stick. His eyes meet Nico’s brown ones, and he lets out a deep sigh when he realizes that Nico knows exactly what’s going on. “It’s about y/n, right?”
“Is it that obvious?” Timo asks, looking around them to make sure no one is listening. His eyes focus back on Nico, who has a soft smile playing on his lips.
“I have known you for a long time, Timo. I can tell when you like someone. And I know you liked y/n for a while now, so it is quite obvious to me what is happening.” Nico explains, shuffling his skates on the ice.
Timo hangs his head low between his shoulders. His eyes flutter close as he takes in a deep breath to sort out his thoughts.
“I…I haven’t heard her voice in over two years, and even when she still worked with us, she hadn’t spoken much,” he admits, knowing that Nico will understand what he wanted to say by that.
“Well, I hope you have time after practice, because a little birdie told me that y/n is in her office today.” he grins at Timo before he skates away, leaving him standing there alone with his thoughts.
The rest of the practice ran quickly for Timo since his mind was on y/n and the need to hear her voice again, and again. As soon as Coach Keefe releases them, Timo is the first one to leave the ice and eventually even the locker room, after he takes a shower.
After he drops his things in his car, he makes his way back to the rock, and to the elevator, to make it up to the highest floor, where all the offices and departments are.
The elevator dings, signalling that he has reached the floor. His strides are confident as he makes his way towards y/n’s office, which he should not know where it is, but embarrassingly, he did make his way here a couple of times during the two years to speak with her, but every time, he turned around and left before he even knocked.
But this time, his knuckles meet the wooden door, leading to y/n’s office.
“Come in!” y/n shouts, yet her eyes stay focused on the iPad in front of her, where she reads through the interviews Erin sent her this morning. She doesn’t notice Timo stepping inside, so she just points at the chair in front of her desk, as she says, “Have a seat, I'll be with you in a second.”
A smirk tugs at Timo’s lips when her voice reaches his ears. He sits down in the chair and says, “Why not be mine right now, y/n?” It is a bold thing to say to her, so when he notices her freeze, he regrets it.
Y/n’s heart flutters in her chest when she hears Timo’s voice. Her eyes slowly meet his wide ones. “Timo,” she breathes out, as confusion takes over her, because… why is he in her office? “W-what are you doing here?” she chokes out, sliding her iPad away to focus on the handsome man in front of her.
Cocking his head to one side, he takes a brief moment to answer, and to think if he should risk everything. His mind goes to the times he would stand in front of those doors, trying to find the courage to knock. Or to the times, where y/n still worked as a media girl, and was with the m almost every day. And he knows that it’s now or never. “I needed to see you and hear your voice,” he says, his voice raspy and low with all the emotions he is feeling.
Y/n’s breath hitches, and her heart flutters at his words. “W-what?” she chokes out, emotions flooding through her body.
“You heard me, y/n,” Timo answers more confidently now, since he noticed the change in y/n’s posture and eyes. “I came here for you. I waited long enough to make a move, so here I am making the first move.”
Y/n just stares at him. Her eyes are wide in shock because she never thought that the man sitting in front of her might have a thing for her. For almost four years, she thought that she was stupid for having feelings for Timo, but it turns out that he was stupid, too.
“Are you serious?” y/n chokes out, her hands shaking with excitement and nervousness. As soon as Timo bobs his head, y/n springs to her feet, rounds the table and stops in front of his chair.
Timo stands up too, now hovering over y/n’s five-foot-something figure, his hands are itching to reach for her waist, and after seconds of thinking, he lets his hands do so.
“I have had the biggest crush on you for literally four years, y/n,” he admits, lowering his head down to whisper in her ear. “And I have been obsessed with your voice since the first time my name came out of your lips. I like you, y/n. so freaking much.”
He pulls away from her ear, but stays low, their only inches apart from how close they are. “I-I like you too, Timo. You have no idea how long and how much.”
And Timo doesn’t waste a second, his lips crash against y/n’s in a hard, yet slow and sensual kiss. His hands that were around her waist are now cupping her cheeks, as he tries to bring her lips even closer than it’s possible.
Y/n is standing on her tiptoes, trying to feel more of him, while her fingers clutch Timo’s shirt on his back, so she doesn’t fall. Not like Timo would let that happen.
When they pull apart after a few minutes, their breaths are heavy, quick and hot. Timo rests his forehead against hers, smile tugging at his swollen lips, because he finally has his woman in his arms.
“Be mine, y/n,” he whispers after a moment of silence. He expects y/n to freeze in her arms, so he is surprised when he feels her hands slide up his shoulders, until they are cupping his cheek as she presses her lips to his ear and whispers. “Only if you will be mine.”
A huge grin spreads across his lips. He doesn’t answer until his eyes meet y/n’s. “I always was.”
TAGLIST: @r0nnsblog, @buckystwilight
Nico, Timo and Roman are Team Switzerland’s 3 best players of the tournament!
The Matchmaking Scheme
Tags: @qrrieterisunnq
A/N: All this came to be because I saw a video of Timo saying that if he didn't play professional hockey, he would be a gym teacher. This is again based on my students' questions. They really helped me out again. Also, this was mostly written at night, so if there are any mistakes, please let me know!
Pairing: Gymteacher!Timo Meier x Englishteacher!Y/N
Words: 12,3k
Warning(s): use of Y/N, she/her pronouns, colleagues to lovers, lots of student dialogue
The first time one of her students asked if she had a boyfriend, Y/N didn’t think much of it. It happened on a rainy Tuesday morning while her sophomore English class was supposed to be discussing symbolism in The Great Gatsby, though at this point she should have known that fifteen-year-olds were biologically incapable of staying on topic for longer than four minutes. One of the girls in the front row had been staring at her for an unusually long time before finally blurting out, “Miss Y/N, are you dating anyone?”
The entire class immediately perked up.
Y/N looked up from the book in her hands, narrowing her eyes slightly. “What does that have to do with Gatsby?”
“Nothing,” the girl admitted easily. “I’m just curious.”
“No,” Y/N answered simply, turning back toward the whiteboard. “I’m not dating anyone.”
“But Miss Y/N, you’re way too pretty to be single.” The entire class had immediately burst into agreement.
“Seriously.” “There’s no way.” “You definitely have a secret boyfriend.”
Y/N had rolled her eyes, trying not to smile as she stacked papers against her chest. “I promise you, I do not have a secret boyfriend.” That answer, apparently, had been the wrong thing to say, because from that point on, the students became obsessed.
Her answer should have been the end of it, however instead, it became the beginning of her downfall. Because once high school students discovered a young teacher was single, apparently, they took it as a personal challenge.
The questions started becoming routine after that.
“Why are you single?” “What’s your type?” “How old are you willing to date?” “What if he’s divorced?” “What if he’s ugly but emotionally available?” “Would you date another teacher?” “What celebrity would you marry?” “Have you ever been in love?”
“Please stop talking, all of you. And open your textbooks,” Y/N would answer every single time, usually while fighting back a smile. But the students never listened.
And then one day, somewhere around mid-October, the gym teacher got brought up for the first time.
“You should date Mr. Meier.” “Yes! You and Mr. Meier would be perfect together.”
Y/N barely glanced up from the stack of essays she was grading. “Who?”
Three students gasped like she had committed a crime.
“You don’t know Mr. Meier?” “The gym teacher.” “The hockey coach.” “The hot one,” someone added from the back.
Y/N sighed immediately. “I feel like none of those descriptions are professionally appropriate. And that description tells me absolutely nothing.”
The students exchanged looks. “Oh my god, you really haven’t met him.”
Which, surprisingly, she hadn’t. The school was big enough that it happened sometimes. Teachers stayed in their own wings, worked around different schedules, and disappeared into departments. Y/N taught mostly honours English classes on the second floor, while Coach Meier practically lived downstairs near the gymnasium and athletic offices. Apparently, he coached hockey before and after school, taught physical education during the day, and supervised weight-training electives for half the time, too. Meanwhile, Y/N spent most of her day buried beneath essays, novels, and caffeine dependency. Their paths just never crossed. Still, after that conversation, his name started appearing constantly.
“Mr. Meier said our grammar was terrible.” “Mr. Meier likes your classroom decorations.” “Mr. Meier listens to old country music during class.” “Mr. Meier said Pride and Prejudice is boring.” That one offended her personally.
“He said what?” She stopped what she was doing to look at the student who said that.
The students grinned triumphantly, delighted they’d finally gotten a reaction out of her. “I knew you’d care.”
“He clearly lacks emotional depth,” Y/N muttered as she went back to writing notes on the board. The class erupted into laughter.
From then on, it somehow became a running joke throughout the school. Students would casually mention him during class just to watch her react. Sometimes they’d return from the gym with updates.
“He made Jason run laps for throwing a dodgeball at my head.” “He let us play music today.” “He’s really competitive during volleyball.” “He has an accent.”
That caught her attention the most. “An accent?” she repeated.
“A little one,” one of the girls sighed dramatically. “It’s attractive.”
“Everything is attractive to teenagers,” Y/N replied dryly, but despite herself, curiosity started settling in slowly. Not because she seriously believed any of the students’ ridiculous matchmaking attempts. Mostly because it was impossible not to wonder after hearing about someone every single day for weeks.
The strange thing was that apparently, he knew about her too. She discovered that accidentally during lunch duty one afternoon. A freshman girl had sat beside her at one of the cafeteria tables and whispered, “Mr. Meier asked if you actually make people write essays every week.”
Y/N blinked. “Excuse me?”
“He said your students complain dramatically.”
Her jaw dropped slightly. “They complain dramatically to the gym teacher about English assignments?”
“He said they act like you’re torturing them.”
"Well, maybe I am.”
The girl laughed. “He said you’re probably scary.”
Y/N stared down at her coffee cup for a moment before asking casually, “And what exactly did you say?”
“I told him you’re only scary when people use the wrong form of their."
“That’s fair.”
The student grinned. “He laughed.” For some reason, that lingered with her longer than it should have.
After that, the indirect conversations began. Not real conversations. Just messages passed through students.
“Mr. Meier says Shakespeare is overrated.”
“Tell Mr. Meier he’s uncultured,” Y/N said.
“He said he expected you to say that. He also said your coffee order is concerning.”
“How does he know my coffee order?”
“You get the same thing every morning.” Which was admittedly true.
And somehow over the next few weeks, they built an entire dynamic without ever actually meeting. Y/N learned he drank iced coffee even when it was freezing outside. Apparently, he had a habit of pacing during class, he was too competitive during staff volleyball games, he teased students constantly but stayed after school helping anyone who needed it, and apparently (according to nearly every teenage girl in the building) he was “ridiculously hot.” Y/N tried very hard not to care about that last detail. She failed a little.
One Thursday afternoon near the end of November, she almost met him for the first time. She had stayed late after school helping a student rewrite an essay, and by the time she finally headed downstairs, the hallways were mostly empty. She was halfway past the gym when she heard loud laughter echoing through the open doors.
Students spilled out first carrying hockey bags and water bottles. Then she heard someone say, “Coach, you’re in love with Miss Y/N.”
The responding laugh was lower than she expected.
“Pretty sure she’d disagree.” Y/N froze instantly outside the gym doors.
“Oh my god,” one of the boys groaned. “You do like her.”
“I literally do not know her,” the voice replied.
“Yeah, but you want to.”
The entire group started shouting over each other. Y/N stood there in complete disbelief, hidden just enough around the corner that nobody had seen her yet. And then she heard another student.
“Miss Y/N gives too much homework,” the student complained.
“That sounds like a you problem,” he answered easily. The students booed dramatically.
Y/N stared at the floor for a second, fighting a smile she absolutely should not have been smiling. Then footsteps started approaching the hallway. She panicked immediately. Without thinking, she turned around and hurried in the opposite direction just before the group rounded the corner, her heart beating stupidly fast over absolutely nothing. She didn’t even see him, but later that night, lying in bed with her grading untouched beside her, she found herself replaying the sound of his laugh in her head anyway.
The professional development day was universally hated by both students and teachers alike. Students hated it because it meant losing a random Friday off, which was their favourite day, in the middle of November. Teachers hated it because it meant sitting through seven straight hours of presentations about curriculum alignment, grading metrics, and “building stronger student engagement,” all while pretending not to check the clock every three minutes.
Y/N hated it mostly because it started at seven-thirty in the morning. She stood in the school parking lot balancing her tote bag, laptop, and coffee while staring blankly at the building like it had personally offended her. The hallways were strangely quiet without students filling them, no lockers slamming or voices echoing through the stairwells. Just exhausted teachers slowly dragging themselves toward mandatory meetings with the same dead-eyed expression.
Inside, the library had been transformed into a disaster of folding chairs, stale pastries, and weak coffee stations. A district administrator was already setting up a PowerPoint no one wanted to see. Y/N grabbed a paper agenda from the front table and immediately considered leaving.
“Good morning,” another teacher mumbled while passing her.
“Debatable,” Y/N replied.
The woman snorted tiredly before continuing toward the coffee station. Y/N followed a few minutes later after deciding caffeine was the only thing standing between her and complete professional collapse. Unfortunately, nearly every teacher in the building seemed to have reached that same conclusion. The coffee table was crowded. A cluster of science teachers stood arguing quietly about exam schedules while two math teachers hoarded creamers like they were preparing for the apocalypse. Y/N squeezed herself between people carefully, reaching for the last untouched cup at the exact same moment someone else did. Their hands bumped lightly.
“Oh my, I am so sorry,” a voice said immediately.
Y/N looked up and froze. He was tall, had broad shoulders, a dark quarter-zip one, and warm green eyes. Oh, that was definitely him. For one horrifying second, neither of them said anything. It felt strangely ridiculous considering how much they technically already knew about each other. Weeks of second-hand information and student commentary suddenly collided all at once into one very real person standing directly in front of her. And somehow, annoyingly, the students had been right. Timo Meier was unfairly attractive up close.
Recognition crossed his face almost immediately too. She watched it happen in real time with the slight widening of his eyes and the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the realisation settling in.
“No way,” he said softly.
Y/N let out a startled laugh before she could stop herself. “You’re Mr. Meier.”
“And you’re Miss Y/N.”
There was something absurdly funny about finally meeting like this after weeks of indirect conversations through teenagers. For a second, they just stared at each other, both clearly realising the exact same thing.
“We cannot tell the students this happened,” Y/N said immediately.
Timo laughed. Not just a polite laugh either, a real one. It sounded low and warm and completely unguarded. It made his entire face soften in a way that immediately made her nervous for reasons she did not want to examine.
“Oh, they’d lose their minds,” he agreed.
“They already think we’re secretly dating.”
“They think we’re soulmates.”
Y/N groaned into her coffee cup. “Please don’t say that out loud.”
Timo grinned. “So, it’s true then?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You are significantly more annoying than I expected.”
“And you’re less scary.”
“That’s disappointing for me.”
His smile widened slightly, like he was trying not to laugh again. Up close, she noticed things the students had never properly described. The slight rasp in his voice. The faint accent curling around certain words. The way he leaned casually against the table like he took up space without even realising it. And annoyingly enough, he was easy to talk to immediately. Dangerously easy.
“I still can’t believe we haven’t met before,” he admitted.
“We apparently operate on opposite schedules.”
“Or the students have been actively preventing us from meeting so they could build suspense.”
“That honestly feels possible.”
Timo shook his head with a quiet laugh. “One of my freshmen asked yesterday if I’d ever written you love letters.”
Y/N choked on her coffee. “They said what?”
“They were very invested in this imaginary relationship.”
“Oh my god.” She covered part of her face with one hand. “My third period asked if I’d change my last name if I got married.”
Timo blinked. “Already?”
“Already.”
He laughed again, looking down briefly. “That’s insane.”
“It’s your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Yes. Apparently, you’re the hot gym teacher.” The second the words left her mouth, she regretted them instantly. Heat rushed into her face so fast it was genuinely embarrassing.
Timo looked back at her slowly, clearly trying not to smile too hard. “Apparently?” he repeated.
Y/N pointed at him warningly. “Don’t make this worse for me.”
“I’m just quoting sources.”
“You are absolutely enjoying this,” she said with a smile forming on her face.
“A little.” His eyes were warm when he said it.
Y/N looked down at her coffee cup again, mostly to avoid how attractive his smile was becoming in real time. This was exactly why workplace crushes should be illegal. Especially when entire student bodies were emotionally invested in them.
Around them, teachers continued talking and shuffling into seats for the presentation, but Y/N barely noticed anymore. She was too aware of him standing beside her, too aware of how comfortable the conversation already felt.
“You know,” Timo said after a moment, “I expected you to be taller.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t know. The students describe you like you’re intimidating.”
“I am intimidating.”
“You’re holding a coffee cup with both hands.”
“It’s early.”
He grinned. “Fair.”
Y/N shook her head, fighting a smile despite herself. “And for the record, I expected you to be worse.”
Timo placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Worse?”
“More arrogant maybe.”
“Ouch.”
“The students talk about you like you hung the moon.”
“That’s mostly because I let them play dodgeball.”
“That’s fair, actually.”
For a brief second, they just looked at each other again. And suddenly Y/N understood why the students had become so obsessed with this idea. Because there was something there immediately. Something easy and natural and quietly magnetic. It felt less like meeting someone new and more like finally catching up to a conversation they’d already been having for weeks.
Across the room, the principal clapped loudly for attention. Teachers groaned collectively. Timo glanced toward the library tables before looking back at her. “Think we can survive six hours of presentations?”
“Absolutely not.”
He laughed softly. “Want me to save you a seat anyway?”
And maybe it was ridiculous how quickly her stomach flipped over something so simple.
But Y/N still found herself smiling when she answered.
“Only if you promise not to tell the students.”
The development seminar became unbearable approximately forty-five minutes after it started. The district presenter, a man named Carl who seemed far too enthusiastic for eight in the morning, clicked through endless slides about “student-centered engagement strategies” while teachers around the library slowly lost the will to live. Half the staff looked moments away from falling asleep. One of the history teachers was openly scrolling through vacation listings beneath the table. And someone in the back had already eaten three stale blueberry muffins out of pure desperation.
Y/N sat beside Timo near the middle row, trying very hard to focus on the presentation instead of the fact that his shoulder occasionally brushed hers whenever he shifted in his seat. It was distracting, more distracting than it should have been. Especially because he kept making quiet comments under his breath that made her laugh at the worst possible moments.
When Carl proudly announced, “Students thrive when lessons feel dynamic and exciting,” Timo had leaned slightly toward her and whispered, “If I play dodgeball every day, does that count?”
Y/N nearly snorted coffee through her nose.
Now, as Carl droned on about collaborative learning environments, Y/N pressed her lips together to stop another smile while Timo sat beside her looking far too entertained with himself.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” she muttered quietly.
“I haven’t had this much fun at one of these meetings in years.”
“That’s concerning for you.”
“It’s because I finally met the terrifying English teacher.”
She rolled her eyes. “I am not terrifying.”
“One of my freshmen said you once stared at him until he corrected his grammar.”
“I did.” Timo laughed softly beside her, and again that warmth spread low in her stomach before she could stop it.
Then came the words every teacher dreaded. “Alright, everyone,” Carl announced brightly. “We’re going to split into collaborative groups.” A collective groan swept through the library.
“No,” someone whispered dramatically from the back.
“Yes,” Carl continued, entirely too cheerful. “I’ve assigned groups intentionally across departments to encourage interdisciplinary discussion.”
“Oh that’s evil,” Y/N murmured.
Timo grinned beside her. “Scared?”
“Of group work? Absolutely.”
Carl started reading names from a list at the front of the room. Y/N barely listened until she heard her name. “Mr. Meier, Miss Y/N, Mrs. Alvarez, and Mr. Bennett, you’ll be Group Six.” The second their names were said together, multiple teachers looked up at once. And then, horrifyingly, several of them started laughing.
Y/N slowly closed her eyes. “No.”
“Oh no,” Timo muttered beside her, immediately understanding.
Mrs. Alvarez, the chemistry teacher, was already grinning when they approached the table in the corner of the library. “Well,” she said casually while sitting down, “the students are going to think this is fate.”
Y/N dropped into her chair in disbelief. “Why does everyone know about this?”
Mr. Bennett nearly choked on his coffee laughing. “Because students talk. Constantly.”
“Your sophomores told my entire homeroom that you and Meier were in a slow-burn romance,” Mrs. Alvarez added.
Timo leaned back in his chair, looking deeply amused now. “A slow-burn?”
“They’re very committed to the storyline.”
Y/N covered her face with one hand immediately. “I’m resigning.”
“You can’t,” Mr. Bennett replied. “The students need closure.”
Timo laughed quietly beside her, clearly enjoying this entire situation far too much.
“This is humiliating,” Y/N muttered.
“I don’t know,” Timo said easily. “I think it’s kind of flattering.”
She looked over at him. “Of course you do.”
“Well, apparently we have chemistry,” he said, and Mrs. Alvarez burst out laughing at the accidental pun while Y/N stared at him in complete disbelief.
“You did that on purpose.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re the worst.”
His grin widened lazily. “You don’t mean that.” The annoying thing was that he was already right.
Carl passed out worksheets a few moments later, assigning each group some impossible educational scenario about increasing student participation across departments. Nobody at the table took it particularly seriously. Mr. Bennett doodled on the corner of his packet, while Mrs. Alvarez complained about standardized testing, and somehow Y/N ended up quietly talking to Timo more than anyone else. It happened naturally. It somehow felt so effortlessly like they’d known each other longer than a single morning. They kind of knew each other through what the students have been telling them.
“So you really give essays every week?” he asked while flipping through the worksheet.
Y/N looked offended. “Who told you that?”
“Literally every student you teach.”
“They’re dramatic.”
“That’s a yes then.”
“It builds character.”
“It builds suffering.”
She nudged his arm lightly with her elbow before she could think too hard about doing it. His eyes flicked toward her immediately, just for a second, but the look lingered long enough to make her suddenly very aware of how close they were sitting. Mrs. Alvarez noticed too, Y/N knew she did because the woman looked between them with the kind of expression teachers got when they were trying not to gossip but absolutely planned to later.
“So,” Mrs. Alvarez said innocently, “how long have you two actually been talking?”
“We met an hour ago,” Y/N answered immediately.
“Technically,” Timo added.
Y/N turned toward him slowly. “Technically?”
He shrugged casually, though there was a smile pulling at his mouth again. “Feels like I’ve known you longer.” The words landed softly but directly somewhere in the middle of her chest.
Mrs. Alvarez made a quiet noise like she was witnessing live entertainment. “Oh, the students are never recovering from this.”
“They cannot know,” Y/N said instantly.
Mr. Bennett laughed. “You really think teenagers won’t figure it out?”
“There’s nothing to figure out,” she argued.
Timo looked at her for a moment before saying lightly, “Right. Nothing at all.”
Heat rushed into her face so quickly it was genuinely unfair. She looked away immediately, pretending to read the worksheet even though she hadn’t absorbed a single word on the page in the last five minutes. Beside her, Timo shifted slightly closer so he could write something on the paper between them. His arm brushed hers again, warm and solid, and it became embarrassingly difficult to focus on anything else.
“You know,” he said quietly enough that only she could hear, “the students are probably going to be disappointed.”
Y/N glanced at him carefully. “Why?”
“Because we already met.”
She blinked. “That’s what they wanted.”
“Yeah,” he said, looking at her with that same soft amusement again. “But now there’s less anticipation.” The smile tugging at his mouth was impossible to ignore, and suddenly, Y/N understood exactly why every teenage girl in the building lost their minds around him. Because Timo Meier flirted like it was the easiest thing in the world. And even worse, he made her want to flirt back.
By lunchtime, the entire staff development day had completely derailed for Y/N. Not externally, of course. Externally, she looked perfectly composed sitting at a round table in the cafeteria with a turkey sandwich she wasn’t eating and a notebook full of fake notes from the morning sessions. She nodded politely during conversations. She contributed when asked. She even survived another presentation about student engagement without visibly losing her sanity. Internally, however, she was becoming painfully aware of one very specific problem. Timo Meier was charming. Worse than charming, actually, and that was the dangerous part.
He slid into conversations naturally, teased without being arrogant, listened when people talked, and somehow managed to make even the most painfully boring teacher workshops entertaining just by leaning over and making quiet comments to her every few minutes.
At one point during a presentation about classroom technology, he had whispered, “If they make me learn another grading software, I’m quitting and becoming a lumberjack.”
Y/N had laughed loudly enough that three teachers turned around. Now, sitting across from him in the cafeteria while teachers filled the tables around them, she found herself watching him more than she meant to. He was in the middle of telling Mr. Bennett some story about a freshman trying to fake an injury during basketball conditioning when he glanced over and caught her looking at him. Immediately, he smiled like it was instinctive. Y/N looked down at her sandwich so fast it was embarrassing. Across the table, Mrs. Alvarez noticed everything. Absolutely everything.
“You two are ridiculous already,” she said casually before taking a sip of her coffee.
Y/N nearly inhaled wrong. “Excuse me?”
Mrs. Alvarez looked between them innocently. “I’m just saying. The students might actually be psychic.”
Timo leaned back in his chair, clearly amused. “You think so?”
“I think half the school has been waiting for this moment for months.”
“There was no moment,” Y/N argued weakly.
Mrs. Alvarez raised an eyebrow. “You’ve smiled more today than you have all semester.”
“That’s not true.”
“It absolutely is,” Mr. Bennett chimed in. Traitors. All of them.
Y/N pointed at both teachers accusingly. “You’re supposed to be professionals.”
“We teach teenagers,” Mrs. Alvarez replied. “Professionalism died years ago.”
Timo laughed beside her quietly, and Y/N hated how much she liked hearing it. The worst part was that he kept looking at her like they were sharing a private joke nobody else understood. Like this entire thing amused him in the best way, and maybe it should have annoyed her more. Maybe she should have been uncomfortable that students had essentially orchestrated this entire dynamic before they’d even officially met. Instead, she found herself relaxing around him more every hour.
By the afternoon breakout session, they were assigned another collaborative activity, this time in smaller pairs. The second Carl announced, “Find a partner,” every teacher at their table immediately looked at Y/N and Timo.
Mrs. Alvarez actually waved her hand dramatically between them. “Go ahead, lovebirds.”
“Oh my god,” Y/N muttered.
Timo stood beside her, grinning. “I think we’ve lost control of the narrative.”
“There was never supposed to be a narrative.”
“Too late now.” He carried both of their worksheets over to an empty table near the windows before she could protest.
Outside, snow had started falling lightly across the parking lot, soft flakes drifting past the glass while the school sat strangely quiet without students filling the hallways. For a moment, it almost didn’t feel like work. Especially when Timo sat across from her with his sleeves pushed up slightly and looked entirely too comfortable.
“So,” he said, spinning a pen between his fingers, “you always this popular with students?”
Y/N scoffed. “Popular is a strong word.”
“They seem obsessed with you.”
“They’re obsessed with gossip.”
“Fair.” He tilted his head slightly. “Still. They talk about you a lot.” There was something quieter in his voice that time. Something more genuine.
Y/N looked down at the worksheet between them. “They talk about you too.”
“Hopefully only good things.”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
She smiled despite herself. “One kid said your playlists are embarrassing.”
Timo gasped softly like she’d deeply wounded him. “That’s unbelievable. My playlists are excellent.”
“You listen to country music during class.”
“And?”
“And that’s emotionally suspicious behaviour.”
He laughed again, shaking his head. God, he really did laugh easily. Y/N realised then that she hadn’t once felt awkward around him all day. Nervous sometimes, yes. Flustered constantly, but not awkward. It was strange how quickly he’d slipped into her space. Like they’d skipped past the uncomfortable getting-to-know-you stage entirely.
“You know what’s bothering me?” Timo asked suddenly.
“What?”
“You ran away from me.”
Y/N blinked. “What?”
“A few weeks ago outside the gym.” His grin turned slightly smug. “You heard me talking and disappeared before I could see you.”
Her eyes widened immediately. “You knew that was me?”
“One of the students saw you.”
“Oh my god.”
“I was offended,” he added.
“You were not offended.”
“A little offended.”
Y/N covered part of her face with her hand, groaning softly. “That’s genuinely humiliating.”
“I thought it was funny.”
“Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one hiding in a hallway.”
Timo leaned slightly closer across the table. “Why’d you run?”
The question shouldn’t have made her heart skip the way it did. Because the truthful answer was ridiculous. Because she’d heard his voice and gotten nervous before she’d even seen his face. Because somehow this entire thing had started mattering before they’d even met.
“I don’t know,” she admitted finally, quieter now. “I panicked.”
His expression softened immediately. It wasn’t teasing anymore, he didn’t look smug, his expression turned warm again.
“Well,” he said gently, “you stayed this time.”
The butterflies in her stomach became unbearable. Y/N looked away toward the snowy windows, mostly because she suddenly couldn’t think straight under the way he was looking at her. Across the room, teachers continued talking over each other while papers shuffled and chairs scraped against the floor, but somehow the noise felt distant compared to the quiet moment they were sitting in now.
And then, because apparently the universe enjoyed humiliating her, the library doors suddenly burst open. A group of student volunteers entered carrying boxes for the office staff. Y/N barely had time to react before one of the sophomore girls spotted them through the glass wall. She froze dramatically and then she screamed, “OH MY GOD.”
The scream echoed through the library loudly enough that every single teacher turned to look. Y/N closed her eyes immediately. No, absolutely not, this was not happening right now.
Across the room, the sophomore girl stood frozen in the doorway holding a cardboard box against her chest like she’d just witnessed a celebrity scandal unfold in real time. Two other students behind her followed her gaze toward Y/N and Timo sitting together at the table near the windows. And then all three of them lost their minds.
“NO WAY.” “I TOLD YOU.” “THEY’RE SITTING TOGETHER.”
The entire room erupted into laughter from the teachers. Actually laughter. Mr. Bennett leaned back in his chair, looking delighted, while Mrs. Alvarez physically covered her mouth, trying not to cackle. Even the principal looked entertained. Meanwhile, Y/N seriously considered throwing herself through the nearest window.
“This is my villain origin story,” she muttered under her breath. Beside her, Timo was laughing so hard he had to lean back in his chair. “That’s not helping,” she whispered sharply.
“I’m sorry,” he managed, though he very clearly was not sorry at all.
The students hurried farther into the room, abandoning all attempts to act normally.
“Oh my god,” the sophomore girl repeated, staring between them wildly. “You guys are actually together.”
“We are sitting at a table,” Y/N corrected immediately.
“ALONE.”
“In a mandatory partner activity,” Y/N argued.
“That’s how it starts,” another student said knowingly.
Timo lowered his head for a second, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter beside her. Traitor.
“You’re supposed to be on our side,” Y/N hissed.
“I didn’t realize there were sides.”
“There absolutely are now.”
The students crowded around their table despite several teachers attempting, and failing, to shoo them away. They looked genuinely ecstatic, like months of emotional investment were finally paying off.
One of the boys pointed dramatically at Timo. “Mr. Meier, you owe me twenty euros.”
Y/N blinked. “Were you gambling on us?”
“Technically,” the boy replied.
“Oh my god.”
“I said you’d sit together by lunch,” he explained proudly.
“And I said it would take at least another month,” one of the girls argued.
Timo finally looked up again, grinning openly now. “You guys made bets?”
“A lot of bets.”
Y/N stared at the ceiling like she was asking the universe for patience.
“This cannot possibly be ethical.”
“No, see,” the sophomore girl explained seriously, “you don’t understand how long we’ve been waiting for this.”
“There was nothing to wait for,” Y/N insisted weakly.
The students collectively made sounds of disagreement. “You literally flirt every time someone mentions each other.”
Y/N choked on absolutely nothing. Across from her, Timo looked far too pleased by that statement.
“We do?” he asked casually.
“Yes.” “All the time.” “You’re doing it right now.”
Heat rushed into Y/N’s face instantly while Timo turned toward her with obvious amusement dancing in his eyes. “Apparently we’ve been flirting.”
“You’re enjoying this entirely too much,” she muttered.
“A little,” he admitted easily.
Mrs. Alvarez walked past at that exact moment and paused beside their table with the expression of someone witnessing peak entertainment. “I’ve never seen students this invested in academics before,” she said dryly.
“This is not academic,” Y/N replied.
“Seems interdisciplinary to me.”
Timo laughed again. Y/N was beginning to realize he found her suffering genuinely delightful. Eventually, the office secretary managed to herd the students back toward the hallway, though not before they extracted approximately fourteen promises that neither teacher would “do anything romantic” without informing them first. Timo agreed immediately just to make them leave faster.
“You cannot promise teenagers updates on our non-existent relationship,” Y/N said the second the doors shut behind them.
“Our non-existent relationship?” he repeated lightly. She looked over at him and immediately regretted it because his smile had softened again into something quieter. Something more dangerous.
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
The room around them buzzed with teacher conversations and movement, but Y/N suddenly became hyperaware of the smaller space at their table again. The snow outside. The warmth of the library. The way he leaned slightly closer whenever he talked to her. It had become strangely easy to forget everyone else when he looked at her like that.
“You’re flirting with me again,” she accused softly.
Timo’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Maybe I am.”
Her stomach flipped. The honesty of it caught her completely off guard. No teasing deflection. No joke. Just straightforward enough to make her pulse stutter embarrassingly fast.
“And you’re blushing again,” he added.
“That’s your fault.”
His grin widened slowly. “I don’t think you mind that much.”
Y/N opened her mouth to argue and then stopped because, annoyingly, she wasn’t entirely sure he was wrong anymore. That realisation alone felt mildly catastrophic. Before she could respond, Carl clapped loudly at the front of the room again, announcing the final session of the afternoon. Teachers groaned collectively while everyone slowly started gathering their things. Timo stood first, reaching for the extra worksheets scattered across their table while Y/N packed her bag beside him.
“You know,” he said casually, “the students are going to ask about this Monday.”
“They’re going to interrogate me like I committed a crime.”
“They’ll interrogate me too.”
“You deserve it.”
He smiled down at her. “You saying I deserve suffering, Miss Y/N?”
“I teach English. Suffering is part of my curriculum.”
“That explains a lot actually.”
She laughed despite herself, shaking her head while standing beside him. For one brief second, they ended up close again in the narrow space between the chairs. Close enough that she caught the clean scent of his cologne mixed with coffee. Close enough that his arm brushed lightly against hers as he moved. Neither of them stepped away immediately, and suddenly, the air felt different again. The teasing faded just enough for something else to settle underneath it. Something softer and more intentional.
Timo looked down at her for a moment before speaking again, voice lower this time. “So,” he said, “are we pretending this development day is the end of our tragic forbidden romance?”
Y/N smiled before she could stop herself. “Forbidden romance?”
“We work in different departments. The odds are against us.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Probably.” His eyes stayed on hers another second longer than necessary. “But I could also just ask if you want to get coffee sometime.”
The butterflies in her stomach became immediate and violent. Not because she hadn’t seen this coming, but because somewhere between the coffee station that morning and now, she realised she really wanted him to ask.
For a second, Y/N forgot entirely that they were standing in the middle of a school library surrounded by coworkers. All she could focus on was the way Timo was looking at her. It wasn’t teasing anymore, at least not completely. The grin was still there at the corners of his mouth, but there was something steadier underneath it now, something quieter and more sincere that made her chest tighten unexpectedly. He was actually asking, and somehow that felt far more nerve-wracking than weeks of jokes and hallway gossip.
Y/N folded her arms loosely against her chest, mostly to stop herself from visibly fidgeting. “Coffee,” she repeated carefully.
Timo nodded once. “That’s usually how dates start.”
Her stomach flipped so hard it was genuinely rude. “You’re very confident for someone who just got publicly shipped by a group of sophomores.”
He laughed softly. “I’m choosing to see it as a glowing recommendation.”
“You should not trust fifteen-year-olds this much.”
“They seem smart.”
“They eat glue for fun.”
“Only the freshmen.”
She shook her head, fighting another smile, but it was impossible around him. Every time she tried to stay composed, he said something that unravelled her immediately. The annoying thing was that she knew exactly what her answer was already. She wanted to go that was the problem. Somewhere during the endless presentations and whispered comments and shared laughter, she’d stopped thinking about this as some ridiculous student-created joke and started thinking about him instead. About the way he listened when she talked, about how easy conversation felt, about the warmth in his eyes every time he looked at her. Dangerous. Extremely dangerous.
“Well?” Timo asked after a moment, smiling slightly when she stayed quiet too long.
Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re weirdly calm right now.”
“Inside, I’m very brave.”
That made her laugh again. God. This man was going to become a problem for her very quickly. Before she could answer, Mr. Bennett walked past carrying his laptop bag and immediately slowed to a stop when he noticed the two of them still standing there.
“Oh wow,” he said dramatically. “This looks important.”
Y/N groaned immediately. “Please keep walking.”
“Am I interrupting the season finale?”
Timo crossed his arms casually beside her. “Depends. Are you rooting for us?”
Mr. Bennett looked delighted by the question. “Absolutely.”
“You’re both insufferable,” Y/N muttered.
“Just remember,” Mr. Bennett continued while backing away slowly, “students come back Monday. If there’s kissing before then, I expect updates.”
“TOM.”
Timo was fully laughing again now while Mr. Bennett disappeared across the room, looking deeply satisfied with himself.
Y/N covered her face briefly. “I need to transfer schools.”
“I think you’re underestimating how entertaining this is for everyone else.”
“I’m aware.” She lowered her hands again only to find Timo still watching her with that same soft amusement. “What?” she asked suspiciously.
“You’re cute when you’re annoyed.”
The butterflies returned instantly. Y/N stared at him for a second like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or throw something at him.
“You flirt like it’s a medical condition.”
“Maybe it is.”
“That would explain a lot.”
He smiled again, slower this time, and the eye contact lingered just long enough to make the space between them feel suddenly smaller. The library around them had started emptying out as teachers headed toward the final meeting of the afternoon, but neither of them moved yet. It felt strangely suspended, like both of them knew this moment mattered a little more than it probably should.
Timo finally glanced toward the front of the room before looking back at her. “So?”
Y/N exhaled softly through her nose, pretending to think harder about it than she actually needed to. “Okay,” she said finally. “You can buy me coffee.”
His smile widened immediately, warm and genuine enough that her heart stumbled over itself. “Yeah?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I wasn’t sure if you liked me or just tolerated me.”
She laughed quietly. “I’m still deciding.”
“Fair.” There was a softness in his voice again when he said it, one that made her suddenly very aware of how naturally they’d fallen into this.
Timo pulled his phone from his pocket then hesitated slightly. “Can I get your number?”
The question should not have felt as intimate as it did, but somehow it did. Y/N took his phone carefully, typing in her contact information while trying very hard not to think about how ridiculous it was that this entire relationship had essentially been engineered by teenagers. When she handed the phone back, Timo glanced down at the screen. A smile tugged immediately at his mouth.
“What?” she asked.
“You put your name in with the coffee emoji.”
Y/N looked completely unbothered. “I’m branding myself.”
“I respect it.” He saved the contact before slipping his phone back into his pocket, still smiling faintly to himself.
Then, because apparently the universe refused to let her maintain emotional stability for more than five consecutive minutes, one of the assistant principals walked by and stopped dead when he saw them standing together. His eyebrows shot up instantly.
“Oh,” he said slowly. “So, the students were right.”
Y/N physically dropped her head forward against Timo’s shoulder in defeat. The movement happened before she could think about it. The second she realised what she’d done, she froze. Timo froze too. For one brief heartbeat neither of them moved at all. Then she felt him laugh softly beneath her forehead.
“Well,” he said quietly above her, “I think that just confirmed it for him.”
Heat flooded her face immediately as she lifted her head again, mortified.
“I’m quitting,” she announced.
Timo looked down at her, smiling in that unbearably fond way again. "No, you’re not.”
And somehow, terrifyingly enough, she was already starting to think he might know her better than she realised.
The problem started approximately three hours after the development day ended, because once Y/N got home and the chaos of the school building disappeared around her, she no longer had distractions. No students were yelling about soulmates, no coworkers making jokes, and no presentation forcing her attention elsewhere. There was just silence in her flat and the horrifying realisation that she had given Timo her number. Which meant he could text her at literally any moment, and apparently, she was going to spend the rest of the evening thinking about that. It was embarrassing. She tried grading papers first, but every time her phone buzzed with a notification, even useless ones, her attention snapped toward it immediately. By eight o’clock, she had reread the same student essay four times and still had no idea what it said.
At eight-thirteen, her phone finally lit up. Her stomach flipped so fast it was honestly humiliating.
Timo: Hope you made it home safely after your traumatic public exposure today.
Y/N stared at the message for a full ten seconds before laughing despite herself. Then another text appeared.
Timo: Also, I think Bennett already started a betting pool.
“Oh my god,” she muttered out loud. She curled deeper into the corner of her couch before finally typing back.
Y/N: I’m reporting all of you to HR.
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
Timo: You’d miss me too much.
The confidence of that response should have annoyed her. Instead, heat spread straight across her cheeks.
Y/N: You’ve known me for less than a day.
Timo: And yet I feel like I’ve survived something life-changing.
Y/N physically dropped her head back against the couch cushions. This man flirted recreationally. Worse, he was good at it. She tried not to smile while typing her next reply and failed entirely.
Y/N: Are you always like this?
Timo: Depends.
Y/N: On what?
Timo: Whether I like someone.
The butterflies returned immediately. They were aggressive, unhelpful, and completely out of control. Y/N stared at the screen far longer than necessary, suddenly aware again of the way he’d looked at her throughout the day. The easy smiles. The teasing. The moments where his voice had softened unexpectedly, like flirting with her wasn’t entirely a joke anymore. Because maybe it wasn’t, and maybe that was exactly why she felt so nervous all over again.
Her phone buzzed once more before she could decide how to answer.
Timo: Was that too smooth?
She burst out laughing alone in her apartment.
Y/N: Painfully.
Timo: Good. I practiced.
Y/N: That somehow makes it worse.
The conversation flowed strangely easily after that, like it had been waiting to happen for weeks. They complained about the development presentations, made fun of Mr. Bennett, and argued about whether essays or fitness tests were worse forms of student torture. Timo sent her a blurry picture of the untouched folder of paperwork sitting on his kitchen counter with the caption “I’m choosing ignorance.” Y/N replied with a photo of the essays spread across her coffee table.
Timo: Jesus Christ.
Y/N: I chose this career willingly.
Timo: That’s concerning behaviour.
By nine-thirty she was smiling at her phone so much it genuinely became embarrassing. And somehow, despite only technically meeting that morning, talking to him already felt natural in a way that unsettled her a little. There was no awkwardness. No careful guessing. Just conversation slipping easily from one thing to another. At one point she mentioned she’d skipped dinner because she’d been grading papers. Three minutes later, she got a text back.
Timo: That’s illegal.
Y/N: Pretty sure it’s not.
Timo: As your newly assigned work soulmate, I’m telling you to eat something.
Her stomach fluttered again at the word "soulmate" even though she knew he was teasing. Mostly teasing.
Y/N: “Work soulmate” sounds deeply fake.
Timo: And yet here we are.
She smiled helplessly down at the screen before finally dragging herself off the couch to make actual food. And while she waited for pasta to boil, another message appeared.
Timo: So.
Timo: Coffee tomorrow?
Y/N leaned against the kitchen counter staring at the text longer than she should have. Tomorrow. The idea sent nervous excitement curling low in her stomach immediately. Not because she didn’t want to go, because she really, really did, which was the dangerous part.
Y/N: Aren’t you supposed to wait at least three days before asking me out?
Timo: I think the students would consider that weak pacing.
She laughed softly to herself.
Timo: Also I already waited weeks, technically…
That one hit harder than it should have, because he was absolutely right. They had been circling around each other for weeks before they’d even met. Building familiarity through second-hand stories and hallway almost-encounters and teasing comments passed through students like messages. Somehow this had started long before today.
Y/N: Fine. Coffee tomorrow.
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
Timo: Nice.
The second message took a bit longer.
Timo: You’re making me look very cool right now.
Y/N shook her head, smiling.
Y/N: Don’t worry. The students already think you hung the moon.
Timo: And what do you think?
The question made her pause completely. Heat crept slowly into her face as she stared down at the screen. There it was again that shift underneath the teasing. For the first time all evening, Y/N found herself suddenly nervous about answering wrong. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before she finally typed carefully.
Y/N: I think you’re trouble.
The response came less than ten seconds later.
Timo: Yeah?
Y/N: Definitely.
This time, the typing bubble stayed longer before he finally sent another text.
Timo: Good thing you stayed this time, then.
