Morgan

Glide Into Me

summary: Vince thought love was something to fear, something that would always hurt. But seeing her laugh, trusting him, and letting him in makes him wonder if maybe it’s not so scary after all.

[word count] 4.5k

Warnings: SFW! | fluff | strangers to lovers | not properly edited | figure skater!reader

pairing: vince dunn x reader

a/n: i did not expect the last one to get so much attention. Thank you all so much<33 ────୨ৎ────

You don’t understand; it isn’t that he can’t love.

It’s that he’s afraid.

Vince grew up in a house where love was nothing but an empty word, thrown around like loose change and worth just as little. To him, affection was conditional, a prize dangled out of reach, and promises were broken before they were even spoken. He learned early that love was a myth; something people invented to make loneliness sound prettier.

And yet, he tried. He dated. He smiled across restaurant tables, let himself be kissed beneath the lazy glow of streetlamps, pretended for a fleeting second that maybe he could believe. But it never lasted. Because sooner or later, the words always came; soft, trembling, too much like a vow: I love you.

That was when the panic set in. The walls shot up. And Vince did what he always did best.

He disappeared.

No explanation. No goodbye. Not even the mercy of closure. Just a ghost where a boy had been. Just silence in the place of a heart.

Because Vince didn’t believe in love.
He believed in running from it.

That was until he met you.

Unfortunately, for him, you were a figure skater; hockey players didnt dare to date them. Too much grace, too much light, everything he’d spent years convincing himself didn’t exist. But from the moment he saw you gliding across the surface of his ice, not really his ice, of course, but the Kraken’s home rink, it was over. Something inside him cracked wide open.

You moved like the ice belonged to you, like it bent beneath your will. Every jump, every spin, every effortless glide pulled him in deeper. Vince hated that he couldn’t look away.

So he stopped trying.

He started arriving early for his own morning practices, slipping through the tunnel before anyone else, planting himself in the shadows just out of sight. Hidden where you couldn’t see him, where no one could call him out for the way his chest tightened every time your blades cut across the silence.

And there he stood, morning after morning, pretending he was only there to warm up, when in truth, he was there for you. Always for you.

It made no sense. It shouldn’t have been her.

Of all people, it had to be a figure skater, someone whose entire world was choreography, glitter, and control. The kind of person who lived for beauty, for grace, for an audience. Everything Vince swore he’d never be, everything he’d been taught to sneer at.

And yet… there was something about the way you carried yourself on the ice. It wasn’t just performance, it was raw, unguarded. Like the ice was the only place you allowed yourself to be completely free. Vince should have dismissed it, should have shoved the feeling down until it choked him out. But each time you lifted off the ice, cutting clean lines into the air, something inside him followed.

He told himself it was nothing. Just curiosity. Just boredom. Just the quiet before practice that made him watch a little too long. But the truth clawed at him in the silence of the tunnel: he was drawn to you, helplessly, recklessly.

And he hated it.

Because you were the last person he should be watching. The last person who should have been able to make his pulse stutter, to make him forget every reason he’d convinced himself that love was a lie.

Vince had faced bruises, broken bones, bloody fights on the ice. He’d played through injuries that should’ve benched him for weeks. But this, you, was different. This was dangerous in a way that couldn’t be taped up or skated off. Because if he let himself fall into the orbit of someone like you, he knew he’d never crawl back out.

He hated figure skaters. Always had. They were everything hockey players weren’t, poised, perfect, applauded for artistry instead of grit. But watching you, he couldn’t cling to that bitterness anymore. It didn’t fit. You weren’t the stereotype he’d been told to laugh at; you were something else entirely. Something untouchable.

And still, he wanted to touch.

The worst part was, you didn’t even know he was there. Didn’t know that, behind the glass and concrete, a boy who didn’t believe in love stood every morning just to watch you breathe life into the rink. He told himself it was harmless, that you’d never notice, that nothing would come of it.

But Vince had always been a runner. And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t running.

That terrified him more than anything.

·✶· You slowed to a stop, the hiss of your blades echoing into the empty arena. The figure in the tunnel didn’t move, and that unsettled you more than if he’d walked away.

“Why are you watching me?” you called, your voice steady, sharper than you intended.

The sound carried, brittle against the boards, but he didn’t answer. He just stood there, half in shadow, eyes locked on you like he’d been caught in the act. You tightened your grip on the edges of your sleeves, shifting uncomfortably on the ice.

You didn’t recognize him. Hockey bag, hunched shoulders, the kind of presence that belonged to someone who knew this rink, but you had no name to give the face, or lack of face, you can't see them. And that made it worse.

“I don’t know who you are,” you said flatly, gaze narrowing. “But if you’ve got a reason for standing there, say it. Otherwise, leave.”

He shifted, finally, just enough to step from the shadows. His hoodie hung low over his eyes, but there was no mistaking the way he studied you, careful, calculating.

“Not… spying,” he said finally, voice low, rough at the edges. “I’m just… here. Early. Practicing.”

There was a pause, as if he expected you to argue, or maybe just to leave him alone. But the truth leaked in the tension between his words and the way he didn’t look away, didn’t take a step back.

“Look, I’m not–” He cut himself off, jaw tightening, “I’m not trying to bother you. Okay?”

It wasn’t an apology. It wasn't a charm. It was defensive, clipped, almost fragile under the weight of the silence that followed.

You studied him, the way he shifted under your gaze, hoodie low, shoulders tense. His jaw was tight, eyes flicking to the floor before meeting yours again.

“For someone who isn’t… stalking,” you said slowly, voice steady, “you’re awfully defensive.”

He froze, like your words had caught him off guard, and for a heartbeat he looked completely unprepared.

