fastcar fangirl

do i need to say more

[ oh canada ] j. drysdale

paring : Jamie Drysdale x fem!reader

summary : Jamie finds his girlfriend in his Team Canada jersey and shows her what he thinks of her in it

warning(s) : smut ! slightly dom!jamie, fingering, p in v penetrative sex, unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy), pet names during sex

author’s note : ask and you shall receive anon (with canada’s loss in the quarterfinals at the wjc, i had just the idea for this request). this was also mostly written pre-jamie trade so … yeah

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From insta

utahmammoth: Give it up for Kells 👏

clayton growing out his playoff beard and when he comes home from the stretch of games in vegas is 15 month old daughter doesn't recognize him and he doesnt know how to fix it, hes so tired and stressed from the playoffs hes overly emotional about it

clayton drags his carry-on through the dark house well past midnight, body buzzing with leftover adrenaline and the kind of exhaustion that only comes after two road games stretched across neon nights in vegas. his beard is thicker than it’s ever been, playoff superstition etched on his jaw like iron, darker scruff creeping all the way up his cheeks. he drops the bag silently in the hallway, toeing off his shoes, noting the stillness. you’re asleep, the baby in her own room, he hears that soft hush of the white noise machine through the door, and for a moment he just leans back against the wall, palms to his eyes, breathing through the burn in his muscles. he misses her. he can feel it in his fucking sternum, the absence of her warm little cuddles, the way she curls into him like a puppy when he rocks her. five days might as well be five months.

he showers in the guest bathroom with the light off, just to avoid waking either of you, scrubbing the road dust and arena smell off his skin. when he finally crawls into bed next to you it’s almost three. he tries not to wake you, but you stir anyway, rolling into his chest. “hey,” you murmur, half asleep. “missed you.” he kisses your hair, his beard scratchy against your forehead. “missed you more,” he whispers, holding you close, but his mind is already in the morning, already craving that moment when his daughter will squeal and reach for him, pat his face with chubby hands, say her little words that have grown since he left. he falls asleep with that image tattooed behind his eyelids.

morning comes brutal and bright. he hears her cooing over the baby monitor around seven, the happy babble that usually has him vaulting out of bed, but today he hesitates, heart banging. he shakes it off, kisses your cheek, and pads to the nursery, beard still damp from the rushed sink splash he did to wake up. he’s nervous and hates that he’s nervous because this is his kid, his little girl, but the beard feels foreign on his face, heavier, darker, and it hits him how long five days can be when you’re only fifteen months old.

the door creaks. she’s standing in her crib, gripping the rail, hair sticking up in ridiculous tufts, cheeks flushed from sleep. she’s wearing the tiny jersey onesie he bought before the trip, his number on the back. the sight hits him so hard he almost drops. “hi, baby,” he whispers, voice cracking. “daddy’s home.” he expects the squeal, the outstretched arms. instead she freezes, eyes wide, pupils dilating as she takes in the beard, the shadows, the tired lines on his face. her little lips tremble.

“da-da?” she says uncertainly, but it’s not the excited chirp he craves. it’s a question, a frightened one. he smiles as gently as he can, stepping closer, but she recoils, pressing her back against the crib slats, bottom lip jutting out. a wail builds in her chest. “no!” she sobs, shoving at him with her tiny hands. “no no!”

the sound shatters him. he stops dead, hands hovering in the air, and the tears come faster than he can blink them away. he hasn’t slept, his team’s tied 1-1 in the series, his body is bruised, and now his own baby doesn’t recognize him because of a fucking beard. he swallows hard, tries to steady his voice. “hey, hey, it’s me, sweetheart,” he whispers, kneeling so he’s level with her, keeping his distance. “it’s daddy. i promise.” she sobs harder, little lungs working overtime, reaching toward the doorway like she wants you to come save her from this stranger.

you appear a second later, hair messy, eyes sleepy but alert. you take in the scene—the baby crying, clay kneeling there with tears on his cheeks—and your expression softens. “hey,” you say gently, scooping her up, cradling her against your chest. she buries her face in your neck, still hiccuping, and clayton feels the floor tilt. “shh, baby. it’s okay.” you rub her back, swaying. “look who’s home. it’s daddy.”

she peeks at him over your shoulder, eyes wet, fist stuffed in her mouth. clayton keeps his voice level even though it’s cracking. “i’m sorry,” he says, sniffing. “i should’ve shaved. i didn’t think—” he breaks off, pressing his knuckles to his mouth to keep from sobbing. “she doesn’t know me,” he croaks.

you step closer, still rocking her, and free hand reaches to stroke his cheek. “she’s tired,” you say softly. “and you look different. we’ll fix it.” he shakes his head.

