kaia

You met Cale Makar when you were six years old.

Technically, he met you.

You had been sitting on the curb in front of your house, glaring down at the bloody scrape covering your knee after falling off your bicycle. Your pink helmet was crooked, one shoelace was untied, and the bicycle itself had been abandoned dramatically in the middle of the sidewalk.

You had been trying very hard not to cry, then a boy with flushed cheeks and messy brown hair stopped in front of you, his hockey stick still held in one gloved hand “Are you okay?”

You sniffled, straightening your shoulders “Yes.”

He looked at your knee “You’re bleeding.”

“I know.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No.” It hurt terribly.

The boy remained silent for a moment before reaching into the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a slightly crushed packet of fruit snacks and held it toward you “My mom gives me these after hockey.”

You stared at the packet “Why are you giving them to me?”

“Because you look sad.”

“I’m not sad.”

He nodded seriously “Okay. But you can still have them.”

That was the beginning.

Cale helped you push your bicycle home, even though his house was in the opposite direction. He waited on your front steps while your mother cleaned your knee, and when you came back outside with a bandage covered in tiny yellow stars, he was still there.

You split the fruit snacks between you, after that, there was rarely a day when Cale wasn’t somewhere nearby.

You attended the same elementary school, lived only three streets apart, and spent nearly every afternoon together. When Cale had hockey practice, you sat in the cold arena with a coloring book balanced on your knees. When you had dance recitals, he sat beside your parents wearing a tie his mother had forced him into, clapping louder than anyone else when you appeared onstage.

He taught you how to skate, you taught him how to braid friendship bracelets.

He was terrible at it.

“You made all the colors crooked,” you complained, inspecting the bracelet he had tied around your wrist when you were nine.

“It’s supposed to look like that.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It’s unique.”

“It looks broken.” Cale frowned at the matching bracelet around his own wrist “I like it.” you looked at him for several seconds before softening “Fine. I like it too.” He wore it until the threads became so thin that it finally fell apart during practice.

When you were twelve, he punched a boy for pulling your hair, when you were thirteen, you helped him study for a history test by turning important dates into ridiculous hockey statistics, when you were fourteen, he walked you home through a snowstorm because neither of your parents could reach the school.

At fifteen, everything began to change.

Not dramatically.

There was no sudden moment when you looked at Cale and understood that he was no longer simply the boy who traded snacks with you or let you borrow his hoodie.

It happened slowly, it was noticing how much taller he had grown over the summer, it was the warmth spreading through your chest whenever he smiled at you from across a crowded hallway, it was recognizing his footsteps outside your bedroom before he knocked on the door, it was the way your stomach twisted when girls began appearing at his hockey games wearing his number.

Cale never seemed particularly interested in the attention.

He was polite, occasionally awkward, and entirely oblivious whenever someone flirted with him, you were not oblivious “Emma likes you,” you told him one afternoon.

You were lying beside each other on the floor of his basement, pretending to do homework while a movie played quietly in the background.

Cale stopped writing “Emma who?”

You turned your head toward him “Emma Richards.”

He stared blankly “She sits behind you in math.”

“Oh.”

“She’s been to your last four games.”

“A lot of people come to the games.”

“She wears your jersey.”

“So does my mom.” you threw a pillow at him, Cale caught it before it struck his face “What?”

“She likes you.”

He studied you carefully “Why do you care?”

Your heartbeat stumbled “I don’t.”

“You sound like you care.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“With what?”

“Getting a girlfriend.”

His expression shifted in a way you couldn’t understand “I don’t need help.”

“You’ve never even kissed anyone.”

Cale’s cheeks turned pink “Neither have you.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“It seems relevant.”

You sat upright, crossing your arms “You could kiss Emma.”

“I don’t want to kiss Emma.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t like her.”

“Then who do you like?” The question hung between you, Cale’s eyes remained fixed on your face, his expression strangely nervous. For one impossible second, you thought he might say your name, instead, he looked down at his notebook “No one.”

You ignored the disappointment settling inside your chest “Right. Me neither.”

Neither of you mentioned the conversation again.

A year later, Cale took someone else to the winter formal, you told yourself it didn’t bother you, you even helped him choose his tie, the girl’s name was Natalie. She was kind and pretty, and you hated yourself for resenting her when she had done absolutely nothing wrong.

“You look nice,” you told Cale when he stopped by your house before the dance. He stood awkwardly in your living room wearing a dark suit, his hands buried inside his pockets “You think?”

“Your tie is crooked.”

“I knew something was wrong.” You stepped closer and reached for it, Cale became completely still as you straightened the fabric against his chest. You could feel him watching you, but you kept your attention on the knot “There.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Neither of you moved, his face was so close to yours that you could see the faint freckles scattered across his nose. You wondered what would happen if you leaned forward, then a car horn sounded outside, Cale stepped back “That’s probably Natalie.”

“Probably.”

He hesitated beside the door “You’re sure you don’t want to come?”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“You could come with us.”

“As your third wheel?”

“As my friend.”

The word hurt more than it should have, you smiled anyway “Go have fun, Cale.”

He left reluctantly.