“I—look,” he muttered, voice low and clipped, “I’m not—”

“You’re being a little dramatic,” you cut in, calm but firm, “for someone who says they’re just… here. Practicing. That’s all?”

His hands clenched at his sides, a slight tremor betraying him, though he tried to mask it. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then shut it again. The silence stretched, charged, like the space between the boards and the ice was holding its breath.

And just like that, you realized he wasn’t used to being confronted. Not like this.

You let the silence hang for a moment, the sound of your own breathing loud in your ears. His shoulders were still tight, like a coiled spring, and something about the way he couldn’t quite meet your eyes made your stomach knot.

You took a slow step closer, blades scratching faintly against the ice. “How long,” you asked, your voice low but steady, “have you been standing there… watching me?”

His head jerked up at that, eyes flicking to yours. Whatever mask he’d been holding onto cracked, just a little, but enough for you to see it.

“I wasn’t—” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard.

You tilted your head, gaze narrowing. “How long?”

The words echoed off the boards, softer than a shout but sharper than any accusation. You didn’t even know why you asked, but suddenly you needed to.

He shifted his weight, hoodie shadowing his face, and for the first time he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but there.

He hesitated, fingers tightening against the strap of his bag. Finally, his voice came out low, rough, defensive.

“Two… two weeks,” he admitted, eyes flicking away for a fraction of a second before meeting yours again. “But it’s not like..like I was stalking you or anything.”

You felt a shiver crawl up your spine, a mix of disbelief and unease tightening in your chest. Two weeks. Watching you. Without your knowledge.

“Two weeks?” you repeated, voice sharper now, the unease threading through every word. “You watched me for two weeks?”

“It’s not what it sounds like!” he snapped, a quick flare of anger masking the tension under his skin. “I…I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I’m not some… creep, okay?”

You stepped back slightly, gaze narrowing, wary. “You need to understand,” you said slowly, each word deliberate, “that’s… still creepy. That’s not normal. Not okay.”

His jaw tightened, eyes darting away before flicking back, defensive and tense. “I wasn’t trying to..look, I just… I don’t know, okay? I didn’t know how else to… I wasn’t thinking!”

You narrowed your eyes, leaning slightly forward, voice steady but sharp. “Wait, what did you mean by that? ‘I didn’t know how else to…’? How else to what?”

He blinked, caught off guard by the directness in your tone. His jaw worked for a moment, like he was chewing over how much to admit, how much to shove down.

“I… I don’t know,” he said finally, running a hand through his hair, frustration and something else flickering in his eyes. “I just… didn’t know how else to… not mess it up, I guess.”

“Not mess what up?” you pressed, skating a few deliberate strides closer, the scrape of your blades sharp against the ice. “Not mess up what, exactly?”

His eyes darted to the boards, then back to yours, the hoodie shadowing half his face. He shifted on his feet, tense, but didn’t step back.

You slowed your pace, gliding to the edge of the ice near the tunnel, then hopped lightly off the surface, skates clinking softly against the concrete. Standing there, toes gripping the edge, you could finally look at him without the barrier of ice between you.

He flinched slightly at the sound, jaw tightening. “I… I just… I didn’t know how else to… handle it,” he said, voice low, defensive, like every word was a knife he was trying not to twist. “Seeing you… it’s…look, it doesn’t make sense. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t… I just… didn’t know how to not screw it up.”

You folded your arms, leaning slightly against the railing of the tunnel, gaze fixed, studying him. “Screw up what? Do you even realize how this looks? Standing there, watching me like I don’t even exist?”

His eyes flicked down, then back to yours, the tension between his defensiveness and vulnerability sharp. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, almost too quickly. “I just… didn’t know what else to do.”

You let the words hang in the air, heavy with their unspoken weight. Every inch of space between you made it feel like a question and a challenge all at once: What were you really doing? And why can’t you just say it?

·✶·

It went like that for the next three weeks.

Every morning, the same tension hung in the air between you and the shadowed figure in the tunnel. Even when he didn’t say anything, the knowledge that he was there, watching, waiting, was a constant weight. You tried to focus on your routines, on the precision of your spins and jumps, but it was impossible to ignore.

Your landings started to falter. A misstep here, a wobble there, subtle at first, then more noticeable. Your coach frowned, calling you over more often to correct your form. But no matter how hard you tried, the distraction followed you like a shadow.

And then one morning, it happened.

You launched into a triple spin, eyes focused, body coiled with every ounce of practiced grace, and your ankle twisted mid-landing. Pain shot through it like fire as you hit the ice, a harsh crack echoing across the rink. You collapsed onto your side, clutching the joint, breath hitching in shock.

Before you could even think, he was there. Vince. Rushing onto the ice, skates cutting through the cold surface, hoodie flapping as he leaned over you, hands hovering uncertainly before gently gripping your arm to help you steady yourself.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asked, voice low and tense, concerned threading through each word. “I…shit, I didn’t see…”

You took a shaky breath, trying to focus on your ankle more than him. “I think I twisted it,” you admitted, wincing slightly. “It’s fine… I’ll just rest for a second.”

He didn’t move away. Instead, he stayed close, eyes flicking from your face to your ankle and back again, tense but careful, like he wanted to help without overstepping. “Sit down for a second,” he urged gently. “Let me help.”

You gave a small nod, biting back a sigh, and let him guide you toward the boards, the tension between you quiet but charged in a different way, no accusation, just awareness, and something heavier, unspoken, hovering in the air.

You slid carefully onto the bench, wincing as your ankle protested every movement. Vince crouched in front of you, careful not to crowd, his hands hovering for a moment before gently taking hold of your skate.

“Can you lift it for me?” he asked softly, eyes flicking to yours for permission.