“i promised the guys,” he whispers, throat tight. “can’t shave. not now.” he’s been growing this scruff since before game one, a superstitious ritual everyone’s doing, and the idea of breaking it feels like betrayal. but his kid. his kid is scared of him. he bows his head, shoulders shaking. “i don’t know what to do.”

you move even closer until your body is pressed against his, the baby squashed between you. “then we show her,” you say. “we show her that daddy sounds the same, smells the same, loves her the same.” you lean down so the baby can see his eyes, the only part of him unchanged. “look,” you murmur to her, tapping his nose. “same daddy. just fuzzy.” clay tries a smile, hand shaking as he offers his finger. “can i?” he whispers.

she hesitates, then inches forward, tiny hand creeping toward his beard. she touches it, recoils, then tries again, this time gripping a tuft and yanking. he winces, but he laughs through the pain. “ow! yeah, that’s me, all right. who else lets you pull their face off?”

she blinks, a small confused sound bubbling from her throat. “fuh-gee,” she says, her version of fuzzy. clay feels something loosen in his chest.

“yeah, baby,” he agrees, eyes shining. “daddy’s fuzzy. but it’s still me.” he leans in, pressing his forehead to hers, careful not to startle her. “missed you so much.”

she still seems unsure, but she doesn’t cry this time. she pats his cheek tentatively, then presses a slobbery kiss to his nose like she used to. clayton lets out a strangled sob and wraps both arms around both of you, crushing you close. “god,” he whispers. “i’m so sorry. i never want her to be scared of me.”

the rest of the morning, he refuses to put her down. he calls off his practice, voice hoarse as he tells the coach he’s got a family situation, and then he plants himself on the couch with her in his lap, whispering stories while she tugs at his beard and giggles more each time. he narrates everything, reminding her of all the little inside jokes they share. “remember how we dance in the kitchen?” he coos, swaying gently while holding her under her arms, his hands supporting her belly. he waltzes in circles, humming their favorite song, even though his legs ache. she bounces, laughing, eyes wide with delight, and he breathes again.

he makes her breakfast one-handed, refusing to set her down even to crack an egg. he talks nonstop, letting her hear his voice from every angle, clapping her hands with his. when she starts to get sleepy again, he lays on the couch with her sprawled across his chest, beard scratching her forehead softly. he hums lullabies, tears drying on his cheeks, clutching her tiny body like someone might take her away. “i’m here,” he whispers over and over. “i’m here, i’m here, i’m here.”

you snap photos quietly—the scruffy hockey player with dark circles under his eyes, beard too long, crying into his daughter’s hair while she finally relaxes against him. you’ll show him later, when he freaks out about this moment. for now, you let him have it. at some point he falls asleep with her on his chest, mouth open, arm still wrapped protectively around her waist. she wakes first, sits up, pats his cheek, and says, clear as a bell, “dada.”

he wakes instantly, blinking. she’s smiling down at him, familiar now, no fear in her eyes. he chokes out a laugh, pulling her back into a hug. “hey, baby,” he whispers. “daddy’s home.”

before he leaves for game five, he kneels in front of her, and presses his face to her belly while she kicks her chubby legs. “daddy’s going to win for you,” he promises. “i’ll be back in two days. you remember this fuzzy face, okay?” she grabs his ears and plants an open-mouthed kiss on his chin, babbling happily. he tears up again, because the playoffs wreck him emotionally even without this, but he feels steadier. he kisses you, whispers thank you for grounding him, for reminding him how to reach her. then he scoops the baby up for one more cuddle, cheek to cheek, soaking in her scent.