You watched from the window as Natalie climbed out of the car and greeted him with a hug. Cale glanced back at your house before getting inside, you spent the rest of the evening eating popcorn with your mother and pretending that your chest didn’t ache.

Cale came to your house after the dance.

It was nearly midnight when he tapped on your bedroom window from the roof of the porch, you nearly screamed “What are you doing?” you whispered after pushing the window open.

“Can I come in?”

“You’re in a suit.”

“I know.”

“It’s snowing.”

“I noticed.”

You stepped aside, letting him climb through the window, Cale’s hair was damp with melting snow, and his cheeks were red from the cold. He loosened his tie before sitting at the foot of your bed “How was the dance?” you asked.

“It was fine.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Not really.”

You tried not to appear too relieved “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Did Natalie do something?”

“No. She was great.”

“Then why are you here?”

Cale looked at you “I wanted to see you.”

The answer left you speechless, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small, folded napkin. When he opened it, there were two slightly crushed cookies from the dessert table inside “They had the chocolate ones you like.”

Your heart softened painfully “You stole cookies for me?”

“I took them.”

“That’s stealing.”

“They were free.”

“You still hid them in a napkin.”

“So they wouldn’t get frosting on my pocket.” You took one of the cookies and broke it in half, Cale smiled, you sat beside him on the bed, sharing stolen desserts while snow gathered outside your window.

Neither of you spoke about Natalie, neither of you spoke about how close his hand was to yours, by graduation, everyone knew Cale was leaving.

His hockey career was already carrying him toward places far beyond your neighborhood. You were proud of him. You had always been proud of him, but standing inside his bedroom while cardboard boxes covered the floor, you realized that being proud did not make saying goodbye any easier “You’re acting like I’m disappearing,” Cale said.

You folded another sweatshirt and placed it into the open suitcase “You’re moving thousands of miles away.”

“We can call.”

“You hate talking on the phone.”

“I’ll learn.”

“You’ll be busy.”

“Not too busy for you" you looked down before he could see how much those words affected you, Cale sat beside the suitcase “You could come visit.”

“I will.”

“You promise?”

You turned toward him “Of course I promise.” he held out his little finger, you stared at it “We’re eighteen.”

“And?”

“You’re asking me to pinky promise.”

“It’s legally binding.”

You laughed and hooked your finger around his “Fine. I promise.”

Cale didn’t release your hand immediately, his thumb brushed over the side of your finger, his expression becoming serious “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Your breath caught “What?” he looked nervous. More nervous than you had ever seen him before an important game or exam “I…”

His phone rang on the desk, the sound made both of you jump, Cale closed his eyes briefly “It’s my dad.”

“You should answer.”

“It can wait.”

“He’s probably calling about the flight.” Cale looked at you for another second before releasing your hand “Right.”

You never discovered what he had intended to say.

Distance changed things, even though neither of you wanted it to, at first, you spoke every day, Cale sent photographs of campus, the arena, and the terrible meals he attempted to make when he was tired of dining hall food.

You sent updates about home, photographs of his parents’ dog, and recordings of his younger brother making fun of how frequently Cale mentioned you.

Then life became busier.

Practices became more demanding. Your own classes became more difficult. Sometimes his games overlapped with your exams, and sometimes your calls went unanswered because one of you had fallen asleep.

Still, Cale remained the first person you called when something wonderful happened and the person you wanted when everything went wrong.

When he was drafted, you cried harder than his mother, when he made his NHL debut, you watched from your apartment wearing the old crooked friendship bracelet he had made you, now preserved carefully inside a small glass frame.

When he scored, you screamed so loudly that your roommate ran into the room believing someone had broken in, Cale called you later that night “Did you see it?”

“Did I see it? Cale, I nearly suffered a heart attack.” he laughed, the sound warm despite the exhaustion in his voice “I wish you were here.”

Your smile faded slightly “Me too.”

There was silence “Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I miss you.”

Your throat tightened “I miss you too.”

You almost told him then, you had loved him for years, maybe you had always loved him. But Cale was beginning a life that was larger and more complicated than anything you had imagined for either of you. You were afraid that telling him would feel like adding another responsibility to his shoulders.

So you said goodnight instead.

Years continued passing, Cale became one of the best players in the world, but to you, he remained the boy who forgot to replace the empty milk carton and called you whenever he needed help choosing a birthday present for his mother.

You visited Colorado whenever your schedule allowed, he returned home during the summers, every reunion felt effortless, as though no time had passed at all and every goodbye became harder, there were other people.

You dated a classmate for six months, Cale dated a woman he had met through friends.

Neither relationship lasted.

You never discussed why.

Whenever Cale mentioned another woman, you smiled and asked polite questions while a familiar ache spread through your chest, whenever he saw photographs of you with another man, he became unusually quiet.

His teammates noticed “You’re glaring at your phone,” one of them observed as Cale sat inside the locker room.

“I’m not glaring.”

“You look like you want to fight it.”

Cale locked the screen “It’s nothing.”

“Is that Y/N?”

Cale glanced sharply toward him “How do you know about Y/N?”

“You talk about her constantly.”