You nodded, giving him enough room to work, and he eased the skate off with practiced precision, though there was a gentleness to his touch that made you acutely aware of him being so close.

Once the skate was off, his green eyes went straight to your ankle. He leaned in slightly, studying it with a careful, almost clinical attention, but the tight line of his jaw betrayed the worry he was trying to mask.

“Hmm,” he murmured, voice low, not breaking eye contact with the swollen joint. “It’s twisted a little, but… it doesn’t look broken.” He ran a thumb lightly along the side, checking for tenderness, careful not to cause more pain. “You’ll need to rest it, though. No jumping for a while.”

You nodded, biting back a wince as he gently shifted your foot to a more comfortable angle. “Thanks,” you muttered quietly. “I… I didn’t think it was that bad.”

He shook his head, eyes still on your ankle, tone firm but soft. “Trust me. If you ignore it, it’ll get worse. Ice it, keep it elevated, and don’t try to skate until it’s better.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the quiet stretching between you, filled with the weight of the fall, the closeness, and the unspoken awareness of each other. Vince finally straightened a little, giving your ankle one last careful glance before leaning back just enough to let you breathe.

“Why have you been watching me?” You didn’t bother trying to beat around the bush.

You sat on the bench, ankle elevated, the air between you heavy but quiet. Vince crouched in front of you, calm, his hands steady as he rested one near your ankle.

“I’ll tell you why,” he said, voice even, measured. “I watch because… because you’re different. On the ice, you’re… free. You move like nothing can touch you, like the ice listens to you. It’s captivating. I can’t look away.”

You blinked, trying to process the words, the straightforwardness of them catching you off guard.

“I’m not here to make you uncomfortable,” he continued, gaze steady, unwavering. “I just… I like seeing it. Watching you reminds me that some things, some people, are worth paying attention to. Worth stopping for.”

He tilted his head slightly, expression calm but intense, as if nothing about it was complicated or shameful. “That’s it. No games. No running. Just… you.”

You exhaled slowly, the tension in the space between you different now, less about suspicion, more about the weight of his honesty.

Your mouth opened, then closed again, caught between disbelief and the absurdity of the moment. You stared at him, trying to process the calm intensity in his eyes, the way he’d been watching you all this time.

Then the words tumbled out, half-laugh, half-shock: “Oh my God… you have a crush on me.”

Vince froze for a fraction of a second, and you finally noticed the flush creeping up his neck, coloring his cheeks a deep shade of red. He looked down, jaw tight, before taking a steadying breath.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, voice low but firm, “I… I do. I like you. I’ve been… watching because I can’t stop myself.”

You blinked, your chest tightening with a mix of surprise and the faintest flutter of something else. The empty rink suddenly felt smaller, heavier, charged with the awkward, honest tension of the confession.

“You… seriously?” you asked, incredulous, trying to make sense of it.

He finally met your eyes again, red-faced but unflinching, holding your gaze. “Seriously.”

·✦·

A few months had passed since that awkward, flustered confession, and somehow, despite the rocky, tense beginning, you and Vince were together. The dynamic hadn’t dulled the tension between you, it had just shifted, softened into something that felt like an unspoken understanding, playful banter, and quiet comfort all rolled into one.

This morning, the rink was nearly empty, the cold air humming around you both. The fluorescent lights bounced off the ice, bright but muted in the early hour. Vince had insisted on showing up early, and you followed, still in your skates, oversized sweatshirt hanging off your shoulders.

“Okay, so you’ve got the stance, you’ve got the grip, but your follow-through is all wrong,” he said, crouching slightly, hands guiding yours over the hockey stick. His green eyes were focused, intense, but there was a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re letting your wrists do all the work. You’ve gotta use your whole body.”

You frowned, trying to mirror him, bending your knees and leaning into the motion, but the puck slid lazily across the ice, nowhere near the net. “Ugh!” you snapped, a frustrated groan escaping your lips. “I can’t do this. Why is this so hard?!”

Vince raised an eyebrow, not unkindly, but with a little amusement. “You’re overthinking it,” he said calmly, crouching closer to guide your hands again. “It’s just a puck, not a spin combination. Relax your wrists.”

You sighed, gripping the stick tighter, teeth clenched. “I am relaxed! I don’t get it, I can land a triple spin without thinking, but this… this stupid puck just won’t go where I want it to!”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “It’s different muscles, different rhythm. You’ve got balance and coordination, you just need to channel it differently. Here, let me show you again.”

You huffed, dragging your hands down your face for a moment before letting him adjust your grip. “I’m never going to get this. I’m just going to keep hitting the ice like a maniac.”

Vince leaned closer, hands still on yours, calm and steady. “Hey, don’t give up,” he said quietly. “You’re trying, and that’s what counts. I’ll keep showing you until it clicks. I promise.”

You blinked, a little of your frustration melting in the warmth of his calm voice. “You really don’t have to stick around for my epic failures,” you muttered, half-smiling, though the tension in your shoulders eased slightly.

He grinned, green eyes twinkling. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said simply, and somehow, that made all the difference.

You swung the stick again, hard this time, but the puck slid lazily off to the side, missing the net entirely. You groaned, skating back to retrieve it, cheeks hot with a mix of exertion and irritation.

“This is impossible,” you muttered under your breath, dragging the puck back and setting up for another try. “I don’t understand how you make it look so easy.”

Vince crouched beside you again, hands lightly adjusting your grip, voice calm but patient. “It’s all in the follow-through. You’re thinking too much. Trust your body.”

You let out a frustrated huff, spinning the stick in your hands before slamming it gently against the ice. “I am trusting my body! Why is my body refusing to listen?!”

He tried not to grin at your dramatic outburst, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “Hey, don’t get too mad. You’re doing better than you think.”

