Give Them Smut

He knows it. His jaw tightens anyway.

Grace appears from the kitchen like a general surveying her troops. Clipboard in hand. Hair pulled up. Lip gloss too glossy for noon. “Oh my God, finally,” she says, already smiling too wide. “You’re late.”

“We’re not,” Auston says mildly. “You said noon.”

“It’s 12:07,” she replies. “Which is late in wedding time.”

He leans down and kisses my temple before I can stop him. He knew the whole room was watching us to see how we moved, if the rumors were true, if we were back together after all. That’s when Grace swats his arm. “Okay, goodbye,” she says briskly. “Out. You’re not invited to estrogen decisions.”

“I’m literally just dropping her off.”

“You’re lingering,” she says. “Shoo.”

I try not to smile as he squeezes my hand once more. “Text me if you need anything. I'll be with Mitch. I'm captain, don't forget that babe,” he says.

He said it like the girlfriend of the captain was somehow exempt from hate or all the eyes serving me nasty looks.

Auston’s eyes flick over the room once. Every woman. Every glance. Every unknown variable. His voice drops. “Seriously. I'm not afraid to say something.”

“No,” Grace snaps. “You won’t. Go take your alpha energy somewhere else.”

He hesitates—just long enough that I know he’s clocking every single face. Then he steps back, points at me. “I’ll pick you up in two hours.”

Grace shoves him out the door and closes it behind him. “God,” she mutters. “He’s like a bodyguard with feelings.”

I exhale slowly.

The room turns toward me.

Not hostile.

Curious. That’s worse.

I take a seat between Grace at the head of the table and Hannah—brunette, polished, huge diamond hugging her finger, and eyes that sharpen the second she recognizes me. She was the wife of one of the veterns on the team and acted like she owned the WAGS because of it.

“Oh,” she says. “You’re back.”

Grace shoots her a look.

“What?” Hannah shrugs. “I’ve seen pictures. They're everywhere online.”

My stomach flips. I reach for my water, take a careful sip. “Yep, I'm back,” I say evenly.

“Well, you know him,” she says. “He likes to keep things casual and private. He wouldn't let that little girlfriend around us while you were gone.”

There it is. The insault to add to injury.

Grace claps her hands. “Okay! Food first. Trauma later.”

A few laughs ripple around the table, but the tension sticks. Another woman—tall, blonde, too-perfect curls—leans in. One I don't remember from dating Auston before.

“I just didn’t realize you two were… serious again,” she says. “I mean, after everything. It wasn't the prettiest breakup.”

Grace freezes mid-pour.

I set my fork down. “Everything?”

The blonde winces. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” Hannah says flatly. “It’s fine. Might as well tell her if she wants back in so badly.”

Silence settles like dust.

“I’m just saying,” Hannah continues, eyes flicking to me, “he wasn’t exactly… stable.”

My jaw tightens. “Define stable,” I ask.

She laughs, like it’s obvious. Almost like I should be embarassed. “Girls. Parties. Drugs. Disappearing acts. You remember.”

“I wasn’t here when that happened.”

That earns me a look. Sharp. Measuring. “Oh,” she says softly. “Right. You left.”

The table goes still.

Grace slams her clipboard down. “Okay,” she says, smiling with her teeth. “Who wants to talk flowers.”

No one moves.

The blonde across from me tilts her head. “I just don’t want any… drama around the wedding. This should be about Grace.”

Grace’s smile drops. “The only drama here is you thinking this is your business."

My pulse hammers. I feel it then—the faint, unmistakable flutter low in my belly. Not movement. Just pressure. A reminder. I subtly pull my sweater lower.

"I have whiplash trying to figure out what girlfriend of the week we should care about, it's a valid concern." Hannah’s eyes don't flick down when she spews out the hate.

I cross my arms. Grace notices immediately. Her gaze narrows. Then widens. I forced my mouth shut.

Then—carefully—she doesn’t say a word. Instead, she turns back to the table. “Let’s be clear,” Grace says calmly. “This lunch is about planning my wedding. Not auditing anyone’s past. Auston is the captain, whoever he dates should be treated with respect.”

Hannah swallows. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“You were just reminiscing about how messy Auston was when I was gone." I spat out.

The silence hit hard.

The blonde shifts. “I just think it’s fast. We just saw his hookup a few weeks ago at a game. He was supposed to set up a jacket for her... you know exactly how serious that is.”

WAG jackets in hockey were gold and not handed out for free. The price was a serious relationship with an NHL player and preferably a ring on your finger.