“I do not.”

“You told us she broke her arm when she was eleven.”

“She fell out of a tree.”

“You also told us she hates raisins, collects old postcards, and once dressed as a traffic cone for Halloween.”

“She lost a bet.”

“Sure.”

Cale frowned.

The photograph was still burned into his mind, you were standing beside a man at a friend’s wedding, smiling while the man’s hand rested against the small of your back. Cale had spent years convincing himself that he had time.

Time to become settled, time to understand what he could offer you, time to find the courage to risk the most important friendship he had ever known.

But perhaps time was exactly what he had been losing.

The following summer, Cale returned to Calgary earlier than expected, you discovered this when someone knocked on your apartment door at eight in the morning.

You opened it wearing an oversized shirt and sleep shorts, your hair tangled around your shoulders, Cale stood in the hallway with two coffees and a paper bag.

You stared at him “What are you doing here?”

“Good morning to you too.”

“You said you weren’t coming home until next week.”

“I changed my flight.”

“Why?”

He lifted the bag “I brought breakfast.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I missed you.” Your irritation disappeared immediately.

You stepped aside.

Cale walked into the apartment as though he belonged there, placing the coffee on your kitchen counter before examining the photographs attached to your refrigerator.

Most of them included him, birthday parties. Graduations. Summer trips. His first visit after college. A photograph of you on his back after he had carried you across a muddy field.

Then he saw the newest one.

You stood at the wedding beside the same man from the photograph online “Who’s that?” Cale asked.

You followed his gaze “Daniel.”

“Daniel who?”

You raised an eyebrow “Are you interrogating me?”

“No.”

“You sound like you are.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“We met a few months ago.”

“Are you dating?”

You turned toward the coffee, hoping he wouldn’t notice your expression “We’ve been out a couple times.”

Cale’s jaw tightened “You never told me.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“I’m never too busy for you.”

The familiarity of those words made your chest ache “You don’t have to know everything about my life, Cale.”

“I thought I did.”

“So did I.”

He fell silent, the tension between you was unusual and uncomfortable, you pulled two breakfast sandwiches from the bag “You brought bacon.”

“You like bacon.”

“You remembered.”

“I remember everything about you.”

You looked at him, Cale appeared to realize what he had said, but instead of retreating, he held your gaze, your phone vibrated against the counter. Daniel’s name appeared on the screen, Cale’s eyes dropped toward it “Are you seeing him today?”

“He asked me to dinner.”

“Don’t go.” The words came so quickly that you thought you had misunderstood “What?” Cale swallowed “Don’t go to dinner with him.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like him.”

“You haven’t met him.”

“I don’t need to.”

You stared at him in disbelief “You don’t get to come home unexpectedly and decide you don’t like someone simply because I went on two dates with him.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re acting ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“Cale.”

“I know.” He dragged a hand through his hair and turned away, you had watched Cale face crowded arenas, endless interviews, and some of the most intimidating athletes in the world without appearing afraid.

But standing inside your kitchen, he looked terrified “I saw the photograph from the wedding,” he admitted.

“What photograph?”

“The one where he had his hand on you.”

Understanding dawned slowly “Are you jealous?”

Cale released a breath “Yes.”

Your heart began pounding “You’re jealous.”

“I’ve been jealous for years.”

You forgot how to breathe, Cale stepped closer, though he still left space between you “Every boyfriend. Every date. Every man who looked at you and understood immediately what I was too afraid to admit.”

Your voice emerged as a whisper “Admit what?” his eyes met yours “That I’m in love with you.”

The room became completely still “You’re in love with me?”

“I think I always have been.”

Your eyes burned “You can’t say that.”

Cale’s expression fell “Why not?”

“Because I’ve spent years trying to stop loving you.”

The pain disappeared from his face, replaced by stunned hope “You love me?”

You laughed unsteadily, wiping beneath your eyes “Of course I love you, Cale. I’ve loved you since we were teenagers.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried.”

“When?”

“The day I left for college.”

You remembered his bedroom. The half-packed suitcases. His nervous expression before his phone rang “That’s what you were going to say?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me later?”

“Because you seemed happy. Then I was playing all the time, and everything was changing, and I didn’t know whether asking you to be part of my life would be fair.”

“You were already part of mine.”

“I know that now.”

You shook your head “We wasted so much time.”

Cale moved closer “We don’t have to waste any more.”

Your chest tightened “What if this ruins everything?”

“You’re already everything.” The words broke through the final pieces of hesitation you had been carrying for years, Cale lifted his hand slowly, giving you enough time to stop him. His fingers touched your cheek, warm and slightly unsteady “Can I kiss you?”

You had imagined this moment in a hundred different ways, at school dances, in airport terminals, at your childhood home while snow fell outside.

None of your imagined versions included tangled hair, cold coffee, or a paper bag of breakfast sandwiches sitting between you, somehow, the reality was better “You took long enough,” you whispered.

Cale laughed softly before kissing you, the first touch of his lips was gentle and careful, as though he still couldn’t believe you were allowing it, then your hands curled into his shirt, pulling him closer.

Cale kissed you again.