Y/N felt her chest tighten unexpectedly at the reference to the hallway weeks ago. To her, running before they could meet. To the fact that somehow, he remembered small things she had said. And suddenly she realised something terrifying. She was already looking forward to seeing him again tomorrow, far more than she should have been.
Y/N spent an unreasonable amount of time deciding what to wear for coffee, which was ridiculous. It was just coffee, a casual, daytime coffee date. The least intimidating kind of date possible, and yet, somehow she had changed outfits four separate times before finally settling on jeans, boots, and a sweater that made her look like she hadn’t spent thirty minutes panicking in front of her closet mirror.
The entire drive there, she kept replaying yesterday in her head. The development day, the flirting between them, the way Timo had looked at her when he asked for her number. It all felt strangely unreal considering they technically hadn’t even known each other forty-eight hours ago. Then again, that wasn’t entirely true, was it?
Because somehow, she already knew his laugh, the way he teased, knew that he drank iced coffee in winter, and made sarcastic comments during meetings and somehow managed to make her blush every five minutes without even trying that hard.
By the time she pushed open the café door, nerves had settled low in her stomach in a way she hadn’t felt in a very long time. The little bell above the entrance chimed softly, and immediately, she spotted him. Timo sat near the window with one hand curled around a coffee cup, broad shoulders tucked into a dark sweater that fit him unfairly well. He looked relaxed, one ankle resting over his knee while he scrolled through something on his phone, and then he looked up. The second he saw her, his entire expression changed, his face softened, and that warm smile appeared instantly, like it belonged there. Stupidly enough, that alone made every nervous thought in her head disappear for a second.
“There she is,” he said as she walked over. Her stomach flipped immediately.
“You say things like that on purpose,” Y/N accused while sliding into the seat across from him.
“Maybe I’m naturally charming.”
“You’re naturally annoying.”
“Yeah,” he said easily, eyes still on her. “But you still came.”
The butterflies returned full force. Y/N looked down at the menu even though she already knew what she wanted. “I’m starting to think confidence is your entire personality.”
Timo laughed softly. “Not entirely.”
“Only like eighty percent.”
“That’s still a passing grade.” God. Talking to him felt dangerously easy already.
The café itself was warm and crowded with quiet weekend noise. The espresso machines were hissing, soft music was playing overhead, and people were talking quietly at nearby tables. Snow drifted outside the windows in slow, lazy flakes while the city moved around them. It should have felt awkward, first dates usually did, but somehow this didn’t. Conversation slipped naturally from one thing to another almost immediately.
They talked about work first because it was easy. About students and grading and ridiculous school policies. Timo told her a story about a freshman accidentally setting off the fire alarm during floor hockey, and Y/N laughed hard enough that people glanced over. Then the conversation drifted further. They talked about their families, college and why they became teachers in the first place.
“You actually like teaching?” Timo asked at one point, smiling over the rim of his coffee cup.
“I love teaching,” she corrected immediately.
“Even the essays?” He asked seriously.
“I complain about essays constantly. That’s different.”
He smiled softly. “You care a lot.”
The simple observation caught her off guard a little. “What?”
“You talk about your students like you’re protective of them.”
Y/N blinked at him for a second before looking down at her coffee. “I guess I am.”
“I like that.” The warmth in his voice when he said it made her chest tighten unexpectedly. There it was again that thing underneath the flirting, and maybe that was why she found herself studying him more openly now too. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The slight roughness in his voice. The fact that he listened carefully whenever she talked instead of just waiting for his turn to speak. It had been a long time since someone paid attention to her like that.
At one point she caught herself smiling at him for no reason at all. Timo noticed immediately, “What?”
“Nothing.”
He shrugs, “You’re looking at me weird.”
“I’m literally just sitting here.”
“Yeah,” he said lightly, “but you’re smiling.”
Heat crept into her cheeks instantly. “You notice everything.”
“Only important things.”
The butterflies became unbearable. Y/N took another sip of coffee mostly to give herself a second to recover.
Outside the café window, groups of people passed by bundled in winter coats and scarves. Cars rolled slowly through slushy streets while snow continued falling lightly around the city. Then suddenly they heard it: “Oh my god.”
Y/N froze in her seat. The voice came from outside. She knew that voice, it was too familiar. Timo looked toward the window at the exact same moment she did. Three students stood frozen on the sidewalk staring directly into the café. Sophomores. Of course, they were sophomores. And for one horrifying second, everyone just stared at each other through the glass before the chaos erupted outside immediately. One girl grabbed her friend’s arm violently. Another physically jumped up and down, and before Y/N could even process what was happening, one of them pulled out her phone.
“Oh no,” Y/N whispered. Timo burst out laughing beside her.
“They’re taking pictures,” she hissed.
“They absolutely are.”
Sure enough, the girls scrambled halfway behind a parked car while very obviously aiming a phone toward the café windows like tiny paparazzi with no survival instincts.
“This is a nightmare.” Timo was laughing so hard now he had to lean forward slightly, shoulders shaking. “You think this is funny?”
“It’s a little funny.”
“A little?”
“You should see your face right now.”
Y/N dropped her head into her hands briefly. “I’m never going back to work.”
Outside, the girls finally noticed Timo looking directly at them. Instead of being embarrassed, they collectively lost their minds. One of them gave him a giant thumbs up, and Timo, traitor that he was, waved. The girls nearly collapsed.
“TIMO,” she nearly screamed.
“What?” he asked innocently.
“You encouraged them.”
“They seemed excited.”
“Oh my god.”
He was still grinning when he looked back at her again, eyes warm with amusement. “You realize the entire school is going to know by tonight, right?”
Y/N groaned dramatically. “There are going to be edits.”
“Definitely edits.”
“With music.”
“Probably romantic music.”
She pointed at him accusingly. “This is your fault somehow.”
“How exactly?”
“You’re too likable.”
Timo’s smile softened slightly at that, something quieter settling over his expression as he looked at her across the table. “Good thing you seem to like me anyway,” he said gently. The teasing tone faded just enough to make her heart stumble.
Outside, the students finally hurried away down the sidewalk, still screaming and clutching each other dramatically while one of them already typed furiously on her phone.
Y/N stared at the window in horror. “The group chat.”
“The group chat,” Timo repeated solemnly.
“By Monday they’re going to have wedding invitations made.”
“I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “I think they’ll wait until at least the second date.”
Y/N looked back at him instantly. “The second date?” she repeated.
Timo leaned back comfortably in his chair, smiling slowly. “Well yeah.” The warmth in his eyes made her stomach flip again. “Can’t disappoint the students now.” Just that sentence alone made her blood rush to her cheeks.
By Monday morning, Y/N understood exactly how celebrities felt during public scandals. The second she stepped out of her car in the school parking lot, she knew something was wrong. The students who were outside were staring, not subtly either, they were blatantly staring at her. Two freshmen walking toward the entrance physically stopped mid-conversation when they saw her. One of them gasped. The other whispered something frantically before both immediately started smiling at her like they knew state secrets.
“Oh no,” Y/N muttered to herself.
Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket before she even reached the building.
Timo: Good morning.
Then immediately after came another message.
Timo: They’re looking at me like zoo animals already.
Y/N laughed helplessly despite herself while walking through the front doors.
Y/N: I think the picture spread.
Timo: You think?
Y/N: I hate teenagers.
Timo: The girl outside the gym this morning asked if I “slept well after true love.”
Y/N physically stopped walking in the middle of the hallway, laughing, and that was her mistake, because suddenly three sophomore girls spotted her standing there smiling at her phone, and chaos erupted instantly.
“MISS Y/N.”
She looked up slowly. The girls were already speed-walking toward her with expressions of absolute emotional devastation.
“Oh my god,” one of them whispered dramatically. “It’s true.”
Another clutched her friend’s arm. “You guys went on a date.”
“It was coffee,” Y/N corrected weakly.
“FOR THREE HOURS.”
Her eyes widened. “How do you know how long we were there?”
The girls exchanged looks. One of them pulled out her phone immediately, and there it was, the picture. Timo was sitting across from her near the café window, smiling while she laughed at something he’d said. Snow was falling outside the glass. Their coffee cups were forgotten between them because apparently neither of them had stopped talking long enough to drink them. It looked intimate, way more intimate than she remembered.
“Oh my god,” Y/N whispered.
“We have more,” one of the girls admitted proudly.
“You took multiple?”
“There was a live update situation.”
“I’m resigning.”
The girls ignored that completely.
“So, when’s the second date?” “Did he pick you up?” “Did he pay?” “Did you kiss?”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT.” Several students nearby looked disappointed by that answer. Y/N pushed past them toward her classroom before the interrogation could worsen, but it was already too late. The entire school knew.
She realised that fully approximately twenty minutes later when her first class walked in because the room fell silent. Every single student stared at her, and then one boy slowly raised his hand.
“No,” Y/N said immediately.
“I didn’t even ask yet.”
“You were going to.”
“That’s fair.” The class erupted into laughter while students practically vibrated in their seats trying not to explode with questions.
Finally, one girl blurted out, “Miss Y/N, the photo has like four hundred likes.”
Y/N dropped her forehead lightly against the whiteboard behind her desk.
“Why are there likes?”
“There’s discourse.”
“There should not be discourse.”
A student in the back looked genuinely emotional. “Honestly, this is the best thing that’s happened all semester.”
“Please open your books.”
“Did Mr. Meier hold the door open for you?”
“Yes,” Y/N answered automatically before realising her mistake because the entire classroom exploded.
“OH MY GOD.” “She admitted it!” “He’s a gentleman!” “You people are impossible.”
Her phone buzzed again against her desk.
Timo: I’m being harassed by freshmen.
Y/N had to bite back another smile immediately. Unfortunately, the students noticed.
“Oh my god, are you texting him right now?”
“No,” she answered fast.
“THAT WAS TOO FAST.”
One of the boys pointed dramatically. “She smiled at her phone.”
“Everyone calm down, please.”
“WE CAN’T.”
It only got worse from there. Between classes, students openly stared whenever she walked through the halls. Several gave her thumbs up. One senior nodded at her solemnly and said, “Congrats on the relationship,” like she’d announced an engagement.
Even teachers were unbearable. Mrs. Alvarez nearly sprinted toward her in the copy room. “So?” she demanded immediately.
“So what?”
“How was the date?”
“It was coffee.”
“That lasted three hours,” Mrs. Alvarez replied smugly.
Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Are teachers in the group chat too?”
Mrs. Alvarez took a long sip of coffee without answering.
“Oh my god.”
“You looked cute.”
“You saw the picture?”
“Everyone saw the picture.”
Humiliation no longer felt like a strong enough word. By lunch, the entire building had completely abandoned professionalism. When Y/N walked into the staff lounge, conversation physically stopped. Then Mr. Bennett slowly smiled over his sandwich.
“There she is.” Several teachers started laughing immediately.
Y/N pointed at them accusingly. “None of you act your age.”
“We’re invested,” the librarian replied.
The assistant principal actually clapped when she sat down. “I told my wife about you two.”
“That feels illegal somehow.”
“Did he pay for coffee?” another teacher asked.
“Yes,” Y/N answered before realising once again that honesty was a mistake.
The staff lounge erupted. “Oh he likes you likes you.” “That’s very serious behaviour.”
“Guys,” Y/N groaned.
Then, as if summoned by the universe specifically to ruin her life, the lounge door opened. Timo walked in carrying a protein shake and immediately paused when he saw the entire room staring at him too. There was one second of silence before Mr. Bennett shouted, “THE BOYFRIEND IS HERE.”
Timo laughed instantly while Y/N physically covered her face with both hands. “I hate this school.”
“Morning,” Timo said casually while walking farther into the room like none of this bothered him at all, which honestly made it worse.
Several teachers started demanding details immediately.
“How was the date?” “Was there hand-holding?” “When’s the wedding?”
Timo looked directly at Y/N while answering the last one. “Probably spring.”
The room exploded with laughter.
Y/N stared at him in disbelief while he grinned unapologetically across the staff lounge. “You are enjoying this way too much.”
“A little.”
“A little?”
He shrugged before sitting beside her at the table naturally, like it was the easiest thing in the world to choose her seat automatically, and maybe the scariest part was that she liked that he did. Their knees brushed lightly beneath the table, however, neither of them moved away. Around them, teachers continued laughing and talking over each other, but Y/N suddenly found herself distracted again by how warm he felt sitting beside her. By how instinctively close he sat. By the way he leaned toward her slightly while opening his drink.
“You surviving?” he asked quietly enough that only she could hear.
“Barely.”
His mouth twitched. “You’re smiling though.”
“I’m smiling because my suffering entertains you.”
“True.”
She looked over at him then, fully intending to glare. Unfortunately, he was already looking at her with that same soft expression from the café. It was warmth and fondness, like he genuinely liked being around her. Suddenly, the noise in the staff lounge faded a little around the edges again because maybe the students were dramatic. Maybe the teachers were nosy. Maybe the entire school had turned their love lives into public entertainment. But sitting there beside Timo while he smiled at her like that, Y/N realised something terrifying. She didn’t actually mind everyone knowing anymore.
By the end of the week, Y/N had accepted two unavoidable truths. The first was that she genuinely, seriously liked Timo Meier. The second was that the students had become emotionally invested to a frankly alarming degree.
Every single day came with updates, commentary, or outright interrogation.
“Miss Y/N, Mr. Meier smiled during lunch. Was it because of you?” “Did you guys text last night?” “You wore his favourite colour today.”
“You literally made that up.”
One sophomore girl had even created what she called a “timeline” documenting their relationship progression based entirely on hallway sightings and cafeteria observations. It included the coffee date picture, several candid staff room sightings, and one blurry photo of Timo handing Y/N a granola bar between classes because she’d skipped breakfast again. The caption underneath read HE CARES ABOUT HER WELLBEING.
Y/N genuinely considered confiscating the entire phone. Timo, meanwhile, found the whole thing hilarious, which was deeply unhelpful.
“They’re like tiny sports commentators,” he said one afternoon while walking her to her classroom after school.
“They’re invasive.”
“They’re passionate.”
“They made edits of us.”
“I know.”
She stopped walking immediately. “You saw those?”
Timo grinned. “One of the hockey boys showed me.”
“Oh my god.”
“There was dramatic music.”
“I hate this school.” He laughed softly beside her, then reached out casually to tug the sleeve of her sweater once before letting go again. The tiny gesture shouldn’t have affected her the way it did, but lately every small touch from him felt dangerous, because he was becoming familiar now. The kind of familiar that slipped beneath her skin before she noticed. There were texts every morning, there was coffee on her desk once because she’d mentioned being tired, they had inside jokes during staff meetings. And him leaning in close when he talked to her in crowded hallways. But worst of all? The way he looked at her sometimes like he already knew. Like he was just waiting for her to catch up.
Friday night, he picked her up for their second date. This time it wasn’t coffee, it was dinner. A real dinner, the kind that made her stand in front of her mirror for too long trying to decide if she looked pretty enough, which was stupid. Because the second Timo saw her open the apartment door, his entire expression softened in that now familiar way and he said quietly, “Wow.” And suddenly none of the nervousness mattered anymore.
“You’re staring,” she accused lightly while grabbing her coat.
“Can you blame me?” Heat rushed into her cheeks instantly. God. He always said things like that so casually too, like complimenting her was the easiest thing in the world.
Dinner itself felt almost unfairly perfect. It wasn’t extravagant or overly fancy by any means, it was just warm and easy and comfortable in the way everything with him seemed to become naturally. They talked for hours about everything this time. Past relationships, family and things they wanted to do someday. At one point Timo admitted he’d almost tried introducing himself weeks earlier after overhearing students talking about her near the gym.
“I thought you hated me,” he confessed with a grin.
Y/N looked horrified. “Why?”
“You always looked annoyed when students mentioned me.”
“That’s because they acted insane.”
“Fair.”
She smiled down at her drink before glancing back up at him. “I definitely didn’t hate you.”
“No?”
“No.” She hesitated slightly. “I was curious though.”
His eyes warmed immediately. “Yeah?”
“You became impossible not to think about.” The second the words left her mouth, she felt heat crawl up her neck.
Timo, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased. “That’s good,” he said softly. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you either.” The butterflies in her stomach became unbearable.
Outside the restaurant windows, snow was falling again across the dark streets while soft golden light reflected against the glass around them. Somewhere between dinner and dessert, Y/N realised she hadn’t stopped smiling once all night and Timo noticed.
“You do that every time,” he said suddenly.
“What?”
“Look away when you’re happy.”
Her chest tightened slightly at the observation. “You really notice everything.”
“Only things about you.” There it was again that softness underneath the teasing. That terrifying sincerity.
By the time he walked her home later that night, the air between them felt completely different than it had on their first date, like both of them knew they were standing on the edge of something now. Snow crunched beneath their shoes while they walked slowly toward her apartment building, shoulders brushing occasionally beneath the glow of streetlights.
“I have a serious question,” Timo said suddenly.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It probably is.” She laughed quietly, breath fogging in the cold air.
When they reached her building entrance, neither of them moved to say goodbye immediately. Y/N stood one step above him near the door, close enough now that she could see snowflakes melting into his dark hair. Timo looked at her for a long moment before speaking again.
“I know this is fast,” he said carefully, quieter now. “And maybe the students would say I’m ruining the slow-burn storyline.” She smiled immediately. “But I really like you.” The butterflies in her stomach turned violent. “And honestly?” he continued softly, eyes fixed on hers. “I don’t really want to pretend I don’t anymore.”
Her heart stuttered hard against her ribs. “Timo—”
“So,” he interrupted gently, smiling a little now like he was nervous too despite all his confidence, “would it be completely insane if I asked you to be my girlfriend already?”
For one second Y/N just stared at him because somehow the answer came so easily. There wasn’t even hesitation, not really. Maybe because this hadn’t actually started two weeks ago. Maybe it started with stories passed between classrooms and hallway almost-meetings and hearing his laugh before she ever saw his face. Maybe they’d been finding each other long before they realised it.
“You know,” she said softly, “the students are going to lose their minds.”
Timo laughed quietly. “That’s not a no.”
Her smile grew helplessly.
“No,” she admitted. “It’s definitely not a no.” The look on his face afterward made her stomach flip all over again. He looked so relieved and happy in a way that made something ache pleasantly in her chest.
“So that’s a yes?”
Y/N stepped a little closer to him then, smiling up at him while snow drifted softly around them. “Yeah,” she whispered. “It’s a yes.”
And then Timo kissed her. His warm hands sliding carefully against her waist while he kissed her slow enough to make her completely forget the cold around them. It wasn’t rushed or teasing like all their flirting had been. It felt certain, like finally arriving somewhere.
By Monday morning, the school somehow knew before they even walked inside. Y/N still had absolutely no idea how. She barely made it through the front doors before a sophomore screamed, “THEY HARD LAUNCHED.” The hallway erupted, students were cheering, actually cheering. Timo, walking beside her with coffee in one hand and his other brushing lightly against the back of her coat, laughed so hard he nearly dropped his drink.
“Oh my god,” Y/N muttered.
A freshman physically clutched his chest. “Love is real.” Another yelled, “WE WON.”
The teachers weren’t any better. Mrs. Alvarez shrieked the second she saw them together, Mr. Bennett looked personally vindicated, even the principal smiled when they passed the office.
“Well,” he said dryly, “I assume congratulations are in order.”
Beside her, Timo looked entirely unashamed. “Thanks,” he answered casually.
Y/N stared at him. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re holding my hand in public right now,” he pointed out. She looked down and realised he was right. Somewhere between the parking lot and the front entrance, their hands had found each other naturally. And somehow, despite hundreds of students immediately noticing and reacting like they’d won a championship game, she didn’t let go. Actually, she squeezed his hand tighter instead. The hallway exploded again the second students noticed that too.
Three months later, the novelty still hadn’t worn off for the students. Y/N had foolishly assumed that eventually everyone would calm down. That once the excitement of the relationship announcement faded, the school would move on to some other piece of gossip like a cafeteria disaster or maybe a sports rivalry or whatever new drama teenagers managed to create every week. Instead, the students simply incorporated her and Timo into the school's culture. At this point they had become a permanent institution.
Freshmen who hadn't even witnessed the original chaos somehow knew the story. Sophomores acted like they had personally orchestrated the relationship. Seniors spoke about the coffee shop photo like it was a historical event. One student had even referred to it as "the beginning." As though they were discussing a famous battle instead of two teachers getting coffee. It was ridiculous, completely and utterly ridiculous. And yet, standing in her classroom after school one snowy afternoon, Y/N found herself smiling when she overheard two students talking in the hallway.
"I still can't believe it actually worked." "I know." "We literally manifested them."
Y/N shook her head, laughing softly to herself. Then a familiar knock sounded against her open classroom door. She looked up immediately, and there he was. Timo leaned casually against the doorway, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other holding two coffee cups. The sight still made her stomach flutter, which felt unfair, because by now she should have been used to him. Used to the texts every morning, to finding him waiting outside her classroom at the end of the day, to the easy affection and the smiles and the way he always seemed happiest when he was making her laugh. But somehow, she wasn’t, not entirely because every day there was still a moment where she looked at him and thought, oh, there you are.
"Your students told me you skipped lunch again," he said.
Y/N immediately pointed accusingly toward the hallway. "Traitors."
"I brought reinforcements." He held up one of the coffee cups. She accepted it gratefully before walking toward him.
"You know they're still spying on us."
"Obviously."
"They literally report my schedule to you."
Timo grinned. "Very helpful system."
"You encourage them."
"I absolutely encourage them."
She laughed, shaking her head. Together they started walking down the hallway toward the parking lot while teachers gradually disappeared for the evening. Winter sunlight streamed through the windows in soft golden streaks, reflecting off freshly fallen snow outside. The school felt quieter now, more peaceful. For a few moments it was just the two of them. There were no students around, there was no cheering, no questions, and no rumours. It was just the two of them, and those moments had become her favourite, because underneath all the chaos and teasing and attention, this was what mattered. The easy conversations, the comfortable silence, and the way their hands naturally found each other whenever they walked side by side.
By the time they reached the front entrance, the sun was beginning to set. The parking lot glowed orange and gold beneath the evening sky. Y/N paused for a moment on the steps, thinking about everything that had happened, it still felt strange sometimes. How something that started as a joke had become so important. How weeks of students playing matchmaker had somehow led her here, to this.
As though sensing what she was thinking, Timo glanced down at her. "What?"
She smiled softly, "Nothing."
His eyes narrowed immediately. "That's suspicious."
She laughed, then after a moment she admitted, "I was just thinking."
"Dangerous."
"Very."
He bumped his shoulder gently against hers. "What were you thinking about?"
Y/N looked back toward the school one last time, then she looked up at him. At the man she now couldn't imagine not seeing every day, the smile she loved so much, and the person who had somehow become her favourite part of every morning. And suddenly the answer felt simple.
"I was thinking the students are never going to let us live this down."
Timo laughed immediately. A warm, familiar sound that still made her smile every single time. "Oh, definitely not."
"They'll tell this story for years."
"They already do."
"Future students are going to hear about us."
"I hope so."
Y/N looked at him curiously. "Why?"
His smile softened, then an expression he saved only for her. "Because it has a happy ending."
Her heart squeezed, and before she could stop herself, she leaned up and kissed him. It was brief and sweet and enough to make him smile against her lips when they pulled apart. For a moment, they simply stood there together while snow drifted softly around them. And somewhere behind the school doors, hidden just out of sight, several students who had stayed late for club activities spotted them through the glass. The screaming started immediately. While Y/N groaned, Timo burst out laughing, and together, hand in hand, they headed toward the parking lot while chaos erupted behind them once again. Some things, apparently, never changed, but neither would the fact that every time Y/N looked at Timo, she was grateful she hadn't run away that second time.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Sidney Crosby x Social Media Admin!reader
Word count: 13.4k
NHL Masterlist
A/N: I had like 5 different requests for this, I made it HELLA long and I hope I did you all justice!! also ive been editing a bunch of stuff so a Nate and sid spam is either happening tonight or tomorrow idk yet
The first thing people assumed about your job was that it was easy.
They saw the finished posts, the polished thirty-second clips, the chirpy captions with orange and black emojis, the little behind-the-scenes moments that made players seem more human and fans feel like they were in on something special. They saw the smiling headshots, the goofy locker room trivia videos, the pregame tunnel fits, the rapid-fire questions on the bench during morning skate, and they thought your work mostly consisted of pointing a camera at attractive hockey players and hitting upload.
What they never saw was you sprinting through the Wells Fargo Center with two cameras hanging off one shoulder, a backup battery clenched between your teeth, and your phone buzzing so violently in your back pocket you were half convinced it was about to catch fire.
What they never saw was the planning.
The color-coded spreadsheets, the weekly content calendars, the caption drafts, the sponsor approvals, the last-minute changes from PR, the constant balancing act between what was fun, what was safe, what the players would actually agree to do, and what would make the internet collectively lose its mind in the most useful way possible. Your job was creativity, yes, but it was also speed and instinct and relationship-building. It was knowing which rookie would happily do a dumb little “who’s most likely to” video five minutes before warmups and which veteran would stare at you like you had personally offended his bloodline for even asking.
You loved it anyway.
Maybe because you were good at it. Maybe because you liked chaos more than you had any business admitting. Maybe because there was something addictive about catching tiny, unscripted moments before they disappeared—a laugh in the hallway, a teasing shove at practice, a muttered one-liner that ended up becoming the clip fans quoted for weeks.
By your late twenties, you had already worked for two smaller sports media teams, one college athletics department, and a brief, soul-withering stint at a lifestyle marketing agency where someone in a blazer had once asked you to “make the brand voice more aesthetic.” You’d escaped that disaster on purpose. When the Philadelphia Flyers hired you to help lead social content, you’d thrown yourself into the role with enough energy to make up for every terrible office job you’d hated before it.
Now, a little over two seasons in, you were one of the people the players actually liked seeing coming.
That had taken time.
The first few months, most of them had treated you with the polite suspicion reserved for cameras, dentists, and reporters asking stupid questions after losses. But you’d learned them. Learned who liked to joke, who needed warming up, who pretended to hate attention but secretly loved it when fans ate up a clip, who only agreed to interviews if you kept it short and painless. You figured out how to make content feel less like an obligation and more like a bit. Once the guys realized you weren’t there to embarrass them—unless it was lightly, lovingly, and with their approval—they started relaxing.
That was how you ended up standing outside the Flyers’ locker room on a cold January afternoon with a handheld mic, a tiny camera rig, and three players arguing over whether cereal counted as soup.
“It’s in a bowl,” Travis insisted, already grinning because he knew he sounded ridiculous. “Liquid base. Spoon. That’s soup.”
“It is literally breakfast,” Noah said flatly, tugging one glove tighter under his arm as he headed toward the tunnel. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
You walked backward in front of them, camera trained on their faces, laughing. “So your final answer is yes? Cereal is soup?”
Travis leaned toward the lens like he was making a formal announcement to the nation. “My final answer is that some of you are too closed-minded for culinary innovation.”
Noah made a face. “That sentence alone should get you scratched.”
You snorted, nearly clipping your shoulder against the concrete wall before regaining your balance. “Perfect. That’s the clip.”
“Absolutely not,” Noah said, but he was smiling now.
“Yes, absolutely,” you shot back. “The people deserve to know where you stand on major societal issues.”
The social intern trailing behind you nearly ran into the back of Travis because she was trying so hard not to laugh. You gave her a quick look over your shoulder, silently checking that she was still with you, still getting behind-the-scenes footage on her phone for stories. She nodded, breathless, and you turned back just in time to avoid walking straight into a cart stacked with towels.
Game days were a blur built from instinct. You could have navigated them in your sleep by now. Pregame skate content. Tunnel arrivals. Quick sponsor spot. Warmup footage. Bench-side reaction clip if you were lucky. A little trivia video if someone had enough energy. Then into the media room, then back out, then scrambling for second intermission edits while your laptop fan whined in protest.
There was rhythm to it. A weird kind of music. You were good at hearing where the beat changed.
“Hey.”
You turned at the voice and saw Olivia from PR leaning against the wall, holding a laminated credential and a coffee like both were keeping her alive through sheer force of habit.
“You get the pregame fit walk?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“Did Cam finally stop trying to speed-walk through frame like he’s avoiding taxes?”
You looked at her blankly for half a second. “No. In fact, he somehow got worse.”
Olivia sighed toward the ceiling. “Tragic.”
You grinned. “I’ll send you the clip later.”
“Please do. Also”—she tipped her coffee in the direction of the locker room doors—“Danny wants to talk to you when you have a second.”
Your brows lifted. “About?”
She shrugged. “No idea. He had the face on.”
You immediately frowned. “What face?”
“The operations face.”
“That means literally nothing.”
“It means he looked annoying and managerial.”
“That narrows it down even less.”
Olivia laughed and pushed off the wall. “Good luck.”
You watched her go, suspicion already crawling up your spine. Danny, the team’s director of digital content, only ever wanted to “talk for a second” when something complicated was about to be added to your workload. He was perfectly nice. You even liked him. But he had an almost supernatural ability to appear right before your busiest stretch of the week and say things like, “Quick question,” which were never quick and never questions.
You finished the segment with the players, handed the camera card off to your editor for ingestion, and found Danny near the media workroom ten minutes later.
He was standing at one of the high tables with his laptop open, scrolling through what looked like next week’s schedule. He glanced up when you approached, then gave you the kind of smile bosses used when they were trying to make extra work seem flattering.
Immediately suspicious.
“No,” you said before he could speak.
Danny blinked. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”
“You’ve got the face.”
“The face?”
“The one people make when they’re about to ruin my life professionally.”
He laughed under his breath. “Dramatic.”
“Efficient. Saves time.”
He tipped his head toward the hallway. “Walk with me.”
That was never a good sign either. You fell into step beside him, weaving around arena staff and equipment managers moving with practiced urgency. “So?”
“So,” he said, in the carefully casual tone of someone absolutely not being casual, “you know we’ve been trying to push more personality-driven road content.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds suspiciously like a setup.”
“It’s not a setup.”
“It’s always a setup when a sentence starts with ‘you know.’”
Danny ignored that. “Numbers are good at home. Strong engagement, especially on the short interview stuff you do. But road content still isn’t where we want it to be.”
You crossed your arms around the camera tucked to your chest. “Okay.”
“And,” he continued, “our travel content has been pretty bare lately because we’ve been stretched thin.”
There it was.
You let out a long breath. “Danny.”
“Hear me out.”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard it.”
“I can feel it.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, like he was already preparing for resistance. “We want to send you on the next trip.”
You stared at him.
He kept talking like you hadn’t. “Not the whole swing. Just the Pittsburgh game to start. Maybe more later if it goes well. But definitely Pittsburgh.”
For a second, the hallway noise seemed to dull around the edges. It wasn’t that the request itself was shocking. You had done road content before, just not much with the Flyers at the NHL level. Short travel assignments, prospect camp coverage, one development tournament in the offseason. But NHL regular season road coverage was a different beast. More logistics. Tighter timelines. Less room for mistakes.
Still, underneath the immediate panic, something bright sparked.
Pittsburgh.
Flyers versus Penguins.
One of the rivalry matchups that always drew extra eyes, extra engagement, extra heat.
You shifted the camera against your hip. “You want me to go to Pittsburgh?”
Danny nodded. “You, one shooter, and probably Mason for editing support remotely unless I can get budget approval to send him too.”
“That’s in, like, a week.”
“Six days.”
“That’s basically a week.”
He smiled despite himself. “I’m aware.”
You looked away, thinking fast. Travel. Content capture on the road. Access limitations. Opposing arena rules. A rivalry game meant fans would devour anything even remotely interesting. The potential for numbers was huge. So was the pressure.
“You’re serious,” you said.
“Very.”
You huffed out a laugh that was half nerves. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“Why?”
“Because road content is a logistical nightmare, the game will be chaos, and if anyone asks me to get one more ‘day in the life’ clip at baggage claim, I might simply walk into traffic.”
Danny gave you a long look. “So that’s a yes?”
You pressed your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to break loose. He knew you too well.
“It’s not a yes,” you said. “It’s an extremely reluctant, professionally burdened, heavily conditional maybe.”
“That’s basically the same thing.”
“It absolutely is not.”
But it kind of was.
The rest of the day moved around you in fragments. The game. The content queue. A quick postgame locker room clip. A last-minute graphics swap. By the time you finally sat at your desk upstairs with your laptop open and your hair half-falling out of the clip that had been pretending to hold it together since noon, the building had shifted into that postgame exhale you always liked best. The loudest part was over. What remained was the hum—wheels rolling over concrete, muted voices, a vending machine clunking somewhere down the hall, the scratch of your own fingertips against keys.
You should have been finishing the recap package. Instead, you were staring at the team schedule.
Philadelphia at Pittsburgh. A Saturday game.
National eyes, rivalry traffic, a whole audience beyond your usual followers waiting for anything remotely compelling to latch onto. Good road content there could hit hard. Especially if you handled it right. Especially if you found the balance between funny and polished and just candid enough to feel intimate.
Your phone buzzed on the desk.
Olivia: Heard you might be going to pittsburgh
You smiled and typed back.
Y/N: rumors are dangerous
Olivia: omg you ARE
Y/N: i said rumors are dangerous
Olivia: bring me back something from the gift shop
Y/N: absolutely not
Olivia: fake friend
You tossed the phone aside and tried to focus.
Once you got home to your apartment and kicked your shoes off by the door, you found yourself opening notes on your phone and drafting ideas before you had even changed out of your work clothes.
Travel day fit check. Plane card game content if players were willing.
“Who on this team would survive a zombie apocalypse?”
“Most likely to forget their passport?”
A rivalry edition of quick-fire questions. Maybe a “describe Pittsburgh in one word” bit. Maybe something with playlists.
Maybe something a little more cinematic too—city shots, loading into the arena, skates on concrete, gloves being tightened, the kind of moody footage people ate up before big divisional games.
You sank onto your couch and stared at the ceiling, phone balanced on your stomach. You reached for your laptop again and started building a rough Pittsburgh shot list before common sense could stop you.
By the next morning, you had three separate content concepts, a proposed travel schedule, and a color-coded document titled PIT ROAD GAME POSSIBILITIES, which was probably either deeply impressive or slightly unwell.
Danny responded to the email in six minutes.
“This is exactly why I’m sending you.”
—
By Thursday, your travel had been confirmed.
You would leave with the team the day before the game, shoot arrival content, get a small window after the team meal if players were available, then film morning skate and pregame pieces in Pittsburgh. You’d have limited access in the visiting arena compared to home, but enough to make something good if you moved fast. You spent half the day charging batteries, labeling equipment, checking storage space, and making sure your portable hard drives weren’t about to betray you at the worst possible moment.
At some point in the middle of all that, you caught your reflection in the black computer screen at your desk and laughed quietly to yourself.
You looked exactly like what you were: tired, busy, slightly over-caffeinated, and deeply in your element.
—
Friday came fast.
Travel day always made the whole organization feel looser around the edges. More duffel bags. More movement. More scattered conversations in hallways. You arrived before sunrise, coffee in one hand and gear slung over both shoulders, and found the loading area already alive with staff and players filtering in.
The air outside bit at your cheeks. Philadelphia in winter had a way of feeling gray all the way down to the bones.
The team bus to the airport was exactly the kind of controlled disorder you expected—players half awake, headphones already on, staff juggling bags and coffee, somebody in the back loudly insisting they were not playing cards on the plane this time because last time someone cheated and “everyone knows it.”
You boarded with the social shooter assigned to travel with you, a quiet but incredibly competent freelancer named Sam, and slid into one of the front seats reserved for staff. Your camera case went by your feet. Your phone was already open to notes.
You watched players in reflections more than directly. The familiar shapes of them. Hoodies, ball caps, long legs wedged awkwardly into seats clearly not built for hockey players. A few nodded hello to you. One immediately asked whether you were filming anything yet, with the air of a man hoping the answer was no.
The airport transfer, the private terminal, the boarding—it all happened in the quick, well-practiced blur of team travel. You caught what you could without being annoying. Bags getting loaded. Players stepping off the bus into the brittle morning air. A few clean shots of travel fits. Nothing intrusive. Just atmosphere.
On the plane, things settled.
This was where you had to read the room better than ever. Travel content could be great, but only if it didn’t feel invasive. Some guys wanted to disappear into sleep or music or whatever ritual got them ready for the weekend. Others got restless and started chirping each other fifteen minutes into the flight.
You got lucky.
About halfway through, a loose cluster of players toward the back started a card game. Someone else was already recording little clips on a phone. The mood had tipped toward playful. You looked at Sam, tipped your head toward the aisle, and the two of you moved quietly.
—
Pittsburgh greeted you with cold air, low clouds, and the sharp, practical rhythm of road arrival. From the airport to the hotel, from the hotel to check-in, from check-in to quick room drop and back downstairs again. The city outside the bus window looked steel-gray and river-cut, winter light catching on glass and bridges in a way that felt a little cinematic if you were in the right mood.
You were in the right mood.
Not because it was Pittsburgh, specifically. Though even you had to admit the rivalry of it all gave the trip extra charge. More because this was new enough to feel exciting and familiar enough not to be terrifying. You could do something with that combination.
The hotel content went smoothly. Arrival footage. A few lobby shots. One player who tried to duck the camera and got caught smiling anyway. Another who fully posed despite claiming thirty seconds earlier that he hated being filmed. You collected moments the way some people collected receipts—evidence that the day had happened, evidence that the mood was real.
By evening, after the team meal, you had a small window to grab optional content from the lounge space the players were filtering through. Nothing intense. Just quick stuff if anyone felt up for it.
Tomorrow would be the game day.
Tomorrow, you’d be in the visiting arena, working in tighter spaces, moving faster, trying to get content good enough to justify why they’d sent you at all. You should have felt overwhelmed. Maybe you did, a little. But stronger than that was the hum you always got before good work. The anticipation.
—
You were up before your alarm.
Not by much, but enough to make it annoying.
For one disorienting second, you didn’t know where you were. The hotel curtains were still mostly drawn, leaving the room dim and gray-blue, the kind of early morning light that made everything feel a little unreal. Then the shape of the unfamiliar armchair by the window registered. The hard-shell camera case near the desk. The laminated credential hanging from the lamp. Pittsburgh.
Right.
Game day.
You let out a long breath and rolled onto your back, staring up at the ceiling for a moment while the day arranged itself in your head. Morning skate content. Arrival shots if the bus timing worked. A few interviews, maybe. Practice-day atmosphere, even though “practice day” was never really what morning skates were—it was lighter, sharper, more controlled, the kind of routine that looked casual if you didn’t know enough hockey to see all the tension underneath it.
By the time you made it to the hotel lobby, you had your hair pulled back, your credential clipped on, and enough energy to pass for a functional adult. Olivia was already there, somehow looking more awake than anyone had a right to at that hour, one hand around her coffee and the other scrolling through emails on her phone like she was personally at war with them.
“You look tired,” she said.
“You look judgmental.”
“I am judgmental.”
“I know.”
She handed you the second coffee without argument, and the warmth of it seeped into your fingers in a way that felt briefly life-saving. Around you, the hotel lobby had that strange, muted hum team hotels always seemed to have on travel mornings. Staff moving with purpose. Players filtering in with headphones on and hoods up, looking half asleep and six feet taller than the furniture around them. Equipment personnel wheeling cases through the polished floor space like they owned the building. Everything quiet, but not relaxed. There was always a pulse under game day.
You and Olivia took seats near the windows while you waited for bus call.
“Did you sleep?” she asked.
“Enough.”
“That answer means no.”
“It means I had content ideas at one in the morning and had to write them down or risk becoming unbearable.”
She took a sip of coffee. “You were already unbearable.”
“You’re so supportive.”
“I’m consistent.”
You smiled into your cup and looked down at your phone again, skimming the day’s rough plan. Nothing too ambitious. Capture the guys arriving at the rink. Some clean morning skate visuals. Maybe a few quick questions if the mood was right and the team staff didn’t need everyone moving too fast. A little atmosphere, a little personality. Enough to feed the game-day machine without getting in the way.
It should have felt routine.
Instead, your nerves were just a little louder than usual.
Not in a bad way. Not panicked. Just alert. Like your brain knew this day mattered a little more than most. Rivalry game. Bigger audience. Road environment. More eyeballs on every post. Even the smallest clip could overperform if it caught the right energy. You were already thinking in edits, already hearing caption ideas in the back of your mind, already sorting through what might look good in vertical and what might need to be held for later.
Across the lobby, one of the players noticed your camera bag and grimaced theatrically.
“No weird questions today,” he said as he approached.
You looked up at him. “Good morning to you too.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He pointed a finger at you like that would strengthen his case. “No ‘who’s most likely to cry during a movie’ or any of that.”
“That one is actually excellent, thank you.”
He made a betrayed sound and kept walking toward the elevators, and Olivia leaned closer to you, lowering her voice.
“You know you’ve won when they start pre-complaining before you’ve even asked anything.”
“I prefer to think of it as trust.”
“That is not what that is.”
But it kind of was.
The bus ride to the arena was quieter than the day before. More inward. Less chirping. Guys looked at their phones or out the window or nowhere at all, wrapped in their own routines. You took a couple of skyline clips through the glass, though the morning was overcast enough that the city looked all steel and river and pale winter haze. Still good, though. Especially for moody transitional footage.
Pittsburgh had a way of looking cinematic even when it wasn’t trying. Maybe it was the bridges. Maybe the water. Maybe the fact that hockey cities always seemed a little sharper around the edges in the cold.
When the bus pulled into the arena, everyone’s energy shifted without anyone saying anything. That was one of those details you only noticed after years around teams. The invisible click. Public space to work space. Hotel mode to rink mode. Whatever looseness had existed ten minutes earlier tightened into something more focused.
You and Sam got off with the rest of the traveling staff, the air outside crisp enough to sting the inside of your nose. You adjusted the strap of your camera bag and fell into your usual rhythm almost immediately. Arrival shots first. Players stepping off the bus. A couple of clean walking clips. Gloves tucked under arms, headphones still around necks, coffee cups, garment bags, the endless repetition of duffels. You moved fast, careful not to clog any pathways, stepping sideways around rolling equipment trunks and arena staff with the practiced awareness of someone who had spent years learning how to be present without being in the way.
Once inside, visiting access was exactly what you expected: tighter than at home, more controlled, more narrow in its freedom. Still workable. You got a few warmup-room atmosphere shots, some skates being laced, sticks lined along a wall, a trainer adjusting gear on a table. Nothing too intrusive. Mostly details. It would cut together beautifully later if you had enough coverage.
“Looks good,” Sam murmured, checking playback on one clip as the two of you stepped back into the hallway.
“Keep grabbing texture stuff if you see it,” you said. “Tape, gloves, hallway skates, anything that feels like road routine.”
He nodded. “Got it.”
You checked your phone and frowned at the battery percentage.
Fifty-one.
That wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t great either considering how early it still was and how much you relied on the social phone throughout the day. The team-issued phone was where quick vertical clips lived before they got sent off, where stories got posted in real time, where you could review what you had and keep track of platform needs without juggling too many devices at once. It also had the unfortunate tendency to drain like it had a personal grievance against electricity.
You tucked that concern away for later and headed toward the rink entrance for morning skate.
Practice-day shooting was always a balancing act between rhythm and patience. Morning skate didn’t have the dramatic frenzy of game warmups, but it had its own kind of clean energy. Less noise. More glide. Coaches in conversation near the boards. Players taking one-timers with sleepy precision, stretching against the glass, leaning on sticks in small clusters between drills. The ice still looked fresh in a way it never did later in the day, bright and untouched beneath the lights.
You loved filming on ice days like this.
There was room to breathe in the footage. Room for the little things. The scrape of edges. The casual toss of a puck from glove to glove. A goalie rolling his shoulders before dropping into the net. You and Sam split the workload without even needing to talk much about it by that point. He covered a wider angle from one corner while you worked your way along the permitted area, switching between the main camera and the social phone depending on what the moment called for.
A player tapped the glass in front of your lens in mock offense after you caught him missing a shot.
“Oh, that’s going up,” you called back.
He shook his head immediately. “No chance.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“Watch me.”
“You’d have to catch me first.”
He laughed and pushed off toward the faceoff dot again.
That was the nice thing about practice-day content. Lower stakes. Enough time to get human moments without anyone feeling too scrutinized. A few of the players leaned into it more than usual, maybe because the rivalry game had everyone a little keyed up and this was the last easy breath before it all tightened. You got one fantastic clip of two teammates mock-arguing over who had the better tape job. Another of someone trying—and failing—to chirp a coach who shut him down so efficiently that even you almost laughed out loud behind the phone.