I never cared enough to impress them to get one. I earned my dirty looks even when I was living with Auston, building our life together.

I finally look at her fully. “It's no one's bussiness. Auston and I are together again. It's not my responsiblity to dish on the details.”

My chest tightens.

Grace reaches under the table and squeezes my knee. Then the door pushes open and every head snaps toward the sound.

Auston stands there holding a bakery box. “I forgot—” Grace snatches the box before he can finish. He looks past her at me. “You okay?”

I nod. “I’m fine. Normal initiation bullshit.”

He doesn’t move. His jaw tightens. Then he lifts a hands in surrender. “Text me,” he says to me anyway.

Grace shuts the door, turns back to the room.

“See?” she says. “Protective. Borderline feral. We love that.”

A few nervous laughs. I sit back down, heart still racing. The blonde studies me again—but this time there’s something else there.

Understanding. Or caution.

Grace resumes pouring wine.

“So,” she says breezily. “Fast wedding. Tight guest list. No exes. And if anyone has a problem with my maid of honor—” She pauses. Looks at me. Smiles, small but sure. “—they can take it up with me.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

The room seemed to shift and I felt like I could breath again when the girls started taking photos for their feeds. Every single one of them creating a social presence solely based on being a hockey wife. None of that interested me.

That was what worked about us—neither of us wanted that kind of attention.

Grace caught my arm while I was making a small plate, pulling me in close, whispering. "The venue I want is only available in two months. I can't plan a wedding in two months."

I pushed an egg roll into her face, forcing her to eat something because the stress was going to consume her. "We'll plan it. I have time. I'll be with Auston in Toronto."

That was my job before everything felt like a hurricane, event planner. Mostly weddings but the occasional renewal, birthday, corporate party. I had no current clients and worked via a phone most of the time so traveling with Auston around the holidays didn’t feel like an inconvenience.

“Tell me this is gonna be okay,” she asked wide eyed.

I reassured her, making sure to make eye contact before I felt his hands on my shoulders.

The rest of the lunch unfolds like a performance.

Not openly cruel. Just… curated.

Questions disguised as curiosity. Stories framed as nostalgia. Comments lobbed casually and left to land wherever they land.

He was wild back then.

You remember how hard it was to keep track of him.

We just don’t want anyone getting hurt.

I smile when I’m supposed to. Sip water. Keep my hands folded over my stomach like it’s instinct instead of defense.

They talk about him like I wasn’t there for years of his life. Like I didn’t know his routines, his tells, the way his jaw locked when he was lying to himself.

Except—some of what they say doesn’t match the man I knew.

Not entirely.

Back home, it felt weird to say that, but his house in Arizona was the only place that felt like home and like there was no gaps in our timeline.

Auston POV

She doesn’t take her coat off right away when we get home.

That’s how I know this isn’t a soft conversation.

The door shuts. The lock clicks. The sound carries—sharp, final. She stays standing near the island, arms folded tight across her chest, sweater pulled low like armor. Her weight shifts from one foot to the other, restless. Guarded.

I don’t move. I know better than to crowd her like this. I also know better than to look at her mouth, but I do anyway. It’s a habit I never broke. Never wanted to.

“They talked about you,” she says.

Not angry. Worse. Controlled. My spine tightens. “Okay,” I say.

Her eyes flick to my face, then away. Like she’s deciding how deep she wants to cut. “They talked about what happened after I left.”

I lean back against the counter, palms flat, grounding myself. Don’t pace. Don’t reach for her. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “They would.”

She lets out a short laugh—brittle. “I didn’t know you like that. I didn’t know that version existed...”

There it is.

The sentence that slides under the ribs and twists.

“Like what,” I ask, even though I already know.

Her jaw tightens. “Unstable. High? Disappearing? Girls I didn’t recognize? Drugs? You’re the poster child for responsibility. You don’t do anything that can risk your career… I just… didn’t know an Auston like that.”

She looks at me then. Fully. Searching my face like she’s trying to catch a lie in motion. Like she’s bracing to see someone else wearing my skin.

I don’t soften it. Don’t clean it up.

“There were nights I didn’t come home,” I say. “There were times I didn’t want to feel anything at all. There were times I missed practices and games.”

Her breath stutters. I catch it. I always do.

“I didn’t see that side of you,” she says.

“No,” I agree. “You wouldn’t have.”

“Why?” Her voice sharpens. “Because you hid it better back then?”

That one lands hard. My jaw locks.

“Because you were the thing keeping me upright,” I snap. “And when you left, there was nothing holding me together.”