Years of stolen glances, unfinished conversations, and feelings hidden beneath friendship disappeared in a single breath, when you separated, his forehead rested against yours “You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to do that.”

“Probably fewer times than I have.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

You smiled “You’re still not getting credit for waiting twelve years.”

“I was trying to be respectful.”

“You were being an idiot.”

“That too.”

Your phone vibrated again, Cale glanced toward it “Daniel?”

“Probably.”

He looked worried “You should answer.”

“I’ll text him later.”

“You don’t have to cancel because of me.”

“I’m not canceling because of you.” You touched his cheek “I’m canceling because I was only going out with him to convince myself I could move on.”

Cale’s gaze softened “And can you?”

“Apparently not.”

“Good.”

You narrowed your eyes “Don’t sound so pleased.”

“I’m extremely pleased.”

You kissed him again before he could continue, telling your families should have felt significant, instead, it was humiliating “You owe me fifty dollars,” Cale’s brother announced the moment you walked into the Makar family home holding hands.

Their mother gasped.

“You bet on us?”

“I said it would happen before Cale turned thirty.”

Cale stared at him “That isn’t supportive.”

“I’ve been waiting since middle school.”

Your mother was no better “You finally told her?” she asked Cale.

You looked between them “You knew?”

“Honey, everyone knew.”

“We didn’t know,” you protested.

“That was the problem.”

Dating Cale was surprisingly similar to being his best friend, he still stole food from your plate, you still reminded him of birthdays and appointments, he still called after road games, although now he ended every conversation by telling you he loved you.

There were differences too.

His hand found yours whenever you were near, he kissed your forehead when he passed behind you and after years of sleeping in separate rooms during visits, you finally understood how comforting it was to fall asleep beside the person who had known you nearly your entire life.

Several months later, you found Cale sitting on the floor of your childhood bedroom, you were spending Christmas with your family, and he had disappeared while everyone gathered downstairs “What are you doing?” you asked.

Cale looked up from an old box “Your mom said our school pictures were in here.”

“You’re snooping.”

“She gave me permission.”

You sat beside him, photographs covered the carpet, there was one from your first day of school. Another from your thirteenth birthday. One showed Cale asleep against your shoulder during a family road trip.

He picked up a photograph from the winter formal.

You hadn’t attended the dance, but your mother had apparently taken a picture of the two of you before Cale left, you were fixing his tie. Cale was looking at you as though there was no one else in the room “I loved you then,” he said quietly.

You leaned your head against his shoulder “I know.”

“You know now.”

“I think some part of me knew then too.”

He searched through the box before pulling out something tangled beneath a stack of old birthday cards, a faded friendship bracelet, the threads were crooked and nearly colorless with age.

Cale smiled “You kept it.”

“Of course I kept it.”

“It looks terrible.”

“It’s unique.”

He laughed, recognizing his own childhood defense, you took the bracelet and tied it carefully around his wrist. It was too small now, so it rested loosely across two of his fingers “You know,” you said, “you promised we’d be best friends forever when you gave me that.”

“I remember.”

“You kept your promise.”

Cale looked at you with the same softness that had been there when he was nine years old, sitting beside you on the curb with fruit snacks between you “I intend to keep it for the rest of my life.”

You smiled.

“Good.”

He kissed you slowly, surrounded by photographs documenting every version of the two of you, children, teenagers, best friends.

Two people who had spent years circling the truth without realizing that love had been growing quietly between them the entire time.

Cale had been there for scraped knees, school dances, college departures, career changes, and everything in between, he had always been the person you searched for first, the person who felt like home.

Falling in love with him had not happened suddenly, it had happened in hockey arenas and snowstorms, in stolen cookies and late-night phone calls, in every goodbye that hurt too much and every reunion that felt too easy.

You had not fallen in love with Cale all at once, you had fallen slowly.

Softly.

You had learned to say no without making it sound like one.

It was a skill you had perfected during the six years you had spent raising Oliver “No, sweetheart, we don’t need that cereal. The one at home tastes exactly the same.”

“No, we can’t get the dinosaur backpack today, but maybe we can put it on your birthday list.”

“No, honey, Mommy isn’t hungry. You can have the last piece.” The words always came with a smile, a kiss to his hair, and some kind of promise that distracted him from everything you couldn’t give him.

You had gotten pregnant at seventeen.

While your classmates worried about university applications, graduation dresses, and who they would take to prom, you had been sitting in a doctor’s office with your mother beside you, staring at the tiny flicker on a screen that would become your entire world.

Oliver’s father had disappeared before your stomach had even begun to show.

At first, he had promised he would be there. Then his replies became shorter. His visits became less frequent. Eventually, his number stopped working altogether.

You had stopped expecting him to return years ago, it had been you and Oliver from the beginning.

You worked as many hours as you could, accepted help only when absolutely necessary, and learned how to stretch every dollar until it felt almost impossible. Oliver never went without anything important. He had warm clothes, food in his stomach, a safe apartment, and more love than he knew what to do with.

But hobbies were different.

Hobbies cost money and hockey, as far as you knew, cost more than almost anything else.