Perfect social stuff. Easy, real, useful. By the time the skate wrapped and players started filing off the ice, your social phone battery had dropped to eighteen percent. You stared at the screen for a beat, offended.
“No, actually, that’s insane,” you muttered under your breath.
Sam looked up from packing one of the lenses. “What?”
“This stupid phone is dying.”
He checked the time. “Already?”
“Yes. It’s acting like I’ve committed some personal offense.”
“You have a charger?”
“In my bag. I think.”
That was the problem. You had multiple bags, multiple cases, and at least three places the charger could be depending on which version of yourself had packed the night before. Wonderful.
You glanced toward the hallway leading back toward the visitors’ room. Media flow had loosened a little now that morning skate was done and there was a short window before the next scheduled obligation. If you moved fast, you could run back, find the charger, plug the phone in for a bit, maybe dump a couple clips, and get back before anyone needed you elsewhere.
“I’m gonna go grab the charger,” you told Sam. “Can you stay here for like five?”
“Yeah.”
“If anyone asks where I am, tell them I’m being held hostage by battery percentage.”
He snorted. “Will do.”
You slung the social phone into your jacket pocket, adjusted your credential, and headed down the corridor at a brisk pace.
The visiting route through unfamiliar arenas always felt vaguely like navigating a dream someone else had designed. Too many similar hallways. Too many gray doors. Too many turns that looked like they should lead somewhere obvious and instead dumped you out beside a storage alcove or a security checkpoint or a staircase you definitely weren’t supposed to be near.
At first, you thought you were fine.
You retraced what you were pretty sure had been your route in. Past the equipment carts. Left at the corner with the framed arena signage. Straight down a narrower hallway. Then another turn. Then—you slowed.
This didn’t look right.
There was a long concrete corridor ahead with darker flooring than the one you remembered, and the wall signage here was for home locker facilities, not visiting. You stopped walking entirely and stared for a second, willing the arena to reorganize itself into something more familiar.
“Okay,” you whispered to yourself. “Cool. Love that.”
You turned back the way you came, only to realize the last two turns had blurred together in your head. Great. Amazing. Perfect even. You had been in the building less than three hours and were already lost in enemy territory because a phone battery had personally betrayed you.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it. There were worse problems. Plenty worse. But there was something uniquely irritating about being a grown adult with multiple credentials clipped to your jacket and still somehow wandering around a professional sports arena like a confused substitute teacher on a field trip.
You started walking again, this time slower, checking each sign as you passed.
Hallway. Training room. Staff access. Another hallway. A corner. A staircase. None of it looked familiar.
You dug the phone out of your pocket to maybe text Olivia or Sam for help, only to see the battery flash red at eleven percent.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered.
You were too busy looking down at it while turning the next corner to notice someone coming from the opposite direction until it was too late.
One second you were stepping around the bend with your attention split between the dying phone and your rapidly diminishing patience, and the next you nearly walked straight into a broad chest in a dark team-issued quarter zip.
You startled hard enough that your sneaker skidded against the floor.
Everything happened fast after that. A clipped breath. A flash of instinctive panic. The sick little drop in your stomach as your balance tilted the wrong way. The phone slipping in your hand.
And then a hand caught your arm. Another at your elbow, steady and firm and immediate.
You didn’t hit the ground. Didn’t even come particularly close once the hold settled you. But the surprise of it still sent your pulse jumping.
“Whoa,” a low voice said. “Easy.”
You blinked up and for one profoundly humiliating second, your brain supplied absolutely nothing useful, because standing in front of you, one hand still loosely braced at your arm like he was making sure you were actually steady, was Sidney Crosby.
Not on a screen.
Not in a media scrum.
Not from a distance while you were working a game and trying to stay neutral because that was your job.
Here. Right here. In a concrete arena hallway in Pittsburgh while you were lost, annoyed, and probably making the dumbest expression of your life. His brows lifted slightly, somewhere between checking that you were okay and maybe suppressing a laugh.
“You good?”
You became aware of several things all at once.
One: you were still half-leaning into the recovery of your balance.
Two: your phone was somehow still in your hand, miracle of miracles.
Three: you needed to speak immediately before your silence turned this into the single most embarrassing moment of your career.
“Yep,” you said, much too quickly. “Yes. I’m good. Totally good.”
His mouth twitched. Cool. Great. He thought you were an idiot. Understandable.
You straightened fully, smoothing one hand against your jacket like that could restore dignity. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“That much I figured.”
The delivery was dry enough that it took you half a beat to realize he was teasing.
You looked at him again properly then, which maybe was a mistake because now your brain had time to register details. Taller up close than people always swore he was, even though everyone knew his listed height and apparently still liked making it a whole conversation. Broad shoulders. Practice hair still slightly damp around the temples. That familiar face that hockey fans had spent nearly two decades reading like weather. Calm, watchful, a little amused now.
You swallowed back the first eight weirdly fangirl things that tried to rise up.
Because no.
Absolutely not.
You worked for the Flyers.
You were currently wearing team gear.
You had professional self-respect, at least in theory.
“Sorry,” you said again, more normally this time. “I’m just trying to find my way back to the visitors’ room and apparently your arena is built like a maze.”
That earned you a small, immediate smile.
“Our arena?”
You folded your arms, clutching the dying phone against your side. “Yes. Yours.”
“So you’ve already decided it’s not user error.”
“Oh, it is definitely user error,” you said. “But I’m choosing to blame the building.”
He glanced down the corridor you’d just come from, then back at you. “Visitors’ room’s the other way.”
“See?” you said. “Maze.”
He made a soft sound that might have been a laugh. “You took, like, three wrong turns.”
“That feels excessive to point out in my time of need.”
“You seem okay.”
“Physically, sure. Emotionally, I’m being humbled.”
That got a real laugh out of him, brief but unmistakable, and something in your chest gave an irritating little flip in response.
Unhelpful.
Very unhelpful.
You cleared your throat. “Thanks for catching me, though. That would’ve been a really tragic way to go.”
His expression went lightly skeptical. “Tragic?”
“Yes. Imagine the paperwork. ‘Local social media employee taken out by poor directional instincts in rival arena.’ Horrible look for everyone.”
He folded his arms now too, posture easy. “I think we could’ve spun that.”
“You think the Penguins PR team could’ve spun me eating it in the hallway?”
“Oh, for sure.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s evil.”
He shrugged one shoulder, still looking amused. “Occupational hazard.”
There was something unfairly disarming about how casual he seemed. Not guarded exactly, but measured in that way some athletes were after years of being observed. Still, there was warmth there too, and curiosity, and just enough playfulness to keep the whole moment from tipping awkward. It helped you relax by degrees.
A little.
Not much.
Your phone buzzed weakly in your hand and flashed the red battery indicator again, like it wanted attention.
You looked down at it in betrayal.
“Let me guess,” he said, following your glance. “Dead phone?”
“Dying phone,” you corrected. “Which is somehow more irritating.”
“That’s why you’re lost?”
“I was going to grab my charger.”
“And got sidetracked.”
“I got aggressively sidetracked.”
He tipped his head. “Who do you work for?”
You held up the credential clipped to your jacket instead of answering, because if he hadn’t seen the Flyers logo by now that would’ve been impressive.
His eyes dropped to it, then lifted again with clearer recognition.
“Social?”
“Yeah.”
“For Philly.”
You gave him a look. “I feel like the logo’s doing a lot of the heavy lifting there.”
He smiled again, slower this time. “Just making sure.”
“Well, yes. Flyers social.”
That seemed to amuse him for reasons you couldn’t entirely read. Maybe just the situation. Maybe the irony of running into the opposing team’s social media admin while she was lost in his hallway. Fair enough, honestly.
“You’re the one always doing those pregame questions?” he asked.
That caught you off guard enough that your brows lifted. “You’ve seen those?”
Now it was his turn to look faintly caught.
“Some of them,” he said.
You stared at him for a beat. “That feels a little traitorous, actually.”
His smile widened. “Traitorous?”
“You’re the captain of the Penguins.”
“And?”
“And you’re apparently watching Flyers socials.”
“I didn’t say I watch all of it.”
“That is not a denial.”
“It’s research.”
You let out a surprised laugh. “Research.”
“Division rival.”
“That sounds fake.”
“Probably.”
The back-and-forth was coming easier now, helped by the fact that he seemed perfectly willing to keep it going. There was something surreal about it, enough that a small part of you felt like you’d blacked out and wandered into a fanfiction prompt written by a particularly unhinged version of yourself. But mostly, standing there in the hallway, you just felt alert in that bright, sharpened way that happened when someone unexpected met you at your own level.
You shifted the phone in your hand. “Well, for the record, I’m only here in a deeply professional capacity. Any alleged admiration for your team’s facilities is false.”
“Our facilities?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“You’re the one insulting the building.”
“Because it deserves it.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It absolutely does. This place has the directional logic of an escape room.”
He chuckled under his breath, then nodded down the hall. “You need to go left at the next corner, then through the double doors. Visitors’ side is back there.”
You looked where he indicated, trying to map it mentally. “Left. Double doors. And if I somehow end up in, like, the Zamboni garage?”
“Then you took more than one wrong turn.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s accurate.”
You huffed a laugh.
There was a beat after that—small, not awkward exactly, but noticeable. The sort of pause where either one of you could have ended the conversation cleanly and moved on. You probably should have. You had a charger to find, a phone on its deathbed, a job to do, and just enough self-awareness to know lingering in a hallway with Sidney Crosby while wearing Flyers gear was maybe not the most professionally neutral thing in the world.
Instead, because apparently your survival instinct had left the building long before your sense of direction, you said, “So what exactly does your research on Flyers social involve?”
His eyes flicked back to yours, amusement returning instantly. “Looking for weaknesses.”
“Through rapid-fire snack preference videos?”
“You’d be surprised what people reveal.”
“That’s a terrifying thing to say.”
“It’s true.”
“You sound like a spy.”
“Maybe I am.”
You angled your head. “That would honestly explain a lot.”
“Like what?”
“The mystery. The overly calm energy. The fact that half the hockey world talks about you like you materialize out of fog whenever Team Canada needs saving.”
That one made him laugh properly, shoulders shifting with it, and the sound of it cracked something lighter through the whole strange situation.
“Out of fog?” he repeated.
“You heard me.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“I work in media. It’s an occupational risk.”
He glanced down at your credential again, then back at your face. “So are you actually a Flyers fan, or are you just paid to be one?”
It was a good question. Better than most people realized, actually. Working for a team changed the shape of fandom. You couldn’t engage with it the same way anymore—not fully, not without blurring lines you needed to keep clean. But there was still pride there. Investment. Protection, maybe. The sort of loyalty that came less from childhood posters and more from proximity, from labor, from knowing the people behind the logo.
You smiled a little. “I work for them. That kind of answers itself.”
“That’s not exactly what I asked.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you trying to get me to defect in the hallway?”
“Depends how convincing you are.”
He nodded like he was considering it. “Fair.”
You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, mostly to do something with your hands. “For the record, I’m not saying anything nice about the Penguins.”
“You already blamed the building. I think I can live with that.”
“Good.”
Another beat.
It was ridiculous, the ease of it. Not because he was Sidney Crosby, though that part of it remained surreal enough to sit in the back of your skull like a blinking sign. More because the conversation itself felt natural. Quick. Dry. That clean little verbal tennis match where each return came easy. You hadn’t expected that. If you’d expected anything at all, it would’ve been polite distance. A nod, maybe. Directions. End scene.
Not this.
Your phone buzzed again and this time the screen dimmed so aggressively that you sighed aloud.
“Okay, wow,” you said to it. “You’re being a diva.”
He looked at the screen. “You should probably rescue that.”
“I know.”
“You need the charger that badly?”
“It’s the social phone. So yes. If this thing dies, I basically lose the ability to post half my day in real time, and then my boss starts using phrases like ‘workflow disruption’ and I have to pretend not to find that threatening.”
He smiled. “Sounds serious.”
“It is serious. This tiny rectangle owns my life.”
“Brutal.”
“The worst part is I probably packed the charger in the dumbest possible pocket and now I have to dig through three bags like I’m on some kind of scavenger hunt.”
“I can walk you back.”
The offer was simple, easy, like it hadn’t occurred to him it might land with the weight it did.
You blinked. “You absolutely do not need to do that.”
He shrugged. “I’m going that way.”
“You are not.”
“Eventually.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “That’s not a real argument.”
“It’s enough of one.”
“It really isn’t.”
He tipped his head, patient in a way that somehow made the whole thing worse. “You said it yourself. Maze.”
You looked down the hall, then back at him, suspicious mostly because accepting help from Sidney Crosby in the middle of a rivalry-game morning felt like exactly the sort of thing that would one day sound fake when retold.
And yet.
Your phone was at six percent.
You were absolutely capable of getting lost again.
And he was already turning slightly, as if this had been decided.
“Fine,” you said. “But if I end up on Penguins propaganda by accident, I’m blaming you.”
“I think we can avoid that.”
“That sounds like something propaganda would say.”
He gave you a dry look and started walking, and because apparently this was your life now, you fell into step beside him.
The hallway felt even more surreal in motion. Your sneakers on concrete. His stride easy, unhurried beside you. The two of you passing arena doors and equipment cases and bits of signage while your brain screamed intermittently about the sheer absurdity of the moment.
You kept your face composed anyway.
Professional. More or less.
“So,” he said after a few steps, “what kind of stuff are you getting today?”
You glanced at him. “For socials?”
He nodded.
“Mostly morning skate atmosphere. A couple funny clips if I can get them. Road-routine stuff. Probably some game-day content later. Depends what the guys give me.”
“What they give you?”
“Yeah.” You lifted one shoulder. “Some days they’re chatty. Some days they look at the camera like I’ve ruined their lives.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“You get that too?”
He gave you a look. “Media’s media.”
“Fair.”
You passed a staff entrance, turned left at a junction you definitely would have missed on your own, and continued down a corridor lined with framed photos from various eras of Penguins history. You caught sight of one from early in his career and looked away before it seemed too obvious you’d noticed.
“You’re pretty good at it,” he said after a second.
You looked back at him. “At getting lost?”
“At the content.”
That stopped you for half a step.
The compliment was delivered easily, casually, but not thoughtlessly. There was no joking edge to it this time. Just straightforward observation.
You recovered quickly enough, but still. “Thanks.”
He shrugged. “You get guys to answer stuff without making it look forced.”
“That is maybe the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my work.”
“It’s true.”
A weird warmth spread through your chest, deeply inconvenient and entirely out of proportion to the situation. You swallowed it down.
“Well,” you said, aiming for lighter, “I appreciate the cross-divisional validation.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
That pulled another smile from him.
By the time he led you through the double doors and into a more familiar stretch of visiting-side hallway, relief washed through you so fast it was almost embarrassing.
“Oh, thank God,” you said. “I know where I am.”
“So you’re safe now.”
“Debatable, but closer.”
He slowed to a stop near the point where your routes would obviously split, one way toward the visitors’ room and another back toward whatever part of the building he’d actually meant to be in before your near-collision rerouted his morning.
You looked at the door, then back at him.
“Well,” you said, tightening your grip on the dying phone, “thanks. For the directions. And the catching.”
“No problem.”
“I’m serious. That could’ve been deeply humiliating.”
“I think you would’ve recovered.”
“That’s generous.”
He seemed like he might say something else, then only nodded once. “Good luck today.”
The words were simple enough. Generic, almost. Something anyone might say.
Still, the way he said them landed a little differently.
You smiled before you could stop yourself. “You too. I mean—” You caught yourself and narrowed your eyes. “Not, like, too much luck.”
His expression shifted instantly. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The Flyers fan.”
You lifted your chin. “Obviously.”
He laughed softly. “Right.”
“Right.”
For half a second neither of you moved. Then your phone screen went black. You stared at it in horror. Pressed the side button. Nothing.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
He looked at the dead screen and then at your face, openly amused now. “That seems bad.”
“It is bad.”
“You should probably find that charger.”
You pointed at him with the dead phone. “This is partially your fault.”
“How?”
“You distracted me.”
His brows lifted. “I gave you directions.”
“You also participated in banter.”
“That sounds voluntary on your end.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again because annoyingly, he was right.
“That’s not the point,” you said.
“It kind of is.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m not the one who got lost.”
You laughed despite yourself, full and helpless and a little disbelieving, because really—what else were you supposed to do with this? With him? With the fact that ten minutes ago you’d been cursing a hallway and now you were standing there trying not to smile too obviously at Sidney Crosby while your work phone lay dead in your hand like a tiny casualty of circumstance.
“Okay,” you said, backing a step toward the visitors’ room. “I have to go save my career.”
“That seems wise.”
“And just so we’re clear,” you added, “if the Flyers win tonight, I’m blaming this whole interaction for throwing off your routine.”
His smile sharpened at the edges. “That how that works?”
“Yes.”
“Convenient.”
“I believe in accountability.”
He nodded once, like he was accepting the terms of a deal. “Then if we win, I’m blaming the building for confusing you.”
You pointed at him again. “See? You do admit the building’s confusing.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It basically is.”
“It really isn’t.”
You were already grinning when you turned away.
“Bye,” you called over your shoulder.
“See you.”
The words followed you down the short stretch toward the visitors’ room, and the stupidest, warmest little thrill went through you at the sound of them.
Absolutely not, you told yourself.
Nope.
Hard no.
You pushed through the door and immediately got hit by the familiar bustle of your own team’s space again—staff talking, gear shifting, someone asking where an extra roll of tape had gone, another player halfway through changing out of practice gear. The normalcy of it was almost jarring after the surreal quiet of the hallway.
Sam looked up from near the equipment table. “There you are. Did you find it?”
You held up the dead phone. “Technically no.”
He frowned. “What happened?”
“I got lost.”
“For that long?”
“I was very committed to getting lost.”
He stared at you for a second. “Are you okay?”
“Yep.”
—
By the time game time rolled around, the whole arena felt alive in a way that had almost nothing to do with sound alone.
It was in the air first.
In the tightness of it.
The current running under every hallway and stairwell and concrete corridor. The way even regular movement seemed sharper somehow. Faster. More deliberate. Rivalry games always had a different kind of charge to them, but the Battle of Pennsylvania carried its own particular electricity. It was old, deeply felt, and impossible to fake. Orange and black scattered like sparks through pockets of the crowd, drowned out but never erased by the black and gold surrounding them. Every Flyers jersey in the lower bowl looked defiant just by existing. Every Penguins fan seemed half a second away from either starting a chant or a fight.
From your spot near the glass, camera in hand and credential swinging lightly against your jacket, you could feel all of it pressing in from every angle. This was why sports content hit differently on rivalry nights.
Even through a screen, people could sense it. The tension. The noise. The immediacy. The way every check landed harder in the building than it ever could in a replay clip. The way a routine save drew a reaction that felt almost disproportionate, because in games like this nothing was routine, not really. Every shift meant a little more. Every goal meant a lot more.
You were already working before warmups had even properly settled in.
Quick vertical clips of the Flyers coming onto the ice. A pan of the crowd as boos rained down at the first hint of orange and black. A close-up of skates carving through fresh shavings near the boards. The way the lights caught helmets, visors, breath. You kept moving, adjusting angles, crouching lower by the glass to get cleaner shots, then rising again to catch a wider sweep of the rink.
Your replacement social phone—freshly resurrected after the morning disaster—was finally fully charged and clipped to your side with a portable battery attached like a life support system. You were not taking chances today.
A few rows up, the fans were already loud enough to rattle the glass every time a Flyer drifted too close. Someone behind you yelled, “Crosby sucks,” with enough passion that you almost admired the commitment. Another voice shouted back something about the Flyers that you definitely weren’t repeating in a work environment.
You stayed focused on the ice.
That was easier during warmups.
Warmups had structure. Purpose. Players moved through familiar arcs and patterns, taking shots, stretching, joking lightly when they could. It gave you something to work with. Game time itself was harder because you were always balancing. Capture enough to feel present without becoming a distraction. Keep your angles clean. Stay aware of pucks, players, officials, staff, and the hundred small variables that could turn one second of inattention into a disaster.
Still, your mind kept drifting.
Not too far.
Not dangerously.
Just enough that when the Penguins took the ice and the crowd volume swelled again, your eyes found Sidney without meaning to.
It happened instantly and involuntarily, like your brain had marked him as a point of recognition now whether you liked it or not. He glided through warmups with that same contained energy he always seemed to carry, not showy, not overstated, but impossible not to notice once you were looking. He exchanged a few words with a teammate near the blue line, then turned toward center and joined a passing drill, movements crisp and economical in a way that somehow made everything else on the ice look slightly louder by comparison.
You should not have been aware of him this much.
It was deeply inconvenient.
The worse part was that you couldn’t even fully blame yourself, because he had, in fact, walked you back from getting lost that morning, and then somehow managed to be funny and disarming and entirely too easy to talk to in the process. Since then, every time you remembered the conversation, some embarrassing little warmth lit under your ribs all over again.
Unhelpful.
Wildly unhelpful.
You crouched lower at the glass and focused your lens on the Flyers instead. That was your team.
Your job.
Your side of the content feed, literally and metaphorically, everything else was noise and for a while, once the game actually started, it was easy to let the action take over.
The first period was chaos in exactly the way good rivalry hockey should be. Fast, ugly, sharp-edged, loud. Every hit got a rise. Every whistle got opinions. The crowd swelled and dipped like a living thing, and the benches looked keyed up enough that even line changes carried a little extra bite. You bounced between camera angles and social clips, filming where you could from your designated space near the glass, catching quick reaction shots after scrums, the Flyers bench leaning forward after a near chance, the raw rhythm of the game in fragments.
You didn’t have time to think too much.
That was good.
The Flyers struck first midway through the opening period, and the tiny islands of orange in the arena erupted like someone had set off flares. You caught the celebration from the far side as cleanly as you could, then whipped toward the bench to get the players slamming gloves and yelling. Your phone buzzed immediately with internal messages—clip that, send that, story that now, great angle, need replay if you have it. Normal game-day chaos. You moved with it, fingers flying, adrenaline already steady in your bloodstream.
Pittsburgh answered before the end of the first.
Of course they did.
The building detonated around you, black and gold suddenly in motion everywhere at once, and you instinctively kept filming even as the noise punched through your chest. That was your job too. Not cheering. Not reacting. Capturing. Documenting. It didn’t matter that it was the wrong celebration for your feed. You still needed the atmosphere. The scale. The emotional contrast. Rivalry content only worked if it felt real.
By intermission, your notes app looked like a battlefield.
Post later: crowd shots
Use bench reaction after Flyers goal
Need moody b-roll from end boards
Possible caption: hostile environment etc etc
Olivia leaned over your shoulder while you were sending a few quick selects to Mason. “You look like you’re fighting for your life.”
“I am.”
“Great. That means it’s going well.”
You shot her a flat look. “I hate the way you phrase things.”
She smiled. “You love it.”
The second period somehow came out even hotter than the first.
That happened sometimes in rivalry games. Everyone spent the opening frame pretending it was still just hockey, and then by the second the game remembered what it actually was. Checks got heavier. Whistles got meaner. Every net-front battle turned into a negotiation with violence hovering just beneath the surface.
You moved lower along the glass during a stoppage, re-centering yourself for a better angle on the Penguins’ zone if the play came your way. The arena was so loud now that individual sounds were harder to isolate. Everything blended—music, chanting, glass rattling, skates cutting, the raw roar that rose every time the puck got near either crease.
The score was tied 2–2 when it happened.
The Penguins broke through neutral ice fast off a turnover, the kind of sudden transition that made everyone around you rise half out of their seats before the play had even fully formed. You were already tracking the rush with your camera, instinct taking over. Pass up the wing. Quick give-and-go. A lane opening just long enough to matter.
Sidney took the return feed near the circle and snapped the puck past the goalie before anyone in orange could close the gap.
The goal light flashed.
The building exploded.
Your camera kept rolling.
He curved away from the net in celebration as the arena came apart, teammates converging, gloves lifting, the glass around you vibrating beneath the force of thousands of people losing their minds all at once. You got the shot—clean enough, steady enough, electric in that live-wire way only raw game footage ever was. He peeled past your side of the ice during the celebration route, close enough to the boards that for one disorienting second it felt less like watching and more like being caught in the same current.
And then he turned his head slightly.
Toward you.
Just enough.
His mouthguard shifted at the edge of a grin, and over the roar—faint but clear enough that you knew you hadn’t imagined it—he threw out, “You get that for social media?”
You stared. It was absurd. Ridiculous. So specific you nearly laughed on instinct.
But before you could even process the fact that Sidney Crosby had just chirped—or maybe teased, or maybe whatever the hell that had been—your social media job in the middle of a live rivalry game, two Flyers on the ice clearly noticed.
One of them snapped his head in Sidney’s direction immediately. The other skated over with the kind of offended energy that suggested whatever he thought he’d seen or heard, he had interpreted it in the most aggressively loyal way possible.
“Oh my God,” you muttered under your breath.
The next shift was ugly.
Not out-of-control ugly, not yet, but the tone had changed. The Flyers were already physical when they got angry; now there was something personal layered into it. A harder finish on checks. More shoving after whistles. One of the defensemen jawing visibly every time he passed the Penguins’ captain near the boards. You didn’t need to hear it to guess the general message.
Your stomach sank.
No.
No, absolutely not.
There was no way they thought—But then during the next stoppage, one of the Flyers skated near enough to the glass to throw you a quick, heated look that all but confirmed it.
Message received.
They thought Sidney had chirped you. Not in the ordinary rivalry sense, either. Not generic nonsense. Specifically you. Their social media admin. One of theirs.
Your grip tightened on the camera. “Guys,” you muttered uselessly to the glass. “No. That is not what happened.”
The glass, shockingly, did not respond.
The period went on, and with every shift your discomfort grew teeth.
Because now you were trapped in the worst possible position—aware of something maybe no one else had caught correctly, unable to do anything about it, and watching the consequences play out in real time on the ice while thousands of people screamed around you. Every heavy hit involving Sidney made your pulse tick up. Every scrum near the boards made your shoulders tense. Once, during a commercial timeout, two Flyers near the bench said something to each other and then glanced your way, and the guilt hit so hard and fast it made your throat feel tight.
This is stupid, you told yourself.
You did not cause this.
These are professional hockey players in a rivalry game. They do not need a personal excuse to go after each other.
And logically, you knew that was true.
Emotionally, though, every time one of your guys took a run at him after that hallway memory of his laugh and his easy, “Good luck today,” your chest squeezed in a way that felt awful.
Late in the second, it got worse.
The puck got rimmed deep into the Penguins’ zone, and Sidney went back to play it near the boards on your side. One of the Flyers forwards—the same one who had looked ready to commit emotional arson on your behalf earlier—came charging in on the forecheck.
You saw it before it happened. That was the horrible part. The angle. The speed. The line of contact. Enough time to know it was going to be hard and absolutely no time to stop it.
The hit slammed Sidney into the boards with a crack that echoed even through the arena noise. The crowd sound warped instantly—part outrage, part excitement, part that sick jolt every building gets when something tips from aggressive to dangerous. Players converged at once. Gloves in faces. Officials rushing in. The Flyers bench up and yelling. The Penguins bench exploding right back.
And Sidney—Sidney stayed down for one beat too long.
Then two.
Your breath caught.
He pushed up eventually, but not cleanly. One hand braced awkwardly against the boards, the other tucked in too close to his body, and even from where you stood you could see it in the line of him immediately—something was wrong. Not dramatic enough to collapse the whole game, but wrong enough that your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
The officials were still sorting bodies when he turned, escorted by staff toward the tunnel.
And as he passed your side of the glass, he looked at you.
Not for long.
Just a second.
But long enough for it to register. Long enough that the guilt already clawing through you sharpened into something meaner.
Then he went down the tunnel.
You forgot to breathe again.
The Flyers bench was still loud behind you, players leaning over the boards in the aftermath, adrenaline high and tempers higher. You shifted automatically toward them to grab some post-sequence atmosphere because that was still your job, but before you even lifted the phone properly, you heard one of them say, “Serves him right for chirping our social media admin.”
Another voice answered, “Yeah, keep her name outta your mouth.”
Your whole body went cold.
For half a second the arena seemed to tilt. They really had thought that.
Not abstractly. Not as a joke.
Actually thought Sidney had been taking a shot at you and now he was hurt. Your skin flushed hot and cold all at once, shame and panic tangling so tightly you almost couldn’t separate them. You lowered the camera immediately, the sounds of the game around you suddenly muffled and wrong.
It wasn’t your fault.
You knew that.
You knew that in the rational, objective, adult way.
But it felt like your fault anyway.
If you hadn’t talked to him that morning. If he hadn’t skated by. If he hadn’t said anything. If the players hadn’t seen. If, if, if—
“Hey,” Olivia said, appearing at your side with a hand lightly against your elbow. “You okay?”
You swallowed hard and nodded too fast. “Yeah.”
She looked unconvinced. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine.”
That was a lie so obvious it barely qualified as language.
The rest of the second period passed in a blur you only half inhabited. You still filmed when you had to. Still moved when needed. Still sent off a couple clips because muscle memory and duty overrode whatever was happening in your head. But inside, all you could think about was the tunnel. The line of his shoulders as he’d left. The look he’d given you. The bench comments. The sinking, impossible feeling that somehow a stupid, playful line about social media had turned into a body check hard enough to send him out of the game.
By the time the horn sounded to end the period, your nerves were shredded.
The Flyers headed off in a cluster of agitation and momentum, still talking, still keyed up. The Penguins disappeared more quickly on the other side. Staff moved. Arena music crashed in over the break. Fans surged toward concourses. The usual intermission chaos.
You stood still for maybe three seconds, then made a decision. It was probably a terrible decision. Possibly insane, and definitely not in your job description.
But once it landed in your brain, it became impossible to ignore.
You turned to Olivia. “I need, like, five minutes.”
She stared. “For what?”
“I just need five.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I know.”
She studied your face once, saw enough there to stop pushing, and only said, “Be smart.”
You gave her a look that probably did not inspire confidence and hurried off anyway.
The back hallways were even busier during intermission, but you moved through them on pure nervous momentum. You ducked into a quieter side corridor first and looked around until you spotted a discarded Penguins warmup jacket hanging on a rolling rack near a laundry cart—probably left by some support staff in the rush of the period break. You hesitated for exactly one second.
Then grabbed it. “This is insane,” you whispered to yourself as you shoved your arms into it over your own clothes.
The black and gold swallowed your Flyers gear just enough to pass at a glance, especially with your credential flipped inward against your chest. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t remotely official. But it was better than walking toward the Penguins’ medical area in orange and black like some kind of cartoon villain.
You moved fast before you could talk yourself out of it.
The training and medical area outside the home room was guarded loosely by staff who were too busy and too accustomed to people moving in and out during intermission to scrutinize every face with equal intensity. You kept your head down, your pace purposeful, and clutched the phone and small camera to your chest like you belonged there for work.
One of the staffers near the door glanced at you. “Need something?”
Your mouth went dry.
Think.
“I was asked to check if media’s getting any update,” you said, pitching your voice into that bland, competent tone that made people ask fewer questions. “Just for internal.”
He looked tired enough not to care. “Trainer’s with him. Make it quick.”
Relief hit so hard you nearly swayed.
“Yep. Quick.”
You slipped inside before anyone could reconsider.
The room beyond was quieter than the arena, quieter than intermission, quieter than your heartbeat deserved. Not silent—there were low voices, a cabinet door closing somewhere, the rustle of medical tape—but contained in a way that felt almost intimate after the violence of the game outside.
You spotted him near the far side, seated on the edge of a training table while one of the medical staff finished checking something at his shoulder. No pads now. No gloves. Just black baselayer gear half peeled down and a towel draped nearby. He looked up at the movement of the door opening.
And saw you.
For one impossible second, neither of you said anything.
Then the trainer stepped back. “Try not to move it too much. We’ll re-check between periods if you’re staying out.”
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
The trainer turned, noticed you lingering, and frowned faintly. “You needed something?”
Your courage nearly failed on the spot.
But Sidney answered before you could.
“She’s with me.”
You blinked.
The trainer, apparently deciding that was enough explanation for now, gave a distracted nod and moved off toward a supply cabinet.
That left you standing there in a stolen Penguins jacket, looking at the captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins like you had not lost your mind but had in fact come here for a totally normal reason.
He glanced once at the jacket, then back at your face.
A smile touched the corner of his mouth despite the situation.
“Well,” he said. “That’s a look.”
Your throat tightened with something painfully close to embarrassment and relief all at once. “I panicked.”
“I can see that.”
“I didn’t want anyone to stop me.”
“So you stole a jacket?”
“I borrowed a jacket.”
“That’s generous.”
You took two steps closer, then stopped, suddenly aware of how absurd and vulnerable and real this all was. Up close, he looked a little paler than before, jaw tighter around the edges. Not wrecked. Not catastrophic. But sore. Pulled somewhere between adrenaline and pain. Your guilt surged all over again.
“I’m sorry,” you said immediately.
His brows knit. “For what?”
“For—” You broke off and gestured helplessly. “For all of this. They thought you were chirping me. I heard them on the bench. They thought you were being a dick to the social media admin and now you’re hurt and I know it’s not exactly rational but it feels like this is somehow my fault and I just—I’m sorry.”
The whole thing came out too fast, tangled and breathless and humiliatingly sincere.
He stared at you for a second.
Then, very gently, “Hey.”
You stopped.
“It’s not your fault.”
“But—”
“It’s not,” he repeated, firmer now.
You looked at him, trying to argue, and found absolutely no room in his expression for the idea.
“They didn’t hit me because of you,” he said. “It’s a rivalry game. Guys get worked up. Stuff happens.”
“They literally said—”
“I know what you’re saying.” His voice softened again. “Still not your fault.”
You let out a shaky breath, folding your arms like you could hold the anxiety in place physically. “I feel insane.”
“You look a little insane.”
That startled a laugh out of you before you could stop it.
He smiled, quieter this time. “There you go.”
You shook your head. “You’re injured and you’re still making fun of me.”
“I’m not making fun of you.”
“You are a little.”
“Maybe a little.”
Your eyes dropped involuntarily to the shoulder he’d been favoring. “How bad is it?”
“Not too bad.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“It’s hockey.”
“That is somehow even more suspicious.”
He gave a small shrug with the uninjured side. “Banged up.”
You pressed your lips together. “I’m still sorry.”
He leaned back slightly against the table, studying you with that same steady, unreadable-open look he’d had in the hallway. “You really came back here just to apologize?”
When he said it like that, it sounded far more unhinged than it had in your own head.
You glanced down at the black and gold jacket around your shoulders and winced. “In my defense, I did realize halfway here that this was a terrible idea.”
“And you kept going.”
“Obviously.”
“Why?”
Because I felt awful. Because you looked at me when you left. Because this stupid little thing between us stopped feeling little about ten minutes after you caught me in the hallway.
You did not say any of that.
Instead, you said, “Because I wanted to make sure you knew that wasn’t what happened. This morning. At the glass. Any of it.”
Something shifted in his face then—small, but unmistakable. A warmth maybe. Or satisfaction. Or just the confirmation of something he’d already suspected.
“I knew,” he said.
“You did?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
He looked faintly amused by the question. “You don’t exactly seem subtle when you’re panicking.”
You stared at him. “That’s rude.”
“It’s observant.”
“That is the same thing said by a meaner person.”
He laughed softly, then tipped his head toward your borrowed disguise. “Still, I gotta say…”
You narrowed your eyes preemptively. “What?”
“I like you in black and gold.”
Your breath caught so stupidly hard that you were grateful no one else in the room was close enough to hear it.
He had said it lightly.
Maybe even teasingly.
But not empty. Not casual in the way casual comments usually were. There was something in his expression when he said it that made the whole line land low and warm and dangerous.
You recovered just enough to say, “That’s actually a deeply offensive thing to say to someone in Flyers employment.”
His mouth curved. “And yet.”
“And yet nothing.”
“The jacket looks good.”
You folded your arms tighter, painfully aware of the heat in your face. “I am literally stealing from your organization.”
“Borrowing.”
“Don’t use my words against me.”
“I think I will.”
You laughed again, quieter this time, the tension finally starting to leak out of your shoulders in pieces. The room still felt strange and hidden and too close somehow, like time had narrowed just around the two of you while the rest of the game continued somewhere else entirely.
Outside, the period break would be ticking down. You knew that. You should probably go. Should probably hand back the jacket, slip out, get your head back in the game, pretend none of this had happened until you had the privacy of your hotel room to lose your mind properly.
Instead you stayed.
And he let you.
“You really watch the Flyers’ socials?” you asked after a moment.
He looked unbothered by being caught on that again. “Some.”
“Why?”
“I told you. Research.”
“That answer gets less convincing every time.”
He smiled but didn’t argue.
You shifted your weight. “So what, you score and decide to chirp me personally from the ice?”
“I wasn’t chirping you.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was asking a legitimate media question.”
You stared. “A legitimate media question.”
“Yeah.”
“You want me to believe that in the middle of scoring a goal in a rivalry game, you were concerned with my content strategy?”
He looked you dead in the eye. “Maybe.”
You laughed helplessly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Says the one who broke into the medical room in disguise.”
“Okay, first of all, that is a wildly dramatic way to describe what happened.”
“You stole a jacket.”
“Borrowed.”
“And came back here during intermission.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds weird.”
“It is weird.”
You exhaled through a smile, then shook your head at yourself. “I cannot believe I’m in here.”
“I can.”
“Why?”
He looked at you for one steady beat too long.
“Because you wanted to see me.”
The words landed softly. Not smug. Not joking. Just clear.
And because there was no easy way around that kind of honesty, all you could do for a second was look back at him and feel your pulse leap right into your throat.
“Maybe,” you said, which was not a denial at all.
His expression warmed into something that made the whole room feel smaller.
“Maybe?” he repeated.
You lifted one shoulder. “You did save me from eating it in the hallway.”
“So this is gratitude.”
“Partially.”
“Only partially?”
“Don’t push it.”
He smiled again, then glanced toward the closed doorway before looking back at you. “You know, most people wait longer than a day before sneaking into the back hallways to flirt.”
You blinked. “I was not sneaking in here to flirt.”
His brows lifted.
You held his gaze for a second and then sighed. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“That’s honest.”
“That’s humiliating.”
“Not really.”
“It is from where I’m standing.”
“From where I’m standing,” he said, voice lower now, “I’m glad you came back.”
The warmth that moved through you then was so immediate it was almost dizzying.
You looked down, just for a second, collecting yourself. When you looked back up, he was still watching you with that maddeningly calm focus, like none of this felt strange to him at all. Or maybe it did feel strange and he just wasn’t running from it.
Either way, it made it very hard to think.
“You should probably be focusing on not being injured,” you said weakly.
“I can do both.”
“That sounds arrogant.”
“It’s efficient.”
You laughed under your breath. “That was my line.”
“I know.”
Of course he knew.
You were in trouble.
The realization arrived fully formed and weirdly peaceful. Not dramatic, not catastrophic. Just true. Whatever this was, whatever had sparked in one hallway and somehow carried itself all the way here, it was real enough that neither of you was pretending otherwise now.
A noise outside the room shifted—footsteps, a voice, the beginning of movement that meant intermission was thinning. Reality, returning.
You straightened slightly. “I should go.”
“Probably.”
Neither of you moved right away.
Then he tipped his head toward the jacket again. “You can keep that, you know.”
You looked down at it. “Absolutely not. I think this is already ethically murky.”
“It’d suit you.”
“There you go again.”
“I’m just saying.”
You slid one arm out of the sleeve. “You are impossible.”
He watched you shrug off the jacket, amusement still sitting easy at the edge of his mouth. When you stepped forward to hand it back, he took it with his good arm, fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than they needed to.
It was such a small thing.
It still sent a spark straight up your spine.
You cleared your throat. “Well. Glad you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“And for the record”—you tilted your head, fighting a smile—“I still hate your arena.”
He laughed softly. “I figured.”
You started to step back.
Then he said, “Wait.”
You stopped.
His expression changed, just enough to tell you this next part mattered.
“When this trip’s over,” he said, “let me take you out.”
Your heart kicked hard.
The room went very still around the words.
Not as a joke. Not hidden in banter. Not softened into something you could politely dodge if you wanted to. Just there. Honest and direct and impossible to misunderstand.
You stared at him for maybe a second too long.
“A real date?” you asked, because apparently your brain had decided clarification was the best it could do under pressure.
His smile came back, slower this time. “Yeah. A real date.”
“With a Flyers employee.”
“With a Flyers employee.”
“That seems dangerous for your reputation.”
“I think I can handle it.”
You felt your own smile break loose before you could stop it, bright and helpless and probably giving away far too much.
“Okay,” you said.
His eyes stayed on yours.
“Okay?” he repeated.
“Yes,” you said, laughing lightly now because the happiness of it was suddenly too big to hold quietly. “Yes. I’ll go out with you.”
Something in his face softened then in a way you knew you would remember later. After the game. After the trip. After all of this. The kind of look that settled into memory before the moment had even ended.
“Good,” he said.
“Good?”
“Good.”
You shook your head, still smiling. “Very smooth.”
“I’m injured. Give me some credit.”
“You know what, fair.”
A voice called from outside the room, something about timing, something about updates. The spell of the moment loosened just enough to let the rest of the world back in.
You took one more step backward toward the door.
“I should really go now,” you said.
He nodded once. “I’ll text you.”
You blinked. “You don’t have my number.”
His mouth curved. “I’ll get it.”
“Very confident.”
“Usually works out.”
You laughed under your breath and reached for the door. “Bye, Crosby.”
“Bye.”
You slipped back into the hallway with your pulse still racing and your face warm and your whole body humming with the kind of adrenaline that had absolutely nothing to do with hockey anymore.
The sounds of intermission flooded back in all at once—staff voices, skate blades clicking somewhere nearby, the deeper thud of arena life resetting for the third period. You leaned briefly against the wall just outside the door and covered your face with one hand.
This was insane.
Actually insane.
You had started the day filming rivalry content at the glass and ended the second period accepting a date from Sidney Crosby in the Penguins’ medical area while disguised in stolen team gear.
No one on earth could know.
No one.
You pushed off the wall, fixed your credential, and headed back toward your side before anyone started asking where you’d gone. By the time you reappeared near the Flyers media lane, Olivia took one look at your face and narrowed her eyes.
“What happened?”
You forced your expression into something that you hoped read as normal and not like your entire internal life had just been rearranged. “Nothing.”
“That is the least believable thing you’ve ever said.”
“Please,” you said, lifting your camera back into position as the teams prepared to return, “out of respect for our friendship, don’t ask me anything right now.”
Her stare sharpened with immediate interest. “Oh my God.”
You looked determinedly toward the ice. “Olivia.”
She made a tiny, delighted noise of horror. “Oh my God.”
The third period was about to begin, the arena roaring back to life, the rivalry still burning hot all around you.
And somehow, against all reason and all timing and all professional logic, all you could think as you lifted your camera toward the ice again was this:
Later.
After the game.
There was a real date waiting for you on the other side of all this.
And for the first time all night, the electric feeling in the building no longer belonged only to the rivalry.
It belonged to you, too.
Timo Meier goal score graphic 🤩
© Andre Ringuette
Dirty Hit - Timo Meier
masterlist || wip’s || taglist
✮⋆˙ summary - One dirty hit on the ice, and y/n feels like her life is falling apart, so pushing even the one person who cares about her away seems like best idea. [1,6k] ✮⋆˙ warnings - I did change the plot a little bit, hope you don't mind, mentions of injury, pushing Timo away ✮⋆˙ please reblog guys ˙⋆✮
Stepping on the ice, the only thing you can hear is your teammates yelling and the sound of skates gliding through the ice. You focus on the puck that is now on one of your teammates' sticks, as you skate forward so she can pass you.
The puck lands on your stick as you skate towards the net. There is no one except for you, the goalie and one of your teammates. You keep your eyes locked on the goalie as you make a hard slapshot, the puck landing behind the goalie inside the net.
A loud horn sounds through the arena, as you skate behind the net, a wide smile on your lips as you skate to your teammates to celebrate with them.
Seconds later, you are enveloped in a group hug, the girls patting your head as they shout in celebration. Skating towards the bench, you fist-bump the girls, making your way to your goalie, who waits in her net for you.
“Good job, babe!” Emma yells as you pass by her, a grin playing on her lips.
“You too, girl!” you shout back, skating backwards until you bump into your teammate. “Sorry,” you chuckle, turning around.
“All good, champ,” Ginny grins back at you, as you make your way to the faceoff.