You threw your hands up, stomping one skate lightly against the ice. “Better? Better? My puck hasn’t even hit the net yet! I look ridiculous!”

Vince leaned back just slightly, hands hovering near yours in case you needed support, entirely focused on keeping you calm, and completely unaware of the approaching distraction.

From the far end of the rink came the muffled sounds of voices, laughter, and clanging locker doors. You didn’t notice at first, your frustration all-consuming. But Vince’s eyes flicked toward the noise.

“The rest of the Kraken… they’re heading into the locker room,” he muttered quietly, trying to keep his tone casual.

You froze mid-swing, cheeks flushing a deep red. “Oh no…” you whispered, panic threading through your frustration. “They’re going to hear me failing at hockey out here.”

Vince’s lips tugged into a small, teasing smile. “Well… technically, you are failing,” he said softly, leaning closer, voice low enough that no one else could hear. “But it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Your frustration hadn’t disappeared, but now it was tangled with embarrassment, and a quiet thrill, knowing he was right there, steady and calm, even as the locker room buzzed nearby.

Frustrated with your lack of progress, you finally skated to the boards, sliding carefully off the ice. The cold in your ankles bit through your socks as you trudged toward the locker room, shoving your stick under your arm.

Inside, the warm air was a relief. You bent over, unlacing your skates and letting your feet breathe. The sound of the laces hitting the floor echoed softly, mixing with the distant hum of the rink. You tucked your skates into your bag, brushed a strand of hair from your face, and grabbed your jacket.

A few minutes later, you emerged from the locker room, ready to leave, and froze. Vince was already there by the door, fully geared up, helmet in hand, skates polished, green eyes lighting up when they landed on you. He looked impossibly good, familiar yet striking in the way only someone you cared about could be.

You tiptoed toward him, heart pounding in your chest, and pressed your lips briefly to his in a soft, quick kiss. “Good luck,” you murmured, fingers brushing against his chest. “And… call me when you’re done.”

He smiled, leaning down slightly to meet your gaze, and squeezed your hand before letting go. “Always,” he said, voice low and steady. “I’ll call.”

You stepped back with a small grin, watching him head toward the ice for practice. Despite the frustration of the morning, the warmth of that simple exchange lingered, making the cold rink feel a little more like home.

You watched him skate away, the sound of his blades slicing into the ice fading with every stride. Your chest still thrummed with adrenaline and something else, something heavier, warmer, and impossibly light all at once. The rink felt impossibly quiet now, even with the distant echoes of the Kraken practicing in the other corner.

You pressed your palms to your cheeks, trying to still the heat creeping up your neck. How had someone like him, so impossibly infuriating, stubborn, and yet endlessly patient, found a way into your mornings, your thoughts, your quietest moments?

A small smile tugged at your lips, and you realized it didn’t matter that he was a hockey player, that he didn’t glide like you did, that he didn’t belong in your world of glittering edges and perfect lines. He belonged here, with you, in this small bubble of time before the day began. And somehow, that thought made the long mornings of stolen glances and tense exchanges feel worth it.

For the first time in weeks, you felt that strange mix of nerves and warmth that made your chest flutter in ways you couldn’t control. And as you straightened, tucking your jacket closer around you, you knew one thing with certainty: no matter how unpredictable Vince could be, no matter how much fear or hesitation lingered behind his green eyes, you wanted to be part of whatever came next.

·✶·

The rink was cold, silent, and empty, but you weren’t alone anymore.

He skated in a circle at the far end of the rink, helmet off now, letting the cold air sting his face. The puck bounced lazily off the boards, ignored, because he wasn’t really here for practice, not today, not when his thoughts were tangled in the warmth of her touch, the weight of her hand in his.

He had spent years running. Years telling himself that love was too messy, too loud, too heavy. That it broke people the way the ice sometimes cracked under a bad landing, jagged and unforgiving. And for so long, that had been enough, he could keep his distance, keep his heart tucked into the dark corners where no one could reach it.

But now, he thought, as he remembered the way her lips had brushed his, the soft press of her palm against his chest, maybe love wasn’t as scary as he’d convinced himself it was. Maybe it wasn’t a trap, or a test, or another thing destined to leave him hollow.

Her laugh, the little groan of frustration when the puck wouldn’t cooperate, the way she trusted him to be there without question, it all unraveled that fear piece by piece. He could feel it, like a slow thaw after months of frozen caution, and it terrified him in the best possible way.

Maybe love wasn’t about control or certainty. Maybe it was just… being there. Showing up. And letting someone see you, all of you, without running.

He leaned on his stick, letting the ice hum beneath his skates, and let a small, private smile curve his lips. He didn’t know what the future held, didn’t know if he could navigate all the chaos that came with feeling things this deeply. But for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to run.

Out of Frame summary: Hired to photograph the Kraken, (y/n) finds her biggest challenge isn’t the job; it’s Vince Dunn.

[word count] 4.9k

warnings: SFW! | fluff | enemies to lovers | not properly edited | implied sex | language | families used to be neighbors

pairing: vince dunn x reader

a/n: this is my first fic posted on tumblr… ive been writing fics since maybe 2013…

────୨ৎ────

You’ve finally landed your dream job: photographing for the Seattle Kraken. The catch? The one player you can’t stand, Vince Dunn, happens to be right in front of your lens. You’ve known him for years, your families were neighbors, and he’s always been the same: cocky, smug, and determined to get under your skin.

Your first big assignment is an early morning practice shoot, the rink still quiet except for the scrape of skates and echo of pucks against the boards. You’re bundled in a sweatshirt, camera raised, determined to prove yourself. But Vince? He’s skating wide, turning his back, blocking his face with his stick, going out of his way to make every shot unusable.