That was why you immediately shook your head when Oliver came running out of school one afternoon with a bright red flyer clutched between his mitten-covered hands “Mommy!”

He nearly collided with your legs, his backpack bouncing against his small shoulders “Careful.” You caught him before he could slip on the icy pavement. “What happened? Why are you running?”

“Look!” He shoved the paper toward you so quickly that it crumpled between his fingers.

Across the top was the Montreal Canadiens logo. Underneath it, in large letters, was an announcement for a children’s skating program being hosted at the team’s practice facility.

Several Canadiens players would be attending to teach local children the basics of skating.

Oliver stared up at you with wide, hopeful eyes “Can I go?”

Your stomach tightened, you read the flyer again, already searching for the cost before you reached the second paragraph “It says it’s free,” Oliver added eagerly, pointing to the word as though he had already anticipated your concern. “Madame Girard read it to us.”

Free, that helped, but not enough.

The program might be free, but skates weren’t. A helmet wasn’t. Gloves, pads, sticks, registration fees, and every other expense that would come later certainly weren’t.

You knew your son, Oliver did not like things halfway.

If he learned to skate, he would want to play hockey. If he played hockey once, he would want to join a team. And if he joined a team, you didn’t know how you would ever afford to keep him there “Baby…”

His excitement dimmed before you even finished, you hated how well he had learned to recognize that tone “It’s just skating,” he said quietly. “Not real hockey.”

“I know.”

“They have skates there. It says.” Your eyes moved farther down the page, all equipment would be provided. Of course he had already memorized every possible argument “You don’t even have to buy me anything,” Oliver continued. “And I’ll be really careful. I promise.”

“That isn’t what I’m worried about.”

“Are you worried I’ll fall?”

“A little.”

“I fall all the time.”

You nearly laughed despite yourself “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“I always get back up.” His answer came so simply that it made your chest ache.

Oliver looked so much like you that sometimes it startled you. The same eyes, the same nose, the same determined line between his brows whenever he wanted something badly enough.

You crouched in front of him, adjusting the hat that had slipped over one of his ears “Hockey can be really expensive, Ollie.”

“But this is free.”

“This program is free. But what happens if you love it?”

His face scrunched in confusion “Would that be bad?”

The question struck harder than it should have, you looked down at the flyer in your hands.

You had spent so much of Oliver’s life trying to protect him from disappointment that perhaps you had begun preventing him from experiencing things at all “No,” you whispered. “Loving something wouldn’t be bad.”

“So I can go?” You hesitated for another few seconds, then Oliver pressed his mittened hands together dramatically “Please, Mommy. Please, please, please. I’ll clean my room every day.”

“You should already be cleaning your room.”

“I’ll clean your room too.”

That finally made you laugh “Okay.”

His mouth dropped open “Okay?”

“One session,” you clarified. “We’ll try it once.”

Oliver threw himself into your arms so hard that you almost fell backward “Thank you! Thank you, Mommy!”

You held him against you, closing your eyes as he bounced excitedly in your embrace, you only hoped you hadn’t just introduced him to something you wouldn’t be able to continue giving him.

The Canadiens’ practice facility was larger than Oliver’s entire school.

He walked beside you with one hand wrapped around two of your fingers, his head turning in every possible direction as volunteers guided families toward the registration tables.

There were Canadiens logos on the walls, photographs of players, and children everywhere dressed in red jerseys.

Oliver had insisted on wearing the Canadiens shirt your younger brother had given him for Christmas. It was slightly too big, hanging almost to his knees beneath his winter coat, but he had refused to take it off “Do you think the players will see my shirt?” he whispered.

“I think it’ll be difficult not to.”

“Do you think Cole Caufield will be here?”

You looked down at him “I don’t know.”

“He’s number twenty-two.”

“I know.”

“He scores lots of goals.”

“I know.”

“He’s not very tall for a hockey player.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile “Maybe don’t say that to him if you meet him.”

“It’s not mean,” Oliver defended. “Madame Girard says we shouldn’t be sad about things we can’t change.”

You stopped walking “Definitely don’t say that to him.”

Before Oliver could respond, a volunteer greeted you and asked for his name, you completed the registration forms while he stood pressed against your side, nearly vibrating with anticipation.

A few minutes later, he was fitted for skates, a helmet, elbow pads, and gloves. Everything was supplied by the program, just as the flyer had promised, Oliver looked down at himself in complete wonder “Mommy, look.”

“I’m looking.”

“I look like a hockey player.”

Your heart squeezed “You do.”

He lifted his helmeted head, beaming at you, for a moment, all of your fears disappeared beneath the sight of his smile, then he attempted to stand. His skates slipped in opposite directions, and he grabbed your arms before he could fall “Okay,” he muttered. “Maybe not yet.”

You laughed and helped him shuffle toward the rink entrance.

Several Canadiens players were already on the ice, skating between groups of children. Parents filled the stands, holding phones and waving whenever their children looked toward them.

Oliver stopped the second he spotted the players, his gloved hand tightened around yours “That’s Nick Suzuki,” he whispered urgently “He’s the captain.”

“I recognize him.”