The next few seconds happen fast. Ginny wins the face-off, the puck landing on your stick as you skate to the offensive zone. One second, you’re searching for your teammates, the second one, someone is colliding with you, and your body is flying to the borders, your shoulder hitting the borders with such a force that you can hear a crack.
As soon as you fall on the ice, your left hand goes to your right shoulder, and a cry leaves your lips. You can hear the referee blow the whistle as your teammates gather around you, shouting for a doctor, when they see your face that is screwed in pain.
Your team doctor runs up to you, a towel in his hands, as he drops to his knees next to you. “Is it your shoulder, y/n?” he asks, his voice steady.
“Y-yeah,” you whisper shakily, tears running down your cheeks as you still clutch your broken shoulder. “I-I heard a crack.”
A sigh leaves his mouth as he looks around at your teammates before he speaks. “You need an X-ray. Let’s get you outta here.”
Timo saw the whole thing happen. He was sitting right behind the bench. His gaze focused on you the whole time. The impact was hard, quick and… unexpected. And when he saw that you weren’t getting up and the doctor was called up on the ice, he knew it was bad.
As soon as they got you out of the ice, he was off too. He made his way down to the arena's hospital. He knows the staff there. He himself was there multiple times, so it was no problem for him to get there.
That’s why he’s here, sitting right next to you while you wait for the X-ray results. Your hand is resting in his, as he caresses the top of your hand.
“Hey, whatever it is, we'll go through it together, okay?” Timo whispers in your ear, his voice calm and soft, yet it does nothing to make you feel better.
You know that this injury, if it’s as serious as you think, can end your season, and you can’t afford it. You must be there for your team, fuck, you have to be there for yourself.
Just the thought of not being on ice, not being able to play, makes you sick to your stomach. And when the doctor comes in with a scowl on his face, you know everything is fucked up.
A tear wells up in your eyes before he can even speak.
“Hello, y/n,” he mumbles under his nose as he slowly makes his way to the whiteboard on your left. “We got your X-rays back,” he says, putting the pictures on the whiteboard. Three to exact as you, and you watch him point to your clavicle. “There is a fracture in your clavicle bone. Not severe, so you won’t need surgery, but it will put you out for at least three months.”
You let out ragged breath, because by the look on his face, you know that it’s not the end.
“From the examination we did, after the X-rays, we found out you also have a tear on your labrum, which you will need surgery for, and the recovery is from four to six, maybe even…” You stop listening to him. You know that he is about to explain how the whole recovery would go for you, but all you can think about is that your season is over.
You leave the rink two hours later, after the doctor put your hand in a brace and explained to you how they will proceed with your recovery. The ride back home is silent, the air in the car heavy, as both of you are lost in your own thoughts.
Stepping inside your apartment, you immediately make your way to your bedroom, lying down on your bed as you let the emotions get over you. You let the tears finally fall over the edge, loud sobs filling the room.
Your shoulder is still throbbing, even after the doctor gave you some pills, and your mind is full of thoughts about the team, fans, hockey, and just everything.
Timo watches from the doorframe, a scowl on his lips as your figure shakes from sobs. Slowly, he makes his way to you, sitting on the edge of the bed, as he places his hand on your calf, gently rubbing it to calm you down.
He knows that you don’t like too much touching when you are stressed and overwhelmed. “It’s going to be okay, y/n,” he says softly, and even though you know he means it well, you snap at him.
You shot up to sitting position, swatting his hand away as you say, “No, nothing's going to be okay. My season is over, my team counted on me, because finally, we were doing great. Our fans were counting on me, and so was I. I will need a fucking surgery, because the fucking bitch tore my fucking labrum, even though I don’t know what that is. So no, nothing is going to be fucking okay,” you shout out.
You notice the pained look on his face, but you ignore it. You know you snapped at him unreasonably, but your emotions are too high for you to care about it right now.
Before he can say something, you say, “Leave.” Your voice is harsh as you move your gaze from him, not wanting to look at his pained face. “I need to be alone,” you whisper this part as if it will make the situation somehow better.
Timo swallows his words, nodding his head in a silent understatement. You hear his soft footsteps before they stop as he turns around to speak. “If you need anything, just call,” and with those words, he really leaves.
You don’t let the sobs come out until you hear the front door shut. Then you yet again let the emotions take over you as you cry your eyes out until you fall asleep from exhaustion.
You haven’t moved from your spot in the bed since you got in last night, and your phone has been buzzing since the moment you woke up a few hours ago, with messages from your family, friends, and teammates.
But you ignore all of them, you are not in the mood to deal with everyone. Your head is pounding, your shoulder is still throbbing, and your stomach is growling in hunger.
When you finally decide to get out of bed, you are surprised by the smell of freshly done bacon, eggs and coffee. Your brows furrow in confusion as you quietly walk into the kitchen.
Timo is standing there, cup of coffee in his hands, his focus on the phone in his hands.
“What are you doing here?” you ask in a hoarse voice, as you look around the apartment, noticing the blanket on the couch, as if someone had slept there. “Did you sleep here all night?” You look at him in disbelief.
“Yeah, didn’t want to leave you alone,” he explains, handing you your cup of coffee. He notices your mouth opening, as if to say something, but he beats you. “I know you didn’t want me here, but I couldn’t leave you alone. Not when I know how you are when something fucks up.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for the breakfast, but I want you to leave,” you say in a harsh tone. You know that Timo means it well, but right now, you feel like a failure, like your life is falling apart, and you don’t need his pity.
Timo cocks his head, mocking your harsh voice as he speaks. “Yeah, well, I’m not going anywhere. I understand that pushing people away is how you deal with things, but you’re not alone in this. I’m your person, Y/n, so let me be there for you.”
When Timo notices the tears in your eyes, he puts down his coffee, pulling you in a tight hug. “You’re strong, woman, y/n. You will get through this. And the next season, you will be on the ice, kicking asses.”
“I love you, T,” you mumble in his chest, grateful that he stayed.
“I love you too, you crazy woman,” he chuckles, kissing the top of your head.
Timo Meier, Nico Hischier, and Seamus Casey are on comedian Joey Avery instagram story!
Timo Meier I would die for you
Thanks for telling me! I needed this.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
New Jersey Devils (2025–26) | Let’s never do that again
Pretend wedding date
A/N: When I was a lot younger, I read a Harry Styles fanfic that went something like this. Honestly, I read it back when I didn't own a smartphone... Anyway, I cannot find it anywhere, nor do I know who wrote it, but this piece is based on the memory of that fanfic. I remember liking the idea very much, so here is the result of that. If anyone recognises the story and knows the original, let me know!
Pairing: Timo Meier x reader
Words: 9k
Warning(s): fake dating, drunk Timo
Timo Meier had faced down roaring arenas, hostile crowds, and last-second shots with a steady pulse, but nothing, absolutely nothing, made him more uneasy than the sound of his mother’s voice on the phone that afternoon.
“You are bringing her, right?” she had asked, her tone light but edged with expectation.
He had paused too long. That had been his first mistake.
“Yes,” he said finally, the word slipping out before he could stop it. “Of course. I’ll bring my girlfriend.”
The silence on the other end had turned warm instantly, filled with excitement, questions, plans. His cousin’s wedding had already been a big enough event, but now it had become something more, an introduction, a moment, a milestone his mother had clearly been waiting for. And just like that, the lie was born.
The problem? Timo Meier did not have a girlfriend. What he did have, however, was you.
You, who had been there long before the NHL contracts and media interviews. You, who knew exactly how he took his coffee, how he got quiet before games, how he sometimes forgot to text back for hours but always showed up when it mattered. You were his constant, his best friend and, as of twenty minutes ago, his only possible solution.
So that evening, he showed up at your door, unusually tense, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he was bracing for impact.
“Y/N?” he said as he entered the apartment. “Thank god you’re home.” He sighed of relief as soon as he saw you sitting on the couch. You didn’t even look up from your phone as the apartment door slammed shut.
“Depends,” you muttered, scrolling TikTok. “Is this about you doing something stupid again?”
Timo appeared in the doorway, running a hand through his slightly messy hair, looking… stressed. Which was rare.
“Okay, first of all—rude. Second of all—I need your help.”
That made you pause. Slowly, you looked up. “That sentence has never ended well.”
He dropped onto the couch beside you with a groan. “My mom just called.”
“Oh no. Scary.”
“She reminded me about my cousin’s wedding next weekend.”
“Okay… and?”
“And I told her I’m bringing someone.”
“Just ask Nico, I thought he was your boyfriend.” You wink.
“He has plans…” he said frustrated, clearly not hearing the sarcasm in your voice.
“Well, hearing that I am second choice, really makes me want to at the chance.”
“No, please I told my mother I would bring my girlfriend.” He pushed his bottom lip into a pout. He looked like a sad child.
You blinked. “You what?”
“I panicked!” he defended quickly. “She kept asking if I was seeing anyone and I just said yes—and now she wants to meet you.”
“Wait—me?!” You sat up straight. “Why am I involved in your bad decisions?”
“Because you’re the only girl I know who won’t make it weird.”
You stared at him. “That is the least flattering thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Y/N,” he groaned, turning toward you fully. “Please. I can’t show up alone now, they’ll never let it go. My cousins are brutal.”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice dramatically. “There’s an open bar.”
You paused.
“…go on.”
“And it’s in this insane venue outside the city. Like—Pinterest wedding level.”
“…continue.”
“And I’ll owe you. Big time.”
You sighed, already losing the battle. “I hate weddings. And meeting families. And pretending to be someone’s girlfriend.”
“You don’t even have to pretend that hard,” he shot back. “We already act like a couple half the time.”
Your head snapped toward him. “We do not.”
He just smirked.
Silence stretched between you for a second.
“…fine,” you muttered finally. “But if you embarrass me, I’m leaving you there.”
His entire face lit up. “Wait—seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Y/N, you’re actually the best—”
“And you’re sleeping on the couch wherever we stay.”
“Deal.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Also—your mom knows we’re not actually together, right?”
There was a pause.
A very suspicious pause.
“…Timo.”
“She—uh—might think this is… more.”
You grabbed a cushion and hit him with it.
“TIMO!”
“HEY—OKAY—listen, listen!” He laughed, dodging you. “That’s why I need you there! So it looks believable!”
“You are unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he grinned, leaning back smugly, “you’re still coming with me.”
You groaned, dropping back into the couch. “Yeah… I really am.”
“Well, the wedding is next Saturday. So, we’ll have to get on the plane on Thursday, because the rehearsal dinner is on Friday. My parents will be driving us,” he recited, probably repeating what his mother had told him.
“Is there any specification on what I need to wear?” you checked, “No colour scheme we have to follow as guests?”
“No, nothing,” he shook his head, “But I’ll wear a suit.”
“All right, I’ll have to get a dress later…” You knew you would have to go dress shopping. You had never been to a wedding, and you definitely did not own a dress nice enough to wear to a wedding, even if it was as a fake girlfriend.
“I will pay for the plane tickets, as a thank you, of course,” he smiled brightly, so happy that you’d agreed to this.
“Aw, what a gentleman,” you replied sarcastically. “But you still owe me. Just paying for the tickets is not going to cut is, mister.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll take that over having to go alone and looking like a fool who lied to his family.”
“Oh, honey. You are still a fool who lied to his family.” Hearing you say ‘honey’ made Timo sit up straight on your couch. It made him feel something in his stomach that he could not quite place.
“All right, it’s getting late. I should get going.” Suddenly, he was up and out of the door like he was never there in the first place. He was acting strange, stranger than usual.
When you asked your boss if you could take two days off, he was hesitant but eventually agreed. Now there was only one thing that you still needed to do, dress shopping.
And here you were in a dress shop with your best friend Gracie during one of your lunchbreaks.
“You hate weddings,” Gracie said, staring at you across the store.
“I do.”
“And yet here you are… buying a dress.”
You held up two options, frowning. “I’m being emotionally blackmailed by a professional athlete.”
“That’s kind of hot though.”
“Grace.”
“What?!” she laughed. “You’re going to a wedding with Timo Meier. People literally thirst over him online.”
You rolled your eyes. “He’s just Timo.”
“That’s what makes it worse,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You don’t even realize.”
“Realize what?”
She didn’t answer—just shoved a dress into your hands. “Try this one.”
Inside the fitting room, you stared at your reflection.
The dress fit perfectly. It was silk, soft and elegant, like you stepped off the set of Bridgerton. It was just enough to make you feel confident without trying too hard.
You stepped out.
Gracie’s jaw dropped. “Yeah. That’s the one.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
You looked back at yourself in the mirror. For some reason, your mind drifted to Timo. To the way he’d looked at you earlier. To the way he said, we already act like a couple.
Your stomach flipped.
“…yeah,” you said quietly. “I’ll take it.”
“Definitely.” She grinned. She looked at the price tag. “Ouch, this is expensive.”
“Do you think it’s worth it?” You started to get nervous again. Maybe you should text Timo and see if he could pay for it. He still owes you. “Should I text Timo?”
“Please do. He will tell you to buy the damn dress. Hell, he will probably buy matching shoes and a clutch,” she joked but there was some truth in that.
So, you took a picture in the mirror and texted it to Timo. It didn’t take long before he texted you back saying that he would be right over to pay for it. He looked a little flushed when he got there, not telling you how beautiful you looked but he definitely put that picture in his favourites on his phone.
“Y/N, we’re going to miss boarding.”
You didn’t even look up at first, too focused on digging through your bag in the middle of the crowded airport, your fingers brushing past everything except what you were looking for.
“I just want coffee,” you insisted, already half distracted, like that somehow justified the timing. Around you, people moved quickly in every direction, announcements echoing overhead, the low hum of travel chaos filling the space, but all you could think about was caffeine.
Beside you, Timo Meier stood with his usual mix of patience and barely concealed stress, dressed in a hoodie and cap like he was trying not to be recognized, though the way he carried himself made that nearly impossible.
“You had all morning to get coffee,” he pointed out, his tone flat, unimpressed, arms crossed as he watched you.
“And you had all morning to not pack last minute,” you shot back instantly, finally finding your wallet and pulling it out with a small, victorious movement.
He opened his mouth to argue then paused, clearly realizing you had a point. “…fair,” he admitted reluctantly.
You smirked, grabbing your drink the second it was ready. “Exactly.”
But the moment didn’t last long.
“Final call for passengers to Zürich,” the speaker echoed across the terminal.
You both froze. Timo turned to you.
“Run.”
“Oh my god—”
And then you were both moving, breaking into a sprint through the airport, weaving between people, your suitcase rattling behind you while you tried not to spill your coffee or trip at the same time, laughter and panic mixing together in a way that felt far too familiar.
You barely made it. By the time you collapsed into your seat on the plane, slightly out of breath and still clutching your drink like it had been worth it, Timo was already lifting your carry-on into the overhead compartment with ease, like it weighed nothing at all.
“Got it,” he said casually, dropping into the seat beside you.
“Show off,” you muttered, adjusting yourself and finally fastening your seatbelt.
He leaned back with a small grin. “You love it.”
You rolled your eyes, choosing not to respond, but there was no hiding the faint smile tugging at your lips as the plane began to move, the slow taxi down the runway grounding the reality of what you were actually doing. You were going to Switzerland, to his family, to fake a relationship that didn’t feel so fake anymore.
You stared out the window, watching the lights blur slightly as the plane picked up speed, a strange mix of excitement and nerves settling deep in your chest.
“You okay?” he asked, glancing over at you, his voice softer now.
“Yeah,” you said after a second, your gaze still fixed outside. “Just… this is your family.”
“They’re normal,” he shrugged lightly. “Mostly.”
“That doesn’t help.”
You felt him shift slightly closer, just enough for his presence to feel more noticeable. “My mom’s going to love you.”
That made you turn.
“Why?”
He hesitated, just for a second, but you caught it.
“Because I do.”
Your heart skipped before you could stop it.
“…you’re annoying,” you muttered, quickly looking away, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your expression softened but he did and he smiled.
Somewhere halfway through the flight, the world quieted. The low hum of the plane, the dimmed lights, the steady rhythm of everything around you, it all blurred together until you didn’t even realize when your body relaxed, when your eyes closed, when you shifted closer without thinking. Or when your head ended up resting against his shoulder. Timo noticed immediately. He went completely still. Not because it was uncomfortable but because it wasn’t. It felt natural in a way that made him overthink everything.
This was normal, he told himself. Completely normal. Best friends fell asleep on each other all the time. Right?
Still, he didn’t move. He didn’t want to.
Carefully, almost too carefully, he pulled his phone out with one hand, angling it slightly before click.
About twenty minutes later, your phone buzzed against your lap, pulling you out of sleep slowly, your eyes blinking open as you shifted upright, disoriented for a second.
“What…” you mumbled, still half-asleep.
“Nothing,” he said quickly. Too quickly… that was suspicious.
You frowned slightly, grabbing your phone and unlocking it, your confusion fading instantly the second the screen lit up.
Your eyes widened because there it was. A picture of you, asleep against him, completely unaware, your hair slightly messy, your expression soft, peaceful. And he’d posted it to his Instagram stories.
You turned your head slowly, narrowing your eyes. “Timo.”
He was already trying not to smile. “Yes?”
“You did not just post that.”
“I absolutely did.”
“Oh my god.”
You looked back at your phone, notifications already stacking up, messages coming in faster than you could process.
“Delete it.”
“No.”
“Timo!”
“It’s cute,” he shrugged.
“I look dead.”
“You look adorable.”
You stared at him, trying to stay annoyed, trying not to react.
“…I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
You pressed your lips together, fighting the smile that was already forming, and losing.
The cold hit you instantly when you stepped outside the airport in Switzerland, sharp and unexpected, making you pull your coat tighter around yourself as your breath fogged in the air.
“Okay—why is it freezing?” you complained, shivering slightly.
“It’s Switzerland,” Timo laughed, already reaching for your suitcase before you could grab it yourself. “What did you expect?”
“Not this.”
He nudged you lightly, amusement still in his voice. “Come on, city girl.”
“Excuse me—” But despite yourself, you looped your arm through his, leaning into his warmth just slightly as you walked, the unfamiliar surroundings making everything feel just a little more overwhelming than you expected.
The taxi ride was quieter. Streetlights blurred past the window, the city unfamiliar, the atmosphere calmer than what you were used to. Everything about it felt like stepping into another world. His world.
“You nervous?” he asked softly after a while.
“A little,” you admitted.
He nodded, bumping his shoulder gently against yours. “You’ve got me.”
You looked at him then, really looked, and for a moment, everything felt very real. Too real.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I do.”
When the taxi finally stopped, your stomach flipped.
Timo stepped out first, grabbing both your bags effortlessly, but you stayed still for a second longer, your eyes lifting to take in the house in front of you.
Warm lights glowed through the windows. It looked cozy. This wasn’t a story anymore. This was happening.
“Ready?” he asked, turning back to you.
You let out a small breath.
“Not even a little.”
He grinned.
“Perfect.”
And before you could overthink it, before you could step back or say something to break the moment, he reached for your hand, his fingers sliding between yours naturally, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Your breath caught instantly. “Timo—”
“Relax,” he said softly, his thumb brushing lightly against your hand. “Just making it believable, remember?”
You nodded, but neither of you let go.
The warmth of the house hit you almost instantly when the door opened, a soft contrast to the cold Swiss night that had followed you all the way from the airport. You barely had time to steady yourself before a woman appeared in the doorway, her face lighting up the second she saw Timo, her arms wrapping around him in a tight embrace that made him laugh softly in surprise. You stood there awkwardly for half a second, watching the familiarity of it, the ease, the love, before his eyes flicked toward you, something softer settling behind them as he pulled back slightly.
“Mom, this is Y/N,” he said, his voice carrying a warmth you hadn’t heard before, and suddenly all the nerves you’d been holding in your chest rushed forward at once. His mother turned to you with the kindest smile you’d ever seen, the kind that immediately made you feel like you were supposed to be there, like you belonged in a space you’d never even stepped foot in before. She didn’t hesitate, stepping forward and pulling you into a gentle hug that caught you completely off guard, your hands hovering awkwardly for a second before you hugged her back, laughing nervously under your breath as she welcomed you inside like you were already part of the family.
The house itself felt lived-in in the best way possible. It had soft lighting, framed photos lining the walls, and quiet evidence of years of memories that made you feel like you were stepping into something meaningful. Timo took your suitcase from your hand without asking, like it was second nature, like he’d done it a hundred times before, and you found yourself following him further inside, your eyes scanning everything while trying not to look as overwhelmed as you felt. Conversation flowed easily around you, his mom asking about the flight, about your job, about how long you and Timo had known each other, and every answer you gave seemed to make her smile a little more, like she was piecing something together in her head. You caught Timo watching you at one point, leaning casually against the counter, his expression unreadable but soft, like he was quietly checking to make sure you were okay. It grounded you in a way you didn’t expect, reminding you that no matter how unfamiliar everything felt, he was still the same person sitting next to you on your couch a few days ago, still the same person who annoyed you endlessly and made you laugh without trying.
Later that night, after the conversation had slowed and the exhaustion from the flight finally started to catch up with you, Timo led you upstairs, his hand brushing lightly against your back as he showed you to the room you’d be staying in. It was simple but cozy, the bed neatly made, a soft lamp casting a warm glow across the space, and for a moment you just stood there, taking it all in.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, leaning against the doorframe now, his voice softer than before. You nodded, even though your chest felt tight with something you couldn’t quite name.
“Yeah… just tired,” you murmured, setting your bag down, but when you looked up at him, he was still watching you in that same way, like he could see right through you. He stepped a little closer then, just enough for you to notice, just enough to make your heartbeat pick up slightly.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, you know,” he said, almost teasing, but not entirely. “You’re doing great.”
You let out a small breath, something in you relaxing at his words, and you smiled faintly. “Thanks,” you said, quieter this time.
When he finally left the room, the silence felt different than it had before, and you changed into something comfortable before climbing into bed, your mind replaying everything from the night in fragments. His hand finding yours outside the house. The way his mom had hugged you like she already knew you. The way he kept looking at you like there was something he wasn’t saying. You rolled onto your side, pulling the blanket closer, telling yourself it was nothing, that this was just a weekend, just a favour, just pretending. But as you stared at the wall, your thoughts drifting back to him again without permission, you couldn’t ignore the feeling settling somewhere deep in your chest.
By the time you were fully ready the next day, standing at the top of the stairs in your dress with your heart racing for no real reason, you already knew something had shifted, even if you couldn’t explain how or why. The house was alive with quiet movement below you, voices, footsteps, the low hum of anticipation, and you took a steadying breath before stepping down, your hand lightly trailing along the railing as if it might anchor you. You didn’t notice him at first, too focused on not tripping, on not overthinking, on just getting to the bottom without drawing attention to yourself. But the second your feet hit the final step, and you looked up, he was already looking at you. Completely still. Completely focused. And whatever he had been about to say or do, seemed to disappear entirely.
Timo didn’t move right away. His gaze travelled over you slowly, not in a way that made you uncomfortable, but in a way that made your stomach flip, like he was seeing you properly for the first time. There was something in his expression you couldn’t quite place, something between surprise and admiration and something deeper that made your chest tighten.
“Wow,” he said finally, the word leaving him almost under his breath, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. You felt heat rush to your face instantly, your hands instinctively smoothing down your dress as if that might somehow hide the effect he was having on you.
“You clean up okay too,” you replied, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out softer than you intended, and the small smile that tugged at his lips told you he noticed.
The wedding itself was everything you expected and somehow more beautiful, overwhelming, and filled with moments that felt too intimate for someone who was technically just a guest. You stayed close to Timo the entire time, your arm brushing against his, your fingers occasionally grazing his when neither of you moved away fast enough, each small contact sending a quiet awareness through you that you couldn’t ignore no matter how hard you tried. During the ceremony, when the couple exchanged vows, you found yourself unexpectedly emotional, your throat tightening as you watched them promise something so certain, so permanent, and without thinking, your hand found his. You didn’t even realize you’d done it until his fingers closed around yours almost immediately, steady and warm, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Neither of you commented on it. Neither of you pulled away.
By the time the reception started, the atmosphere had shifted into something lighter, louder, filled with laughter and music and the clinking of glasses, and Timo had clearly taken full advantage of the open bar he’d been so excited about. At first, it was subtle. His movements were looser, he was laughing easier, the way he leaned a little closer when he spoke, but it didn’t take long before it became obvious, his words slightly slower, his grin a little wider, his usual composure slipping just enough to reveal something softer underneath. You found it endearing at first, laughing at the way he insisted on dancing with you more than once, the way he spun you around like he was showing off, the way he refused to let you sit down for too long without pulling you back onto the dance floor again.
But then something changed. It was a small change at first, just the way he looked at you during a slower song, his usual playful expression replaced with something quieter, something more serious, like he was trying to figure something out in real time. You felt it immediately, the shift in the air between you, the way your heartbeat picked up without warning as his hands settled more firmly at your waist.
“I shouldn’t have brought you,” he said suddenly, his voice low, almost lost under the music, and your chest tightened at the words, confusion flickering across your face.
“Why?” you asked softly, searching his expression, and he shook his head slightly, like he was frustrated with himself.
“Because now I can’t stop looking at you,” he admitted, the words slipping out like he hadn’t meant to say them, like they had been sitting just beneath the surface all day waiting for the right moment to break through. Everything around you seemed to blur slightly, the music, the people, the movement, all of it fading into the background as your focus narrowed entirely on him. Your breath caught, your mind scrambling to process what he’d just said, but before you could respond, he let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head again. “Forget it,” he added quickly, like he was trying to take it back, like he’d said too much, but he hadn’t, and you both knew it.
Getting him out of the venue was harder than you expected, mostly because Timo had reached that point of drunk where everything was funny, everything was dramatic, and absolutely nothing required urgency in his mind except staying close to you. He kept laughing, leaning into you as you guided him outside, his arm heavy around your shoulders while your own wrapped around his waist to keep him steady. The cool night air didn’t sober him nearly as much as you hoped, but it quieted him just enough that the walk to the taxi felt slower, softer, filled with small moments where he’d look at you like he was about to say something important, only to forget it seconds later.
By the time you got back to the house, the lights were low and everything was quiet, the kind of quiet that made you instinctively lower your voice as you helped him inside. You managed to get him upstairs without waking anyone, which felt like an accomplishment in itself, but the second the bedroom door closed behind you, he seemed to wake up again, energy rushing back into him out of nowhere.
“Wait,” he said suddenly, grabbing his phone from his pocket, his movements clumsy but determined. “I need to call Nico.”
You blinked at him. “Timo, it’s literally the middle of the night.”
“I know,” he said, already unlocking his phone. “It’s important.”
“It can wait until morning—”
“No,” he cut you off, shaking his head stubbornly. “It can’t.”
You watched him for a second, debating whether to argue, but something in his expression, something unusually serious beneath the haze of alcohol, made you hesitate. With a quiet sigh, you stepped back, grabbing your things.
“Fine. I’m going to get ready for bed,” you told him, heading toward the door. “Don’t wake the entire house.”
He nodded absently, already focused on the screen in his hand, and you slipped out into the hallway, closing the door behind you with a soft click.
You didn’t mean to linger. You really didn’t, but as you stood there for a second, adjusting your sleeve, you heard your name. And you froze.
“…it’s her,” Timo’s voice came through the door, quieter now but still clear enough to stop you completely. “It’s always been her.”
Your breath caught instantly, your hand tightening around the fabric of your sleeve as your heart began to race, loud enough that you were sure he could hear it through the door. You knew you shouldn’t listen—you knew it—but your feet didn’t move, rooted to the spot as his voice continued, softer now, slower, like he was trying to explain something he barely understood himself.
“I didn’t get it before,” he said, a quiet frustration threading through his tone. “But now I do. It’s… it’s her. Y/N.”
There was a pause, like whoever was on the other end was speaking, but you couldn’t hear them, couldn’t focus on anything except the way your name sounded in his voice.
“She’s everything,” he added after a moment, almost to himself. “I just— I can’t mess this up.”
Something in your chest twisted painfully, your mind racing, trying to make sense of what you were hearing, trying to convince yourself you’d misunderstood, that he didn’t mean it like that, that it was just the alcohol talking, but the way he said your name didn’t sound like a mistake. It sounded real.
You stepped back quietly, forcing yourself to move before he could open the door and find you standing there, before you had to explain why you were listening, why your heart felt like it was about to beat out of your chest. You made it to the bathroom without thinking, locking the door behind you as you leaned against it, your reflection staring back at you in the mirror, wide-eyed and overwhelmed. This wasn’t part of the plan. None of this was.
When you finally went back into the room, he was already in bed, the lights off except for the soft glow from the lamp on the nightstand, his phone discarded beside him like whatever conversation he’d been having was already forgotten. He looked up when you entered, his expression immediately softening into something familiar, something easier to handle than whatever you’d just overheard.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, sleep starting to pull at him.
“Hey,” you replied, doing your best to sound normal as you set your things down, your movements careful, controlled, like if you slowed everything down enough, your thoughts might follow.
“Are you sleeping here?” he asked, shifting slightly to make space without even thinking about it, like it was obvious, like it had already been decided.
You hesitated. Every instinct told you to say no, to create space, to put distance between you and whatever this had suddenly become, but your body betrayed you, your exhaustion catching up, your emotions too tangled to process properly.
“…yeah,” you said finally, your voice quieter than usual.
You climbed into the bed carefully, keeping as much space between you as possible at first, your back turned slightly, your mind still replaying his words over and over again. You thought he might fall asleep immediately, that the conversation would end there, that you’d get a few hours to breathe and figure out what this meant, but instead, you felt him move closer. Slowly and carefully. Like he was testing the distance.
His arm slipped around your waist, pulling you back against him without hesitation, his body warm against yours, his breath steady against the back of your neck. You froze for a second, your entire body going still, your heart racing as every thought you’d been trying to ignore rushed back all at once.
“Timo…” you started softly, unsure what you were even going to say.
But he just hummed quietly in response, already half-asleep, his hold on you tightening slightly like it was instinct, like it was natural, and that made it worse. Because it felt natural to you too.
You swallowed, your hand coming up to rest lightly over his where it lay against your waist, your fingers brushing his without thinking, and instead of pulling away, you stayed like that, your body slowly relaxing despite everything in your head screaming at you not to.
“Thank you for coming,” he murmured after a moment, his voice soft, barely there.
Your chest tightened.
“Of course,” you whispered back.
There was a pause before he whispered, “You looked… really beautiful today.”
Your eyes closed, your breath catching as warmth spread through you in a way that had nothing to do with the blanket or the room or the way he was holding you.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he added quietly, his voice fading as sleep finally took over.
You didn’t respond right away because you weren’t sure you could.
You woke up slowly, disoriented at first, the unfamiliar room taking a second to settle around you before the events of the night came rushing back all at once. The warmth behind you hadn’t changed, Timo was still there, still close, his arm still draped over you like he hadn’t moved all night, and for a moment, you didn’t move either, your thoughts too loud, your heart too heavy with everything you now knew.
This was different. Everything felt different.
You shifted slightly, testing the space between you, and he stirred almost immediately, his grip tightening instinctively before loosening again as he woke up, his breath uneven for a second like he was trying to piece things together just like you were.
“Morning,” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.
“Morning,” you replied quietly, staring straight ahead. There was a pause, a long one. Neither of you moved away right away, but the ease from before, the unconscious closeness, was gone, replaced with something heavier, something uncertain that neither of you seemed ready to address.
“How’s your head?” you asked finally, your voice softer than usual.
“Fine,” he said, pulling his arm back slowly, like he’d just realized where it was. “I don’t really remember much.”
Your chest tightened at that. Of course he didn’t.
“Yeah,” you said, forcing a small nod even though he couldn’t see it. “Me neither.”
The lie sat heavy between you because you remembered everything. And now… everything had changed.
The rest of the morning felt… off. Not obviously, not in a way anyone else would notice, but to you, every little thing felt slightly out of place, like a rhythm that had been disrupted just enough to throw everything off balance. Timo still sat next to you at breakfast, still handed you things without asking, still smiled at you in that easy, familiar way, but there was a hesitation now, a split second too long before he spoke sometimes, like he was trying to read something in your expression that he didn’t understand. And you… well, you were trying a little too hard to act normal, laughing at the right moments, responding the way you always did, pretending that your chest didn’t tighten every time your eyes met his. Because he didn’t remember, and you couldn’t forget.
Every word he’d said the night before replayed in your mind on a loop, clear and sharp and impossible to ignore. It’s her. It’s always been her. It didn’t sound like something drunk and meaningless. It didn’t sound like a mistake. But sitting here now, watching him sip his coffee like nothing had happened, like nothing had changed, made you question everything. Maybe it was just the alcohol. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe you’d built it up into something bigger than it actually was. But then he’d look at you, and you’d feel it all over again.
You ended up outside later that afternoon, needing air, needing space, needing something to quiet the noise in your head that had been building all day. The cold didn’t bother you this time, not when your thoughts were louder than anything else, your arms wrapped around yourself as you leaned against the railing, staring out at the quiet street.
You didn’t hear him at first, but you felt him.
“Took me a while to find you,” Timo said softly, stepping up beside you, his shoulder brushing yours just slightly.
You didn’t look at him right away. “I just needed some air.”
“Yeah,” he nodded, like he understood more than you’d said. “Me too.”
Silence settled between you, it wasn’t awkward, but it felt heavy. Like there was too much sitting just beneath the surface.
You exhaled slowly, your breath visible in the cold air. “Do you… remember anything from last night?” you asked carefully, your voice steady even though your heart wasn’t.
There was a pause.
“A little,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not much though. Why?”
Your heart dropped.
“Oh—nothing,” you said quickly, too quickly. “You were just… really drunk.”
He let out a small breath of a laugh. “That bad, huh?”
You forced a smile. “A little.”
Another pause and he didn’t look away. You could feel his eyes on you now, searching, focused, like he knew you weren’t telling him everything, like he was trying to piece something together that he couldn’t quite reach.
“Y/N,” he said quietly.
You finally turned to him, and suddenly you were too close. Close enough to see the shift in his expression, the softness fading into something more serious, something more certain. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes, and your breath caught without permission, your body going still as everything around you seemed to fade again.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked, his voice lower now.
You should’ve said no, you should’ve laughed it off or stepped back, but instead—
“I heard you.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them. Everything stilled. His entire expression changed in an instant, confusion flashing across his face, followed quickly by something sharper, more vulnerable.
“Heard what?” he asked, but his voice had already shifted, like he knew.
Your throat felt tight. “Last night. On the phone.”
Silence. The kind that stretches too long. The kind that makes your heart pound.
His jaw tightened slightly, his gaze dropping for a second before coming back to you, something unreadable settling behind his eyes.
“…how much did you hear?” he asked quietly.
You swallowed.
“Enough.”
Another pause. This one heavier than all the others combined.
And for a second, just a second, it looked like he was going to say it again. Like whatever he felt was right there, sitting on the edge of his lips, waiting to fall.
Your heart was racing now.
“Y/N, I—”
“Timo!” The voice cut through everything.
You both turned at the same time, the moment shattering instantly as someone from inside called for him, the door opening behind you, the warmth and noise of the house spilling out into the cold.
“I—uh—they need me,” he said, clearly frustrated, his eyes flicking back to you like he didn’t want to leave it like this.
“Yeah,” you nodded, even though everything in you was screaming don’t let this end here. “Go.”
He hesitated, just for a second and then he nodded once and turned away, heading back inside. And just like that the moment was gone.
The flight back felt nothing like the one there. You still sat next to each other. Still shared space. Still exchanged quiet words here and there. But something had changed in a way that couldn’t be undone, something that sat between you now, unspoken, unfinished, impossible to ignore.
Timo kept looking at you. Like he wanted to say something. Like he was waiting for the right moment. And you… you didn’t know if you wanted him to because if he said it again, if he meant it this time… nothing would ever go back to the way it was.
The silence between you didn’t fade when you got home. If anything, it settled deeper, heavier, following you from the airport to the car ride, from the car ride to your apartment, lingering in every glance that lasted a second too long and every word that felt like it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t awkward in the usual sense, you still moved around each other easily, still existed in the same space as you always had, but the difference was impossible to ignore now. Everything meant more. Every touch, every look, every pause, and neither of you knew what to do with it.
You dropped your bag by the door, exhaling slowly as the familiar surroundings wrapped around you again, but instead of comfort, it only made things feel more real. Switzerland had felt like a bubble, like something separate from your normal life, but this was home. There was no escaping it here.
“I’ll, uh—grab some water,” you said, your voice quieter than usual as you moved toward the kitchen, needing something to do, something to break the tension that had been building since the flight.
“Y/N.”
You stopped. Your name in his voice did something to you now, something it hadn’t before. Slowly, you turned around.
Timo hadn’t moved from where he was standing near the door, but his posture was different now, more rigid, like he’d been holding something in for too long and couldn’t anymore. His eyes were locked on you, no hesitation this time, no confusion, just something raw and certain that made your chest tighten instantly.
“We’re not doing this,” he said.
Your brows furrowed slightly. “Doing what?”
“This,” he gestured vaguely between the two of you, frustration slipping into his voice. “Pretending like nothing happened. Like nothing’s changed.”
Your heart started racing.
“Timo—”
“No,” he shook his head, stepping closer now, his movements slow but deliberate. “You heard me last night, right? You said you did.”
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
“Then why are we acting like it didn’t happen?”
Because you didn’t remember, you almost said. Because I don’t know if you meant it. Because I’m scared if you didn’t—
“I didn’t know if you meant it,” you admitted instead, your voice softer now, more honest than you intended. “You were drunk. You don’t even remember saying it.”
Something in his expression shifted again. It wasn’t confusion this time, but something sharper, more certain.
“I don’t remember saying it,” he agreed. Your chest tightened. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
Your breath caught, your mind going blank for a second as his words settled in, heavier than anything he’d said before.
“Timo…” you whispered, but you didn’t know what you were going to say.
He stepped closer again, closing the distance between you completely now, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough that you couldn’t look anywhere else even if you tried.
“I didn’t get it before,” he continued, his voice lower now, steadier, like he’d finally figured something out that had been confusing him for a long time. “I didn’t realize why it was always you. Why you’re the first person I want to tell things to. Why it’s you I look for in every room. Why nothing ever felt right with anyone else.”
Your heart was pounding now, loud enough to drown out everything else.
“Then this weekend happened,” he said, his gaze softening slightly, his voice losing that edge of frustration and turning into something more vulnerable. “And I saw you with my family, and I saw how easily you fit into my life, how natural it felt, and it just… clicked.”
You could barely breathe.
“You heard me say it,” he added quietly. “But I’ll say it again, sober this time.”
His hand moved slightly, like he wanted to reach for you, but hesitated for just a second before finally closing the gap, his fingers brushing yours, tentative at first.
Then steady. “It’s you, Y/N.”
The words hit harder this time, because now there was no doubt, no alcohol, no excuse.
“I’m in love with you.”
Silence, the kind that’s full of everything you’ve been holding back.
Your eyes stung slightly, your chest tight with emotion you couldn’t keep contained anymore, all the confusion and tension and feelings you’d been trying to ignore crashing into you at once.
“You can’t just—” you let out a shaky breath, your voice breaking slightly. “You can’t just say that like it doesn’t change everything.”
“I know,” he said softly. “It does.”
“You’re my best friend,” you added, your voice quieter now, more fragile. “If this goes wrong—”
“I know,” he repeated, stepping even closer, his voice gentler now. “But if I don’t say it, if I pretend I don’t feel this, I’m going to lose you anyway. Because I already feel it changing.”
That hit because he was right.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he continued, his thumb brushing lightly against your hand now, grounding, steady. “But I also can’t keep pretending that I don’t—”
“I know,” you cut him off softly because you really did. You felt it too and that was the problem.
Your gaze dropped for a second before lifting back to his, your heart still racing but your mind clearer now than it had been all weekend.
“I was scared,” you admitted quietly. “Because I heard you say it… and I wanted it to be real so badly that I didn’t trust it.”
His expression softened instantly.
“It is,” he said. You searched his face, and found nothing but truth.
Your breath hitched slightly as a small, nervous laugh escaped you, your head shaking just a little.
“This is such a bad idea,” you murmured.
“Probably,” he agreed. “But we’re doing it anyway, right?”
You looked at him and realized there was no going back now.
“…yeah,” you said softly. That was all it took.
His hand tightened around yours, pulling you closer in one smooth motion, the space between you disappearing completely as his other hand came up to your face, hesitating for just a second, giving you time to pull away but you didn’t and so he kissed you. It wasn’t rushed or messy. It was soft at first, careful, like he was still making sure this was real, but when you kissed him back, when your hand found the front of his shirt and held on, something shifted, the hesitation disappearing as the kiss deepened, everything you’d both been holding back finally spilling over at once.
When you pulled away, your forehead rested lightly against his, both of you slightly breathless, both of you smiling in that quiet, disbelieving way.
“Well,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he murmured back.
The first few days after everything changed felt surreal in a way neither of you quite knew how to handle, like stepping into a version of your life that had always been there beneath the surface, just waiting for you to notice it. Nothing about your routines was drastically different, you still ended up on the same couch, still argued over what to watch, still moved around each other with that same easy familiarity, but now every small thing carried weight, every glance lingering just a second longer, every touch charged with something that hadn’t been there before.
It was in the quiet moments that you felt it the most.
Like now. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, when Timo walked in from the kitchen, tossing his hoodie onto the chair before dropping down beside you, closer than usual, his presence immediately pulling your attention away from whatever you were pretending to focus on. He didn’t say anything at first, he just looked at you, like he didn’t have to hide it anymore, like he wasn’t afraid of being caught staring.
“What?” you asked, glancing at him.
“Nothing,” he said, but there was a smile tugging at his lips, something softer behind it.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m allowed to,” he shrugged lightly. “You’re my girlfriend now.”
The word still felt new. Your heart reacted before your brain did, a small, involuntary shift that you couldn’t quite control.
“Still weird hearing you say that,” you admitted quietly.
“Yeah?” he leaned slightly closer, his voice lowering just enough to make your pulse pick up. “You don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Good,” he murmured.
And then, without overthinking it, without giving you time to either, his hand reached for yours, pulling you gently toward him until the space between you disappeared entirely, your balance shifting as you instinctively braced a hand against his chest.
For a second, neither of you moved. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up again, slower this time, more deliberate, like he was learning you all over again in a completely different way.
“You’re overthinking again,” he said softly.
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
You exhaled, your fingers tightening slightly against his shirt. “Maybe a little.”
His hand came up then, brushing lightly along your jaw, tilting your face just enough that you had no choice but to meet his gaze fully.
“You don’t have to,” he said and then he kissed you.
This time, it wasn’t hesitant. There was no pause, no uncertainty, no testing the waters like before. The second your lips met his, it felt natural like something you’d both been holding back for far too long, something that didn’t need to be questioned anymore.
Your hand slid from his chest to his shoulder, gripping slightly as he pulled you closer, his other hand settling at your waist, steady and firm, like he wasn’t planning on letting you go anytime soon. The kiss deepened slowly, not rushed, but intentional, the kind that made your thoughts blur at the edges, made everything else fade into the background. It was overwhelming in the best way because it wasn’t new. It was him.
Someone you already knew. Someone you already trusted. Someone who knew exactly how to read you, even now.
When you finally pulled back slightly, your breathing uneven, your forehead resting lightly against his, you let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh.
“This is dangerous,” you murmured.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice just as quiet, his thumb tracing slow, absent patterns against your side. “A little.”
“You’re very calm about that.”
“I’m not,” he admitted, his lips brushing yours again briefly, like he couldn’t help it. “I just don’t care.” That made your stomach flip because you didn’t either.
It was late. Later than you realized. The apartment was quiet, the city outside reduced to distant noise, everything softened by the kind of stillness that made conversations feel more honest than they would during the day.
You were lying beside each other now, facing one another, close enough that your legs were tangled slightly, your hand resting loosely against his arm as you traced small, absent patterns against his skin.
“You know what the worst part is?” you said quietly.
“What?”
“I think I’ve felt like this for a while,” you admitted, your voice softer now, more vulnerable than before. “I just didn’t let myself think about it.”
He didn’t look surprised.
“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Me too.”
You frowned slightly. “Seriously?”
“I just ignored it,” he shrugged faintly. “It was easier when I didn’t have to risk losing you.”
That hit deeper than you expected.
“And now?” you asked.
His gaze softened, his hand finding yours again, lacing your fingers together slowly.
“Now I’d rather risk it,” he said, “than pretend I don’t feel it.”