Finally, you lower your camera, glare cutting through the foggy chill of the rink.

“Are you seriously doing this on purpose?” you demand.

He skates to a stop right in front of you, grin tugging at his mouth.

“What’s the matter, princess? Afraid I’ll break your little camera?”

You stared at him. No matter how hard you tried, everything, everything Vince did, got under your skin. 

“You know,” you said, tightening your grip on the camera strap, “some of us are actually trying to work here.”

He leaned casually on his stick, the picture of arrogance. “Work? Doesn’t seem that hard to point and click. Maybe you’re just too focused on me.”

Your jaw tightened. Of course he’d say that. Vince Dunn, in all his smug glory, acting like the universe revolved around him. It was the same way he’d been when you were kids, snatching the last soda at neighborhood cookouts, teasing you every chance he got. Only now, the stage was bigger, the stakes higher, and his smirk even more insufferable.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, lifting the camera again and deliberately angling it past him to capture another player. “Trust me, you’re the last person I want in my frame.”

·✶·

A week later.

The roar of the crowd was deafening, the electric blue of Climate Pledge Arena washing over the ice in a dizzying glow. You crouched low along the glass, camera in hand, the constant click click keeping rhythm with the fast pace of the game. This was your first home game shoot, and you were determined not to mess it up.

The Kraken were playing hard, bodies slamming into the boards right in front of you, sticks clashing, the puck darting across the ice like a ghost. You did what you always did, focus on the game, on capturing the grit, the speed, the emotion. Except your lens kept drifting back to him.

Vince.

From the moment the puck dropped, he’d been different. His shoulders were tight, jaw clenched, movements sharper, almost reckless. You zoomed in on him, snapping frame after frame as his frustration grew more obvious, slamming his stick against the boards after a missed shot, barking at a teammate when a pass didn’t connect, glaring at the refs after a call didn’t go his way.

It wasn’t just anger; it was unraveling.

Your chest tightened in spite of yourself. You knew that look. You’d seen it on his face before, years ago, when his temper used to flare at backyard hockey games, when losing meant more than it should. He hated losing. Hated not being in control.

The camera clicked, catching the exact moment he ripped his helmet off on the bench, running a hand through sweat-damp hair, scowling at the ice like it had betrayed him.

“Jesus, Vince,” you muttered under your breath, lowering the camera for a moment. He was coming apart right in front of you.

When the horn sounded to end the period, he skated toward the tunnel, slamming his stick against the boards on the way; it now in two pieces. His chest heaved, mouth guard hanging loose from the corner of his lips as he caught his breath. And then, his eyes found yours through the glass. Even with thousands of fans screaming around you, it felt like the world narrowed. His stare was sharp, burning, like he knew you’d been watching him the whole time.

You lifted your camera on instinct, snapping one last shot. The shutter echoed in your ears.

His glare deepened, but this time, you swore there was something else there too, something darker, something vulnerable. Then he disappeared down the tunnel, leaving you with nothing but the click of your camera and the pounding of your own heartbeat.

·✶·

The arena was quieter now, the crowd’s cheers replaced by the distant hum of Zambonis and the muffled voices of staff breaking down equipment. You crouched near the tunnel, packing your lenses and stowing your camera into its padded case. Your shoulders ached, and your head buzzed with the urgency of what still needed to be done, editing, uploading, making sure the best shots reached the boss before morning.

The heavy locker room door swung open behind you, the clang echoing down the hall. You didn’t bother looking; players always filtered through after games, and the last thing you wanted was small talk. You just wanted to get back to your tiny apartment and finish your work before exhaustion took over.

A pair of footsteps drew closer, steady and heavy against the concrete floor. You ignored them, fumbling with your bag’s zipper. The player dropped their hockey bag.

“You always this nosey, or do you just have it out for me?”

The voice froze you in place. Low, gravelly from shouting on the ice all night, unmistakably Vince.

You exhaled slowly through your nose and kept your eyes on your bag. “Pretty sure it’s part of my job to take photos of the game, Vince.”

There was a beat of silence, then the shuffle of him leaning against the wall just a few feet away. You could feel his eyes on you even without turning.

“Yeah? Funny, felt like your lens was glued to me.” His tone was sharp, but underneath it was that same frayed edge you’d seen on the ice.

Finally, you glanced up. His hair was damp, curling at the edges, a plain hoodie pulled over broad shoulders and hanging loose over joggers.

“You broke your stick in half and chewed out half your line,” you shot back. “What was I supposed to do, not document the meltdown?”

His lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a snarl. “Careful, princess. You’re talking like you know me.”

“I do,” you said before you could stop yourself. “Better than I want to.”

The air between you thickened, the weight of shared history pressing in, the years of neighborhood games, endless arguments, and that maddening way he always found a way to get under your skin.

Vince pushed off the wall, taking a slow step closer. His eyes flicked down to your camera bag, then back to your face. “Yeah,” he murmured, quieter now, “that’s the problem.”

You shoved the last lens into your bag, but your hands were shaking. His words scraped at you, grating against nerves already frayed. Forgetting half your stuff, you stood up so fast the chair behind you squealed against the concrete.

“What is your problem, Vince?” The words came out sharp, louder than you intended, but you didn’t care. Your chest burned with it, years of swallowed irritation finally spilling out. “Why are you such an asshole to me? Huh? I am literally just doing my job,” a breath. “and in case you forgot, that job includes photographing the entire team. Which means you. Whether you like it or not.”

He blinked, but you weren’t done. Your voice shook, not with fear, but fury.

“You need to stop acting like some whiny baby every time I so much as point my camera in your direction. I don’t have the energy for your bullshit. Grow up, Dunn.”

For a moment, he just stared at you. No smirk, no smart ass reply, nothing. The silence stretched until it made your pulse hammer harder in your throat.