“And that’s Juraj Slafkovský.” You nodded as though you hadn’t spent the previous evening looking up the Canadiens roster so you wouldn’t embarrass him “And that’s…”

Oliver gasped.

You followed his gaze, a smaller player in a red Canadiens practice jersey was crouched near the boards, helping a little girl adjust her grip on the skating aid in front of her “Cole Caufield,” Oliver breathed.

Cole looked toward the entrance at that exact moment, his eyes landed on Oliver, who was still staring at him as though he had just seen a superhero come to life.

Cole smiled and lifted one glove in a wave, Oliver immediately hid behind you.

You blinked.

The child who had talked about Cole Caufield for three days had suddenly forgotten how to function “Was that him?” you asked teasingly.

Oliver peeked around your coat “He waved at me.”

“He did.”

“Why?”

“Probably because you were staring at him.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You didn’t blink for thirty seconds.”

Before Oliver could argue, one of the instructors called his group toward the ice, his excitement vanished, he stared at the surface in front of him, then at the other children already wobbling away from the boards “You’re okay,” you assured him.

“What if I fall?”

“You told me you always get back up.”

“That was before I saw the ice.”

You crouched carefully beside him “You don’t have to do it if you’re scared.”

Oliver looked from you to the rink “I want to.”

“Then being scared is okay.”

He swallowed “Will you stay?”

“The entire time.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

With one final nervous breath, Oliver stepped onto the ice, his skates immediately slid forward. Before he could hit the ground, two gloved hands caught him beneath his arms “Got you, buddy.”

Oliver froze.

Cole Caufield steadied him, keeping one hand against his shoulder until his skates stopped moving “You okay?”

Oliver stared at him, Cole waited. You stood on the other side of the glass, trying desperately not to laugh at your normally talkative son’s sudden silence.

Cole glanced toward you, eyebrows raised in a silent question, you smiled apologetically “He knows who you are,” you called through the open gate.

Cole looked back at Oliver “Oh, yeah?”

Oliver finally nodded “You’re number twenty-two.”

“That’s me.”

“You score lots of goals.”

“I try to.”

“And you’re not very—”

“Oliver.” His helmet snapped toward you, you gave him a warning look, Cole’s lips twitched “I’m not very what?”

“Old,” Oliver finished quickly, you covered your face with one hand, Cole laughed “Well, thank you. I think.”

Oliver seemed to relax at the sound, Cole helped him place both hands on a plastic skating aid “Have you skated before?”

“No.”

“That’s okay. I fell the first time I skated too.”

Oliver looked suspicious “You did?”

“Definitely.”

“How many times?”

“I don’t remember.”

“A lot?”

Cole glanced at you again “A lot,” he confirmed.

That seemed to be exactly what Oliver needed to hear. He pushed forward carefully, his skates moving only a few inches, Cole stayed beside him “That’s it, small steps.”

Oliver took another.

Then another.

Within minutes, he had made it halfway down the boards with Cole skating backward in front of him, every time Oliver’s legs began to slip, Cole caught him. Every time he looked toward you, you waved and smiled.

You should have been watching your son.

Instead, you found yourself watching Cole too. There was something unexpectedly gentle about him. He never rushed the children or laughed when they fell. He crouched to their level when they spoke, listening seriously even when one little boy spent nearly five minutes explaining the exact design he wanted painted on a future goalie mask.

And with Oliver, Cole seemed especially patient, perhaps it was because Oliver continued asking questions “How fast can you skate?”

“Pretty fast.”

“Faster than Nick?”

“You should ask Nick.”

“Do you ever get scared before games?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you cry when you lose?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do grown-ups cry?”

“All the time.”

Oliver considered that answer for a moment “My mom cries in the bathroom sometimes because she thinks I can’t hear her.”

Your smile disappeared.

Cole’s eyes immediately lifted toward you, you looked away, heat spreading across your face. Children had no respect for privacy “What do you do when that happens?” Cole asked carefully.

“I sit outside the door.”

“That probably helps her.”

“I think so.”

“It definitely does.”

Your throat tightened, Cole didn’t look at you again, and you were grateful for it, he simply guided Oliver forward, one small step at a time.

By the end of the session, Oliver could move several feet without holding the skating aid. He still fell constantly, but each time he pushed himself back onto his knees with a determined little grunt.

Cole was there every time, offering a hand but waiting to see whether Oliver wanted to stand on his own, when the session ended, Oliver refused to leave the ice “Five more minutes,” he begged.

“You said that ten minutes ago,” you reminded him from the gate.

“I’m practicing.”

“The next group needs the rink.” Oliver looked toward Cole for support, Cole lifted both hands “Your mom’s the boss.”

Oliver sighed dramatically and shuffled toward the exit.

Cole helped him off the ice before kneeling to remove the guards from his borrowed skates “You did really well today,” he told him.

“I fell fourteen times.”

“Only fourteen?”

Oliver’s eyes widened “Is that good?”

“For your first day? Very.” Cole held out his fist, and Oliver eagerly bumped it with his glove, then Cole looked up at you “You’ve got a natural.”

You laughed softly “You don’t have to encourage him.”