Your chest tightened, but not in a bad way. In a way that felt real. You shifted slightly closer without thinking, your head resting against his shoulder this time, your fingers still intertwined.
“Good,” you whispered. He pressed a soft kiss to your hair.
The Long Way to Us
A/N: I have rewritten this story so many times, because I wanted it to be just right. I didn't read @pucksandpower story "Line Change" because I didn't want it to influence my writing.
Pairing: Timo Meier x reader
Words: 7k
Warning(s): break up with Jack Hughes, mentions of the Olympic drama, mention of Tr*mp
When people first met Jack Hughes’s girlfriend, they rarely expected you. You were two years older than him, calmer in the way that came from having already made a few mistakes and survived them, and you carried yourself with a confidence that didn’t try to compete with the bright, chaotic energy Jack brought into every room. Where he was fast, on the ice and in life, and you were deliberate, thoughtful, and observant. That difference had always seemed to balance things out. At least, that was what everyone said.
The team saw you around often enough that you had become a familiar part of their world: dinners after games, casual gatherings at apartments, charity events, summer lake trips that somehow always ended with someone falling into the water fully clothed. You got along easily with most of them, but your closest friend in that circle wasn’t actually one of the players, it was Audrey, Nico’s girlfriend, who you had known since college long before hockey became part of your everyday life. That connection meant you were around often enough that the locker-room friendships spilled into your social life. And that was exactly how the problem started.
It was subtle at first, so subtle that even Timo didn’t want to acknowledge it. Timo wasn’t the type to overthink feelings. He was straightforward, grounded, someone who preferred things to make sense. But there were moments he couldn’t ignore: the way you laughed at a dry joke he made under your breath while Jack argued loudly with someone across the room about video games, the way you actually listened when he talked about home or family or anything beyond hockey, the way your conversations lingered longer than they probably should have.
It didn’t help that you treated everyone equally, which meant the lines between friendship and something deeper were easy to blur. Timo knew that which was exactly why it bothered him.
One evening, after practice, he sat in the locker room staring at his phone longer than necessary. Nico Hischier noticed immediately. Nico always noticed things.
“You’re thinking too much,” Nico said, tying his shoes without looking up.
“I’m not.”
“That’s how I know you are.”
Timo exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He didn’t want to say it out loud. Saying it would make it real, and if it was real, it was a problem. But Nico was patient.
And eventually, Timo muttered, “It’s about Jack.”
That got Nico’s attention. “What about him?”
Timo hesitated for a moment before finishing the sentence he’d been trying not to form in his own head for weeks.
“It’s… not really about Jack.”
Silence hung between them for a second before Nico understood. His expression shifted, he wasn’t angry or shocked, he looked serious.
“Y/N,” Nico said quietly.
Timo nodded once.
“Yeah.” Another pause. Then Nico leaned back against the locker, crossing his arms. “Tell me you’re not planning to do anything about that.”
“I’m not,” Timo said quickly. “I wouldn’t do that to him.”
Nico studied him carefully. He knew Timo well enough to recognize when someone was trying to convince themselves as much as anyone else.
“Good,” Nico said. “Because you can’t.”
Timo let out a humourless laugh. “Yeah, I figured.”
Nico’s tone softened slightly. “Sometimes feelings happen. Doesn’t mean you follow them.”
“I know.”
“And she’s with Jack,” Nico continued. “And Jack… really loves her.”
That part made the situation worse because Timo knew it was true.
He had seen the way Jack looked at you, like you were something rare that he hadn’t quite figured out how he managed to get. He had seen the way you supported him, at games, after tough losses, during injuries. You weren’t just some casual relationship in Jack’s life. You were important. Which meant the line was clear, and Timo intended to respect it. But his mind kept drifting back to the first conversation he had with you.
It was after a game. Jack had been pulled into media interviews, leaving you standing near the hallway outside the locker room with a few players passing through. You were scrolling on your phone when a voice spoke beside you.
“You’re going to be waiting a while.”
You looked up. It was Timo and he held out a bottle of water for you.
“For survival.”
You laughed. “Thanks.”
That was the first real conversation you had with him. And from that moment on, Timo started noticing things.
How the media comments bothered you, even when you laughed them off. How you always cheered the loudest for Jack. How sometimes you looked overwhelmed in a world that had suddenly started watching you.
He didn’t mean to care, but he did. And that was a real problem, because you were Jack’s girlfriend.
However, everything changed after the Olympics. You didn’t join Jack in Italy, but you watched the final game. You were happy when they won, and you knew they would be out celebrating so you didn’t even try to contact him. You went on with your day, going to work, grocery shopping, and then more and more messages started to fill your inbox. Your friends and family had been sending you videos of the locker room after the big win. You really had tried to not let it get to you, but it was impossible not to. You saw them laughing at Trump’s unfunny joke. You told yourself that they were drunk, they probably didn’t hear what they said. But the more you thought about the more it started to eat at you. You couldn’t defend Jack in this.
You tried to go back to your usual routine, figuring you would just talk to Jack when he got home. But the world outside of hockey had started getting louder. It started with conversations that felt slightly more tense than before, news headlines, discussions online, the atmosphere around hockey changing in ways that reached beyond the rink. The Olympics situation had been complicated enough on its own, but the MAGA accusations, the arguments circulating across social media, and eventually the White House visit became a point of tension that was impossible to ignore.
You had always been someone who paid attention to things like that, values, responsibility, the meaning behind public actions. Jack, on the other hand, sometimes treated those conversations like they were distractions from the life he wanted to live hockey, competition, the game he loved.
At first, you tried to talk about it calmly. One night in his apartment, the city lights spilling in through the windows, you sat on the couch while Jack paced around the kitchen.
“It’s not that simple,” you said gently. “People are watching. They care about what it means.”
Jack ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “You think I’m trying to send some message or something? I’m just doing what I think is right for me.”
“I know,” you said. “But it still says something.”
That conversation repeated itself in different forms over the next few weeks. There was no yelling, it wasn’t dramatic, but mall cracks were forming in something that had once felt solid. The hardest part was realizing that the difference wasn’t about one decision. It was about how you both saw the world. And eventually, you couldn’t pretend it didn’t matter.
The actual break up wasn’t messy the way people might have expected, it was quiet which made it even worse.
You met him in person because you refused to do something like that over the phone. Jack could tell something was wrong almost immediately when he opened the door.
“Hey,” he said cautiously. “What’s going on?”
You stepped inside slowly, your heart pounding harder than you wanted it to.
“I think we need to talk.”
Those words were never a good sign.
Jack sat down across from you, watching your face carefully. “Okay…”
You took a breath before saying the words you had spent weeks trying not to say.
“I don’t think we want the same things anymore.”
Confusion flickered across his expression. “What do you mean?”
“It’s everything that’s been happening,” you said. “The Olympics, the stuff people are saying, the visit… all of it. It’s not just the headlines, Jack. It’s how we talk about it. How we see it.”
He frowned slightly. “So, you’re breaking up with me over politics?”
“No,” you said softly. “I’m breaking up because our values feel different now. And I can’t ignore that.”
Jack looked hurt, deeply hurt, and for a moment you almost took the words back. But you didn’t because you knew you couldn’t continue pretending.
“I still care about you,” you added. “But I can’t support things that don’t align with what I believe.”
The silence that followed felt heavy and permanent. Jack eventually nodded, though it was clear he didn’t fully accept it.
“Okay,” he said quietly. And just like that, it was over.
You expected to disappear from that circle after the breakup, but you didn’t. That mostly had to do with your friendship with Audrey. She texted you inviting you to Nico’s party and there was no way out of it.
So, a few months later, you were standing in Nico and Audrey’s apartment with a drink in your hand, wondering if coming had been a mistake.
Audrey had insisted. “You’re still my best friend,” she had said. “Nothing about that changes.”
And now here you were.
The music was loud, people were laughing, and the atmosphere felt familiar but slightly different now that you weren’t part of Jack’s life anymore. Some of the players greeted you normally. Others seemed unsure how to act.
Timo noticed you almost immediately when you walked in. He hadn’t expected the strange feeling of relief that came with seeing you but he also remembered what Nico had told him. So, he kept his distance at first that is until you walked over.
“Hi,” you said, smiling slightly. “It’s been a while.”
Timo returned the smile. “Yeah. It has.”
The conversation started simple, you were just catching up, talking about life, Audrey, random stories about mutual friends. But as the night went on, the two of you ended up on the balcony, away from the noise, talking more openly than you ever had before.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah. It was the right decision.”
He studied your expression carefully.
“You don’t seem like someone who does things halfway,” he said.
You laughed quietly. “I try not to.”
That laugh again, it was the one that had started this whole problem for him and suddenly Timo realized something terrifying. Now that you weren’t with Jack anymore, he had no excuse not to feel what he felt. But he was scared to jump right in and scare you away, so he settled for a friendship.
And that is exactly what happened. After that first conversation on the balcony, things between you and Timo settled into something easy. You weren’t secretive about it, in your mind you were just making some new friends.
At first, it was mostly at Audrey and Nico’s gatherings. Movie nights. Barbecues. Small parties where the music was loud, but conversations still mattered. You found yourself gravitating toward him without even realizing it. It wasn’t planned, it just happened. If you arrived early, he was usually already there helping Nico with something. If you stayed late, somehow, he was one of the last people still talking.
And slowly, everyone else started noticing too. Not in a suspicious way, more in the quiet way friends observe changes. Timo had made a decision after the night of the party: he was going to treat you like a friend. Nothing else. No lingering looks, no flirting, no pushing boundaries that could make things complicated for you or the team. Especially because, whether people said it out loud or not, Jack was still around, and Jack did still show up sometimes.
The first time it happened after your breakup, the room shifted slightly. You were standing in the kitchen with Audrey when the door opened and Jack walked in with two teammates. Conversations dipped for a moment before returning to normal. Hockey players were good at pretending things were fine.
But you felt it. The tension.
Jack noticed you quickly, of course. His expression was neutral, not angry or cold, just distant. Like you were someone he used to know very well but wasn’t sure how to interact with anymore.
You gave him a small nod. He nodded back. That was it.
Timo saw the whole exchange from across the room, and something in his chest tightened in a way he didn’t expect. It wasn’t jealousy exactly, it was more a reminder of the rule he had set for himself months earlier.
You had history with Jack, and Timo wasn’t about to disrespect that.
Later that night, though, you ended up sitting on the couch talking with him again, laughing about a ridiculous story from Audrey’s college days. The conversation flowed the way it always seemed to with him, it was relaxed and comfortable.
Nico noticed from the kitchen. He walked over to Timo later when you stepped away to grab another drink.
“You’re doing better,” Nico said quietly.
Timo raised an eyebrow. “Better?”
“You’re not staring at her like you’re about to confess something.”
Timo huffed a small laugh. “That obvious before?”
“Yes.”
Timo glanced across the room where you were talking to Audrey now.
“It’s different now,” he said.
Nico studied him. “How?”
“She’s not Jack’s girlfriend anymore,” Timo admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I should rush into anything.”
Nico nodded slowly. “That’s actually the correct answer.”
But what Nico didn’t say, what both of them understood, was that the longer you and Timo spent time together, the harder that line would become to maintain.
The friendship with Timo didn’t happen all at once, it built slowly and in small moments. Texts that started casual with memes, jokes about things that happened at parties, random updates about life. Then longer conversations. Then late-night discussions about things that mattered: family, growing up, moving countries, pressure, expectations, and the strange reality of being connected to professional sports.
You found it surprisingly easy to talk to him. He listened in a way that felt rare.
One night, months after the party, you were sitting in a quiet café with Audrey and Nico when Timo joined you after practice. You hadn’t planned it, but the conversation turned into a long afternoon that stretched into evening.
At one point Audrey leaned over to whisper to you when the guys stepped away to order drinks.
“You two talk a lot now.”
You tried to play it cool. “We’re friends.”
Audrey gave you a look that clearly said she wasn’t fully convinced, but she didn’t push because she also knew something you didn’t yet fully realise you seemed happier lately. Not because of a new relationship because there wasn’t one, but because the heaviness from the breakup had faded. Timo had been part of that without trying to be.
Meanwhile, Timo was having his own problem. He had followed the rules. He had waited. He had built something genuine with you that didn’t feel like it was based on timing or circumstances, and somehow, that made his feelings worse.
Now he didn’t just like you. He respected you, trusted you, and genuinely enjoyed the time you spent together. That was much harder to ignore.
One evening after practice, he found Nico again. This time, Nico didn’t even pretend to be surprised.
“You’re going to say something,” Nico said.
Timo leaned against the locker. “I think I might.”
Nico sighed. “How long has it been since they broke up?”
“Almost a year.”
Nico considered that. “Okay. That’s… different.”
Timo looked at him carefully. “You still think I shouldn’t?”
Nico hesitated before answering honestly. “I think if you do it, you have to be sure you’re doing it because you actually like her, not because you liked her when she was unavailable.”
Timo didn’t even pause. “I am sure.”
Nico studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Then just don’t mess it up.”
It happened at another party. Of course it did. Audrey loved hosting, and by that point you were practically part of the routine again. The apartment was full, music playing, lights dim, people moving between rooms with drinks in their hands.
But this time, the energy between you and Timo had shifted. You ended up on the balcony again, almost like a repeat of the night when your friendship really started. The city stretched out around you, the cool night air balancing the warmth inside.
“You always end up out here,” Timo said, leaning against the railing beside you.
You smiled slightly. “It’s quieter.”
“Fair.”
There was a moment of comfortable silence before you spoke again.
“I’m glad we became friends.”
Timo felt his heart do something extremely inconvenient in his chest.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
Another pause.
Then you looked at him, curious.
“You’re thinking about something.”
He laughed softly. “Am I that obvious?”
“Yes.”
Timo hesitated, and for the first time since meeting you, he didn’t try to hide what he was feeling.
“I’ve been trying to decide something for a while,” he admitted.
“And?”
“And Nico told me I should only say it if I’m sure.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That sounds serious.”
“It kind of is.”
Your expression softened slightly, sensing where the conversation might be going.
“Timo…”
“I know your history with Jack matters,” he said quickly. “And I didn’t want to complicate things. That’s why I never said anything before.”
Your heart skipped a beat.
Before.
“So,” he continued, taking a small breath, “I just want to be honest now.”
He looked directly at you.
“I like you. A lot. And I have for longer than I probably should have.”
For a moment, the sounds of the party faded into the background. Your mind raced, not because you were shocked, but because some small part of you had suspected this possibility without letting yourself fully believe it.
“Timo…”
“I’m not asking for anything crazy,” he said. “Just… maybe dinner sometime? Just us.”
The sincerity in his voice made it impossible to ignore how real this moment was.
You studied him carefully. The nervousness he was trying to hide, the honesty in his eyes, the patience he had shown over the past year. And slowly, a smile started to form.
“Well,” you said, “you definitely took your time.”
Timo laughed nervously. “I was being respectful.”
“I noticed.” There was a beat of suspense before you answered. “Dinner sounds nice.”
The relief on his face was immediate, and genuine.
Inside the apartment, Nico noticed the two of you still talking outside and shook his head slightly with a knowing smile.
“Finally,” he muttered.
Audrey followed his gaze and grinned.
“Oh, this is going to be interesting.”
The problem with dating someone connected to a professional sports team was that nothing stayed private for long. Even when people tried.
Your dinner with Timo had been simple and surprisingly normal considering everything that surrounded both of your lives. A quiet restaurant, low lighting, conversations that stretched longer than either of you expected. There were moments where the past hovered nearby like Jack, the team, the complicated overlap of friendships, but neither of you forced the topic.
Instead, you talked about everything else.
Timo told you stories from Switzerland that he had never shared at parties. You told him about college memories with Audrey, including the ridiculous late-night study sessions that mostly turned into gossip and snacks. The more you talked, the more natural it felt, like this had been building toward something long before either of you admitted it.
By the time the dinner ended, something had clearly shifted. It wasn’t just a friendship anymore and you both felt it. And for a moment, it almost felt like you could keep it quiet.
Two days later, Nico walked into the locker room and immediately noticed the subtle change in Timo’s mood. He looked lighter, calmer, and he was slightly more distracted in a way that meant something good had happened.
Nico sat down beside him.
“So,” he said casually. “How was dinner?”
Timo glanced at him. “You already know about that?”
Nico smirked. “Audrey.”
That made sense.
“Good,” Timo admitted. “Really good.”
Nico nodded once, satisfied. “Okay.”
But the problem was that conversations in a locker room had a way of spreading outward. Someone overheard something. Someone connected the dots. Someone else remembered how often you had been around lately. It didn’t take long before a few players started suspecting what was happening, and eventually Jack heard about it.
Jack didn’t react immediately when someone casually mentioned seeing you and Timo out together.
At first, he brushed it off. You had broken up almost a year ago. People moved on. That was normal. Still the idea stayed in the back of his mind longer than he expected.
The next time he saw you was at another gathering at Nico and Audrey’s place. By then, most people already had a general sense that you and Timo had been spending time together, though no one had made a big announcement about it.
When Jack walked into the apartment, his eyes instinctively scanned the room. He found you quickly. You were laughing at something Timo had said, standing near the kitchen island with Audrey nearby.
And something in Jack’s chest tightened. It wasn’t anger, just the strange realization that the chapter of his life that included you had truly moved on, and not with a stranger, but with someone he saw almost every day.
Nico noticed Jack’s expression almost immediately.
“Hey,” Nico said quietly. “You okay?”
Jack shrugged. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Nico hesitated before answering honestly.
“You heard about them.”
Jack exhaled slowly. “I guess I have now.”
There was a brief silence before Jack added, quieter than before: “I didn’t think it would be someone from the team.”
Nico understood that feeling, even if technically no one had done anything wrong.
“It didn’t happen while you were together,” Nico said carefully. “I made sure of that.”
Jack looked at him, surprised.
“You knew?”
“About Timo liking her? Yeah.” That earned Nico a long look.
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“You were happy with her,” Nico replied. “There was nothing to tell.”
Jack didn’t argue with that because deep down, he knew Nico was right.
Across the room, you finally noticed Jack had arrived. For a second, your stomach tightened, the same way it had the first few times after the breakup. But this time, something was different. Not easier… just clearer.
Timo noticed too. He glanced at you briefly, silently asking if you were okay. You nodded. After a moment, you decided the best option was the simplest one: act like adults. So you walked over.
“Hey,” you said to Jack.
He gave a small nod. “Hey.”
A pause followed, not hostile, just a little awkward.
“I heard you’ve been busy lately,” Jack said, glancing briefly toward where Timo was standing. You understood what he meant immediately.
“Yeah,” you said honestly. “I have.”
Jack studied your expression, then sighed softly.
“Are you happy?”
It was such a straightforward question that it caught you slightly off guard, but you answered truthfully.
“I think I am.”
Jack nodded slowly.
“Okay,” he said.
And surprisingly that was the end of it. No fight. No drama. Just a quiet acceptance that things had changed.
Later that night, after most people had left, you were helping Audrey clean up empty glasses in the kitchen.
“You handled that well,” Audrey said.
“With Jack?”
“Yeah.”
You shrugged slightly. “I didn’t want things to be weird forever.”
Audrey smiled knowingly. “Too late for that. But it could be worse.”
Across the room, Timo was talking with Nico, though his attention kept drifting toward you. Nico noticed.
“You’re still nervous,” Nico said.
“I asked her out already.”
“Yeah, but now it’s real.”
Timo couldn’t argue with that because tonight had confirmed something important, this wasn’t just casual anymore. People knew. Jack knew. And despite that, you were still here, still talking to him, still smiling when your eyes met.
After a moment, Timo walked over. Audrey immediately grinned and grabbed Nico’s arm. “We should go check something in the other room.”
Nico raised an eyebrow. “There is nothing in the other room.”
“Exactly,” Audrey said, pulling him away anyway.
You laughed softly as they left.
“They’re not subtle,” you said.
“Not at all,” Timo replied.
There was a quiet moment between you before he spoke again, a little more serious this time.
“So… I was thinking.”
“That’s dangerous,” you teased.
He smiled. “Probably.”
Then he continued: “I don’t want this to just be a couple dinners and hoping we run into each other at parties.”
You looked at him curiously. “Okay…”
“I want to actually try,” he said. “With you.”
Your heart skipped slightly.
“I know the situation is a little complicated,” he added. “But I don’t care about that if you don’t.”
You studied him for a second, remembering the year of patience, the friendship that came first, the way he had never pushed you when things were messy. You realized something, this hadn’t happened suddenly. It had grown into something solid.
“I don’t think it’s complicated anymore,” you said quietly.
Timo looked surprised. “No?”
You shook your head slightly.
“I think we just needed time.”
A smile slowly spread across his face.
“Then… does that mean you’ll officially go out with me?”
You laughed softly.
“Yes, Timo.”
From the hallway, Audrey whispered loudly to Nico: “I told you this would happen.”
Dating Timo officially felt different than either of you expected. It wasn’t overwhelming, just steady. At first, it was mostly small things: meeting for coffee after practice, quiet dinners that lasted longer than planned, late-night walks when the city had settled down. You both seemed to understand that there was no rush. The relationship had already taken a year to build without either of you saying it out loud.
But the longer you spent time together, the harder it became to keep it private. And eventually, someone saw you. It happened on a random afternoon. You and Timo had gone to a small restaurant neither of you expected anyone to recognize him at. For most of the meal, it worked. You were laughing, talking, leaning closer across the table than two people who were “just friends.”
Then someone nearby quietly took a photo. Neither of you noticed, but the internet did. And by the next morning, fans had started connecting the dots. At first, it was speculation. Then older photos surfaced of parties at Nico and Audrey’s apartment, moments where you and Timo were standing close together in the background, clips from team gatherings where people suddenly realized you had been talking more than they thought.
The headlines weren’t dramatic, but they spread quickly.
Jack Hughes’ ex spotted dating teammate Timo Meier.
You woke up to a message from Audrey.
Okay… so the internet figured it out.
Your stomach sank slightly as you opened social media. There it was. Posts, comments, debates, theories about when it started. People trying to build timelines that weren’t even accurate.
Your phone buzzed again. This time it was Timo.
We should probably talk about this.
You replied almost immediately.
Yeah.
When Timo walked into the locker room that day, he knew everyone had seen it already. Hockey teams were like that, and information travelled faster than it should. Some guys were pretending not to care. Others were clearly curious.
A couple of them smirked when he sat down.
“Nice dinner date,” Arseny said casually.
Timo shook his head, trying not to react. “You people need hobbies.”
Nico walked in shortly after and immediately assessed the situation like a captain used to managing dynamics that went beyond hockey.
“Alright,” Nico said. “Leave him alone.”
A few players laughed, but the teasing stopped. Then Jack walked in that was the moment everyone felt the tension return. For a second, the room went quieter than usual. Jack had already seen the news online that morning. He had also seen the comments some were supportive, some messy, others were accusing Timo of crossing a line even though the timeline was clear.
He sat down at his locker without saying anything. Timo debated whether he should address it directly or leave it alone, but before he could decide, Jack spoke. Not to him, to the room.
“People are making it way more dramatic than it is,” Jack said casually.
A few heads turned. Jack shrugged.
“We broke up a long time ago. She can date whoever she wants.”
That eased the tension instantly. Even Nico looked slightly relieved. Timo glanced at Jack, a little surprised. Jack noticed and gave a small nod and that was enough.
Unfortunately, the internet wasn’t as calm as the locker room. Fans had opinions. A lot of them. Some people loved the idea of you and Timo together, especially after noticing how long you had been friends first. Others were convinced there had to be drama behind it. And then there were the people who kept bringing up the breakup with Jack, the Olympics controversy, the MAGA accusations, the arguments about values that had played out publicly at the time. That part bothered you more than anything.
One night, you were sitting on Timo’s couch scrolling through your phone when you sighed and dropped it onto the table.
“People really don’t let things go,” you said.
Timo sat beside you, glancing at the screen before pushing it slightly away.
“You don’t have to read that.”
“I know,” you said. “It’s just annoying.”
There was a pause before he spoke again.
“Do you regret any of it?”
You looked at him.
“Breaking up with Jack?”
He nodded.
You thought about it carefully before answering.
“No,” you said honestly. “It was the right decision for me.” Then you added, quieter: “And I wouldn’t have met you like this otherwise.”
That earned a soft smile from Timo, one that looked relieved in a way he hadn’t expected to feel.
A week later, something happened that surprised almost everyone. A reporter asked Jack about the situation during an interview, clearly fishing for drama.
“So what do you think about your ex dating a teammate?” the reporter asked.
Jack sighed slightly, clearly unimpressed by the question. “I think people should stop making it weird,” he said. “We dated, we broke up, life goes on.”
The reporter tried again. “But she’s dating Timo now—”
“Yeah. Good for them.” Jack cut him off.
That clip spread quickly, and for the first time since everything started, the conversation online started calming down a bit.
When you saw the interview, you were honestly surprised.
Later that evening, you sent Jack a short message.
Thanks for saying that.
He replied a few minutes later.
Didn’t want the media turning it into something stupid.
You smiled slightly.
It wasn’t a friendship exactly, but it was closure.
A few days later, you were back at Nico and Audrey’s apartment for another gathering, this time noticeably more relaxed than the last few. People had adjusted. The drama had faded. And now you and Timo were standing together openly, not worrying about who noticed.
At one point Audrey pulled you aside with a grin.
“You know,” she said, “this whole thing took forever.”
You laughed. “Tell that to Timo.”
“Oh, I will.”
Across the room, Nico was saying something to Timo that made him laugh.
You watched him for a moment, realizing how different things felt compared to a year ago. The chaos subsided and everything felt right.
A few minutes later, Timo walked over and slipped an arm casually around your waist.
“You look like you’re thinking about something,” he said.
“I was,” you replied.
“Good thoughts?”
You nodded.
“Yeah. Definitely.”
Your first major public appearance as a couple wasn’t something either of you planned carefully. It was a team charity gala. Technically, you had attended events like this before when you were dating Jack. Dressed up, smiling for photos, talking to fans and sponsors, trying to make the evening about the cause instead of the attention. But this time felt different. The entire situation carried a level of awareness that hadn’t existed before. Everyone already knew.
When you arrived at Timo’s apartment to get ready together, he was adjusting his tie in the mirror with a level of concentration that was honestly a little funny.
“You look like you’re about to play in the Stanley Cup Final,” you said from the doorway.
He glanced at you, then immediately froze for a second when he realized how you looked.
“You’re making it worse,” he said.
“How?”
“Now I’m nervous.”
You laughed softly, stepping further into the room.
“Timo, it’s just an event.”
He shook his head slightly. “It’s not just an event.”
And you understood what he meant. This would be the first time the two of you walked into something like this together publicly as a couple.
When you arrived at the venue, cameras were already set up near the entrance. Not a huge press line, hockey events weren’t usually that chaotic, but enough photographers and reporters to notice the shift immediately. And when Timo reached for your hand without hesitating, people definitely noticed. Flashes popped. Someone called your name. Someone else called Timo’s. But surprisingly, the moment didn’t feel overwhelming. If anything, it felt calmer than you expected, mostly because Timo didn’t let go of your hand the entire time.
Inside the event hall, players and their partners were already mingling. Music played softly, people chatted over drinks, and the atmosphere was warm and lively.
Audrey spotted you first.
“Oh my god,” she said, walking over dramatically. “You two look like a magazine cover.”
Nico appeared behind her, nodding in approval. “Yeah, this is definitely official now.”
You smiled. “Apparently.”
For a while, the night went smoothly. You talked with fans, listened to speeches about the charity, laughed with Audrey and some of the other partners, and watched Timo interact with people who clearly respected him on and off the ice. Then, inevitably, someone brought up the past again.
It happened during a short interview segment with a local reporter covering the event. Most of the questions were normal, about the charity, about the season, about team dynamics.
But then the reporter looked at you and said: “Some fans are still curious about how your relationship started, given the situation with Jack before.”
You could feel Timo’s attention shift immediately beside you. He didn’t interrupt, but you could tell he wasn’t thrilled about the question. You answered calmly anyway.
“It started as a friendship,” you said. “And it stayed that way for a long time.”
The reporter nodded but pressed slightly further. “So there was never any overlap?”
Before you could answer again, Timo spoke, not aggressively, but firmly.
“No,” he said. “There wasn’t.”
His tone was polite but clear enough that the reporter quickly moved on to another question. Once the interview ended, you looked at him.
“You didn’t have to jump in.”
He shrugged. “I wanted to.”
You studied him for a second, realizing something.
“You get protective,” you said.
He smiled slightly. “Only when necessary.”
Later in the evening, you stepped outside onto the balcony of the venue to get some air. You didn’t expect Jack to already be there. For a moment, you both laughed a little awkwardly at the coincidence.
“Seems like we both had the same idea,” he said.
“Yeah.”
There was a short pause before he spoke again. “You look happy.”
The comment caught you slightly off guard. It wasn’t strange, it sounded genuine.
“I am,” you said.
Jack nodded slowly.
“I think… we probably wouldn’t have worked long-term anyway,” he admitted.
You leaned against the railing. “I think we both realized that eventually.”
He smiled faintly. “At least we figured it out before it got worse.”
“True.”
There was a moment of quiet between you before Jack added: “Timo’s a good guy.”
You blinked slightly, surprised again.
“He is,” you said.
Jack shrugged lightly. “If it had to be someone, I’m glad it’s not some random guy who treats you badly.”
You laughed softly. “That’s a very specific compliment.”
“It’s the best one I’ve got.”
When you went back inside, the event was starting to wind down. Music had gotten louder, people were relaxing more, and groups had formed around the room in casual conversations. At one point, someone suggested a group photo of the players, partners, and friends. Everyone gathered together. Nico and Audrey pulled you and Timo closer into the center of the group.
“Don’t hide in the back,” Audrey said. “This is historic.”
Timo laughed. “Historic?”
“Yes,” she said confidently. “The slowest-burn relationship in hockey history.”
Even Nico nodded. “She’s not wrong.”
The photographer counted down. And in that moment, as the photo was taken, something felt very real about where your life had ended up. It wasn’t the path you expected but it was the one that made the most sense.
After the photo, Timo leaned closer and said quietly: “You know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“If someone told me two years ago this would happen, I wouldn’t have believed them.”
You smiled.
“Same.”
He squeezed your hand slightly.
“But I’m glad it did.”
Slide into his DMs pt.2
A/N: It took me a while to write this second part because I had other things I wanted to write as well. It's finally here, and I am so happy with how it turned out. Thank you so much for your support and all the lovely messages!! ❤️
My students can either be my worst nightmare and my biggest critics, but they are also my biggest supporters and hype man. I love them so much, and I owe them for giving me this idea.
Pairing: Timo Meier x teacher!reader
Words: 7,5k
Warning(s): none, except that I hate writing so much dialogue, and it probably shows.
One student whispered in disbelief. “…Is that… Timo Meier?”
For a moment, the entire classroom froze. Thirty teenagers stared at the phone on your desk like it had just turned into the Stanley Cup. You felt your face immediately get warm.
“…Uh,” you said, glancing at the screen and then back at your students. On the phone, Timo was clearly trying not to laugh.
One student slowly stood up from his chair. “…Miss.”
“Yes?”
“Why is Timo Meier in on your phone?”
The students all began to scream over each other.
“NO WAY!” “OH MY GOD!” “IT IS HIM!”
A few students rushed closer to the front of the classroom before you raised your hands quickly.
“Okay! Everyone stay where you are!” But that did not help, of course they did not stay where they were. They all wanted to see your phone screen and within seconds half the class had gathered around your desk, staring at the screen in complete disbelief.
One girl covered her mouth. “Oh my god this is actually happening.”
Another student leaned forward way too close to the phone. “Hi.”
You quickly pulled the phone slightly back. “Give him some space!” you said, trying not to laugh. On the screen, Timo raised a hand in a small wave. “Hi.”
That somehow made the entire room even louder. “OMG, IT'S NOT A PICTURE. IT'S REALLY HIM!” “HE WAVED!” “THIS IS CRAZY!”
You rubbed your forehead slightly. “This is exactly why I didn’t want them to know about the messages,” you muttered to him quietly.
He laughed. “I can see that.”
A boy in the front raised his hand like he was asking a normal classroom question. “Timo?”
You blinked. “…Did you just call him by his first name.”
“He’s on FaceTime.” He shrugged.
“Fine. Yes?” You sighed.
The boy leaned forward toward the phone. “Thank you for motivating us to pass the essays.”
Several students nodded very seriously. “Yes thank you.”
“Well, you worked really hard,” he complimented them.
Another student added, “We had group meetings.”
You stared at them. “You had group meetings?”
“For motivation,” she casually said.
On the phone, Timo was holding back his laughter again. “Well,” he said, “it worked.”
A girl near the front suddenly spoke up. “Wait, are you actually coming here? Now that we've all passed.”
You quickly jumped in before the conversation spiralled completely out of control. “Okay,” you said, pointing at the class. “Remember the deal was maybe.”
Thirty students immediately protested. “MISS!” “YOU SAID!” “THE DEAL!”
You raised your hands again. “I said maybe.”
On the phone, Timo leaned slightly closer to the camera. “I think we can make something work,” he said, derailing your whole class again. You shook your head, laughing now.
“Alright that’s enough excitement for one morning.”
Groans filled the room.
“Miss, but we just met Timo Meier!”
“Technically you waved at him through a phone,” you argued.
“Still counts!”
You looked back down at the screen. “I’m sorry about them.”
“They’re great,” he said.
One student leaned in again, “Are you playing tonight?” Another asked, “Can we watch?”
You stepped in before the questions turned into a full press conference.
“Alright everyone, back to your seats.”
They slowly shuffled back, still buzzing with excitement. A few of them kept glancing toward the phone like they were afraid it might disappear.
You looked back at him, “Thank you for saying hi.”
“No problem,” he said.
You hesitated for a second before adding, “They’re going to talk about this for the rest of the year.”
“I figured,” he smiled.
You smiled as well, “I should probably start class before they forget they’re still students.”
“Good idea,” he said and laughed softly.
You picked up the phone.
“I’ll talk to you later?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Good luck with them.”
You turned the phone off just as the classroom erupted into excited whispers again. The rest of the lesson was chaotic. Not a single one of your students was able to focus because every five minutes or so, someone would bring up the call again.
“Miss Y/L/N, he actually waved.”
“Yes I saw.”
“Miss, do you think he remembers us?”
“He met you ten minutes ago.”
“Still.”
Eventually the bell rang, and your students spilled out into the hallway, loudly telling everyone they passed their essays and that Timo had been on a call with the class. You leaned back in your chair once the room was empty.
“That was insane,” you murmured to yourself.
Your phone buzzed about ten minutes later. You glanced down, it was another incoming call from Timo.
You smiled and answered, “Hi.”
“Hi,” he said. “Did the classroom survive?”
“Barely.”
He laughed. “I have to go to practice,” he said. “But I wanted to call back quickly.”
“I appreciate that.” You leaned back in your chair.
“So,” he continued, “about the visit.”
Your heart skipped slightly, “You’re serious about that?”
“Yeah,” he said. “We just have to figure out when.”
You glanced at your planner sitting on the desk.
“Well… I can make the class available.”
“Good,” he said. You could hear faint rink noise again on his end of the line.
“I was thinking maybe sometime next week if the schedule works.”
You nodded automatically before realizing he couldn’t see you. “That would be amazing.”
He chuckled. “Alright, I have to run to practice.”
“Good luck,” you said automatically.
“Thanks.”
There was a small pause before he added,
“I’ll text you later so we can pick a day.”
You smiled. “Sounds good.”
When the call ended, you leaned back in your chair again. Your classroom was quiet. Your students were somewhere in the building telling the story to anyone who would listen.
Later that night, as you were sitting on the couch, you texted with Timo back and forth. You both decided that Thursday would work out best for the best of you, and your students, and the Devils team.
The week leading up to the visit felt like the longest week of your life, not because you were stressed but because your students would not stop talking about it. Every morning, someone asked the same question.
“Miss, what day are they coming again?”
“Thursday,” you repeated for what felt like the hundredth time.
“And they’re actually coming?”
“Yes.”
“And Timo Meier is coming too?”
“Yes.” That question always caused half the class to turn and stare at you with suspicious smiles. You ignored it every time.
Thursday morning arrived with an energy in your classroom that felt closer to a championship game than a school day. Your students were unusually well-behaved. They were too well-behaved. You narrowed your eyes at them.
“…Why are you all sitting quietly?”
One boy shrugged. “We’re trying to make a good impression.”
Another student added dramatically, “We represent the school.”
“Alright then.” You tried not to laugh.
But the moment someone in the hallway shouted, “THEY’RE HERE,” the entire class shot up out of their chairs.
“Sit down!” you said quickly.
They sat, but barely. Thirty students were now vibrating with excitement. A knock sounded at the classroom door. Your heart did a very annoying little flip. You walked over and opened it. Standing in the hallway were several players from the New Jersey Devils, along with a couple staff members.
And right near the front was Timo Meier.
He grinned when he saw you. “Hi.”
You tried to act like your heart wasn’t racing. “Hi.”
Behind you, your classroom had gone completely silent. The thirty teenagers stared like they had just seen celebrities walk into the room. Which… technically they had.
“Come in.” You stepped aside.
The moment the players entered, the room exploded with excitement again.
“OH MY GOD.” “IT’S ACTUALLY THEM.” “I TOLD YOU.”
One student whispered loudly, “This is the best day of my life.”
You shook your head, smiling. “Alright everyone, calm down.”
The players laughed as they stepped further into the room. One of them nudged Timo lightly. “You weren’t kidding,” he said quietly. “They’re excited.”
“Very,” Timo replied.
Your students quickly gathered around the group, asking questions almost immediately.
“Do you practice every day?” “Who’s the fastest skater?” “Do you keep your sticks?” “Have you ever fought someone on the ice?”
You folded your arms, watching the chaos with amusement. Timo drifted over toward you while the others handled most of the questions.
“You look proud,” he said.
“I am,” you admitted. You nodded toward the class. “They worked really hard for this.”
“I believe it.”
One of his teammates, Jesper, glanced between the two of you and smirked slightly. “You must be the famous teacher.”
You blinked. “…Famous?”
“I might’ve mentioned you.” Timo shrugged innocently.
You narrowed your eyes. “What exactly did you say?”
“Only good things,” he said and put his hands up in defence.
You snorted softly. Across the room, a girl noticed the two of you talking and elbowed her friend. “Look.”
The friend leaned over “…Oh my god.”
“What?” another student whispered.
“Timo is flirting with Miss Y/L/N.”
Your head snapped toward them. “I can hear you.”
They immediately looked innocent. Timo laughed quietly beside you. “They’re very observant.”
“They’re fourteen,” you said. “Observing drama is their hobby.”
Jonas, who was nearby, chuckled. “I think the whole team noticed.”
“This is a nightmare.” You covered your face briefly.
“No,” Timo said lightly. “I think it’s fun.”
Your students eventually started asking for photos. You helped organize them into groups while the players posed and laughed with them. The entire room felt bright and chaotic and joyful. At one point, while the class was distracted with another player, Timo leaned slightly closer to you.
“You did a good job with them.”
Your heart skipped again. “Thanks.”
“They’re good kids.”
“They are,” you said.
There was a brief pause. Then he added casually, “You should come to a game sometime.”
You blinked. “…What?”
He smiled. “One of ours.” He gestured lightly. “Watch the Devils play.”
You folded your arms, trying to act calm, “I already watch your games.”
“Not from the stands,” Timo argued.
Your students suddenly gasped behind you. “MISS, YOU ARE GOING TO A GAME?”
“…You heard that?” You groaned.
“YES.” “MISS YOU HAVE TO GO.” “TIMO INVITED YOU.”
The entire class was now staring at you expectantly.
You looked back at him. “This is your fault.”
“Maybe.” He grinned.
One of the students raised a hand dramatically. “Miss, we will personally escort you to the arena if needed.”
“I think I can manage.” You laughed. Then you looked back at Timo. “…Alright.”
Your students went crazy again.
“YES.” “THIS IS AMAZING.” “BEST TEACHER EVER.”
Timo laughed, clearly pleased with the reaction. “Looks like the class approves.”
“Apparently they do.” You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.
And somewhere in the room, several students were already whispering excitedly, “Miss is totally going on a date!”
The days leading up to the game passed both painfully slow and unbelievably fast at the same time. Every time your phone buzzed with a message from Timo, you felt that same small rush of excitement followed immediately by the realisation that you were now actually going to see him again. Not through a phone screen, not while hiding your phone behind a laptop in a classroom full of teenagers, but in person, at one of his games, surrounded by thousands of fans. And somehow that made the whole situation feel much more real.
Your students, unfortunately, were extremely aware that something was happening. The moment you walked into the classroom that Tuesday morning, the energy felt different. Several students were already whispering to each other when you entered, and the second you set your bag down on your desk, one of the girls in the front row leaned back in her chair and studied you suspiciously.
“…Miss.”
You looked up from rummaging through your drawer looking for a marker. “Yes?”
“You look nervous.”
“I do not.”
“Yeah, you do.”
A boy across the room immediately joined in. “Wait,” he said slowly, narrowing his eyes. “Isn’t the game tonight?”
You froze for half a second, which was unfortunately all the confirmation they needed.
The entire class reacted at once. “IT IS.” “MISS Y/L/N IS GOING TONIGHT.” “YOU’RE GOING TO SEE TIMO MEIER AGAIN.”
You groaned quietly, rubbing your forehead. “You people are detectives.”
“So, what are you wearing?” One girl turned around in her chair dramatically.
Your head snapped up. “Why is that your first question?”
“Because it’s important.”
Another student leaned forward with a very serious expression. “You can’t just show up looking like you rolled out of bed.”
“I am going to a hockey game,” you said flatly.
“Yes,” he replied. “But it’s his hockey game.” The class erupted into laughter while you tried very hard not to smile.
“First of all,” you said, pointing at them, “it is not a date.”
Thirty students immediately reacted with identical disbelief. “MISS.” “It’s definitely a date.” “You’re in denial.” “You’re literally going because he invited you.”
You tried to maintain your serious teacher voice. “I’m going because I like hockey.”
That earned you about thirty unimpressed stares. One student raised his hand.
“Yes?” you said tiredly.
“Do you think he’s nervous too?”
You paused. The idea hadn’t even crossed your mind. “…I doubt it.”
“Maybe he is,” the student said thoughtfully. “He knows the whole class is judging him.”
You snorted despite yourself. “Well then I wish him luck.”
The class spent the rest of the morning giving you completely unnecessary advice. “Don’t trip when you walk.” “Wave casually, not awkwardly.” “Act cool.” “Don’t embarrass us.”
“I hate all of you,” you told them at one point. They took that as a compliment.
By the time the school day ended, your nerves had only gotten worse. At home, you stood in front of your closet longer than you cared to admit, staring at several very normal outfits like they were somehow wrong. Eventually, you settled on something simple, some dark jeans, comfortable sneakers, and your New Jersey Devils jersey layered over a black long-sleeve shirt. It felt appropriate. You were going to a hockey game, after all, and wearing the team’s jersey made sense. Still, when you looked at your reflection in the mirror, you couldn’t help adjusting the sleeves and smoothing the fabric nervously.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered to yourself. You had been to plenty of hockey games before, but this time was different. This time someone on the ice knew you were coming.
The arena was already buzzing when you arrived. From the moment you stepped out of the car, you could hear the distant hum of excitement. There were fans talking loudly, music echoing faintly from inside the building, and the sound of skates occasionally scraping against concrete as staff moved equipment through the entrances. People in red and black jerseys filled the plaza outside. Groups of friends laughed together, families took pictures near the entrance, and vendors sold scarves and hats with the Devils logo.
You took a deep breath before walking inside. The familiar smell of the arena hit you immediately. The popcorn, hot dogs, ice, and the faint metallic scent that always seemed to linger around hockey rinks. Your heart started beating faster as you approached the ticket window and gave your name. The employee smiled politely and handed you a small envelope.
“Enjoy the game.”
You stepped aside and opened it carefully. Inside was the ticket, front section, it was much closer than you had ever sat before.
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “Timo…” you murmured under your breath.
You made your way through the arena slowly, following the signs toward your section. The sound of the crowd grew louder the closer you got to the rink, until finally you stepped out into the open seating area.
The sight of the ice always took your breath away, it looked bright white under the arena lights. The rink was surrounded by the deep red of the boards and there were massive screens hanging above centre ice. Fans were already filing into their seats while the players skated through warmups.