Then his mouth curved, slow and deliberate, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “There she is,” he said softly, almost like he’d been waiting for you to snap. “Knew you couldn’t keep that buttoned up professional act forever.”

You clenched your fists. “You think this is a game?”

“Everything’s a game,” he shot back, finally stepping closer. His jaw was tight, eyes dark, but beneath the edge of arrogance there was something else, something rawer, something you hadn’t seen since you were kids. “And you’ve been playing it with me for years.”

He tilted his head, studying you, the faintest trace of his mouth guard still clenched in his hand. “Tell me, princess, if you hate me so much, why can’t you stop looking?”

Your breath caught, heat rushing to your face. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Am I?” His voice was low, measured, but his eyes were searching you like he already knew the answer. He took another step, closing the space until you could feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint trace of sweat and cologne clinging to his hoodie.

You hated that your pulse jumped. Hated it even more that he seemed to notice, the corner of his mouth tugging just slightly higher.

“Stop—” You forced yourself back a step, your shoulder brushing the cold cinderblock wall. “Don’t twist this. I look because it’s my job. You’re not special. You’re not—”

“Not what?” he pressed, his tone rougher now, like your words scraped something raw in him.

Your throat tightened. The words tangled, messy and unsteady, and that only made you angrier. “Not worth the attention.”

For the first time, his smirk faltered. Just a flicker, but you caught it. The guard slipped, the arrogance wavering into something sharp and unguarded, something almost wounded. His mouth guard shifted in his hand as he clenched his fist around it, jaw tightening.

“You sure about that?” he asked finally, quieter this time.

The weight of it hung between you, heavy enough that you almost dropped your bag just to break it.

You swallowed hard, forcing your eyes away, but it was too late, he’d seen the hesitation.

Vince stepped closer, slow, deliberate, like he was giving you time to push him away. His hoodie brushed your arm, his height shadowing you against the wall. Every nerve in your body lit up, screaming at you to move, to shove him back, to say something, anything, but your feet stayed rooted.

“You don’t even believe yourself,” he murmured, voice low, meant only for you. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then snapped back up, sharp and unrelenting. “You never did.”

Your pulse thundered. “Don’t,” you managed, but it came out more like a whisper than a warning.

He tilted his head, studying you like he used to when you were kids, right before he’d deliver the perfect insult to make you snap. Only this time, he didn’t tease. He leaned in, testing the space, his breath warm against your cheek.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice tight, every word strung with tension. “Really tell me, and I will.”

You froze, your hands clenched at your sides. For years you’d told yourself you hated him. Hated his smirk, his arrogance, the way he always got under your skin. And yet here he was, so close you could feel his heartbeat thrumming just as frantically as yours, and for once he wasn’t cocky. He wasn’t smug. He was waiting.

Waiting on you.

Your breath hitched, caught between defiance and something far more dangerous. You wanted to shove him back, wanted to spit out another insult, but your body betrayed you, rooted, waiting, trembling with the weight of the moment.

“Vince—” His name barely left your lips before he moved.

The space between you vanished in a single heartbeat. His mouth pressed against yours, not rough the way you expected, but firm, deliberate, a question asked in the form of a kiss. His hand braced against the wall beside your head, caging you in, the other hovering at your side like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you.

Heat surged through you, messy and uninvited, flooding every nerve. Your camera bag slipped from your shoulder, thudding to the ground, but you barely registered it. All you felt was him, warm, solid, overwhelming.

When he pulled back, it was only an inch, his breath brushing your lips, his eyes burning into yours. There was no smirk this time, no cocky line ready on his tongue. Just raw, unguarded honesty that rattled you more than anything he’d ever said.

“Still think you hate me?” he asked softly, almost taunting, but laced with something more fragile underneath.

·✶· It had gone on like this for months, this messy, undefined thing between you and Vince. You weren’t dating. But you weren’t nothing, either.

It had to stay a secret, of course. The risk of someone from the team, or worse, your boss, finding out was too high. So most of the time, he kept his distance, acting like you were just another staff member with a camera in hand. At practices or games, he’d skate past you without so much as a glance. But you’d learned to recognize the cracks in his façade. The little ways he let you know he saw you.

Some days, it was the way he’d deliberately make your job harder, skating wide, turning away, giving you that infuriating smirk through the glass, just to get a rise out of you. Other days, it was him changing out of his gear faster than anyone else so he could linger near the tunnel, waiting until you were the last one packing up before slipping a low, “Need a ride home?”

And then there were the nights. The ones where your doorbell rang and you opened it to find him standing there with a paper bag of takeout, his hair damp, hoodie slouched low, that restless look in his eyes. He’d claim he just didn’t feel like being alone, but you both knew better.

Those nights ended with the two of you curled up on your couch, the glow of the TV flickering across his face as you shared bites of noodles or pizza, pretending for a little while that things were simple. That it was normal. But the pretending never lasted long.

Because inevitably, his arm would slide around your shoulders, pulling you against him. His mouth would find yours, warm and insistent, until the movie became nothing more than background noise. And God, Vince Dunn was a good kisser.

He kissed like he had something to prove, like every press of his mouth against yours was meant to convince you he wasn’t the same boy who used to drive you crazy. His weight pressed into you as he crowded you into the cushions, his lips trailing down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, leaving heat in their wake. One of his hands gripped your hip, holding you still like you might slip away if he let go, while the other tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp against his mouth.

A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating against your skin as he buried his face in your neck. And in those moments, there was no team, no job, no rivalry, just Vince, kissing you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted.