“I’m serious. He’s fearless.”

“He was terrified twenty minutes ago.”

“Being fearless doesn’t mean you’re never scared.” Cole glanced at Oliver, who was now attempting to walk toward a volunteer without lifting his skate blades from the rubber floor. “It means you try anyway.”

You watched your son nearly trip over his own feet “He definitely tries.”

Cole stood, pulling off one of his gloves “You’re coming back next week, right?”

Your smile faltered, the program ran for six sessions, but you had only committed to one, Oliver had already reached the equipment table and couldn’t hear you “I’m not sure.”

Cole’s expression changed slightly “Did he not like it?”

“He loved it.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

You knew he wasn’t trying to pry. His voice held only genuine confusion, but embarrassment still settled heavily in your stomach “There isn’t a problem.”

Cole studied you for a second. You busied yourself with gathering Oliver’s coat and shoes “The program is free,” he said gently. “And all the equipment stays here for the kids.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to buy anything.”

“I read the flyer.” He went quiet, you closed Oliver’s small backpack more forcefully than necessary “I’m sorry,” Cole said. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

The immediate apology softened you.

You sighed and glanced toward Oliver, who was telling a volunteer about the fourteen times he had fallen “I know the program is free,” you said quietly. “But hockey isn’t.”

Cole remained silent.

“He’s six. He doesn’t understand that this might be the only time he gets to do something like this.” You folded Oliver’s scarf before stuffing it into his coat sleeve. “What happens when the program ends and he asks to keep playing? What happens when he wants skates that actually belong to him or wants to join a team? I can’t afford that.”

You hated saying it aloud.

You especially hated saying it to someone whose entire life revolved around the sport you could barely imagine paying for “I just didn’t want him falling in love with something I’d have to take away later,” you admitted.

Cole looked toward Oliver.

For several seconds, neither of you spoke, then he leaned against the boards beside you “My parents made a lot of sacrifices for hockey.”

You looked at him.

“Equipment, travel, tournaments. My brother played too. It wasn’t easy.”

“I imagine NHL contracts make it worth it eventually.”

Cole smiled faintly “They didn’t know I’d play in the NHL when I was six.”

“No, but you were probably good.”

“I was six,” he repeated. “I spent half my practices looking at the ceiling and asking when we got snacks.”

That pulled a reluctant laugh from you, Cole’s smile grew “There are programs that help with equipment and registration,” he continued. “Secondhand gear, community funding, foundations. Hockey is expensive, but there are people working to make it less impossible.”

You looked back toward Oliver “I don’t want charity.”

“It isn’t charity.”

“It feels like it.”

“It’s giving a kid the chance to play.” you crossed your arms over your chest, Cole’s tone remained gentle “You’ve already decided you can’t give him hockey before you’ve found out whether he even wants it.”

“That’s because I know what it’s like to want something you can’t have.”

Cole’s expression softened “And you’re trying to protect him.”

“Yes.”

“But maybe this isn’t something you need to protect him from.”

Oliver suddenly came racing toward you in his socks, carrying a participation certificate “Mommy, look! Cole signed it!”

You accepted the paper before it could bend “That’s amazing.”

“And he said I did good.”

“You did do good.”

Oliver looked up at you hopefully “Can we come again next week?”

You felt Cole watching you, though he made no attempt to interfere, you looked at your son’s flushed cheeks and messy hair. He was happier than you had seen him in weeks “One more session,” you said.

Oliver cheered, Cole smiled, you pointed at hi “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

One more session became two, then three, by the fourth week, Oliver no longer needed a skating aid. He wasn’t graceful, but he was fast—or at least he believed he was.

He would push himself across the ice with quick, uneven strides, his arms extended for balance while Cole followed behind him. You began looking forward to Saturdays more than you wanted to admit.

Not only because of Oliver.

Cole always found you before the session began, sometimes he brought Oliver a hot chocolate from the players’ lounge, sometimes he sat beside you in the stands while another instructor helped Oliver lace his skates. Once, when your bus had been delayed and you arrived ten minutes late, Cole had been waiting near the entrance.

“We thought you weren’t coming,” he said, Oliver rushed toward the equipment room “You thought Oliver wasn’t coming,” you corrected. Cole shoved his hands into his jacket pockets “Both of you.”

You pretended not to notice the warmth spreading across your cheeks.

You also pretended not to notice how often he looked toward you from the ice, at first, you convinced yourself he was checking whether Oliver’s mother was watching him. Then you realized he did it even when Oliver was with another player.

Cole would catch your eye through the glass, smile, and return his attention to the children.

It was harmless.

That was what you told yourself, he was kind. You were grateful. Nothing more needed to happen.

Your life was complicated enough.

You worked full-time at a dental office, attended evening classes twice a week, and raised Oliver alone. You didn’t have time to date, especially not someone whose face was printed on jerseys throughout Montreal.

Besides, men your age rarely knew what to do when they learned you had a six-year-old.

Some became uncomfortable. Some treated Oliver as an inconvenience. Others were interested until they understood that you couldn’t disappear for spontaneous weekends or stay out until two in the morning.