The words echo. Too loud. Too honest.

She flinches—not away from me, but inward. Like I hit something already bruised.

“So you imploded,” she says quietly. “And I’m just finding out now. How is that possible? Your mom would have called me. Someone would have told me.”

“I hide it from everyone,” I fire back. “No one knew until it was too late to do anything about it.”

Her arms drop to her sides. The sweater rides up just a fraction before she tugs it down again. The motion is automatic. Protective. My eyes track it before I can stop myself.

“How bad?” she asks. “I can't be caught off guard next time. I don't wanna hear details for the first time from some bitchy wife who doesn't like me."

I don’t lie. Standing up straighter.

“Bad enough that people noticed,” I say. “Bad enough that I scared myself once or twice. Bad enough that I didn’t trust my own head. Bad enough to piss off the coaches and almost lost Captain.”

Her hand drifts—unconsciously—to her stomach. The sight of it wrecks something in me.

“I didn’t do lines off bathroom counters,” I add, harsher now. “I didn’t vanish for weeks. But I drank too much. I got messy. I blew off my job. I let people touch me because it meant I didn’t have to think about you... I didn't realize it got that bad."

That one lands where I intend it to. Her eyes flash. Pain. Anger. Something darker.

“So this is who you are when I’m not around. And this Viv didn't care tht you were doing this badly?

“No,” I snap, stepping closer before I mean to. “This is who I was when I didn’t know how to live without you. Viv was nothing more than a hookup. I led her on... I pretended if she cooked and took care of my dogs maybe I could forget you all together.”

She doesn’t step back. That’s the problem because we’re too close now. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo. Close enough that my body remembers exactly how she fits against me. My hands itch—muscle memory screaming for contact I don’t earn right now.

“And what happens when it gets hard again?” she asks.

The question isn’t just emotional. It’s loaded with everything we’ve ever done to each other in the dark.

“I don’t get to fall apart anymore,” I say. “I know that. This,” my hand on her stomach before I continue, "is too important."

Her eyes filled like it was too painful to hear how much I wasn't myself without her.

“I don’t cope like that now,” I say. “I don’t disappear—” My voice roughens despite myself. “—I just need you.”

Her gaze drops. Not to my face.

Lower.

Then back up, like she hates herself for looking.

“I won’t clean up after you,” she says. “I won’t make excuses. I can't fight and doubt you and hate myself again, Auston.”

“You won’t,” I say immediately.

She inhales sharply. That one hurts her. I see it. Silence stretches. Heavy. Charged.

“They talked about you like you were dangerous,” she says finally.

“I was, babe.” I admit.

Her eyes snap up.

“To anyone who wasn’t you,” I finish.

She steps into me then—finally—forehead pressing into my chest like she’s exhausted from holding her ground. My hands hover for half a second before they settle on her back. Firm. Controlled. Not claiming. Not gentle either.

“You don’t get to do that again,” she murmurs.

“I won’t,” I say, voice low, wrecked. “I won’t survive losing you twice.”

Her breath cathes.

This isn’t forgiveness.

It’s a line drawn in heat and memory and restraint.

And the hardest part—is knowing how easily we could cross it, and choosing not to.

Picking her face up in my hands, I forced her to look up at me before I dropped my head enough to meet her lips. We had talked enough. All I wanted to do was touch her.

My mouth brushes hers first—barely there. A test. A memory. She exhales against me, soft and shaky, and that sound alone almost undoes me. When I press in again, it’s slower, deeper, a kiss that knows exactly where it’s been before. She tastes the same. That wrecks me more than anything.

Her hands curl into my shirt like she’s bracing herself. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just… holding on.

I kiss her until the tension in her shoulders breaks. Until she melts that half inch closer and my restraint starts to crack around the edges. My thumbs trace her jaw, the line of her throat, stopping just short of where I know she likes it. I don’t take. I don’t rush. I make myself remember every reason I shouldn’t.

She presses her mouth to mine harder this time—hungrier—and I feel it everywhere. In my chest. In my spine. Low. Dangerous.

“Auston,” she breathes, like a warning.

“I know,” I murmur against her lips. “I know.”

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my sweats over and over, not letting up when I pull away to see who it is. My agent. That’s a 50/50 toss on good news or bad news but either way I had to answer.

“Hold on baby,” I answer but our mouths hadn’t fully stopped kissing.

His voice was serious and low which meant this was a conversation I need to walk away for. My hand carefully pushed her hip back and I whispered I’d meet her up stairs.

“Auston, we gotta talk about this photo. We need to get ahead of this.”