·✶· It was supposed to be just another practice. You were crouched low by the boards, lens trained on the players as they flew up and down the ice. Same rhythm as always; click, adjust, click. Keep your head down, get the shots, pretend you didn’t feel the burn of a certain defenseman’s gaze sliding toward you every other shift.

But today, Vince wasn’t subtle. Not even a little.

Every time he touched the puck, his head snapped up as if to make sure you were watching. He made bigger hits than necessary, jaw tight when he slammed another guy into the glass just a few feet from where you were kneeling. When he scored during a scrimmage drill, he turned, chest heaving, mouth guard dangling, and looked directly at you before skating back to the bench.

Your cheeks heated, and you ducked behind your camera like it was a shield. He was going to get you both caught.

Apparently, you weren’t the only one who noticed.

From the bench, Jared McCann leaned forward, smirking as he tapped his stick against Vince’s shin pads. “You gonna play hockey today, Dunn, or just keep trying to impress the photographer?”

Vince shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Shut the fuck up, Canner.”

Jared only laughed, low and knowing, leaning back against the boards like he’d just uncovered the best secret of the season. “What? I’m just saying… every time she moves, your head moves. Kinda obvious, man.”

You froze where you knelt, heart lurching into your throat. The click of your shutter suddenly sounded far too loud.

Vince muttered something under his breath, yanking his helmet back on with a snap, but not before you saw the flush creeping up his neck. Then he shoved off the bench and flew back into the drill with twice the aggression, skating like he had to burn the evidence off him.

The whistle finally blew, ending practice. Helmets clattered to the floor, skates scraped across cement, the usual chaos of guys peeling off sweaty gear. You stayed behind the glass, gathering your things, but you could still feel the weight of Vince’s stare every few minutes as he unlaced his skates.

Jared was the first to pounce.

He dropped down on the bench beside Vince, towel slung over his shoulder, grinning like a cat who’d just caught a mouse. “So… you gonna ask her out, or just keep pretending you don’t look like a lovesick idiot every time she’s around?”

Vince froze mid-motion, his skate half-off. “The fuck are you talking about?”

Jared leaned closer, dropping his voice but not his smirk. “C’mon, Dunn. You’re about as subtle as a fire alarm. The way you look at her? Dead giveaway. She’s got you wrapped up, man.”

Vince’s jaw clenched. He yanked off the skate, shoving it harder than necessary into his bag. “Drop it.”

But of course, that was blood in the water.

Another teammate, Eberle this time, piped up from across the room. “What’s this? Dunn finally caught feelings?” He smirked, lacing his sneakers. “About time, kid. Thought you were married to your stick.”

The laughter rippled through the locker room. Vince’s ears went red, his head snapping up. “I said drop it,” he growled, sharper now, and the edge in his tone quieted most of the room.

But Jared only chuckled. “Relax, man. Nobody’s judging you. She’s hot. Can’t blame you for—”

The look Vince shot him could’ve leveled him on the ice. His fists flexed at his sides, knuckles white. “Shut. Up.”

For a moment, the room went still. Then, as quickly as it started, the noise of the locker room picked back up, everyone deciding not to poke the bear further.

Vince shoved the rest of his gear into his bag and slung it over his shoulder, storming out before anyone else could get another word in.

But Jared just sat there, shaking his head with that same smug grin. “Definitely in deep,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

Because as soon as Vince was out in the hall, his shoulders sagged, his mind already racing. How the hell was he supposed to keep this thing quiet if his teammates could already see right through him? Your evening was quiet. Takeout containers were scattered on your coffee table, the TV murmuring in the background. You’d just finished editing a batch of photos when a knock rattled your apartment door, sharp, impatient, familiar.

You didn’t even have to look through the peephole.

When you opened it, Vince was standing there, hoodie tugged low, eyes still stormy from earlier. His duffel bag hung off his shoulder like he hadn’t even bothered to drop it off first.

“Vince—”

He didn’t let you finish. He pushed inside, kicking the door shut behind him, bag thudding to the floor. His hand slid into your hair, the kiss he pressed against your mouth almost desperate, all teeth and heat.

You barely managed to gasp against him, fingers curling into his sweatshirt. “Bad practice?” you teased breathlessly.

His forehead rested against yours, his chest heaving. “They won’t shut the hell up about you.”

Your lips parted, surprise flickering across your face. “Who won’t?”

“My teammates. Jared. Ebs. All of them.” He groaned, pulling back just enough to run a hand over his face, the other gripping your hip tight like he needed the anchor. “They’re already onto me. They know I’m… fuck—” His words trailed off as he searched your eyes, raw and conflicted.

“Onto what?” you pushed, though your heart was already racing, because you knew.

“That I can’t keep my eyes off you,” he muttered finally, the words gritted out like a confession he’d been holding back for months. “That I’m… completely screwed when it comes to you.”

Before you could reply, he kissed you again, slower this time, but deeper, as if to prove it wasn’t just frustration driving him. His weight pressed you back against the couch, his lips trailing to your jaw, your neck, each kiss a little more unrestrained than the last.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered against your skin, his voice hoarse.

You sank back into the couch cushions as Vince kissed down your throat, his hoodie brushing your skin, his hand tugging your shirt just enough to make you shiver. Every inch of him was restless, like he was trying to burn off every ounce of frustration from the day against you.

“Vince,” you murmured, half warning, half plea, when his lips grazed your collarbone.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his breath ragged, eyes dark and unguarded. “Tell me to stop, and I will. But don’t, because I—” He broke off, running a hand through his damp hair. “I needed this. Needed you.”

Your heart pounded, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, tugging him back down. “Then don’t stop.”

The tension between you snapped. His mouth found yours again, slower now, savoring, his thumb brushing your cheek as if he wanted to memorize the shape of you. He shifted, pressing more of his weight against you, the couch dipping beneath the two of you. The world outside, the noise of the team, the risk of being caught, the danger to your job, melted into nothing.