You walked down the steps toward your seat, your eyes instinctively scanning the ice, and then you saw him. Timoglided across the rink effortlessly, weaving between teammates as he chased a loose puck during warmups. He moved quickly and confidently. He was clearly in his element in a way that was completely different from the relaxed version of him you had gotten to know through messages and phone calls.
For a moment you simply watched. It was strange seeing someone you had been texting almost daily suddenly back in the environment where thousands of people knew him.
Then, as if he could feel your eyes on him, he slowed near the boards on your side of the ice. Your stomach flipped when he glanced up toward the crowd. For a second his gaze moved past you before it stopped. Recognition spread across his face almost instantly and he smiled, not the polite smile athletes always gave to fans but a real one.
Your face warmed immediately as you lifted your hand in a small, slightly awkward wave. He tapped the blade of his stick lightly against the boards in your direction before pushing off the glass and skating back toward centre ice. You sank back into your seat, your heart was racing, the game hadn’t even started yet, and somehow you were already more nervous than you had been all week.
You sat there for a few moments after he skated away, trying to steady your breathing, but it didn’t really work. Your heart was still racing, your hands slightly restless in your lap as the arena continued to fill around you. Fans were finding their seats, music was echoing through the speakers, and the sharp sounds of pucks hitting sticks and boards during warmups. Everything felt a little distant, like your focus had narrowed to just one thing. Him.
It was different seeing Timo like this. On the ice, he wasn’t the same person who joked with you about your students or stayed on the phone while you graded essays. Here, he moved with purpose. There was a kind of confidence to him that was impossible to miss, the kind that came from doing something you were incredibly good at, in front of thousands of people, and making it look easy.
You leaned back slightly in your seat, watching as warmups wrapped up and the players began to leave the ice. Every now and then your eyes drifted toward the tunnel he disappeared into, like you expected him to come back out immediately. Which was ridiculous.
You exhaled slowly. “This is fine,” you muttered to yourself. A couple sitting next to you glanced over briefly, probably because you were talking to yourself, but you ignored it.
The arena lights dimmed slightly as pre-game announcements started, drawing your attention back to the ice. The energy in the building shifted instantly—louder, more focused, electric in a way that made it impossible not to get caught up in it.
By the time the New Jersey Devils skated out for introductions, your nerves had mixed with excitement so completely that you couldn’t tell them apart anymore. When his name was announced, the crowd reacted loudly and you found yourself smiling without thinking.
The game itself pulled you in quickly. At first, you were hyper-aware of everything, where he was on the ice, every shift he took, every time he got near the puck. But as the minutes passed, you started to relax into the rhythm of the game. Still, every time Timo jumped over the boards, your attention snapped right back to him.
Halfway through the first period, he carried the puck into the offensive zone, cutting around a defender with a quick, a sharp move that made the crowd react immediately. You leaned forward in your seat without realizing it, your hands gripping the edge slightly as he passed the puck across the ice.
“Come on,” you whispered under your breath.
The shot that followed was blocked, but the play kept going, fast and intense, and you felt your heart pick up again with the pace of it. You’d always loved hockey, but this game felt more personal.
By the second period, you had almost forgotten how nervous you were earlier. Almost being the keyword, because the moment the intermission started, it all came rushing back.
Your phone buzzed in your hand. When you looked down, you saw Timo had texted you.
Enjoying the game?
You stared at it for a second, smiling.
Yes. You hesitated, then added: You’re playing well.
The reply came quicker than you expected.
Glad you think so. Another message followed. Stay after?
Your heart skipped. You read it again just to make sure. You bit your lip slightly before typing back.
Okay.
The three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again.
I’ll come find you.
You leaned back in your seat, staring at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. Stay after. That sounded important, or maybe you were just overthinking it. (You were definitely overthinking it.)
The third period went by faster than the first two combined. Your attention kept drifting between the game and the thought sitting in the back of your mind. He was going to come find you. It wasn’t another message or a phone call, he was actually coming to find you.
By the time the final buzzer sounded, your nerves were back in full force. Fans around you stood up, talking excitedly as they started to leave their seats, but you stayed where you were, gripping your phone slightly as you looked toward the ice one last time.
All the players began skating off, and the arena slowly started to empty. Suddenly, you had no idea what you were supposed to do.
Do you wait here? Do you go somewhere? Do you—
“Hey.”
You turned your head quickly at the sound of the voice, and there he was. Timo, standing just a few steps away from your seat, hair slightly damp, still in parts of his gear, looking very real. Your brain stopped working for a second.
“Hi,” you said, a little breathless.
He smiled, a little softer than before. “Hi.”
Neither of you moved, and then he stepped a little closer, glancing around at the mostly empty section before looking back at you.
“You stayed.”
You nodded. “You told me to.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Good.”
Your heart was racing again now. Being here, talking to him like this, without a phone screen between you, it felt completely different. More real, and more intense.
“You were great,” you said, then immediately felt a little self-conscious. “I mean—obviously. You’re always great.”
He smiled slightly, clearly amused. “I’ll take that.”
You laughed softly, looking down for a second before meeting his eyes again.
There was a short pause, it wasn’t exactly awkward. Just loaded.
Then he said, a little more casually, “Do you want to come down for a bit?”
“…Down?” You blinked.
He nodded toward the tunnel behind him.
“Locker room area. It’s quieter.”
Your heart did that same annoying flip again.
“Oh.” You hesitated for half a second. Then nodded. “Okay.”
His smile widened just slightly.
“Come on.”
The moment you stepped off the seating level and followed him toward the tunnel, everything around you shifted. The noise of the arena gradually faded behind you with every step. It didn’t disappear completely, but it became muffled, like something happening in another world. Down here, the atmosphere was different. Quieter. You could hear the sharper sounds now, the faint clatter of equipment being moved somewhere nearby, the low murmur of staff talking as they passed through the corridors.
You walked just slightly behind Timo, your hands tucked loosely into your sleeves as you tried to act normal, even though nothing about this felt normal. You were very aware of where you were, of who you were with, of the fact that just an hour ago you had been sitting in the stands like any other fan, and now you were being casually led into the behind-the-scenes world of an NHL arena. It made your heart beat faster.
He glanced back at you as you turned down another hallway, his pace slowing just a little. “You okay?”
“Yeah… I think so.” You let out a small breath, half a laugh. You shook your head slightly. “This is just… a lot.”
He smiled at that, not in a teasing way this time, but something softer, more understanding. “Fair.”
The hallway opened into a quieter area, away from most of the post-game movement. A couple of staff members passed by, nodding at him like it was just another normal interaction, barely glancing at you. No one was questioning why you were there. No one was stopping you.
He stopped near a corner where the noise dropped even further, leaning back lightly against the wall and turning toward you fully. Neither of you said anything, and without the constant noise of the arena or the distraction of your students or your phone, the silence felt different and comfortable.
“So,” he said after a moment, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, “still nervous?”
You let out a quiet laugh, glancing down at your hands before looking back up at him.
“A little.” You hesitated, then admitted honestly, “More than before.”
That made him smile properly. “I told you, I’m not that intimidating.”
You crossed your arms lightly, tilting your head.
“You are when you’re skating like that.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Like what?”
“Fast and confident. Like you know exactly what you’re doing all the time.”
He huffed a soft laugh, looking down briefly before meeting your eyes again. “Only on the ice.”
Something about the way he said it made your chest feel a little tighter. You smiled slightly, trying to ignore it.
“You played really well tonight.”
“You already said that,” he replied, clearly amused.
“I know,” you said, “but I mean it.”
He held your gaze for a second longer than expected. “I’m glad you came.”
The words were simple, but there was something in the way he said them that made your stomach flip. You shifted your weight slightly.
“I am too.”
A small pause followed like both of you were suddenly more aware of the moment than before. Then he exhaled lightly, glancing down the hallway for a second before looking back at you.
“They’re going to be insufferable tomorrow, aren’t they?”
You laughed immediately, the tension easing just a little.
“You have no idea.” You leaned back slightly against the wall opposite him. “They’re already convinced this is a whole story.”
“A story?”
“Oh yeah,” you said. “They think they’re part of something dramatic.”
“They kind of are.” He smiled.
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.
“If they find out I came down here, I’m never going to hear the end of it.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“So don’t tell them.”
You laughed.
“You’ve met them.”
“True.”
“They’d figure it out somehow,” you added. “They always do.”
He nodded like that made perfect sense.
“Then you’ll just have to deal with it.”
“Great. Thanks for the support,” you sighed dramatically.
“I’m helping,” he said, clearly not serious at all.
You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling.
There was another pause, the kind that didn’t feel like something that needed to be filled right away.
He pushed himself off the wall, stepping just a little closer. Not enough to feel overwhelming but just enough that you noticed.
“So,” he said, more casually again, “would you come to another game?”
Your breath caught slightly at how direct that was, “…Another one?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Without thirty students watching your every move.”
You laughed under your breath.
“That would definitely be less stressful.”
“See?” he said. “I’m making it easier for you.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you’re doing?”
“Obviously.”
“I’ll think about it,” you shook your head whilst smiling.
“That doesn’t sound very convincing.”
“It means yes,” you admitted after a second.
His smile widened slightly at that. “Good.” He glanced down the hallway once more, this time more reluctantly. “I should probably get back before they start wondering where I am.”
You nodded, even though part of you didn’t want the moment to end just yet.
“Yeah… of course.”
But again, neither of you moved right away. Then he said, a little softer, “I’ll text you later.”
You met his eyes and smiled, “I’d like that.”
He nodded once, like that was all he needed to hear. He took a step back, turning slightly before glancing at you one last time.
“Try not to let your class bully you too much tomorrow.”
You laughed quietly. “No promises.”
He grinned, and then he was gone, disappearing down the hallway and back into the world he belonged to.
You stayed there for a moment longer, leaning lightly against the wall, letting everything sink in—the game, the conversation, the way he looked at you when he spoke, the fact that this had somehow turned into something real and ongoing.
As you finally pushed yourself off the wall and made your way back toward the arena exits, one thought kept circling in your mind. Tomorrow morning was going to be absolute chaos because there was no way your students were going to let this go.
The next morning, you already knew you were in trouble before you even reached your classroom. You could hear them from down the hallway.
“…I’m telling you, she definitely stayed after.” “No way, she would’ve told us.” “She wouldn’t tell us everything.”
You stopped just outside the door, took a deep breath, and muttered to yourself, “Stay calm.” Before you walked in.
Thirty heads turned instantly. And just like that— “MISS.” “HOW WAS THE GAME?” “WHAT HAPPENED?” “DID YOU TALK TO HIM?”
You set your bag down slowly, deliberately, buying yourself a few seconds.
“It was a hockey game,” you said calmly.
There were so many unimpressed stares, and one student leaned forward.
“…Miss.”
“Yes?”
“That’s not enough information.”
The class nodded in agreement. “We need details.” “All the details.”
You crossed your arms, trying to look authoritative. “I’m not giving you a full report.”
“WHY NOT?”
“Because it’s none of your business.”
“That means something happened,” someone whispered loudly.
You sighed.
“You are all exhausting.”
“But we’re right,” another student added.
You tried to ignore them, turning toward the board and picking up a marker.
“We have a lesson today—”
“Miss Y/L/N, did you see Timo after the game?” a girl asked calmly.
You froze before you slowly turned back around, facing your class.
“…Maybe,” you said casually but their reaction was instant.
“I KNEW IT.” “WHAT DID HE SAY?” “DID YOU GO DOWN TO THE LOCKER ROOM?”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “I’m not answering that.”
“That’s a yes.” “It’s definitely a yes.” “You went, didn’t you?”
“No more questions.” You pointed at them, but they ignored that completely.
“MISS, IT’S A LOVE STORY.”
“It is not a love story.”
“YET.”
“This class is a mistake,” you groaned, obviously joking.
They laughed, clearly very pleased with themselves. Eventually, after far too many questions and far too little actual teaching, you managed to get through the lesson. Just barely. By the time the final bell rang, you felt like you had just survived an interrogation.
As your students packed up, one of them paused at your desk.
“Miss?”
You looked up.
“Yes?”
He grinned.
“He’s definitely going to ask you out.”
Your brain short-circuited for half a second. “…Goodbye.”
He laughed and walked out.
You shook your head, trying to ignore how your heart had suddenly picked up again.
Later that evening, you were sitting on your couch, half-watching something on TV but not really paying attention, when your phone buzzed. You didn’t even need to check to know who it was. Still, your stomach did that familiar little flip when you saw his name. You opened the message.
Did you survive your class?
You smiled immediately.
Barely.
A few seconds later: That bad?
You let out a small laugh and typed back.
They think we’re in a love story.
There was a pause and then: Are we?
You stared at the screen. Your heart definitely skipped this time. You read the message again, just to make sure you hadn’t imagined it. You bit your lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
I think they’re getting ahead of themselves.
The reply came a little slower this time.
Maybe.
Your breath caught slightly. Another message followed quickly. But I was thinking…
You sat up a little straighter without realizing it.
About what?
Three dots appeared, disappeared and appeared again.
About taking you on an actual date.
Your heart started racing. You stared at the message for a long moment, suddenly very aware of how quiet your apartment was. There were no students, there was no noise to distract you. It was just you and your phone, and the TV without sound in the background.
You typed something, deleted it and tried again.
Isn’t that what yesterday was? You sent it before you could overthink it.
His reply came quickly. No. A second later: Yesterday was hockey. Another message: This would be different.
You felt your face warm, even though no one could see you.
Different how?
There was a slightly longer pause this time. Then: Dinner.
Your heart skipped again.
No students or chaos. Just us.
You let out a slow breath, staring at the screen.
Your student’s voice echoed in your head. “He’s definitely going to ask you out.”
You shook your head slightly, smiling despite yourself.
Then you typed: Okay.
The reply came almost instantly.
Okay?
You laughed softly.
Yes.
Good.
The days leading up to the date felt completely different from anything before. It wasn’t like the excitement of the classroom visit, loud and chaotic and shared with thirty overly invested teenagers. This felt quieter. Which, somehow, made it even more nerve-wracking.
You caught yourself thinking about it at random moments, while making coffee in the morning, while walking between classes, while your students were working and you were supposed to be supervising but instead staring at your desk for a second too long.
Of course, your students noticed. They noticed everything.
“Miss,” one of them said casually the day before, spinning a pen between their fingers, “big plans tomorrow?”
You didn’t even look up. “No.”
A pause. “…You’re a terrible liar.”
The class laughed.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “I’m not discussing my personal life with you.”
“That’s a yes.”
“It’s definitely a yes.”
“Miss Y/L/N is going on a date,” someone whispered loudly.
You sighed.
“This conversation is over.”
The night of the date arrived far too quickly. Standing in front of your mirror, you found yourself overthinking everything in a way that felt almost ridiculous. You had changed outfits twice already, discarding options that suddenly felt “too much” or “not enough” for reasons you couldn’t properly explain.
Eventually, you settled on something simple but a little more put-together than usual. Something that didn’t scream I tried too hard but also didn’t look like you had just come home from work and not thought about it at all. You adjusted your sleeve one last time, then stopped yourself.
“This is fine,” you muttered. It had to be.
The restaurant he had chosen was quieter than you expected. Not overly fancy, but warm and softly lit, with low conversations filling the space instead of loud music or crowded noise. It felt intentional. Like he had picked a place where you could actually talk. Which, of course, made your nerves spike again the moment you stepped inside.
You gave your name at the front, and the host smiled knowingly before leading you further into the restaurant.
“He’s already here,” they said. Your heart jumped. Of course he was.
You followed, trying to keep your expression calm, your steps steady, even though your mind was very aware of what was about to happen. And then you saw him.
Timo was already seated at a table near the back, dressed more casually than you had ever seen him before. No jersey, no gear, just a simple outfit that somehow made him look even more approachable and at the same time, made this feel far less like the world you were used to seeing him in.
He looked up as you approached and smiled. Your nerves immediately doubled.
“Hi,” you said, stopping by the table.
“Hi,” he replied, standing up.
There was a moment where neither of you seemed entirely sure what to do. Then he leaned in slightly, giving you a quick, easy hug. It was simple and casual, but it made your heart race anyway.
“You made it,” he said as you both sat down.
“You invited me,” you replied, smiling a little.
“Still,” he said. “You didn’t have to.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“You keep saying that.”
He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“I like that you came anyway.”
The waiter approached then, giving you both a moment to settle, handing you menus and asking about drinks. The brief interruption helped, grounding you slightly, giving you something normal to focus on. But the moment you were alone again, the awareness came rushing back.
This wasn’t a game or a classroom, this was a date and suddenly, you didn’t know what to do with your hands or your thoughts or the way your heart wouldn’t slow down.
“So,” he said after a moment, leaning back slightly in his chair, watching you with that same relaxed, attentive expression, “no students tonight.”
You laughed softly, grateful for the familiar topic.
“None.”
“Feels different?”
“Very,” you admitted.
He nodded. “Good.”
“Good?” You asked, tilting your head slightly.
“Yeah,” he said. “I wanted it to feel different.”
There was something in the way he said it, simple, but intentional that made your stomach flip again. You glanced down at your menu for a second, even though you hadn’t really read a word of it.
“Well,” you said lightly, “no one’s analysing my every move.”
He smiled.
“I don’t know. I might be.”
You looked up quickly.
“Oh?”
He held your gaze for a second, clearly amused.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “So far, you seem less nervous than at the game.”
You let out a quiet laugh.
“That’s because I’m sitting down.”
“That helps?”
“Immensely.”
He laughed, the sound easy and warm, and just like that, some of the tension eased again. The conversation started to flow more naturally after that. You talked about your students, of course, because that was always the easiest place to start. You told him about the way they had interrogated you after the game, and how one of them had confidently predicted he would ask you out.
He shook his head, smiling.
“They called it.”
“They did,” you admitted.
“Should I be worried about them?”
“Always,” you said immediately. That made him laugh again.
Then the conversation shifted away from the familiar. He told you about his schedule, about traveling, about what game days actually felt like from his perspective. You found yourself listening closely, asking questions, genuinely interested in the parts of his life you had never seen before.
And in return, he asked about you. Not just your job, but you. What you liked. What you did outside of teaching. What made you choose it in the first place.
It surprised you, a little, by how easy it felt. How natural it felt to sit there, talking, laughing, occasionally catching his gaze and holding it just a second longer than necessary.
At some point, you realized you had completely forgotten to be nervous.
Until he said, casually, “I’m glad I asked you.”
Your heart skipped again. You looked at him, a small smile forming.
“I’m glad you did too.”
He held your gaze for a moment, something softer settling in his expression again.
“Good.”
Somewhere between the main course and the quiet lull that followed, the conversation drifted into something softer again.
The kind of moment where neither of you felt the need to rush to fill the silence, where the low hum of the restaurant wrapped around you instead of interrupting. Your plates had been pushed slightly aside, glasses half-full, the candle between you flickering gently as the evening stretched on longer than you had expected. You didn’t want it to end.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, watching you with that same relaxed focus he always seemed to have when it was just the two of you.
“You know,” he said, a small smile forming, “this all started because of your students.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head.
“Don’t remind me.”
“I’m serious,” he continued. “If they hadn’t convinced you…”
He trailed off, raising an eyebrow slightly.
“You never would’ve sent that message.”
You looked down at your glass, smiling to yourself.
“…Probably not.”
“Definitely not,” he corrected.
You glanced back up at him.
“Okay, definitely not.”
He smiled, clearly satisfied with that answer.
“Which means,” he added lightly, “I should probably thank them.”
You laughed.
“Oh, please don’t. They already think they’re responsible for everything.”
“They kind of are.”
You pointed at him. “Don’t encourage them.”
He chuckled, then leaned forward just slightly, resting his arms on the table.
“What did it say again?” he asked.
You blinked.
“What?”
“That first message,” he said. “The one you sent.”
You groaned immediately, covering your face for a second.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I am not repeating that.”
“Why not?” he asked, clearly amused.
“Because it was embarrassing.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You don’t remember it, do you?” you said, narrowing your eyes slightly.
He tilted his head. “I remember enough.”
“That’s concerning.”
“You said your students made you do it.” He smiled.
“That part is true.”
“And something about them quoting—”
“Okay,” you cut in quickly, laughing despite yourself, “that’s enough.”
“—Wayne Gretzky,” he finished anyway, clearly enjoying this.
You shook your head, smiling.
“I can’t believe you remember that.”
“It was a good message.” He shrugged.
“It was not.”
“It worked.”
You paused. “…That’s not the point.”
“It kind of is,” he said.
You looked at him for a second, then laughed softly, giving in.
“Fine. Maybe it worked.”
“Definitely worked.”
There was a brief pause after that, but it felt different now. Like the conversation had shifted again without either of you saying it out loud.
He didn’t lean back this time, didn’t look away either. He juststayed there, a little closer than before, his expression softer, more focused.
“I’m glad you sent it,” he said.
Your heart skipped. You felt it immediately, that small, unmistakable shift in the air between you. You held his gaze, your voice quieter now. “Me too.”
Neither of you spoke for a moment after that.
The sounds of the restaurant faded again, replaced by that same quiet awareness you had felt in the hallway after the game, but stronger this time.
Eventually, the evening came to an end almost reluctantly. The bill was paid, coats were gathered, and suddenly you were standing outside the restaurant, the cool night air brushing against your skin as the warmth from inside faded.
It was quieter out here, just the two of you standing under the soft glow of the streetlights. You let out a small breath, your hands tucked into your sleeves again.
“This was really nice,” you said.
“It was,” Timo agreed and he stepped just a little closer towards you. “I had a good time,” he added.
“I could tell.” You smiled.
He huffed a quiet laugh.
“Was it that obvious?”
“A little.”
That made him smile again, but it faded into something softer almost immediately. He hesitated for a fraction of a second.
Then he said, quietly, “Can I kiss you?”
Your heart jumped so suddenly it almost caught you off guard. For a moment, everything else disappeared. The busy street, the cold night air, and the nervous thoughts that had been circling your head all evening. All that was left was him, and the way he was looking at you.
You nodded slightly, “Yeah.”
That was all he needed. He closed the small distance between you, one hand gently brushing against your arm as he leaned in. The kiss was soft and careful like he was giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t. Instead, you relaxed into it, your hand lightly catching his sleeve without even thinking about it. It only lasted a few seconds, but it felt longer.
When he pulled back, he didn’t step away immediately. He stayed close, just enough that you could still feel the warmth of him in the cool night air.
A small smile lingered on his face.
“…Definitely worth that first message,” he said quietly.
You laughed softly, your heart still racing.
“…Maybe I should thank my students.”
He smiled.
“Maybe you should.”
𝐀𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥 // 𝐍𝐇𝟏𝟑
Summary: “So, is your aunt actually dead? Or did you come up with lies every time?” – or the one where Nico is weirdly infatuated with his neighbor and his solution is to buy flowers from her every week.
Pairing: Nico Hischier x afab! reader with she/her pronouns
Word count: 16k
Warnings: No real warnings for this one. It's mostly cute. There's mentions of loneliness, hinting at depression almost, and also an argument between reader and her sister ★
A/N: One singular request for it and I will post a smutty little part two to this that I've already written. Please come tell me what you think ◡̈
The first time Nico saw you was the day he moved into his new apartment.
It had only taken him close to a decade, but he finally had a place in Jersey that wasn’t just somewhere his stuff happened to live. He’d bought a home. A penthouse, no less—top floor of a redbrick building that was probably an old factory in a past life. The real estate agent had talked a lot about its historic charm, but Nico had stopped listening somewhere between exposed piping and original hardwood floors.
All he’d really wanted was space. And big windows. Now he had both.
More closet space for clothes he didn’t own. A dining table large enough to host dinner parties he would absolutely never throw. A balcony perfect for long, reflective evenings he would definitely spend… inside. Just your classic, upscale bachelor pad.
He’d spent the morning directing the movers like a man who knew exactly what he was doing and the afternoon correcting everything Timo had unpacked like a man who absolutely did not.
By the time Timo finally left, Nico felt like he could sit down and breathe for the first time all day.
His kitchen was sleek—high-gloss black cabinets and brick accent walls, the kind of place that made you feel like you should know how to cook something impressive. He did not. One of the dining chairs wobbled when he sat down, which he chose to blame entirely on Timo, who had assembled them, and not at all on his own lack of supervision.
Through the massive windows, the apartment overlooked a courtyard—four tall buildings forming a quiet square around a patch of green. It felt almost hidden, like a secret garden for people who paid too much in maintenance fees. That had been a selling point. Nico preferred it to the constant noise of the street his old place faced.
Most of the windows across the courtyard were dark or shuttered. It was getting late, he figured. All except for one lonely window.
Directly opposite his apartment, in a unit that mirrored his almost exactly, a kitchen glowed softly. Same layout, same angles—just more lived-in. The cabinets were white instead of black. Lace curtains framed the windows. Potted plants lined the sill like they’d been there long enough to grow stuck.
And on the table, a single white candle burned in a holder, steady and bright. For a second, Nico’s brain went straight to fire hazard. Then you sat down.
Hood up, like you were hiding from the world—or just the evening. A mug cupped between your hands, something warm curling up in faint wisps. You settled easily at the kitchen table. Like you’d done it a hundred times before, and like you might do it a hundred more.
Nico looked away almost immediately, suddenly very interested in unpacking a box of kitchen utensils he didn’t remember owning. When the fuck had he bought a garlic press? He told himself not to stare. He folded laundry. He stacked plates. He tightened the screws on the chair Timo had “definitely assembled correctly, bro, trust me.”
But every now and then, he glanced back across the courtyard. You were still there.
Sometimes you smiled faintly at something on your phone. Other times, you scribbled in a notebook, pausing like you were deciding whether the thought was worth keeping or if you should erase it. And sometimes you just sat there, your gaze weirdly empty. Watching the candle. Letting the wax drip over your fingers as if you had nowhere else to be.
By midnight, Nico was brushing his teeth, half-asleep on his feet. He glanced over one last time, toothbrush hanging from his mouth. You were still there. Your head dipped slightly, like sleep was catching up to you in slow motion. But you didn’t leave the table. He couldn’t understand how you weren’t bored out of your mind yet, having sat still for hours at this point.
Nico turned off the lights in his apartment, the darkness folding in around him. And when he finally fell asleep, it was with a distinct, slightly ridiculous certainty that he would be dreaming of a girl that looked a little too much like his new neighbor.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Nico didn’t mean for it to become a habit. It just happened.
At first, it was accidental—passing glances while he heated something in the microwave or waited for his coffee to brew. But somewhere along the way, it turned into something else. A predictable routine. Slightly embarrassing, if he ever admitted it out loud.
Whenever he was home, he would look your way. He even started to notice things about you.
Like how your curtains changed with the seasons. In October, they’d been replaced with ones patterned with tiny pumpkins—subtle, but unmistakable if you were, for example, someone who apparently spent a concerning amount of time looking into a stranger’s kitchen. And then in December, the curtains were red, of course.
Or how every Saturday night, without fail, your apartment filled with people. Four girls, always the same ones. Nico had seen them enough times entering the building that he could almost recognize their voices echoing up from the courtyard.
And then, the rest of the week—there was nothing. Just you in your window. A candle always flickering while you simply sat there. Sometimes you cooked; other times he’d see delivery drivers outside the front door. Sometimes he could sense you were listening to music by the way you mouthed along or bobbed your head to a beat. But mostly you were quiet.
Maybe that was by choice. Maybe you like it that way. Nico told himself that had to be it. Plenty of people liked being alone. But for some reason, he wasn’t entirely convinced you were one of them.
You never looked his way. Or—at least—he’d never caught you doing it.
Not once. Not even accidentally. Which felt statistically unlikely, considering he was a full-grown man basically haunting the space the minimal time he spent at home. He liked his new apartment—he really did. But he was not one of those people who enjoyed being alone.
Over Christmas, you disappeared entirely. Nico noticed on the second day. By the third, he’d caught himself checking your dark windows out of pure reflex. By the fourth, he stopped pretending it didn’t bother him.
He stayed in Jersey.
There wasn’t enough time to make it back to Switzerland between games, and his parents hadn’t managed to come over this year. It wasn’t new. It didn’t even feel particularly sad anymore. It was just the way things worked when you had to move across the Atlantic to live out your dreams.
He’d celebrate with some of the guys from the team, eat too much, laugh a little too loudly, and then spend an hour or two on FaceTime with his family, trying to ignore the time difference and the way calls always ended a little too soon.
Still, the apartment felt bigger without you across from him. Colder, somehow. Maybe he just needed to decorate his place more. Bring in some of that warmth that you seemed to have at your place.
As snow gently fell over the courtyard, frost clinging to the windows, his habit of looking for you was, of course, still there—only now he was filled with a sense of longing every time he noticed you still weren’t there.
He wished for you to have a nice Christmas wherever you were. He hoped you were somewhere warm. Somewhere familiar and good. Mostly he hoped you weren’t alone.
A few days after Christmas, the candle was burning again.
Nico noticed immediately. He came home late from a New Year’s Day game—legs heavy, brain somewhere between exhausted and wired—and he saw the flickering light coming from your kitchen.
You stood by the stove, stirring something in a pot, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like you’d been at it for a while. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed that until he felt his shoulders relax at the sight. Which Nico knew was totally ridiculous.
January dragged on, slow and gray, until eventually the days started stretching again. More light filtered into the courtyard, lingering a little longer each afternoon.
Your window changed with it.
Sometimes there were fresh flowers on the table, bright and out of place against the winter backdrop. Other times, they’d be pushed aside to make room for dinner plates or board games or a bottle of wine that never seemed to stay full for very long.
The four girls came and went, just like always.
Nico had even run into them once—on his way out for a late practice, bag slung over his shoulder, already mentally halfway at the rink. They’d smiled and said hi. One of them had nudged another like they were sharing a joke he wasn’t in on.
You weren’t with them. Obviously. They were on their way to your apartment.
In fact, Nico had yet to see you anywhere that wasn’t framed by your kitchen window. It was starting to feel intentional. Like you existed exclusively in that space—lit by candlelight, half-hidden behind glass, untouchable in a way that didn’t make any logical sense.
After your friends left on Saturdays, you always lingered. Sitting alone at the table again. Sometimes with your phone, sometimes with that notebook, sometimes just staring at the candle like it had you hypnotized.
Nico wondered what you were thinking about. He wondered if you needed the quiet—or if you were just used to it. If the dinners you hosted drained your battery to the point where you needed to recharge alone for a few hours afterward, or if you just simply liked sitting there in your kitchen.
He also wondered, briefly, how deeply unsettling it would be if you knew how much a professional athlete—someone who, on paper, had much better things to do—was thinking about a girl he’d never spoken to.
Probably very. He tried not to think about that part.
Nico also had no idea what he’d do if he ever saw you outside of that window. He wasn’t even entirely sure he’d recognize you.
Turns out he would.
And you wouldn’t give him nearly enough time to come up with a plan.
One morning, Nico stumbled out of his building, barely awake, already mentally complaining about the practice waiting for him. The cold hit him immediately, sharp and rude, and he hunched deeper into his jacket as light snow drifted lazily through the air.
And there you were, on the other side of the courtyard, crouched slightly as you unchained a bike. He thought you were crazy for riding a bike in this weather.
Nico slowed without meaning to, watching as you tugged on a pair of mittens with your teeth. Up close—or just closer—you looked exactly the same. But also less like something framed behind glass.
You were human and not just a figment of his imagination.
Your coat was oversized, the kind that swallowed you whole, and a few strands of hair had escaped from under your knitted beanie, catching the light as they moved. Nico found himself noticing the smallest things—the way you shifted your weight, the way your breath came out in little clouds, the way you seemed entirely in your own world.
Without thinking twice, he said a quiet hello as he walked past you. He was only being a nice neighbor. You were on the way to the car park anyway.
Butyou didn’t react to it at all—you just adjusted your scarf, grabbed the handlebars, and started walking your bike toward the sidewalk as if he hadn’t said anything at all. You didn’t even give a glance in his direction.
Nico slowed to a stop for half a second, something awkward settling in his chest. Then he kept walking. He told himself you probably hadn’t heard him. The snow, the distance, the early hour—any number of reasons. Maybe you were painfully shy.
The silence followed him all the way to his car. And all the way to the rink. And, annoyingly, through most of practice.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
A few days later, some of Nico’s teammates invited themselves over.
Officially, it was to see his new place. Unofficially, Nico was about ninety percent sure it was because he had the biggest TV and the least likelihood of someone’s girlfriend telling them all to go home every twenty minutes.
Also—if he was being honest—there was a faint air of guilt to it too. Most of the guys were in long-term relationships now. Engagements, shared apartments, children. Guy’s nights had become something you had to schedule a month in advance, like a dentist appointment.
Meanwhile, Nico still had single written across his forehead in bold, capital letters.
He didn’t really mind, though—if they were here because of guilt. Not when his apartment was full like this. Voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the high ceilings, someone yelling about a missed pass on Chel like it was Game 7 of the finals.
It felt good. Almost entirely normal.
Dawson’s voice cut through the room from the couch, loud and indignant as he accused someone of being blind for missing an obvious offside. The response came just as quickly, dismissive and amused, reminding him that it was just a video game and he needed to relax.
And then they had the never-ending discussion about pineapple on pizza when they decided what to order for dinner. Someone declared it should be illegal. Another disagreed. The consensus was that pineapple wasn’t really that terrible when Jesper told everyone about how Swedish pizza places usually offered banana as a topping too.
Nico needed a moment to himself after eating. That’s what he told himself, anyway. Dishes. Trash. Totally normal, productive reasons to step away from a loud room full of grown men shouting over a video game.
He grabbed a couple of empty bottles, stacking them together as he moved toward the sink. He hadn’t even turned the water on yet when he heard footsteps behind him.
Timo. Of course.
“Are you okay, dude?” he asked, leaning casually against the counter like he hadn’t followed him in here on purpose. “You haven’t said a word all night.”
He said it in German, which helped approximately zero considering half the team could still probably guess what was being said just from tone alone.
Nico rinsed out a glass, focusing a little too hard on something that did not require that much concentration.
“I’m just tired, I think,” he muttered in response.
Timo hummed, unconvinced.
Nico braced himself. He could practically feel it coming—the follow-up question, the inevitable digging. Timo had that look, the one that meant he wasn’t done yet. Nico half expected something along the lines of “you sure? you’ve been weird” or, worse, something about him needing to “get out more.”
He kept his back turned, focusing on the glass that was definitely clean now. There was a pause. Long enough that Nico figured he’d gotten away with it. He knew he had when Timo asked something totally unrelated.
“Have you noticed your deaf neighbors across the street?”
Nico didn’t know what he was talking about at first, seeing Timo stare out his window with furrowed brows. He reached for a towel to dry his hands as he walked over to see for himself.
“I think they’re arguing in sign language,” Timo continued, pointing to the window for Nico to see.
The only window with a light turned on was yours, and through it he could see you and one of your friends. It was Saturday after all. For some reason, the other two girls in the group were missing.
And Timo was right; you were talking in what appeared to be sign language, hands frantically gesticulating. Even from a distance, it was obvious that this wasn’t casual conversation. It was tense. Emotional in a way that didn’t need sound to be understood.
Nico’s stomach dropped a little, though he couldn’t have said why.
“What was that look?” Timo asked, watching him now instead of the window. “Do you know them?”
“I tried talking to her once,” he admitted.
“Wait—what?”
“A few days ago. Outside.” Nico rubbed the back of his neck. “She just… ignored me.”
Timo’s expression shifted—somewhere between sympathy and barely contained amusement. “You tried talking to a deaf person without knowing she’s deaf?” he said. “That’s rough, dude.”
Nico exhaled. “Yeah.” Obviously.
But suddenly, it made sense. The silence. The lack of reaction. The way you hadn’t even glanced at him when he said hello. Maybe you couldn’t have heard him no matter what he’d said. How could he not have noticed the sign language before?
“Which one was it?” Timo asked, turning back toward the window.
“The one in the red shirt,” Nico said quietly. “She’s the one who lives there.”
Timo nodded once, assessing. “She’s cute.”
Nico let out a short breath. “Why do you think I tried talking to her?”
“Fair,” Timo said. “Still didn’t hear you, though.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Timo grinned, entirely unhelpful.
“Have you given Jonas’s wife’s friend another chance, by the way?” he added. “The redhead from Halloween?”
Nico groaned immediately. “No. Why would I?”
“I don’t know.” Timo shrugged. “She seemed interested in you. And you can’t just sit around moping over your neighbor who you literally can’t talk to.”
“I’m not moping.”
“You left a room full of people to do the dishes.”
Nico sighed. “I guess I’ll… think about it. Okay?”
From the living room, someone yelled, “Yo—are you two starting a separate party in there, or are you bringing more beer?”
“Coming!” Timo called back.
He clapped Nico once on the shoulder before heading out, like the conversation had been successfully completed. Nico stayed for a second longer. Just long enough to glance back at your window. Your friend was gone, but you weren’t.
After his teammates left that night, the apartment fell quiet again.
Nico sat at his kitchen table, laptop open in front of him, some half-hearted attempt at planning his summer schedule blinking back at him. His mind was obviously elsewhere. Right across the courtyard actually.
You were sitting in your usual spot, mirroring him. The candle was lit like usual, but everything else was off. There was no laughter. No music. No movement from the rest of your apartment. Just you, sitting still, staring into the flame.
Nico frowned slightly. Saturday nights at your place were supposed to look different. Like something out of an indie movie about friendship, crowded kitchens, and cheap wine that somehow tasted better in the right company.
Of course, he didn’t actually know anything about the situation, but it still felt out of character for your friends to be arguing. Tonight, you just looked sad. More alone than usual. He kept on wondering what you’d argued about.
Your shoulders were slumped, your expression distant, like you were somewhere else entirely. Even from across the courtyard, he could see it. And then, the mascara. Dark streaks trailing down your cheeks, untouched. Like you either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care enough to fix it.
Nico sat up a little straighter.
On the table in front of you was a rectangular box. And something in your hands—a card, maybe. You kept turning it over, fingers lingering on the edges like whatever it said mattered more than you wanted it to.
He knew he shouldn’t be watching. This was already too much. He didn’t even know your name, and yet he was here, piecing together a story from fragments he had no right to.
But he couldn’t tear his eyes away when you opened the box, gently unwrapping what looked like just a bunch of green fabric at first. It wasn’t until you held it up that he realized it was a dress. A long, flowing dress. Maybe in silk or chiffon. It looked expensive just from the box it came in.
Your hands trembled slightly as you held it. And then, you broke.
The kind of crying that wasn’t quiet or controlled. It hit all at once, like whatever you’d been holding back had finally decided it was done waiting.
Nico froze. Helpless, halfway across a courtyard, watching something he couldn’t reach, couldn’t interrupt, couldn’t fix.
You dropped the dress like it had burned you. Then you turned and left the kitchen so quickly it was almost abrupt—like if you stayed even a second longer, you might fall apart completely.
Nico couldn’t see where you went. The kitchen just went still. But the candle kept burning, and the dress lay crumpled on the floor. He didn’t know why it hurt him so.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Now, did Nico try harder after that? No. Obviously, he did the exact opposite. He avoided you.
Or—more accurately—he avoided the idea of you. Because in reality, you were still there, right across the courtyard, existing exactly as you always had. Nico was the one changing his behavior like that might somehow solve the problem.
He couldn’t figure out how to talk to you. Hell, he barely even saw you outside of his window anyway, so what was the point? And even if he did—what then? He didn’t know sign language. You wouldn’t hear him. He’d already embarrassed himself once. That felt like enough.
So he stopped looking. Or, at least, he tried to. He went to bed earlier. Found reasons to stay busy. Kept his gaze firmly not drifting toward the window every time he walked into his kitchen, like it had developed a magnetic pull.
It worked. Kind of. Until the next Saturday.
He noticed it immediately. You were alone—and it wasn’t even evening yet. By the time Nico got back from a home game, the candle was already burning. Too early. Wrong, somehow. Your friends didn’t come that night.
They didn’t come the weekend after that either.
Not that Nico kept track or anything. But it was weird. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. People got busy. Plans changed. Life happened. Still, something about it sat wrong with him. Maybe it was the way tears had violently fallen from your eyes last time he’d seen you with your friends.
So naturally, instead of dealing with that in any kind of healthy or logical way, Nico agreed to go on a date. Timo and Jonas had been trying to set him up for weeks, and at this point, saying yes felt less like a decision and more like a way to get them to stop talking about it.
Her name was Cassie. She’d been nice to him at the team’s Halloween party last year. Red hair and a nice smile. Seemed fairly normal. That was… about all he had. Which was fine. Probably. Definitely a solid foundation for a first date.
But Nico had never felt more ridiculous than when he stepped out of his apartment that evening.
The button-up shirt alone should’ve been a warning sign. He didn’t wear button-ups unless someone forced him. Or unless there was a formal event. Or unless he was actively trying to impress someone—which, in this case, felt a little forced, considering he wasn’t even sure he wanted to be there.
The collar scratched at his neck. Actually—no. It wasn’t scratching. It was stabbing. He reached back, frowning, trying to discreetly feel for a tag. There was no tag. This was just the way he felt.
He dropped his hand with a quiet sigh, already mildly irritated and not even five minutes into the evening. This was going great. But he had a plan. A good one, even.
Flowers.
If he showed up with flowers, it automatically made him seem thoughtful. Intentional. Like he had his life together. Which—objectively—he did not. But that wasn’t the point. If he turned out to be the most boring date ever for Cassie, then at least she got flowers out of it. He certainly felt boring.
So, before calling a cab, he’d pulled out his phone, googled “flower shop near me,” and followed the directions with increasing hesitation the closer he got. It turned out to be just around the corner.
He’d lived here for months and somehow never noticed it. Then again, he bought flowers approximately never. The slowly dying house plant on his windowsill was proof enough of that.
Nico slowed to a stop outside the shop. A small wooden sign hung above the door, the lettering hand-painted in looping script spelling out Lennon & Lilies.
It was a cute little store, sat tucked between a café and a vintage store, its exterior painted a soft, weathered sage green that stood out gently against the street of redbrick buildings. A string of tiny warm lights framed the window, glowing softly even in the fading daylight, twinkling gold so that he could see inside.
The flower arrangements were really nice as they lined the storefront in various colors and heights. Like, twentieth-wedding-anniversary nice. And not impress-a-date-you-barely-know nice.
Nico stepped a little closer to see more.
That’s when something about the girl behind the counter caught his attention.
At first, it was small—just a flicker of familiarity he couldn’t quite place. Like how strangers in passing sometimes looked like someone you knew. But this was a little more than that. Unsettling almost—like he’d seen her before without ever being there. Like a memory framed by glass, softened by distance and light. The window display wasn’t too different from seeing you through his kitchen window.
Nico could’ve recognized you anywhere.
The way you wore your hair. The shape of your face. The fit of your clothes. The way you moved was familiar in a way that didn’t make sense, considering he’d never actually stood this close before.
His neighbor was a florist.
You were ringing something up at the register. Smiling widely and talking to a customer who held the biggest bouquet of… some pink flower he couldn’t name.
Your voice didn’t reach him through the glass, but your mouth moved easily, naturally, as you gestured toward a bouquet, explaining something with a brightness he hadn’t seen before.
What?
He straightened slightly, trying to make sense of it.
You were deaf. Weren’t you?
He’d seen you sign during that argument with your friend. He’d built an entire understanding around that fact—adjusted his expectations, his assumptions, his everything.
And now—you were talking. Laughing, even. Like there had never been a barrier at all.
Nico frowned, a little thrown off balance.
Okay. So maybe you weren’t deaf. Or maybe you were, but also… talked? Was that a thing? Of course it was a thing. Probably. He just had absolutely no idea how any of it worked. Which, in hindsight, felt like an important detail he maybe should’ve considered earlier.
The customer said something that made you laugh even harder, and Nico felt something in his chest shift.
You weren’t just a quiet figure in a window. You worked here. You existed outside of that kitchen. Outside of the candlelight and the stillness and the version of you he’d built entirely from observation.
You were right there.
Nico’s grip tightened slightly around his phone. He could go in. It would be easy. Normal, even. Walk through the door. Buy flowers. Say something simple. This was the perfect excuse. The most natural opening he was ever going to get. His brain, however, chose that exact moment to be deeply unhelpful.
What was he going to say?
Hey, I live across from you, and I’ve been accidentally watching you for months? Also, sorry I thought you were deaf, but apparently I don’t understand how anything works?
Yeah. Great plan.
He exhaled slowly, shifting his weight. Through the window, you turned slightly, reaching for something behind the counter. Slightly closer to the door now. Closer to him.