“see you soon, dada,” she mumbles, the words still new on her tongue. he laughs through the tears.

reader just shrugs and says she wouldnt explain why but daughter missed him more then usual

please be kind, block the tag if you don't like it! I have said my stance on things before, you can search for it. clayton expects the house to be quiet when he comes in, the kind of quiet that tells him his little girl has finally knocked out after running circles around the living room all evening. he toes off his shoes, drops his duffel by the door, and heads straight down the hallway to her room, already smiling because he loves that part of the night — the small sigh she makes when he tucks her in tighter, the way she curls her fingers around his like she can’t quite let go even in her sleep. but when he nudges her door open, the nightlight glows over an empty bed, her stuffed elephant sitting alone in the corner where she usually tosses it. his brows pinch for a second, not worried exactly — just confused — and he calls softly, “bug? you in here?” nothing. not even a rustle.

he turns, scanning down the hallway, and that’s when he sees a sliver of light coming from your bedroom. it’s not uncommon for her to wander in during thunderstorms or nightmares, but tonight there was nothing like that. he pushes the door open gently, expecting to find her sprawled across your chest the way she usually is. instead, she’s on his side of the bed, curled small in the dent where his body always is, wearing her footie pajamas, clutching his jersey so tight in her pudgy little fists that the fabric is bunched into her palms. her other arm is wrapped around tusky, her precious blue mammoth, the one she drags everywhere. her cheeks are blotchy, tear-stained, and she’s blinking up at him with heavy, exhausted eyes like she fought sleep as long as she could waiting for him.

the second she recognizes him, her bottom lip wobbles and she pushes herself up, not quite steady, hair sticking up everywhere. “daddy…” her voice comes out small, hoarse, like she cried herself quiet. she rubs her eyes, the jersey still clutched under her chin, and she adds in this pitiful little sniff, “you gone too long.” the words break at the end, like she tried to hold them in and they finally spilled out. she reaches her arms toward him, palms open, the way she does when she needs to be picked up immediately, no questions asked.

he’s beside the bed in two steps, scooping her up without hesitation, lifting her until her chubby arms wrap around his neck and her legs hook loosely around his waist. “hey, hey, bug… i’m right here,” he murmurs, kissing her temple, brushing her hair back from her damp cheeks. she tucks her face into his shoulder like she’s hiding, little breaths shuddering in and out. he holds her closer, rubbing slow circles on her back, soft and steady, letting her cling. “i missed you too,” he adds quietly, because he did. he misses her every second he’s away, but she’s never reacted like this before, not this badly.

you’re leaning against the doorway, arms folded loosely, watching them with tired eyes and a small, knowing smile. when clayton looks over at you, confused, he mouths, “what happened?” and you just shrug, pushing off the doorframe to come closer. “she wouldn’t explain,” you say softly, keeping your voice low so you don’t startle the little one. “kept grabbing your shirts out of the laundry basket and dragging them around the house. she wouldn’t go in her room. wouldn’t fall asleep anywhere but here.” you brush your hand over the toddler’s back, and she shifts just enough to grab your shirt too, like she needs both of you right now.

clayton holds her tighter, still swaying a little without noticing, the way he always does when she’s upset. her tiny fingers curl in the collar of his hoodie, rubbing the fabric like she’s checking to make sure he’s really real. “bug,” he whispers into her hair, “why didn’t you sleep with mama, huh? she was here.” she lifts her head just barely, eyes glassy and half-shut, and mumbles against his jaw, “wan' you.” it’s muffled and fragile, but it hits him right in the chest. she clings again, forehead pressed to his neck, as if she’s afraid he might disappear if she doesn’t hold tight enough.

he kisses her hairline, his voice softer than you’ve heard all day. “i’m home now. i won’t go anywhere tonight, okay?” she nods, tiny and slow, still rubbing at her eyes with her fist like she’s fighting sleep even as it pulls at her. her breathing evens out little by little, her body getting heavier in his arms, and he shifts her so her head rests on his shoulder more comfortably. he glances at you again, guilt flickering across his expression. “she really missed me that much?” he asks quietly. you run your hand down his arm, reassuring. “more than usual, yeah. i think she had a rough day. every time she looked around and didn’t see you, she got upset.”

he sighs, pressing his cheek to the top of her head. “i hate being gone that long.” she stirs at the sound of his voice, making a soft, sleepy noise before settling again, her fist still balled in his jersey collar. he smiles down at her — small, tender, almost overwhelmed — and whispers, “all right, bug. let’s get you tucked in where you actually want to be.” he looks to you to make sure it’s fine, and you nod, already pulling the blanket back on his side of the bed.

he slides under the covers with her still cradled to his chest, her cheek smushed against him, her tiny breaths warm on his neck. you climb in beside them, curling against his other side. her hand reaches out blindly, finding your arm, gripping weakly. you stroke her back again. “she’ll sleep now,” you murmur. “she just needed you.”