It was just him. Just Vince.

When you finally broke apart for air, your lips tingling, you couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out, breathless and shaky. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smirked faintly, forehead resting against yours, but his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “Yeah, well… guess I’m ridiculous about you.”

Your chest tightened. Dangerous words. Dangerous feelings. But when his hand slid to intertwine with yours, fingers squeezing gently, you didn’t pull away.

For tonight, you let yourself have him.

·✶·

The weeks that followed blurred into the same dangerous rhythm: work, practice, stolen nights. Only now, Vince wasn’t content with hiding behind locked doors. He was bolder.

On the ice, he stopped pretending not to notice you. If anything, he leaned into it. His glances weren’t accidental anymore; they were deliberate, sharp, the kind that pinned you even from across the rink. After every goal, after every big hit, after every penalty call, his eyes found yours. A silent claim that made your cheeks burn even as you ducked behind your camera.

Off the ice, he started pushing boundaries. At team events where you were supposed to be just another staff member blending into the background, you’d feel the brush of his hand at the small of your back when no one was looking. He’d lean close when you passed, low enough to murmur, “You missed me?” before slipping back into the crowd.

It was reckless, and it was thrilling, and you knew it couldn’t last.

The first real crack came during an away game. You’d been leaning against the tunnel wall, camera in hand, reviewing your shots during intermission. Vince skated off the ice, helmet tucked under his arm, sweat dripping down his temples. Instead of walking straight past like he should have, he slowed, just for a second. His fingers brushed yours where your hand hung at your side. It was barely a touch, quick enough to go unnoticed—except it didn’t.

“Jesus, Dunn,” Yanni Gourde called out from a few feet back, smirking like a shark. “You flirting with the camera girl now?”

Your stomach dropped. Vince shot Yanni a glare that could have killed, muttering something low and clipped before stalking toward the locker room. But the damage was done. A ripple of laughter followed, harmless on the surface, but heavy with suspicion underneath.

And it didn’t stop there.

Jared was the worst. Every time you set up near the bench, he’d nudge Vince and say something just loud enough for you to hear. “She’s watching again.” “Better give her your good side, Dunn.” Once, when Vince ripped a slapshot into the net during practice, Jared leaned over the boards with a grin. “Show-off. Trying to score twice, huh?”

Vince barked at him, told him to shut the fuck up, but the pink climbing up his neck betrayed him.

The teasing was still playful, for now. But the more Vince’s eyes lingered on you, the more he brushed just a little too close, the more dangerous it became.

And then came the night it almost all unraveled.

It was after a home game, the team hosting a casual media mixer in one of the lounges. You weren’t supposed to linger, you were staff, not a guest, but Vince had caught your wrist as you passed. “Stay,” he murmured, tugging you into the corner of the room where the light was low and the noise from the crowd masked your voices. His grin was lazy, but his eyes were serious, his hand brushing yours under the table where no one could see.

“You’re insane,” you hissed, fighting the smile tugging at your mouth. “Someone’s going to notice.”

“Let ’em,” he said, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “I don’t care.”

But before you could argue, a familiar voice cut through the din.

“Well, well, well,” Jared drawled, sidling up with a beer in hand, a smirk plastered across his face. His eyes flicked from Vince to you, lingering just a little too long. “This explains a lot.”

Your blood ran cold.

Vince straightened, jaw tight, but Jared only chuckled, tapping his can against Vince’s shoulder. “Relax, Dunn. I won’t tell anyone. Yet.” His grin widened as he tipped his beer back. “But man, you really are screwed.”

And with that, he walked off, leaving you and Vince staring at each other, your secret hanging by a thread.

Vince’s eyes snapped to Jared, sharp and dangerous. His hand didn’t leave yours, but the grip tightened just enough to send a warning. “What the hell are you talking about?” His voice was low, rough, carrying that edge that could make grown men flinch.

Jared froze, just a fraction, then smirked. “Relax, Dunn. Just saying… looks like someone’s got it bad.” He let the words hang, glancing between the two of you with that smug, knowing grin that made Vince’s jaw flex.

Vince leaned just slightly forward, lowering his voice to a growl that was meant only for Jared. “I said drop it. You breathe a word about this, I swear…” His gaze flicked to you, softening for only a second. “I’ll make sure it’s the last mistake you ever make.”

Jared’s smirk wavered, and he held up his hands in mock surrender, laughing nervously. “Alright, alright. No one’s saying a thing.”

Vince finally let the tension in his body ease just a little, but he didn’t let go of your hand. He leaned closer to you, his lips brushing the side of your head like a promise. “See?” he murmured, almost breathless. “Can’t even keep this quiet without someone trying to stir the pot.”

You swallowed hard, chest tight, heart hammering. “Vince—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupted, eyes flashing, hand still tight around yours. “Not what anyone else thinks. Not what my teammates say. Not my job. You and me? That’s it. That’s all that matters.”

You let out a shaky breath, fingers intertwining with his. “You’re insane.”

He smirked faintly, forehead resting against yours. “Yeah… maybe. But this? Us? Totally worth it.”

The lights of the lounge, the laughter around you, even the lingering threat of discovery, they all faded. For this moment, it was just the two of you.

hey! i’m whitney, 23 ✨ new to hockey tumblr. my main teams are the kraken, bruins, leafs & rangers — but i’m heavily a vince dunn girl 💙

i write hockey fics (/reader fics) + take requests, so feel free to send me ideas! i can and will right about any of your favorite player(s) <33 open to: ⤷ smut ⤷angst ⤷fluff ⤷hurt/comfort or hurt/no comfort ⤷i will not be afraid to say no, but really open to anything!