Nico instantly took a step back. Then another. He stared at the shop for a second, like he might still change his mind. But he didn’t. Instead, he turned, pulling his jacket a little tighter around himself as he walked away.
No flowers. He just needed out.
By the time he reached the street corner, he was already checking his phone. Cassie’s number stared back at him. Nico winced as he typed it, but at least it was honest.
Hey, I’m really sorry, something came up. Another time?
Nico let out a breath as he hit send, shoving his phone back into his pocket as he stood there on the sidewalk, feeling not better, exactly. But not worse either.
He’d just made a rash decision without understanding why. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to try. It was that he didn’t know how to start without already feeling like he had messed up. And that was always enough to stop him.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
The Devils locker room was loud as usual when Nico stepped in after practice—gear clattering against benches, doors slamming shut, and voices overlapping as guys shouted across the room about nothing and everything at once.
Nico barely registered any of it. It all blurred into background noise, distant and unfocused, as he kept his attention fixed on his own little corner. He kept his head down, fingers working slowly at his skates, giving himself something to concentrate on. If he didn’t look up, there was still a chance—however small—that no one would start anything.
“Did you seriously stand up Cassie?”
Jonas’s voice cut clean through the locker room noise, sharp and immediate—like he’d been holding onto that question all practice, just waiting for the right moment to drop it.
Nico didn’t look up. “I texted her,” he said quickly, because technically, that was true. “Like an hour in advance that I wouldn’t be able to make it.”
Even to his own ears, it sounded weak.
Jonas stepped closer. Nico could feel it without looking—how he stared down at him.
“That’s still a shitty move, Nico.”
Nico exhaled, dragging a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how warm the room felt. Maybe he was just sweaty. “I just— I didn’t want to go,” he admitted. “I figured it would be more unfair to her if I did.”
That also sounded like a cop-out. But it wasn’t wrong.
“You ditched the date we set up?”
Timo’s voice joined in from somewhere to his left, and Nico briefly considered just getting up and leaving. Pretending he had somewhere else to be. A special captain’s meeting. A phone call. Literally anything.
“Is this about your neighbor again?” Timo pressed.
That made Nico finally glance up.
Jonas frowned. “What neighbor?”
Of course Timo would say something. He was as annoying as his own siblings. Except Timo was on the same continent as him and could call him out on his bullshit in person. He was a lovely friend to have, but god, did he need to mind his own business a little more.
Timo continued to not hesitate. “He has this deaf neighbor,” he explained to Jonas. “Who he apparently thinks is pretty, but he can’t talk to her. For obvious reasons.”
Nico closed his eyes briefly. Perfect. That was exactly how he wanted this explained.
Jonas snorted out a laugh, then leaned in to touch Nico’s shoulder, interest immediately piqued. “Can you see her naked from your apartment or what’s going on? Why is she special?”
“What—no,” Nico said, finally looking up. “That’s not—”
He cut himself off. Abort. This was already going badly, and giving Jonas more material felt like actively choosing to make it worse.
“I was going to get Cassie flowers before the date,” he said instead, like that might redirect things.
Jonas scoffed. “What a gentleman.”
“But,” Nico continued, ignoring him, “my neighbor is a florist. I almost walked right into her shop. And I don’t think she’s deaf because she was talking perfectly fine to a customer.”
He could still see it, clear as anything—the way you’d smiled, the way your hands had moved, the way your mouth—wow, he really shouldn’t be thinking about your mouth like that.
Yeah. None of that had looked like someone who could not hear.
Timo tilted his head, considering. “So… she ignored you on purpose?”
Nico shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“How exactly did you try and talk to her?” Timo asked.
Nico hesitated. Because now that the question was being asked directly, the answer sounded… significantly worse.
“I said hi,” he admitted.
There was already a pause, and Timo made a weird face. Not a good sign.
“I was walking to my car,” he added quickly, like context might help. “She was on the other side of the courtyard unlocking her bike.”
Jonas stared at him. Then leaned back slowly, like he needed physical space to process what he’d just heard. “I shouldn’t have to tell you this,” he said, very calmly, “but are you fucking stupid, Nico?”
Nico huffed automatically. “Oh, come on—”
“That’s like fifty feet,” Jonas continued. “Fifty. Minimum.”
Timo nodded, already on board. “She doesn’t have to be deaf to not hear you.”
“Was she wearing—I don’t know—headphones?” Jonas added. “A beanie? Was there wind? Traffic? Literally anything?”
“I don’t know,” Nico muttered.
“Exactly,” Timo said. “You don’t know.”
The words stuck a little. Because it was true. He didn’t know anything. Not really. Not about that moment. Not about you. Not about why this had turned into… whatever this was.
Nico dropped his gaze back to his skates, picking at the laces again just to have something to do with his hands.
“It doesn’t mean anything anyway,” he muttered. “I’ll probably never talk to her, so what’s the point?”
Timo’s expression shifted slightly. “Are you seriously giving up?”
Nico shrugged, like it didn’t matter. “What else can I do?”
“You buy flowers from her. Duh.”
Nico looked up again.
Timo gestured like this was the most obvious solution in the world. “She’s a florist. You say you need flowers. This is not complicated.”
Jonas nodded, butting in again. “Yeah, and then you’ll figure it out.”
“Figure what out?” Nico asked.
“If this whole thing is real,” Jonas said, waving a hand vaguely in Nico’s direction, “or if it’s just you being weird about a girl you’ve never spoken to.”
“That’s not—”
“Maybe she’s terrible,” Jonas continued, ignoring him. “Bad customer service. Annoying voice. Maybe she has really bad breath.”
Timo snorted. “That would solve everything, actually.”
Nico huffed out a quiet laugh before he could stop himself. “And what if she’s not terrible?” he asked.
Timo and Jonas exchanged a look. Then Timo shrugged. “Then you’re fucked.”
Jonas nodded. “Completely.”
Fucked. Yeah, that sounded about right.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Nico almost turned around twice before actually going in.
Once at the corner—easy excuse, he could’ve just kept walking, pretended he’d never even had the idea. Once right outside the door—close enough to see his reflection in the glass, slightly warped between bundles of flowers, like even his own face wasn’t fully committing to being here.
This was so stupid. He was a grown man. A professional athlete. A captain, supposedly a leader. He played in front of thousands of people on a regular basis.
Buying flowers should not be where he drew the line.
He had to physically force himself by quickly pushing the door open and stepping inside, because if he was gentle about it, he knew he would just turn around and never look back.
A distinct smell hit him immediately. Sweet and damp. Almost thick—like the air itself was holding onto water. It wrapped around him in a way that felt a little overwhelming at first.
And he noticed the colors. They were everywhere. Bright, soft, pale, dark—flowers stacked and arranged in a way that felt intentional without looking staged. It was a lot. More than he expected. More than he knew what to do with.
The shop stretched further back than it looked from the street—rows of fresh flowers, houseplants, little decorations tucked into corners like someone had thought about every inch of the space. So big he didn’t even see you at first and figured he had yet another chance at escaping.
But the door had a bell above him that rattled as soon as it opened. And you poked your little head out from behind door deep into the shop that said staff only.
“I’ll be out in a second!” you quickly said to him.
Your voice was bubbly, a polished happiness covering it in a true retail worker spirit. And nothing like Nico had imagined. Actually scratch that, he didn’t know what he’d imagined. Jonas’s dealbreaker about you having an annoying voice was obviously not going to work, though, because you sounded perfectly normal.
Nico froze on the spot when you finally walked out. You looked different like this. Not in a way he could clearly define—just different. Maybe because this was proof you were an actual person. He was still weirdly unsure about that part.
“Can I help you with anything?” You smiled at him, expectant and patient.
Right, he needed to say something. That’s how this worked.
“Yeah,” Nico managed, his voice coming out just a fraction too late. “Uhm— I need a bouquet.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” you said with a small laugh, like you’d heard that exact line a hundred times before. Of course you had.
You turned, already moving deeper into the shop, and Nico followed a half-step behind, trying very hard to act like this was not the most stressful interaction he’d had all week. He’d scored in a shootout against Vasilevskiy yesterday, yet this had him sweating more.
Keep it together, man.
You moved easily through the space, weaving between tables and displays without hesitation, your hands brushing past leaves and stems like you knew exactly where everything was. Which you probably did.
You looked adorable. You were wearing denim dungarees, practical and a little oversized, with pruning shears tucked into every possible pocket. Not at all mysterious or as cryptic as he had made you up to be in his head. Not some quiet, untouchable figure behind glass.
You were simply adorable, and appeared to have a vast knowledge of flowers. And completely, terrifyingly easy to be around. Which made Nico feel even more like he was doing something wrong.
“What’s the occasion?” you asked, glancing back at him briefly. “See if that can give me something to work with.”
“Oh, they’re for—” Nico hadn’t thought about this at all. “A funeral.”
What the fuck? Why would he say that?
“Or—not really a funeral,” he added, because apparently digging the hole deeper was the plan now. “Just for the grave. My—uh—my aunt. Very sad.”
Nico wanted to leave his own body.
You blinked at him, your expression shifting immediately. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry.”
Nico felt something twist in his chest. Because now you looked genuinely sympathetic. Concerned, even. And he’d just invented a dead relative. Or he had an aunt, but she was perfectly alive as far as he knew.
“Do you want a bouquet,” you continued gently, “or more of a traditional grave arrangement?”
“Just a bouquet,” Nico said quickly. “I think.”
You nodded, already turning back to the flowers. “Lilies are a popular choice for that,” you said. “You could also do carnations—they tend to last longer this time of year.”
You gestured toward a cluster of flowers, and Nico followed your hand.
He had absolutely no idea what he was looking at. They were flowers. That was all he had. Smaller than roses and more wrinkly? Maybe? He nodded anyway, committing fully to pretending he understood.
“Yeah. Those look good.”
You looked back at him, and it was obvious that you saw right through him. Not in a mean way, just unmistakable in the way you paused and the corner of your moth twitched, like you were holding back a smile. Like you’d already figured him out.
“I just got these yellow ones this morning,” you added, a little softer now. You were adjusting for him. “And then we could fill it out with some greenery and baby’s breath.”
A baby’s what?
Nico nodded anyway. “That sounds great. I’m trusting your opinion on this.”
Which was the only smart decision he’d made so far.
You smiled again and got to work. Nico stood there, watching. Your hands moved quickly, confidently, pulling stems, trimming, arranging like it was second nature. There was something almost calming about it.
“I hope your aunt will appreciate them,” you said, walking over to the register when you were done tying the bouquet together. “From heaven, or whatever.”
Nico let out a quiet breath. “I know she will,” he said.
Because at this point, there was no turning back from that lie.
After he’d paid, you held out the bouquet to him, carefully wrapped in brown paper and a white ribbon. “There you go.”
He took it carefully, like he might somehow mess that up too.
“Thank you, Y/N.”
The name slipped out without thinking, something he’d caught just a second earlier on the small badge clipped to the front pocket of your overalls. He hadn’t meant to make a big deal out of it, but, of course, you just had to have the sort of name that sounded perfectly leaving his mouth.
It felt strangely important, like finally putting something concrete to you.
You blinked at him, just slightly surprised, before your smile softened. “You’re welcome…” you said, letting the words linger just enough to feel intentional.
Oh. You wanted to know his name.
That shouldn’t feel like anything. You were just being nice. That was literally your job—customer service, basic politeness. You probably did this with everyone who walked through that door. It didn’t mean anything. It absolutely did not mean anything.
“I’m Nico,” he said, still.
Your smile returned, easy and warm. “Nice to meet you, Nico.”
Hearing his name in your voice did something deeply unhelpful to his body. He nodded once, because apparently words were no longer reliable, clutching the bouquet like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.
This was normal. Just a transaction. He had bought flowers. You had been nice to him because that was your job. That was it.
And yet, as he lingered for one second too long before finally turning toward the door, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—small, probably insignificant, but enough that leaving felt harder than coming in had been.
The bell rattled again as he stepped outside, the cool air hitting him like a reset he didn’t quite accept. He stood there for a moment on the sidewalk, bouquet in hand, staring down at it like it might offer him some kind of explanation.
Yellow carnations, whatever that now meant.
He exhaled slowly, already turning toward home, because now he had to figure out what to do with them. He couldn’t exactly leave them somewhere without looking insane, and throwing them out felt wrong.
So that left one option: take them home, find something to put them in, and pretend this had been a normal, well-thought-out decision. Which meant he was about to walk into his apartment with a bouquet meant for a fake dead relative and spend the next ten minutes googling how to properly arrange flowers in a vase.
Did he even own a vase?
But how else had he expected his interaction to go? That he would miraculously leave with a date? This would be so much easier if you’d turned out to be horrible, just like his teammates had said.
But no. You just had to be fucking adorable.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
“Here, take these.”
Nico tossed a bouquet of flowers at Jonas mid-set.
The weight room at the Prudential Center was loud in a different way than the locker room. Less chaotic, more rhythmic—metal clanging, plates sliding onto bars, the dull thud of weights hitting rubber flooring just a little too hard. Music pulsed through a speaker, bass heavy enough that Nico felt it in his chest as much as he could hear it. The air smelled like sweat and something faintly chemical from whatever cleaning spray had been used hours ago and definitely hadn’t won.
Jonas barely caught them, the barbell clanging back into the rack as his entire focus shifted to not dropping what was, apparently, a carefully arranged bundle of pink peonies. A few petals shook loose on impact, drifting down onto the floor like evidence.
Jonas stared at the bouquet. Then at Nico. Then back at the bouquet.
“What the fuck, Nico?”
Nico reached for his water bottle, taking a long sip just to avoid answering right away. He already knew how ridiculous this was.
“Give them to your wife,” he said. “The last ones haven’t died yet. I only own one vase.”
It was becoming a real logistical issue. At this point, his apartment looked less like a place someone lived and more like a greenhouse.
Jonas still hadn’t moved, eyes locked on the peonies. “You bought flowers,” he said slowly, like he was trying to confirm reality, “again?”
Nico shrugged, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to defensive indifference.
He had his reasons for buying flowers. He’d had lots of reasons. Actually, he’d gone through every possible explanation at this point, cycling through them like plays he wasn’t entirely convinced would work. The logic never really held up under pressure—but that didn’t stop him from trying.
In the past month, he’d bought flowers from you five times.
There had been his mom’s promotion—despite the small, inconvenient detail that she lived in Switzerland and would never see them. Then the baby shower, which had required him to invent not only a pregnant friend but also an entire social circle that suggested he was the kind of person who got invited to baby showers in the first place. After that, Timo’s birthday—which had been especially bold, considering Timo’s birthday was in October and it was currently April.
And yet, you’d smiled every time.
Asked him questions. Remembered small details. Once, you’d even said, “Back again?” in that light, teasing way that had made his brain completely shut down for a solid five seconds while he stood there holding a bouquet he didn’t need, trying to remember how words worked.
There had been an attempt to ask how long you’d worked there—except it came out as, “How long have you been… flowers?” There had been another where he meant to compliment the shop and instead said, “It smells… like plants. Good plants.” And once he’d almost asked for your name again, even though you always wore a name tag.
Progress, clearly, was not being made.
He did try to space out his visits. For dignity, mostly. But standing here now, in the weight room, watching Jonas hold yet another bouquet, Nico had a sinking feeling that whatever system he thought he’d created was not nearly as subtle as he’d hoped.
Across the room, Timo let out a quiet laugh like he’d just been proven right about something he hadn’t even said out loud yet.
“I can give them to Nicole if you don’t want them,” Jesper cut in, already stepping closer, hand halfway extended like this was a perfectly normal exchange that had happened before.
Maybe because it had.
“No, no, I’ll take them,” Jonas said quickly, pulling the flowers back toward himself before Jesper could grab them. “I’m about to be husband of the year. For free.”
Nico huffed quietly, lifting his water bottle to his mouth again just to have something to do. Hydration had become his main coping mechanism in situations like this. It stopped him from having to actually talk.
Jonas, however, wasn’t done. He looked up again, expression shifting from amused to something far more pointed. “But we can’t keep acting like this is normal behavior, Nico.”
Nico took a sip, buying himself time. “It’s not that weird,” he said after swallowing down a big gulp.
“It’s very weird,” Timo said immediately, not even giving the idea a second to breathe. “I’ve lost count of how many bouquets you’ve bought.”
“That feels like a you problem,” Nico muttered, lowering the bottle.
“It’s very much a you problem,” Jonas shot back, gesturing clearly with the flowers.
Nico rolled his shoulders, already feeling a familiar frustration creeping in—the kind that settled low in his chest and tightened there, stubborn like hell, because he didn’t have the words to explain it. It wasn’t just annoyance at being questioned; it was the deeper irritation of knowing he looked ridiculous from the outside and still not doing anything to change that feeling on the inside.
“I just—” Nico started, then stopped, because there was no version of this that sounded normal out loud. So he defaulted to the simplest possible explanation. “I go in,” he said instead. “We talk. She makes the flowers. I leave.”
There was a loud pause. Jonas blinked at him slowly.
“…and?” he prompted.
Nico frowned. “That’s it.”
That was so not the correct answer.
Jonas dragged a hand down his face, groaning under his breath. “You’re killing me,” he muttered. “You’re actually killing me!”
Nico felt his chest tighten, irritation flaring just enough to push back. “What do you want me to do?” he shot back. “Just ask her out? Out of nowhere?”
“Yes!” Timo said immediately.
No nuance allowed there.
“It’s literally the only step left,” Jonas added, like they were discussing something painfully obvious that Nico had somehow missed.
Nico shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “No. I don’t— I don’t even know if she’s—”
He stopped again. Because the second he said it, it would sound stupid. As if this entire exchange wasn’t already a joke on his behalf.
Timo raised an eyebrow. “If she’s what?”
Nico heavily sighed. “Interested.”
There it was—out in the open, sitting between them in a way that made it feel just as big as it did in his head. And Nico regretted it instantly.
Because saying it out loud was like agreeing to how ridiculous it was. Like he was overcomplicating something that, for most people, wasn’t complicated at all. Nico had never been this guy before—the one hesitating, second-guessing, getting stuck in his own head over whether someone might like him back. That had never really been his problem.
If anything, it had always been the opposite.
Girls approached him. Conversations came easy because he didn’t have to initiate them. There was no pressure to figure out the right thing to say, no risk of getting it wrong before anything had even started. It had always just happened.
And now he was standing in a flower shop, forgetting how to form sentences because you simply smiled at him. It threw him off in a way he didn’t know how to recover from.
He hadn’t felt like this before. And the worst part was, he didn’t even know why it mattered this much. He just knew that it did.
Timo stared at him for a second, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “What has happened to your confidence, dude? Go look at yourself in the mirror.”
Nico let out a dry breath. “That’s not the point.”
“It is exactly the point,” Jonas said, already shaking his head.
Because to them, it probably was that simple.
Walk in. Ask you out. If yes, great. If no, then move the fuck on.
But they hadn’t stood in that shop, trying to form a coherent sentence while you looked at him like he was a normal person instead of someone whose brain had just completely abandoned him.
They hadn’t had to process the way you laughed, or how easily you filled the silence with adorable nonsense, or how every interaction somehow left Nico feeling like he was capable of jumping to the moon just from pure energy.
“I don’t have it in me to just randomly ask her out,” Nico admitted finally, more honest than he’d intended. “So yeah. I’m stuck.”
For a second, no one said anything. Then Jonas glanced down at the flowers again, turning them slightly in his hands before setting them off to the side like he needed both hands free for what came next.
When he looked back at Nico, the amusement was still there—but there was something else under it now. Something a little more direct.
“You’re not stuck because you can’t talk to her,” he said. “You’re stuck because you won’t.”
Nico didn’t respond. He didn’t really need to. Because it was so clearly true and hit so hard that Nico completely froze. Just enough to settle somewhere uncomfortable and stay there, even as Timo snorted under his breath and reached for a weight like the conversation was already over.
Nico took another sip of water. His teammates were still laughing. And they were still right no matter how much Nico avoided it.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Nico almost didn’t go in. Again. He always felt like he was standing on a ledge every time he found himself outside of Lennon & Lilies. He still had no idea what that name meant. Maybe that could be something normal for him to ask you about.
He lingered outside longer than necessary, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, rocking slightly on his heels like he might still turn around if he gave himself one more second. The glass reflected him faintly—blurred between rows of carefully arranged flowers—and for a moment he focused on that instead of what was inside.
This wasn’t going anywhere. Same routine. Same conversation. Same careful, meaningless small talk that never actually led anywhere. He already knew how it would go.
You’d smile. Ask what he needed. He’d come up with something very unconvincing. You’d build something beautiful anyway—always something a little too thoughtful for whatever excuse he’d come up with. He’d thank you, leave, and spend the walk home replaying every second, rewriting his own lines in his head like that might change something retroactively.
And repeat.
Yet, he continued to walk inside. The bell above the door chimed loudly as always.
“Hi Nico,” you said happily, sitting on a stool behind the register.
He looked up at the sound of your voice. You must’ve been looking at him even before he stepped inside.
It hit him—again, like it always did, stupidly and without warning—how easy you seemed in your own space. Like everything in this store made sense because you were part of it.
You had your sleeves pushed up, a faint green smear along your wrist that you either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care about. Your hair was pulled back in a way that clearly hadn’t been overthought, a bunch of loose strands slipping free when you tilted your head just slightly at him.
And of course, you smiled at him. Wide and a little crooked. Enough to make Nico feel like his legs were about to give in.
He suddenly had the very real, very inconvenient thought that he could probably stand here and look at you for an unreasonable amount of time before realizing he hadn’t said anything yet.
“Hi,” he answered, a little quieter than intended.
“You need another bouquet?” you asked. You’d picked up on the pattern just the second time he came into the store.
“Yeah,” Nico said, nodding once. “You can pick freely.”
“Oh, I love when customers let me do that,” you said, already hopping off the stool. “It’s way more fun.”
Nico followed in your direction without thinking. He always did.
He watched the way you moved through the space—not rushing, just very certain in what you wanted. You reached for stems without needing to check where they were, turning them in your hands like you already knew what they’d become before you even started.
There was something almost unfair about how easy you made it look, because he knew it probably wasn’t.
Your fingers worked quickly—trimming, adjusting, and aligning things just slightly off-center before correcting it again. You paused sometimes, tilting your head the smallest amount, like you were seeing something he definitely couldn’t.
Nico found himself staring. Again. God, get it together.
“I’m going to give you one of my personal favorites,” you said, glancing back at him briefly. “I just got these burgundy dahlias that are absolutely spectacular.”
He nodded like that meant anything to him. It didn’t, really. But the way you said it mattered.
“Sounds good.”
Of course it did. Because you said it did.
He watched as you added them to the bouquet, adjusting them slightly—turning one, then another, stepping back just a fraction like you were checking something only you could see. Your lips pressed together in thought for a second before relaxing again, satisfied.
It was such a small thing.
But Nico noticed it—of course he did, because he noticed everything about you, every small, effortless thing that made you seem like the most wonderful person in the world. It wasn’t great, not really, because all that noticing didn’t actually get him anywhere. He was still left standing there, stuck in the same place as always, quietly collecting details that felt important and meaningful and entirely useless all at once.
“Who are they for this time?” you asked.
Your back was still turned to him as you tied the stems together and wrapped the bouquet in the same brown paper you always used. Your little logo consisting of a lily was embossed on it.
“Me, I think.”
Nico, for once, didn’t reach for a lie. He noticed it the second he said it—how tired he was of lying. The words came out in a quiet admission, like he hadn’t fully decided on them until they were already said.
You turned around and pushed a few buttons on the register, gently nodding at what he’d said like it wasn’t any different than all his lies. Then you looked up and tilted your head at him.
“Like all the other bouquets too, right?”
Nico frowned slightly, instantly thrown off. “What?”
You quickly hesitated. That was a little new. You didn’t usually hesitate.
It was subtle. Anyone else might’ve missed it. But Nico had spent an unreasonable amount of time watching you exist. He noticed the way your shoulders shifted, the way your fingers froze on the register for a second too long before continuing.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed about buying flowers for yourself,” you said softly. “I’m not going to judge you.”
Your gaze went back to the register as you spoke, like you were giving him an out.
“I’m not going to judge you. I think it’s sweet,” you added, almost under your breath, like it had slipped out before you could stop it. “A guy wanting fresh flowers on his kitchen table every week.”
“What?” Nico managed to repeat, the confusion he was suddenly feeling slowly starting to settle.
You let out a small laugh, barely audible. Then you glanced up at him, and there was something different there. “You know we’re neighbors, right?” you said, carefully, like you were testing the ground before stepping forward. “I can see the bouquets through my window.”
Nico couldn’t move. He wasn’t even sure he blinked.
The pause that followed wasn’t long, but it stretched. You shifted slightly, like you suddenly felt the need to explain yourself. “Not in a weird way,” you added, too fast. “I just—Our windows face each other, so—” You stopped, cutting yourself off, and for the first time since he’d known you, you looked unsure. Not fully embarrassed, but close enough that it registered.
Nico’s brain, meanwhile, had completely short-circuited. The realization didn’t hit all at once—it stacked, piece by piece, each one worse than the last. You could see his kitchen. The table. The flowers. Every single time he’d stood there, pretending not to look across the courtyard. Also every time he had looked. Every bouquet lined up like quiet, undeniable proof of… something going on.
Holy fuck.
“I—” he started, and immediately stalled out. Nothing followed. He dragged a hand over his face, exhaling sharply, trying to grab onto literally anything that resembled a coherent thought. “I didn’t— I wasn’t—”
What? Spying on you? Lying about dead relatives? Building an entire routine around five-minute conversations he couldn’t get past? Literally pick one and they’re all equally bad.
You misunderstood him instantly.
“I hope you don’t think I’m weird for saying that,” you rushed out, words overlapping with his as you tried to backtrack. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, I did notice, but not like—” You huffed out a small, awkward breath, shaking your head at yourself. “Okay, maybe it is a little weird,” you admitted. “But not in a bad way, I don’t think.”
That somehow made it both better and worse at the same time.
Nico let out a laugh, something in his shoulders loosening despite the absolute chaos still happening in his head.
Because you weren’t calling him out. You weren’t making it into something uncomfortable or exposing. If anything, you were meeting him halfway by admitting you’d seen exactly the thing he’d seen through his window but about him.
Before he could figure out how to respond—how to say anything that didn’t immediately make this worse—you moved on.
“Here,” you said, holding out the bouquet. “Your flowers.”
You saved him from further embarrassment.
He took them automatically, his fingers brushing yours for half a second before pulling back, the contact brief but enough to spark a little.
The bouquet was spectacular, to use your own words. Nico didn’t know what a dahlia was, but they were big and delicate, a deep red color filled out with wispy greenery and small white flowers for the rest of the bouquet.
You were damn good at your job. You made the whole thing feel very intentional. Like it belonged somewhere. Like it belonged on a grand table. His table that you’d seen. More than once. Had you purposely tried to match them to his kitchen?
Nico swallowed, adjusting his grip slightly. “Thank you,” he said.
You nodded quickly, still smiling, hiding awkwardness behind it. “See you around, neighbor.”
He left the shop in a bit of a blur. Not because anything had gone wrong, but because for the first time since this whole thing had started, it didn’t feel like he was stuck in place anymore.
—
By the time Nico got home, it was already dark, the apartment quiet as he stepped inside and kicked off his shoes, still holding the bouquet he set down on the kitchen counter without much thought.
His mind lagged behind him, trying to catch up to what had just happened—how you knew, how you’d known for a while probably, and not just about the flowers but about him, or at least enough to make everything feel suddenly, undeniably closer.
The candle on your table was already lit across the courtyard, as it always seemed to be, a steady presence he never had to search for, even when he pretended not to notice it.
But Nico didn’t look at it. Not right away.
He made himself dinner and cleaned some things around his apartment, all without looking out the windows. Moved through his apartment with a kind of deliberate focus, like if he just stayed busy enough, he wouldn’t have to think about what the fuck all of this meant. Maybe it didn’t mean a thing.
Coming across as needy or intrusive was the least of his intentions.
It wasn’t until later, when he was getting ready for bed, that he finally drifted toward the window. His hand paused on the blinds before he looked out—and there you were, like always.
You were not at the table this time. You were closer, leaning against the windowsill with your arms folded and your head resting lightly on them, gazing out into the courtyard in a way that felt almost deliberate, almost like you were waiting.
Nico stilled, caught for a moment in the quiet of it, and then you looked up, meeting his eyes without hesitation or confusion.You immediately flashed him a little smile and waved your hand daintily.
Nico took an embarrassingly long amount of time to react, but he smiled and waved back. He fell asleep that night with the same stupid smile still stuck on his face.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
It was raining. Not lightly either—proper, relentless rain that soaked through everything within seconds and made the whole courtyard look washed out and gray.
Nico was halfway down the stairs of his building, jacket thrown on, keys in hand, already mentally set for yet another Saturday alone, when the patter of raindrops finally registered. The steady drumming against doors and windows. The way the light outside had dimmed into complete dullness.
Fucking perfect.
He needed groceries, and maybe another bouquet if he found his way past your shop. But his evening was now ruined before he’d even made it to his car.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he glanced out through the glass doors—and paused.
There was someone crossing the courtyard.
A polka dot umbrella tilted against the rain, moving a little too quickly for it to be comfortable. That would be the rain’s doing. The wind pushed at the umbrella, tugging the fabric sideways, and whoever it was adjusted their grip without slowing down.
Nico watched, distracted more by the movement than anything else at first.
Something about it felt familiar.
The way you walked. Slightly forward, like you were always already on your way to the next thing. The shape of your body, your height, and your stance. The way messy strands of your hair were visible peaking out from under your raincoat’s hood.
His brain caught up a second later, but he still didn’t move.
Just stood there, watching as you crossed the last stretch of pavement, stepping up onto the covered entrance with a small, relieved exhale. You shook the umbrella once, careful not to splash too much water everywhere, and closed it swiftly. In the same moment, Nico saw you adjust your grip on a paper-wrapped bouquet.
Of course.
Nico stared as you opened the door to his building and immediately caught sight of him.
You weren’t supposed to be here. Not like this and not anywhere except behind the counter or framed by your kitchen window with that stupid candle burning beside you.
But you were.
You were wearing rain boots—actual rubber rain boots in bright yellow—and your jeans were tucked messily into them, like you’d done it in a hurry. Your jacket looked a little too big, sleeves pushed up just enough to keep them out of the way, and your hair was already a little damp, a few strands sticking to your cheek where the wind had gotten to it.
“Hi,” you said, a little breathless.
“Hi,” Nico said back, which felt wildly insufficient considering the situation.
There was a brief pause where neither of you moved. Rain filled the space instead as the sound filtered in through the door you held open.
“I, um—” you started, shifting your weight slightly. “I figured I could bring these to you.” You held the bouquet out just a little, like you weren’t entirely sure how to present it. “So you wouldn’t have to come to the shop in this weather.”
“You—” he started, then stopped. “You came here for me?”
“Yeah,” you said, like that part was obvious. “It’s not far.”
It was. Well, not far, far—but far enough that no one in their right mind would walk from the store in pouring rain just to deliver flowers to someone who… bought them every week. Oh, right. He did that. And you still believed it was because he liked having fresh-cut flowers at home.
“That’s—” Nico exhaled, a hand automatically going to the back of his neck. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. I just thought, since you always—” You trailed off slightly, like you were suddenly aware of how that sounded. “They’re parrot tulips,” you added instead, lifting the bouquet a little. “Straight from Holland. Kind of a spring special.”
Nico looked down at them. They were tulips, presumably. A little messier than the ones he’d seen before. The petals curled and ruffled in a way that made them look almost unfinished.
“Parrot?” he repeated.
“Yeah,” you said, nodding. “The petals look like feathers. More ruffled than normal tulips.”
You said it like it mattered, like he should care, or that you thought he cared. For a second he almost did, but it was never about the flowers. It was about the way you were explaining them, about the fact that you’d brought them here for him despite the rain.
Something in his chest tightened and shifted, and then, before he could stop himself, he felt everything he’d built up slowly unravel.
“Actually, can I—” Nico started. He hesitated, feeling his mouth go dry as he gambled with what to say next. “Do you want them instead?”
“Why?” you asked, genuinely confused. “Do you not like them?”
“No, no,” Nico said quickly. “They’re beautiful.”
They were. That had never been the problem.
“I just—” he exhaled, running a hand through his hair, already feeling this go horribly wrong. “I don’t really need them.”
You tilted your head slightly. “You don’t?”
“No,” he said, and then, because apparently he had lost all sense of self-preservation, added, “I don’t really want them either.”
There was a brief pause, filled only by the steady sound of rain. You kept staring at him. It didn’t look like he’d offended you, but you were still confused. It made everything just a little worse because your confused little frown was maybe the most adorable expression he’d seen.
“I don’t—” Nico started again, the beginning of a spiral. “I don’t care about flowers. At all.”
Your brows pulled together even more. “Then why do you keep—”
“I’ve been coming to the shop every week because I’ve been trying to ask you out.”
The words dropped between you, heavy and stupidly quick. Even the rain seemed to quiet around you. Nico froze the second he said it, because that had absolutely not been the plan. Not to admit it that directly, anyway.
“And when I obviously failed at that,” he continued, unable to stop himself, “I just bought flowers so I’d have a reason to talk to you.”
Nico stepped back slightly, already cringing. “Oh my god. That sounds—” He cut himself off with a quiet groan. Bad. It sounded bad. “That sounds worse out loud. I’m not—I mean, I am, but not like—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I can just go. Or move out. That’s also an option. I don’t have to live here—”
“Nico.”
He stopped rambling instantly.
You were looking at him with a smile now—a stupid, happy grin, maybe a little smug because you’d finally figured him out.
“Can you stop talking for a second?”
He closed his mouth and nodded once.
The silence that followed wasn’t nearly as unbearable as the one before. You adjusted your grip on the closed umbrella, shifting the bouquet slightly in your other hand as you thought.
“There’s this diner a few blocks away,” you said.
Nico blinked, thrown. What?
“Ruthie’s,” you added. “If you’ve heard of it.” He hadn’t, but he figured it didn’t matter. “They do really good malt milkshakes. And the burgers are kind of insane.”
You paused, then looked back up at him, still stupidly smiling. “Are you busy? Or—” you hesitated just slightly. “Do you want to come with me? Like right now, maybe?”
Rain kept on pouring steadily around you, soaking the pavement and pattering against the building. Nico stood there, brain still catching up, heart doing backflips inside his chest.
“Yes!” he said too quickly, before steadying himself. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Nico barely heard what you said as you started to talk.
The diner was exactly what you’d promised. Full fifties kitsch—checkerboard floors, chrome details, and red leather booths that stuck slightly to the back of his jacket. There was an old jukebox humming somewhere in the corner and the faint smell of bacon grease and pancake syrup hanging in the air.
It should’ve been distracting—to have all of that around him—but it wasn’t.
Not when you were sitting across from him, damp hair curling slightly at the ends, a warm oversized sweater pulled over your hands as you leaned forward just a little and wrapped your lips around the straw of your vanilla milkshake.
Nico’s brain sizzled like telephone wires.
The maraschino cherry balanced on top disappeared between your lips, and he watched helplessly as you bit down, chewing softly before speaking as if nothing significant had happened at all. As if it hadn't stained your lips a perfect shade of pink.
“So,” you said, and Nico actually managed to listen, “is your aunt actually dead? Or did you come up with lies every time?”
“She’s very much alive,” he said, clearing his throat slightly. “Somewhere in Switzerland.”
You perked up a little. “That’s where you’re from?”
“Yeah. Born and raised.” He shrugged lightly. “Most of them were lies, by the way. Except for one. I did get flowers for a friend’s birthday. I don’t think he appreciated them, but I didn’t lie that time.”
Nico left out the part about Timo’s birthday being in October.
You laughed, it gently slipping out like you couldn’t stop it. “That’s cute.”
He hummed in response, too aware of his own awkwardness to continue digging himself into a hole about it. You either didn’t pick up on it, or you didn’t care. He wondered if you thought you were on level playing fields—as if you’d overstepped the boundary that strangers were supposed to have just as much as he had.
Nico busied himself by taking a bite out of his burger, but not before picking away the slices of pickles that society insisted on putting there. He wasn’t picky enough to ask for them to be excluded, but he thought removing them himself was perfectly normal.
“Wait,” you said, staring at his plate like he’d personally offended you. “You don’t like pickles?”
Nico chewed before explaining. “They’re too tangy.”
Your phone buzzed against the tabletop before you could argue with him. Once. Twice. Then again. Three messages coming in quick succession. You glanced down at it briefly, your expression flickering—something tired passing through it—but you didn’t pick it up.
“You can just say you’re childish, Nico,” you corrected easily, already reaching across the table. “But I will be taking these.”
He watched as you plucked the pickles straight off his plate like you’d been doing it your entire life.
“You can have them,” he said. “But you’re not stealing my fries.”
Your phone buzzed again, and this time you totally ignored it. You popped one of the pickles into your mouth instead, chewing and then proudly grinning at him.
Nico let out a snort, but before he could be embarrassed about it, your phone buzzed a third time. Or technically maybe sixth.
“I’m sorry,” you said, finally reaching for it. “My sister keeps texting me. She’s being a pain in my ass.”
Nico shrugged lightly. “You can answer if you want.”
“No,” you said quickly, muting it. “If I start, I won’t stop.”
You set the phone aside, but your fingers lingered on it for a second longer than necessary, brushing absently over the edge of the screen like you were fully expecting it to light up again within seconds.
It didn’t.
Nico noticed the way your demeanor changed. Your shoulders had tightened just slightly, barely noticeable unless someone was really paying attention, and your gaze dipped for a moment—not avoiding him, but not quite meeting his eyes either.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.
You looked up at him, a little surprised. “You want to hear me rant about my sister?”
He leaned back slightly, picking up his chocolate milkshake. “Yeah. Hit me.”
You looked like you studied Nico for a moment, squinting your eyes. Like you were deciding if he meant it or not. But you started talking before he could reassure you again.
“I haven’t talked to her in over a month,” you said, lips twisting into a tight line. “Not properly, anyway. We just keep arguing about the same thing.”
Nico nodded once, letting you continue. He tried to connect the dots, wondering if one of the girls who used to come to your place for Saturday dinners was actually your sister.
“She’s getting married this summer, and she picked out my bridesmaid dress without telling me,” you went on before pausing, exhaling slightly. “Which would be such a non-issue if I were able to be normal about it. Everyone thinks I’m overreacting, but I just—I don’t even know.”
You looked down at your hands instead of looking at Nico. You, crying over a dress in your kitchen, was really starting to make sense to him now.
Your thumb worried at the edge of your cuticle, picking at it absentmindedly, then not so absentmindedly when it caught and stung. Nico could see you wince. He felt a strange, almost overwhelming urge to reach across the table and still your hands. To catch your fingers in his and make you stop. But he didn’t.
“She has this great guy,” you continued, a little quieter. “And she gets to wear our mom’s old wedding dress, and they’re getting married at a sunflower farm, which is just—” You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head. “Adorable.”
Nico smiled slightly. “Sounds kind of perfect.”
“It is,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
You didn’t hesitate when you said it, but something in your expression shifted right after, like the words had maybe come out a little too honest.
Nico watched you, trying to piece it together. He wasn’t sure he fully understood how something perfect could feel like a problem. But there was something familiar in it anyway—the way things could look so complete from the outside that there didn’t seem to be any space left for you in them.
He sort of felt that way with his own siblings; when they celebrated a milestone of any kind, Nico always wondered when it would be his turn, and what that would even look like.
“She’s deaf,” you added, like you were circling back to something steadier. “And he learned a bunch of sign language before their first date. How disgustingly cute is that?”
Ah. That explained why he’d seen you two sign through the window.
There was a new softness to your voice. Fondness. A little tired maybe, but mostly fond.
“It took him like six months to become fluent,” you continued. “It took me twelve years.”
Nico tilted his head slightly. “Were those your first twelve years alive?”
You narrowed your eyes at him, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Maybe.”
“Okay,” he said, holding up his hands slightly. “Then it’s fair.”
You laughed again, freely, like it bubbled up without a way to stop it.
God. He liked that sound a little too much.
“He’s a great guy,” you went on. “They’re going to have this amazing wedding, and I’m—” You gestured vaguely to yourself, hands hovering in the air like you weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. “—busy feeling sorry for myself because she chose a dress I’m not comfortable with. It’s so stupid.”
Nico leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on the table, trying to catch your eye. “What’s wrong with it?”
From his view through the window, it had looked like a pretty standard dress, but he also wasn’t that well-versed in the world of women’s clothing.
He could visibly see you hesitate again. Your mouth opened, then closed again, like you were reconsidering whether you actually wanted to say it out loud. Your shoulders shifted, pulling in just slightly, and then you dumped it all out.
“It’s beautiful,” you said quickly, almost too quickly. “Like—objectively.” You let out a small breath, eyes flicking up to him for half a second before dropping again. “But the straps are super thin, so you can’t wear a bra, and the back is completely open, so all I can think about is how—”
You stopped, the words caught somewhere between your brain and mouth.
Nico frowned slightly, confusion flickering across his face as he waited, not quite sure if you were going to finish the sentence or not.
“How?” he prompted softly.
“How gross my back acne scars look,” you mumbled out in a hurry, as if you said it fast enough he wouldn’t hear it. “See? I told you it was silly. We’ve been arguing for months about nothing.”
You were sitting there, shoulders slightly hunched in on yourself, like you were bracing for him to agree. Like you’d already decided how this sounded out loud and didn’t expect anyone to take it seriously.
Nico didn’t think it was silly, but he didn’t know how to say that out loud.
You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “This is so not a first date conversation. You’re allowed to run away. I’ll even pay for your meal.”
“I’d like to stay,” Nico said immediately.
No hesitation. Absolutely none. You blinked at him in surprise.
“I mean, if that’s okay with you,” he added in recovery.
He saw you relax as he said it. Your shoulders loosened just a little, and the corner of your mouth tipped up in this small, almost shy smile that felt completely different from the easy ones you’d been giving him all night.
It caught Nico off guard, forgetting anything he might’ve wanted to say. He was too busy watching the way your lips puckered around your straw again as you ducked your head just slightly like you were trying to play it off.
“I’ll get over it,” you said after taking a sip, trying to brush it over. “I know I will. I just wish I wasn’t such a… bitch about it.”
“I don’t think you are.” Nico shook his head. “I think you care about her day being perfect,” he continued. “And you can’t really do that if you’re uncomfortable the whole time.”
“Yeah, maybe,” you said. Then with a small exhale, “Can we talk about something else now?”
Nico smiled. “Yeah, of course.”
You both lingered there for a second, the conversation settling between you like something gently folded. You dragged your straw through your milkshake with a soft, hollow sound, eyes flicking briefly to the side like you were searching for something lighter to grab onto. Nico picked at the edge of his napkin, folding and unfolding it without really thinking, giving you the space to shift things without rushing you.
Maybe it was his turn to come up with something.
“Uhm, how’s your hockey thing going?” you asked suddenly, straightening a little.
He blinked. “You know I play hockey?”
“Yeah, I mean,” you said, popping the other pickle slice you'd stolen from him into your mouth, “you learn quite a lot by staring out the window.”
Nico stilled. Right, the windows. If he saw through yours, you saw through his. His brain immediately started flipping through every single morning he’d ever spent in that kitchen like it was trying to pull up security footage. It was embarrassing enough that you’d seen the flower bouquets collecting on his table; what else could you have seen?
Making coffee. Eating at the table. Talking on the phone. Occasionally pacing. Definitely staring out the window like an idiot. He hadn’t done anything inappropriate. No, he hadn’t, right?
He frowned slightly, trying to picture it. There had been mornings where he’d just thrown on sweatpants. Or a shirt. Or… there had definitely been a towel situation once or twice.
Fuck.
His lips curved into a dimpled smile anyway. “What?”
You grinned back. “Your morning ritual of making coffee naked needs to stop, Nico.”
Nico choked on nothing. “What?”
His brain short-circuited again. Because now he was actively trying to remember if there had been a single moment where he’d walked into his kitchen without thinking, half-asleep, not dressed.
Jesus fucking Christ.
You burst out laughing. “That was a joke,” you said quickly. Then paused. “Wait—do you make coffee naked?”
“No,” he said, way too fast. “No, I don’t.”
He definitely didn’t. Probably.
“Okay, good,” you said, nodding. “Or I don’t know if it’s a good thing— Actually, why don’t I keep my mouth shut?”
You exhaled all the air you held inside into a laugh, hiding your face in your hands like you were trying to physically retreat from what you’d just said.
Nico now felt how heat had risen to his cheeks, letting out a soft breath as his shoulders loosened, watching you, the flirty tension easing just enough for him to latch onto something safer.
“I get what you mean, though,” he said. “You can basically see someone’s whole life from those windows.”
He kept it to himself that it was your life he was talking about.
“Oh, absolutely,” you hummed in agreement. “I once saw the lady below you aggressively pick her nose. That was certainly an experience.”
Nico winced. “That’s rough.”
Then you pointed at him, just slightly, like you’d remembered something. “You mostly just sit at your table, though,” you said. “Very mysterious. Annoyingly normal. I couldn’t figure out anything about you at first.”
He shrugged, looking down at the table for a moment. “I don’t think there’s much to figure out.”
“See, I disagree,” you said, leaning forward a little, resting your chin in your hand. “My sister saw you leave once carrying this huge hockey trunk. Like—massive. And her fiancé is a Rangers fan, so they’ve basically been trying to spy on you from my kitchen ever since.”
Nico snorted. “Any luck?”
“None,” you said, smiling. “I haven’t told them you play for the Devils, but she won’t stop talking about how I live next to some hot athlete anyway.”
He tilted his head slightly, watching you a little more closely now. “You think I’m… hot?”
“No. Definitely not.” You didn’t even hesitate. “I only date guys I find repulsive.”
“Perfect,” Nico sighed. “That works out for me.”
Your smile softened at that—just enough that he noticed. He could see through your sarcasm.
“My sister might actually kill me for asking you out without telling her,” you went on, glancing down at your phone for a second before pushing it further away. “If the dress thing doesn’t get me first.”
Nico leaned forward slightly this time, mirroring you without really thinking about it. His hand moved before he could second-guess it, reaching across the table to take yours—warm, a little tentative, but steady once he had it.
“I can keep a secret.”
—
Nico’s cheeks hurt by the time he reached his building.
He hadn’t realized how much he’d been smiling until he was alone again, the night air cooler now, the rain reduced to a soft drizzle that clung to his jacket instead of soaking through it.
He’d walked you to your door. Stood there for way too long. Said goodnight like a somewhat normal person. And then left, like an idiot.
He ran a hand over his face as he climbed the stairs, letting out a quiet breath that turned into something dangerously close to a laugh. He was actually unbelievably bad at this. All of that, and he’d just…walked away.
Nico pushed his door open and stepped inside, toeing off his shoes without much thought, the familiar space of his apartment feeling slightly different. Or maybe that was just him. Because everything felt different.
His phone buzzed in his hand as he was just about to put it down on his hallway table. Nico blinked down at it and saw your name. You had exchanged numbers so maybe he wasn’t as helpless as he felt.
He picked up before it could ring a second time. “Hi.”
“You got home safe?” you giggled from across the line.
Nico snorted out a laugh, shrugging off his jacket. “Yeah. Made the long journey home.”
“Good,” you said. There was a small pause before he heard your voice again. “Can you go to your kitchen?”
Nico stilled slightly, glancing toward the window. “Why?”
“So I can see you.”
That did something irrevocable to Nico. Like his brain tripped over itself, missed a step, and went tumbling straight down a flight of stairs, headed for a place labeled “Oh no, I’m in love now.”
“Okay,” he said, already moving.
He didn’t bother turning on more lights, just walked straight into the kitchen, phone still pressed to his ear as he reached for the edge of the counter.
When he looked out, your window was lit. Of course it was. The candle was there too, flickering softly against the glass, casting everything in that warm, familiar glow he’d spent months pretending not to search for.
And there you were—standing by the window, looking right at him.
“Hi,” you said again, smiling.
“Hi,” he echoed.
For a second, neither of you said anything. You just took each other in, finally, like there was no glass in the way.
“I had a really good time tonight,” you said eventually, your voice still in his ear, even as he watched your lips form the words across the courtyard.
“Yeah,” Nico said. “Me too.”
Then you lifted something slightly into view. The tulips.
“Thank you for these, by the way.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, of course. I’m really good at picking out flowers.”
“Clearly,” you said, amused.
There was another soft pause—the kind that didn’t need to be filled.
Nico leaned back slightly against the counter, still watching you, still half-convinced this wasn’t real. This had to be something he’d made up. Something his brain had come up with after one too many nights staring out the window.
“You know,” you said, tilting your head slightly, “you could’ve kissed me.”
Nico blinked.
For a split second, he was back there again—standing outside your door, rain still clinging to his jacket, your hand lingering just a little too close to his as you said goodnight. He’d thought about it. God, he’d thought about it. The way you’d looked at him, the way neither of you had moved right away—it had felt like something was supposed to happen. Like he was supposed to lean in, close that small, stupid distance. And instead, he’d just… smiled. Said goodnight. Walked away like he hadn’t spent the entire evening staring at your cherry-stained lips.
“I could’ve?”
“Yeah,” you said simply. “I wouldn’t have minded.”
His grip tightened slightly around the phone. Fuck. Good to know.
“I’ll remember that,” he said. “For next time.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
You didn’t hang up right away. Neither did he.
The line stayed open, quiet except for the faint sound of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. Nico shifted slightly where he stood, his shoulder brushing the edge of the counter, eyes still fixed on you through the glass.
You hadn’t moved either.
Still standing there, framed by that warm light, the candle flickering softly beside you like it always had—except now it didn’t feel like something distant. It felt close. You felt close. Like he could reach out and touch you if he wanted to.
After a moment, you lifted your hand slightly, giving him a small wave through the window. He mirrored it without thinking. This was ridiculous. Ridiculously perfect.
“Good night, Nico.”
He let out a quiet breath, something easing in his shoulders as he smiled. “Good night, schatz.”
—
What happened after that is probably better left unsaid. Or maybe it’s simple.
You’d stopped spending most of your nights alone. And Nico didn’t have to look out of his window to see you anymore. Most nights, he could just turn over in bed and find you there instead.
Half asleep, wrapped up in one of his shirts, your hair a mess against his pillow. He’d lie awake sometimes, longer than he should, just watching you. Counting your birthmarks. Tracing the shape of your face without touching, like he was still half-afraid you might disappear if he got it wrong.
Other nights, you’d still find your way to the kitchen—whether that was his or yours. Always in front of a candle burning brightly, doodling in a notepad. Sometimes he’d watch you from the doorway, leaning against the frame like he used to lean against his counter. Other times he would join you at the table, borrowing a pencil to hijack your doodling.
“What are you drawing?” he’d ask.
You’d shrug. “Nothing.”
It was never nothing. It was always flowers.
On your sister’s wedding day, he’d been your date.
It was an overwhelmingly beautiful day. Slightly chaotic. Full of too many people, too much laughter, and too many emotions stacked on top of each other until it all burned into a memory strong enough to watch like film in your head.
Sunflowers had stretched endlessly behind the ceremony, glowing gold in the late afternoon light. The kind of setting that didn’t feel real until you were standing in the middle of it, squinting into the sun and trying not to cry.
Nico had watched you the entire time.
Not in a way that anyone else would notice—he’d learned how to be more subtle about it now—but enough that you noticed every time you caught him across the room.
By the time night settled in, the wedding had turned into something looser. Music spilling out across the fields, people barefoot in the grass, ties long abandoned and heels carried instead of worn.
Nico had lost track of you at some point.
You got pulled into conversations, into dances, into hugs that lasted longer than you were comfortable with. Every time he thought about stepping in, someone else was already there, spinning you away again.
So he’d let it happen. Leaning back against the edge of the reception space, watching from a distance. Smiling to himself like an idiot over the most beautiful girl in the room.
He’d found you on the balcony much later, overlooking the fields, where the noise softened into something distant and the night air cooled the lingering heat of the day.
Standing by the railing, arms resting lightly against it, your back to him. The dress dipped low just like you’d said it would, the fabric falling away to expose the skin you’d been so worried about.
Nico had walked up and kissed your shoulder, shrugged off his suit jacket without thinking about it, stepping into your space just enough to drape it gently over you.
Then you’d danced on the balcony, softly to some Beatles song your sister had picked out. Even if she couldn’t hear it, you insisted she liked certain vibrations of music, nylon-stringed guitars, and Lennon & McCartney’s lyrics.
God, he loved you. The words had come easy, spilling from his lips over and over again.
Thank you for reading ◡̈ Please tell me what you think My ask box is always open!

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Slide into his DMs
A/N: this came to me two weeks ago when my students were asking me about my personal life. They asked me what my type was and I showed them a picture of Timo, because why not, and they were begging me to slide into his DMs... I didn't, but I did think it would be a great story.
Pairing: Timo Meier x teacher!reader
Words: 7,5k
Warning(s): none
Sunlight spilt through the tall classroom windows, stretching across the rows of desks where your students were clearly already done with the day. Backpacks were half-zipped, notebooks were closed, and more than one student kept glancing at the clock, as if staring at it might make the seconds move faster. The last ten minutes of class always felt the longest. You capped your marker and stepped away from the whiteboard.
“Alright,” you said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “chapter six, questions one through five. Full sentences, please. I know some of you like to answer in three words.”
A few groans echoed around the room.
“You’ll survive,” you said, leaning casually against your desk.
Your classroom walls were covered in maps, grammar charts, and posters meant to inspire academic motivation. But there was one decoration your students always paid special attention to.
Next to your desk hung a bright red jersey. Across the back of it, in bold white letters, was the name Timo Meier. Above it, pinned neatly to the wall, was a poster of the New Jersey Devils. You had insisted it was simply classroom decoration but your students knew better.
A hand slowly went up in the second row.
You eyed the student suspiciously. “Yes?”
He tried very hard not to smile. “Miss… can I ask you something?”
“That depends,” you replied carefully.
A girl near the window turned around in her chair, already grinning.
“It’s important.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“…Go ahead.”
The boy cleared his throat dramatically.
“Is it true that if the Devils win tonight, you’re wearing your jersey to school tomorrow?” The classroom burst into laughter.
You tried to look offended. “I wear my jersey whenever I want.”
“But they are playing tonight, right?” another student asked.
“Yes.”
“And,” someone added from the back, “Timo Meier is playing.”
You dropped your pen onto your desk and stared at them. “Oh my god.” You covered your face with your hands in embarrassment. The laughter got louder. “You guys act like I’m obsessed.”
“You are,” three students said at once.
“I am not.”
A girl raised her hand like she was presenting a formal argument. “Last week you used the Devils power play to explain teamwork.”
“That was an educational example,” you argued.
“And the week before that,” someone added, “you paused class because Meier scored.”
“That was a very exciting moment,” you try to convince them and explain yourself.
Another student gestured toward the wall. “Miss, his jersey is literally hanging behind you.”
You glanced back at it and sighed. “…It’s a nice jersey.”
A quiet pause filled the room. Then one of the girls slowly opened Instagram on her laptop. Her eyes lit up.
“Oh my god.” You immediately shook your head. “No.”
“Guys,” she whispered excitedly.
“No.”
“I have an idea.”
You pointed at her. “Don’t.” But it was a lost cause because the student turned the laptop slightly so a few students nearby could see. On the screen was the profile of Timo Meier.
“Miss,” she said, barely containing her excitement, “you should DM him.”
The classroom exploded.
“Yes!” “DO IT!” “SLIDE INTO HIS DMS!”
“Absolutely not.” You stared at them in disbelief.
“Why not?” someone asked immediately.
“Because he’s a professional hockey player!”
“And?”
“And he has millions of followers!”
“And?”
“And I am a teacher being peer pressured by a room full of teenagers.”
A boy leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. “You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”
“…Did you just quote Wayne Gretzky at me?” You stared at him.
“Yes.”
You rubbed your temples. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Just say good luck,” someone suggested. “That’s not weird.”
“And say we made you do it!” Another student added.
You looked down at your phone sitting on your desk. Your students were watching you with the intensity of a playoff crowd.
“…Fine,” you sighed. The room instantly went silent.
“But if this ruins my life,” you added, unlocking your phone, “you’re all writing essays about peer pressure.”
“Deal.”
You opened Instagram and pulled up his profile. Your heart started beating a little faster the moment the message box appeared.
“Okay,” you said slowly. “What do I write?”
Hands shot up immediately.
“Say hi!” “Say you’re a teacher!” “Say we made you do it!” “Don’t sound creepy!”
You started typing while they called out suggestions.
Hi! This might be a random message, but my students convinced me to send it.
Several students leaned forward.
“Yes!” “Good!”
You kept typing. I’m a teacher and a big fan of the New Jersey Devils.
“Add good luck!” someone shouted.
You smiled slightly and added another line. Just wanted to say good luck in tonight’s game.
You read the message again. It was simple, friendly and most importantly it was a safe message.
“That’s perfect,” a girl said. “Send it!”
You hesitated for a second longer.
“This is the worst decision I’ve ever made,” you said.
“Send it!”
You tapped the button, and the classroom erupted.
“MISS Y/L/N DM’D TIMO MEIER!” “THIS IS HISTORY!” “WE DID IT!”
The bell rang moments later, and your students grabbed their bags, still laughing as they headed for the door. One of them pointed at you.
“When he replies, you have to tell us!”
You shook your head, smiling. “He’s not going to reply.”
“Maybe he will,” another student said with a grin.
Soon the classroom was empty again. You slipped your phone back into your bag, already regretting giving into to the peer pressure from your students. For Christ’s sake, you were better than this… but it seems like you weren’t. You could easily delete the message and pretend it never happened, but for some reason you were also very curious to see if anything would come from this.
Days passed by, school continued like normal. You were teaching, giving out homework and tests, correcting papers and answering student’s questions—normal ones about schoolwork.
The first few days your students would ask about the message once or twice, but when you told them there had been no reply, the excitement faded quickly. Eventually, even you stopped thinking about it. The message became one of those funny classroom moments that made everyone laugh for a day or two and then disappeared into the background of busy life.
Two weeks later, on a quiet Thursday evening, you were sitting on your couch grading the English essays of your third-year class. The TV played softly in the background, showing highlights from a New Jersey Devils game, which you hadn’t even been paying full attention to. Your red jersey was draped over the back of the couch. You were halfway through a particularly long essay when your phone buzzed on the coffee table. Without looking up, you reached for it. It was probably your sister in the family group chat. You unlocked the screen, and then you see it, an Instagram notification. Your eyes moved lazily to the name, and your brain froze. It was a message from none other than Timo Meier.
You blinked. Once. Twice.
“…Wait.” You say out loud. Your heart suddenly started racing as you opened the message. There it was. An actual reply from him.
Sorry for the late reply. Your students convinced you to message me? That might be the best reason I’ve heard to slide into someone’s DM 😄
You sat there staring at the screen in complete shock. You had completely forgotten you even sent that message. And now, two weeks later, he had actually replied. You leaned back slowly against the couch, staring at the phone in disbelief. Your classroom was going to lose its mind if you told them what happened tomorrow morning. Should you tell them? They had forgotten all about the message, they hadn’t asked any questions about it. Should you just keep this to yourself?
You weighted the pros and cons for a few minutes and then decided that you would keep it to yourself. If they asked you would answer them honestly, but it felt like now it turned into something more personal. Something that should not be shared with thirty 14-year-olds.
You set your phone down on the coffee table and stared at the stack of essays in front of you. For a moment, the words on the page blurred together. Your brain couldn’t focus on the words in front of you. Timo had actually replied. Not only had he seen your message… he had replied. Two weeks later, but still. Your heart was still beating faster than it should have been. You picked up the phone again, rereading the message. You let out a quiet laugh.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered to yourself.
Your thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment. You could reply now, but then another thought crept in. If you answered immediately… wouldn’t that make it look like you had been waiting around for his reply?
You quickly locked the phone and placed it face down on the table.
“Nope,” you said to the empty living room. “We are being normal about this.”
You forced yourself to focus on the essays again. Adjectives. Grammar mistakes. Argument structure. But every few minutes your eyes drifted back to the phone.
Eventually you finished the last essay, stacked the papers neatly, and stretched your arms above your head. The message was still there. You read it one more time. A smile tugged at your lips.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Tomorrow.”
You placed your phone on the nightstand later that evening and turned off the light, but sleep didn’t come quite as easily as usual.
The next morning felt different. It wasn’t a big and dramatic change but just enough that you noticed. You stood in your kitchen stirring your coffee while your phone sat on the counter beside you.
The message was still open. It was still real. You stared at the blank reply box.
“Okay,” you murmured.
Your fingers slowly started typing. I can confirm they were very proud of themselves that day. You paused and deleted it. That seemed too awkward. So you tried again. They were definitely proud of themselves. You frowned and deleted that too.
“Why is this harder than grading essays,” you muttered.
You took a sip of coffee and tried again.
They spent an entire class period convincing me it was a good idea. That sounded… somewhat normal, right? That sounded friendly and not weird.
You hesitated for a moment longer before you pressed send. Your stomach immediately flipped. You locked your phone and grabbed your bag before you could overthink it.
By the time you arrived at school, you had mostly convinced yourself to act completely normal.
Completely.
Totally.
Absolutely normal.
Unfortunately, your students seemed to notice something was off almost immediately.
You walked into the classroom, setting your bag down on your desk and trying to organize your papers.
A few students were already inside chatting.
One of them squinted at you. “Miss?”
“Yes?” You looked up quickly.
“…Are you okay?”
You blinked. “Of course.”
“You seem nervous.”
“I am not nervous.”
Another student leaned back in his chair.
“You’re pacing.”
You immediately stopped walking across the room. “I am not pacing.”
“You just walked from the desk to the window three times.”
“I was thinking.” You crossed your arms defensively.
“About what?” someone asked.
“Teacher things.”
That answer clearly satisfied absolutely no one.
A girl tilted her head. “You look like you’re waiting for something,” she said.
“I am waiting for the bell,” you said quickly.
The students exchanged suspicious looks.
One of the boys pointed toward the wall where the red jersey still hung.
“Did the New Jersey Devils lose again or something?”
You laughed a little too quickly.
“No! Nothing like that.”
Another student shrugged. “Maybe she’s just had too much coffee.”
“That’s probably it,” someone else agreed.
You quietly exhaled in relief as they returned to their conversations. You were trying very hard not to look at your phone. It sat inside your bag on your desk, completely silent, yet somehow it felt like it was calling your attention every few seconds.
You had sent the message less than an hour ago. He was probably at practice. Or travelling. Or doing anything other than answering Instagram messages. Still, the curiosity itched at the back of your mind.
You picked up a stack of papers and forced yourself to focus on the lesson plan for the day.
“Alright,” you said, clapping your hands lightly to get the class’s attention. “Everyone take out your notebooks.”
Chairs scraped across the floor as students shifted and reached into their bags.
“Today we’re going to talk about persuasive writing.”
You started explaining the assignment, writing a few key points on the whiteboard. Your handwriting was neat, but your thoughts kept drifting.
Did he see the message yet?
No. Stop it.
You turned back to the class.
“Your task is to write a short argument about a topic you care about. Something you feel strongly about.”
A hand shot up immediately.
You pointed at the student. “Yes?”
“Can it be about why the New Jersey Devils are the best team in the NHL?”
The class laughed. You tried not to smile.
“As long as you support your argument with good reasoning,” you said.
“Easy,” the student replied confidently.
Another hand went up. “Can I argue that Timo Meier is the best player?”
Your marker froze halfway through writing on the board. You slowly turned around.
“Focus,” you said, trying to sound stern. More laughter rippled through the room.
You continued the lesson, explaining the structure of an argument, walking between the desks while students started brainstorming their topics.
Every few minutes your eyes drifted toward your desk. Toward your bag. Toward the phone inside.
Don’t check it.
You stopped beside one student’s desk.
“Good topic,” you said, reading his first sentence. “But explain why you think that.”
He nodded and started writing again. You moved on to the next desk. Another ten minutes passed and still no buzzing from your bag.
See? Nothing to worry about. You were just overthinking everything.
Eventually the class settled into the quiet hum of writing and thinking. Pens scratched across paper. Someone tapped their foot against the floor. The occasional whisper passed between desks.
You walked back to your desk and sat down, pretending to organize papers. Your bag sat beside you, your phone was right there.
Just check quickly. No.
You lasted about thirty more seconds. Then you carefully reached into your bag, pulling the phone out just enough so it was hidden behind the stack of papers on your desk.
You unlocked the screen and immediately opened Instagram. Your stomach dropped slightly when you opened the messages. Still nothing. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Miss?”
You jumped slightly, locking the phone and looking up. A girl in the front row was watching you.
“Yes?”
“Can you read this sentence? I think it sounds weird.”
You stood up quickly.
“Of course.”
You walked over to her desk, grateful for the distraction.
It was better to focus on teaching than waiting around for a hockey player to reply to a DM.
The rest of the class passed fairly normally after that. When the bell finally rang, students packed their bags and headed toward the door.
One of them paused on the way out. “You seem less nervous now, Miss.”
You blinked. “I was never nervous.”
“Sure,” he said with a grin before leaving.
Soon the classroom was empty again. You leaned back in your chair and looked down at your phone. There was still no reply. You shrugged and slipped it back into your bag. See, nothing to panic about. He had taken two weeks to answer the first message. A few hours were nothing.
Later that afternoon, you were sitting at your desk during your free period, quietly grading assignments. The hallway outside was peaceful, broken only by distant footsteps and the muffled sound of another class somewhere down the corridor.
Your phone buzzed. You didn’t even think about it at first. It was probably another school email, but then it buzzed again.
You glanced down. An Instagram notification. Your heart skipped. You unlocked the phone slowly, and there it was.
A new message from Timo. Your stomach flipped as you opened it.
Sounds like they run the classroom then 😄
Another message followed a second later.
Do they always get you to do things like that?
You stared at the screen for a moment, a smile slowly spreading across your face. Well, that was definitely not the direction you expected your Thursday to go. You read the messages again just to make sure they were real. A quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
You quickly looked around the empty classroom, half-expecting someone to be standing in the doorway watching you grin at your phone like an idiot, but the room was quiet. Your free period had only just started, and most of the hallway noise had faded.
You looked back down at the messages. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard and typed something before deleting it and retyping again, but you deleted that too.
“Why is this so stressful?” you muttered under your breath. Eventually you forced yourself to stop overthinking and just answer.
Only when they think it will embarrass me.
You hesitated, then added another line.
Which, unfortunately for me, happens quite often.
You hit send before you could rethink it. For a moment nothing happened.
You placed the phone face down on the desk and tried to return to grading. You made it through exactly two sentences of a student’s assignment before your phone buzzed again. Your hand moved automatically. You flipped the phone over. There was another message from Timo. Your heart did that strange little jump again.
That sounds dangerous.
You laughed softly.
You have no idea, you typed back.
There was a short pause this time before another message appeared.
So, did they make you send that message as part of a lesson or just for their own entertainment?
You smiled at that.
Definitely their own entertainment.
You paused, then added: I’m pretty sure half the class thought it would be funny if you blocked me.
Three dots appeared almost immediately. You watched them nervously.
Then his reply came: That would have been kind of mean.
You leaned back slightly in your chair, relaxing for the first time since opening the messages. This felt surprisingly normal, like you were chatting with someone you already knew.
Another message appeared. What do you teach?
You typed your answer. English.
A few seconds passed. That explains the persuasive argument your students made.
You actually laughed out loud at that. The sound echoed slightly in the empty classroom. For the next few minutes, the conversation continued in short bursts. Nothing dramatic, just some easy, and simple messages. He asked how old your students were. You told him fourteen.
He replied: That’s a dangerous age.
You answered: You’re telling me.
You didn’t notice how much time had passed until the bell rang somewhere down the hall, signalling the end of the next period. You blinked and looked at the clock. You had spent almost twenty minutes messaging him. Your next class would arrive any minute.
You quickly typed one more message.
I should probably get ready for my next class before they start wondering where I disappeared to.
A reply came a moment later. Probably a good idea. Then another message appeared right after. Good luck with them.
You smiled. Thanks. I’ll need it.
You slipped the phone back into your bag just as the first students started entering the classroom.
Over the next few days, something small began to change. You didn’t notice it right away, but your students did. It started with little things. You smiled more during lessons. You laughed more easily when someone made a joke. You were even making some jokes yourself.
One morning you walked into class humming quietly to yourself while setting your bag down on the desk.
A student immediately looked up.
“Miss?”
You glanced over. “Yes?”
“…Why are you in such a good mood?”
You blinked. “I’m always in a good mood.”
Several students exchanged sceptical looks. “Not like this,” someone said. Another student leaned back in his chair, studying you. “You’re smiling a lot.”
“I smile normally,” you said defensively.
“You were humming when you walked in.”
You froze slightly. “I was not.”
“Yes, you were.”
You grabbed a marker and turned toward the whiteboard. “Open your notebooks,” you said quickly. “We’re starting the lesson.”
But the class wasn’t convinced. A girl near the front tilted her head thoughtfully. “Did something good happen?”
Your stomach did a tiny flip, but you chose not to answer that question. You tried to focus on preparing the lesson. But every now and then, your phone buzzed quietly inside your bag. Each time it happened, a small smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it.
Apparently, your students noticed. One of the boys leaned toward his friend and whispered—loud enough that you could still hear it.
“She’s definitely happier today.”
“Maybe the Devils won.”
Another student shook his head. “No, she would’ve worn the jersey.”
A girl glanced at you thoughtfully. “Maybe something good happened.”
You quickly turned around before they could see the smile spreading across your face. Your phone buzzed again. You were in the middle of explaining the difference between a claim and supporting evidence, but the faint vibration from inside your bag was impossible to ignore.
You tried to keep your voice steady.
“Remember,” you said, writing on the board, “a strong argument always explains why—” You paused. A few students looked up.
“You okay, Miss?” someone asked.
“Yes,” you said quickly. “Continue writing your introductions.”
You turned back to the board, but your focus was completely gone now. Your phone buzzed again. Alright, that was suspicious. You walked calmly back to your desk, pretending to grab a marker. Instead, you slipped your phone halfway out of your bag and glanced at the screen.
Another message from Timo. Your stomach did a small flip as you opened the chat.
Do you always teach persuasive writing this seriously?
A smile immediately tugged at your lips. You quickly typed back.
Only when I’m being judged by thirty teenagers.
You sent the message before you could overthink it and slid the phone back into your bag. A minute later, it buzzed again. You definitely shouldn’t check it during class. You absolutely shouldn’t, but you checked it anyway.
That sounds like a tough crowd. You bit back a laugh. You have no idea.
Three dots appeared again. You watched them for a second before forcing yourself to put the phone down. Then another message came through. It might be easier to talk somewhere other than Instagram.
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. The next message appeared almost immediately.
If you’re comfortable with it, you could send me your number.
Your heart skipped. You stared at the screen for a long moment. This was suddenly very real. You glanced around the classroom. Your students were busy writing their persuasive essays, completely unaware that their teacher was currently debating whether or not to give her phone number to an NHL player.
You let out a quiet breath and then you typed.
I think my students would lose their minds if they knew this conversation was happening. You pressed send.
His reply came quickly. They’re the reason it started.
That made you laugh quietly. You thought for another moment, but you finally decided to give him your number. You stared at it. Once you sent it, there was no taking it back.
“…Okay,” you whispered to yourself and pressed send.
Your phone buzzed less than thirty seconds later, but this time it wasn’t Instagram. It was a new text message from an unknown number. You opened it.
Hey, it’s Timo. You let out a nervous laugh of disbelief this time. A few heads in the classroom popped up.
“Miss?” someone asked suspiciously.
You quickly covered your mouth.
“Sorry,” you said. “Continue working.”
You turned slightly away from the class and typed a quick reply. Hi. That was fast.
Three dots appeared. Figured it was easier.
You leaned against your desk, trying to act like your entire morning wasn’t suddenly surreal.
Another message came through. So what are the essays about?
You smiled.
School subjects.
There was a short pause before the next message arrived. Sounds important.
It is, you replied.
Then another message popped up. How many students do you have?
Thirty.
A few seconds passed. Then a message came in that had you stop in your tracks. If they all pass… maybe the Devils could stop by.
“…What?”
You whispered it before you even realized you had spoken.
One of the students looked up. “Miss?”
You quickly cleared your throat. “Nothing.”
Your heart was beating faster now as you looked back down at the phone.
You’re joking.
The reply came quickly. I’m serious. Another message followed. Motivation works, right?
You stared at the screen in disbelief. Your students, your class, meeting the New Jersey Devils. You could practically hear the chaos already.
You typed slowly. You realise if I tell them this they will work harder than they ever have in their lives.
The response came almost instantly. Then it sounds like a good deal.
You leaned back in your chair, laughing quietly to yourself. Well, you had absolutely no way of keeping this a secret.
Twenty minutes later, you were standing at the front of the classroom again. Your students were still working on their essays, though the room had grown restless. You clapped your hands lightly.
“Alright everyone, pause for a second.”
Their pens stopped and their heads lifted up from their work.
You folded your arms, trying very hard to keep a straight face.
“So… I have an announcement.”
Immediately the room buzzed with curiosity. One student leaned forward. “Is it about the essays?”
“…Sort of.” You hesitated.
This was definitely going to spiral out of control, but there was no backing out now.
You cleared your throat.
“Remember how you all made me send a message to Timo Meier a few weeks ago?”
The room exploded instantly.
“HE REPLIED?!” “NO WAY!” “I KNEW IT!”
You raised your hands quickly.
“Calm down!” They did not calm down.
“He texted you back?!”
“Yes,” you admitted.
The noise somehow got even louder.
One student nearly fell out of his chair.
“I TOLD YOU!”
You tried to keep your composure.
“We’ve exchanged a few messages,” you continued.
Thirty jaws dropped.
“BUT,” you said quickly, pointing at them, “that is all the information you’re getting.”
A chorus of groans filled the room.
“Miss Y/L/N, that’s not fair!” “Tell us everything!”
“Nope.”
You waited for the room to quiet down again and then you continued.
“But… we did make a deal.”
The classroom went completely silent. Thirty teenagers stared at you.
You crossed your arms.
“If everyone passes their persuasive essay…”
You paused dramatically.
“…the New Jersey Devils might stop by.”
For two seconds the room was completely silent.
Then the entire classroom exploded.
“WHAT?!” “NO WAY!” “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!” “MISS THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER!”
You tried to hide your smile as the chaos erupted.
One student stood up dramatically.
“I AM WRITING THE BEST ESSAY OF MY LIFE.”
Another slammed his notebook open.
“NOBODY FAILS.”
A girl pointed at the class.
“IF ANYONE FAILS WE ARE NEVER FORGIVING YOU.”
You shook your head, laughing.
“Well,” you said, gesturing toward their papers, “I guess you all have some essays to finish.”
And suddenly, you had the most motivated class in the entire school.
For the rest of the lesson, your classroom sounded less like a normal school environment and more like a group of students preparing for the most important exam of their lives. Pens moved faster than you had ever seen. Notebooks flipped open. One student even asked for an extra sheet of paper.
You stood near your desk, arms folded, trying very hard not to laugh at the sudden transformation.
Twenty minutes ago you had been struggling to get them to focus.
Now the entire class was writing like their lives depended on it.
A boy in the second row suddenly looked up.
“Miss?”
“Yes?”
“Just to confirm… everyone has to pass, right?”
You nodded.
“Yes. Everyone.”
The entire room turned toward the back corner where one particular student sat.
“Dude,” someone whispered dramatically, “you better not ruin this for us.”
“I WON’T,” he protested immediately.
You raised your hands.
“Alright, relax. You still have to write good essays. I’m not just handing out grades.”
Another student leaned forward.
“But if we pass…”
You sighed, smiling slightly.
“If you all pass,” you repeated, “then the New Jersey Devils might stop by.”
The room erupted again. You shook your head, amused, and walked back to your desk. Inside your bag, your phone buzzed quietly. You slipped it out carefully while the class was busy writing.
A new message: Did you tell them yet?
You smiled immediately. Your thumbs moved quickly across the screen.
Yes.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
And?
You glanced up at your class. Two students were arguing about thesis statements. Someone else had already filled half a page. Another student was whispering aggressively to a friend about comma placement.
You laughed softly.
I think you just created the most motivated classroom in the country.
His reply came a few seconds later.
That good?
You typed back. One of them just threatened to disown anyone who fails.
Sounds like serious pressure.
You smiled.
You have no idea.
Before you could type anything else, a student appeared beside your desk.
“Miss?”
You quickly locked your phone and looked up.
“Yes?”
“Is this a good thesis?”
You leaned forward to read the sentence.
“It’s a good start,” you said, pointing at the paper. “But explain why more clearly.”
He nodded and returned to his desk. When you looked down again, another message had appeared.
So now you have thirty students working for the Devils.
You quickly replied.
Thirty very stressed students.
A few seconds passed. Then another message appeared.
Do you have to grade all those essays today?
You looked at the stack of papers already forming on your desk.
Unfortunately… yes.
That sounds like a long evening.
You sighed quietly.
It will be.
The typing dots appeared again. Then his next message popped up.
If you want, we could call.
Your eyebrows lifted slightly.
The message continued.
You can still grade while we talk. Might make it less boring.
You stared at the screen for a moment. A phone call with Timo. It was starting to get more unreal with the second.
You glanced around the classroom again. Your students were still fully absorbed in their essays.
Your heart beat a little faster. You typed carefully.
I don’t have a lot of time during the day.
His reply came quickly.
That’s okay.
We can keep it short.
You hesitated then typed again.
I still have another class after this.
A few seconds passed.
Then we’ll talk while you grade later.
You leaned back slightly in your chair, smiling at the screen. That sounded nice. You typed one last message before slipping the phone back into your bag.
Alright. But if my students find out about this, they will never let me live it down.
His response appeared almost immediately.
Your secret is safe.
You looked up just as one of your students raised their hand again.
“Miss?”
You stood up quickly.
“Yes?”
“Can you read this paragraph?”
You walked over to the desk, trying to focus on the essay in front of you.
But for the first time since you started teaching, you were actually looking forward to grading papers tonight.
The final bell of the day rang louder than usual, or maybe it just felt louder.
Chairs scraped across the floor as your students packed up their bags, but unlike most afternoons, no one rushed out immediately. Instead, several of them hovered near their desks, still talking about the essays.
“Miss, when do we find out the grades?” someone asked.
“As soon as I finish reading them,” you replied, stacking the papers on your desk.
A boy leaned over his chair. “Be honest… are we close?”
“I haven’t even looked at them yet,” you said.
“But like… hypothetically.”
You sighed, trying not to smile.
Another student pointed dramatically at the stack of papers.
“That pile decides our future.”
You shook your head.
“It decides your grade.”
“And our chance to meet the New Jersey Devils,” someone added.
The classroom buzzed again.
“Alright, out,” you said, waving them toward the door. “Go home.”
One of them paused at the doorway and turned back.
“Miss?”
“Yes?”
“You seem happier today.”
You froze for half a second.
“I’m always happy.”
He grinned. “Not like this.”
Before you could respond, he disappeared into the hallway with the rest of the class.
Soon the room was quiet again. You let out a slow breath and sank into your chair. You checked your phone again almost immediately. When you unlocked it and saw a message from Timo, a small smile spread across your face.
How many essays are we talking about?
You glanced down at the stack.
Thirty.
The reply came quickly.
That’s a lot of grading.
You laughed softly.
You’re the one who motivated them.
Three dots appeared.
Sounds like I should help then.
You raised an eyebrow at the screen.
How exactly do you plan on helping?
A second later your phone started ringing. Your eyes widened at the incoming call. You stared at the screen for a moment, your heart suddenly racing.
“…Okay,” you whispered to yourself.
You answered.
“Hello?”
There was a brief pause before his voice came through the phone, warm and slightly amused.
“Hi.”
You leaned back in your chair, suddenly very aware of the empty classroom around you.
“Hi.”
For a moment neither of you said anything but then he laughed softly.
“So… thirty essays?”
You groaned. “Thirty essays.”
“Your students must really want that visit.”
“You have no idea,” you said. “One of them threatened to never forgive anyone who fails.”
He laughed again.
“That’s serious motivation.”
You picked up the first essay from the stack and grabbed your red pen.
“Well,” you said, “I guess we’ll find out how motivated they really are.”
There was a brief rustling sound on the other end of the call.
“Are you grading right now?”
“Yes,” you replied. “You said we could talk while I grade.”
“Right,” he said. “I meant it.”
You started reading the first paragraph, making a small correction in the margin.
“So, what are they writing about?” he asked.
“Anything they care about,” you said.
You paused and smiled slightly.
“Apparently a lot of them care about hockey.”
“I wonder why.”
You laughed quietly. “Your influence.”
“That’s dangerous.”
You marked another sentence and moved on to the next paragraph. For a moment the only sounds were the soft scratch of your pen and the quiet hum of the classroom lights.
Then he asked, “Do they always have this much energy?”
“Always,” you said immediately. “Teenagers run on chaos.”
“That explains a lot.”
You finished the first essay and placed it on the graded pile.
“Alright,” you said.
“Did they pass?” he asked.
You glanced at the paper.
“…So far.”
“Good start.”
You picked up the second essay. Somehow, grading papers had never felt this easy before. And as the conversation continued—easy jokes, small stories about your students, the occasional laugh—you realized something strange. You weren’t nervous anymore. You were just enjoying talking to him.
Halfway through the stack, you leaned back in your chair and stretched.
“Okay,” you said.
“That bad?” he asked.
“No,” you admitted.
You glanced down at the growing graded pile.
“Actually… they’re doing really well.”
There was a pause on the other end of the call. Then he said, “Guess we might have to stop by after all.”
You smiled down at the essays. You didn’t even realize how much time had passed until you looked at the clock on the wall. It had been nearly an hour. Your red pen hovered above the next essay as you blinked at the time.
“Wait,” you said into the phone.
“What?” Timo asked.
“You’ve been on the phone with me for almost an hour.”
There was a small pause. “…And?”
You laughed quietly. “Don’t you have better things to do than listen to me complain about essays?”
“I’m not complaining,” he said easily. “It’s interesting.”
You looked down at the paper in front of you.
“Interesting?”
“Yeah.”
You flipped the page. “Well, this one is arguing that the New Jersey Devils have the best fans in the NHL.”
He laughed softly on the other end of the line. “Smart student.”
“That’s what they’re hoping I’ll think.” You finished reading the paragraph and scribbled a quick note in the margin. “You’re definitely influencing these topics,” you added.
“That wasn’t my plan.”
You stacked the essay with the others and grabbed the next one.
“So how many have passed?” he asked.
You glanced at the graded pile.
“…Most of them so far.”
“That’s promising.”
You smiled slightly.
“Don’t celebrate yet. I still have ten left.”
“You sound like a coach.”
“I feel like one right now,” you said. “Except instead of hockey players it’s thirty fourteen-year-olds with questionable grammar.”
He chuckled.
“You’re doing important work.”
“Thank you for the support.”
For a moment the conversation settled into something comfortable again. You read another essay, circled a few mistakes, and wrote a short comment at the bottom. On the other end of the line, you could hear faint background noise—voices, maybe a locker room somewhere.
“Where are you?” you asked casually.
“At the rink,” he replied.
You raised an eyebrow even though he couldn’t see you.
“You’re at the rink and still talking to me?”
“Practice ended a while ago.”
You placed another finished essay onto the pile.
“Well, I appreciate the company.”
A small pause followed.
Then he said, “How’s the nervous teacher doing now?”
“I was not nervous.” You laughed.
“You were definitely nervous earlier.”
“I was not.”
“You told me your students would never let you live it down if they found out.”
“That’s because they won’t.”
He laughed again. The sound was warm and easy, and it made you smile without realizing it. You flipped to the last page of another essay and finished marking it.
“Alright,” you said slowly.
“That sounded serious.”
“It’s the last one.”
“Final student.”
You looked down at the paper dramatically. “The fate of the class rests on this essay.”
“You’re making it intense.”
“They made it intense.” You skimmed the final paragraph, correcting a couple small mistakes. Then you leaned back in your chair.
“Well?” he asked.
You tapped the pen against the desk once.
“…They all passed.”
There was a short silence before you heard his laugh through the phone again.
“Looks like we have a deal.”
You shook your head, smiling to yourself. “You realize what you just did.”
“What did I do?”
“You created the most motivated classroom in the history of education.”
“That sounds like a good thing.”
“It is,” you admitted.
You glanced at the stack of essays again. Tomorrow morning was going to be chaos. Thirty teenagers were about to hear the best news of their lives. You leaned back in your chair, twirling the red pen between your fingers.
“They’re going to lose their minds when I tell them.”
“I kind of want to see that.”
You laughed softly. “Trust me… you will.”
And somehow, the idea of that moment—standing in your classroom, watching your students explode with excitement—suddenly felt even more exciting knowing who was on the other end of the phone.
The next morning you arrived at school earlier than usual. Not because you had to but because you were excited. Which, as a teacher, was slightly dangerous. Excited teachers tended to accidentally reveal things too early.
Your bag landed on your desk, and you immediately pulled out the stack of essays you had finished grading the night before. A bright green sticky note sat on top of the pile with two words written across it.
Everyone Passed.
You smiled to yourself. Thirty teenagers were about to have the best morning of their school year.
Another message appeared.
At what time are you going to share the good news?
You glanced at the clock on the wall. Your class started in about fifteen minutes.
Very soon.
Three dots appeared.
That sounds like something I should see.
You raised an eyebrow at the phone.
You want to see thirty teenagers lose their minds?
Yes.
You stared at the message for a moment, then laughed.
I don’t think my classroom is prepared for that level of chaos.
Another message appeared.
Video call me.
Your heart skipped slightly.
You’re serious?
Of course.
You thought about it for a moment. Your students already knew you had texted him. Seeing him on a call would probably cause absolute mayhem… but honestly, the news alone was going to cause mayhem anyway. And part of you thought it would be funny.
Alright, you typed. But if the classroom explodes it’s your fault.
His reply came almost instantly. Deal.
Ten minutes later your students started arriving. Backpacks dropped onto chairs. Conversations filled the room. A few students immediately looked toward your desk where the stack of essays sat.
One of them pointed.
“Miss.”
You pretended to organize your papers.
“Yes?”
“Are those the essays?”
“Maybe.”
The entire room perked up instantly.
“Did you grade them?!”
“Miss, you said you would tell us today!”
Another student leaned forward dramatically.
“Please tell me nobody failed.”
You lifted your hands. “Relax.”
They did not relax.
“MISS.” “Did we pass?” “Did we pass?!”
You glanced down at your phone. A notification popped up from an incoming video call. Timo. Your heart jumped.
You quickly grabbed your phone and propped it discreetly against your work laptop, so the camera faced you. The screen lit up with his face.
You lowered your voice slightly. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he said with a grin. “Is this the famous classroom?”
You turned the phone slightly so he could see the room. Students were still talking loudly, completely unaware.
“Yes,” you said quietly. “Prepare yourself.”
He laughed. “Alright.”
You angled the phone so it leaned against your laptop screen, just enough that he could see you and the class.
Then you stood up and clapped your hands.
“Alright everyone.”
The room slowly quieted. Thirty students stared at you with intense anticipation. You picked up the stack of essays.
“So… I finished grading.”
Instant tension filled the room.
A boy near the back whispered dramatically. “This is it.”
You paused for effect. “You all worked really hard.”
More nervous looks.
“And I’m happy to say…” You lifted the green sticky note. “…everyone passed.”
For a split second there was complete silence then the classroom exploded.
“YESSS!” “NO WAY!” “I TOLD YOU!” “WE DID IT!”
One student literally jumped out of his chair. Another slammed his notebook shut in victory. You tried not to laugh as the chaos unfolded. Behind your laptop screen, Timo was watching the entire scene, grinning.
Once the noise settled just slightly, you raised your hand again.
“And remember the deal?”
Instant silence. Thirty students leaned forward.
“If everyone passed…” You glanced briefly toward the phone before continuing. “…the New Jersey Devils might stop by.”
The whole room was silent again for two seconds before all her students absolutely lost it, they were screaming, cheering, someone nearly knocked over their chair.
“MISS ARE YOU SERIOUS?!” “THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER!” “WE’RE MEETING THE DEVILS?!”
You were laughing now, trying to calm them down. “Alright, alright!”
But then one student suddenly squinted toward your desk.
“…Miss?”
You froze slightly.
“Yes?”
“…Why is your phone on?”
A few students turned, and that’s when one of them leaned forward and gasped.
“…WAIT.”
The room went quiet again. Thirty pairs of eyes slowly turned toward the phone sitting against your laptop, and the face on the screen.
One student whispered in disbelief. “…Is that… Timo Meier?”
meme ss from this vid from devs ig 3.23.26