Oliver always came first.

There was no negotiation, Cole seemed to understand that without ever being told. When he asked you to get coffee after the fifth session, he didn’t ask whether you could find someone to watch Oliver. He nodded toward the small café across from the facility “Do you guys have time before you head home?”

Oliver answered before you could “Can I get a muffin?”

Cole smiled “I think that can be arranged.”

The three of you sat near the window, Oliver happily pulling apart a blueberry muffin while telling Cole everything he had learned about penguins at school, Cole listened as though the information was vital “They can’t fly,” Oliver explained seriously.

“That seems unfair.”

“But they can swim really fast.”

“So they’re basically fish birds.”

Oliver’s face lit up “Fish birds.”

You stirred your coffee, hiding your smile behind the cup, Cole glanced at you “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are a little,” Oliver informed him.

“Thank you for defending me, buddy.”

“You called penguins fish birds.”

“I stand by it.”

Oliver dissolved into giggles, you watched them, something unfamiliar and dangerous unfolding inside your chest.

It wasn’t simply that Cole was good with Oliver.

Plenty of people could be charming with a child for an hour, it was the way he included him naturally. He didn’t speak to you over Oliver’s head or act as though your son was preventing the two of you from having a proper conversation.

To Cole, Oliver wasn’t an obstacle, he was part of the conversation, part of the invitation, part of you. When Oliver left the table to choose a sticker from the café counter, Cole leaned closer “So, I have a question.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It isn’t.” you waited “Would you let me take you to dinner?”

Your fingers tightened around your coffee cup “Cole…”

“It doesn’t have to be a big thing.”

“You’re asking me on a date.”

“That’s usually what dinner means.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you became a mom when you were seventeen.” you stared at him “Oliver told me.”

“Of course he did.”

“He also told me you make the best grilled cheese, you’re scared of spiders, and you sing in the car when you think he’s asleep.”

Your embarrassment grew with every word “I’m going to have a serious conversation with him about oversharing.”

Cole smiled “I know you work six days some weeks. I know you’re taking classes because you want to become a dental hygienist. I know you always bring an extra pair of mittens for Oliver because he loses one almost every time you leave the house.”

You looked toward your son, he was still examining the stickers “And I know you spend so much time worrying about giving him enough that you don’t realize he looks at you like you gave him the entire world.”

Your throat tightened, Cole’s smile softened “I know enough to want to know more.”

“You play for the Canadiens.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“People know who you are.”

“Sometimes.”

“My life doesn’t look like yours.”

“I’m not asking it to.”

“I have a child.”

“I noticed.”

“He comes first.”

“He should.”

There was no hesitation, no disappointment, no subtle attempt to convince you that perhaps, eventually, you could put someone else first. Cole simply accepted it “He will always come first,” you repeated.

Cole nodded “That doesn’t mean there can’t be room for anyone else.”

Oliver returned to the table with a glittery dinosaur sticker pressed to his coat “Look, Mommy.”

You smiled at him “I see it.” He turned toward Cole “Are you coming to our house?” your eyes widened “Oliver.”

“What?” He looked between you. “He asked about dinner.”

Cole pressed his lips together, clearly fighting a laugh, you narrowed your eyes at him “Don’t encourage him.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Oliver climbed back into his chair “We have spaghetti.”

“I love spaghetti,” Cole said.

“Cole.”

He finally laughed “All right. I’ll stop.” but when you looked down at your coffee, you couldn’t stop smiling.

Your first date happened at a small Italian restaurant two weeks later.

Your mother watched Oliver, though he had loudly complained that he wanted to come too “It isn’t fair,” he had declared while you stood in front of your mirror, trying to decide whether your dress looked too formal. “Cole is my friend.”

“He was my friend first,” Oliver continued. “I met him on the ice.”

“You’ll survive one evening.”

“Are you going to kiss him?”

You nearly poked yourself in the eye with your mascara wand “Why would you ask that?”

“Grandma said it’s a date.”

“Grandma needs to mind her business.”

Oliver appeared in the doorway, wearing his dinosaur pajamas “If you marry him, can I play hockey for free?” You stared at him through the mirror “That is absolutely not how marriage works.”

“Can he live here?”

“You are getting very far ahead of yourself.”

“Can I call him Dad?” Your hand stilled, Oliver’s expression remained innocent, but the question settled painfully between you, you turned in your chair “Come here.”

He walked over, and you pulled him gently between your knees “Cole and I are only going to dinner.”

“But if he becomes your boyfriend?”

“Then he would be my boyfriend.”

“Not my dad?”

“No.” You brushed his hair away from his forehead. “Being someone’s dad is a really big job. It doesn’t happen just because someone dates their mommy.”

Oliver looked down at the floor “I don’t have one.”

Your chest broke a little more every time he said it “You have me.”

“I know.”

“And Grandma, and Uncle Daniel, and so many people who love you.”

“But not a dad.” You pulled him into your arms “No,” you whispered. “Not a dad.”

Oliver rested his cheek against your shoulder “Cole would be good at it.” You closed your eyes, that was exactly what frightened you.

Cole never pushed.

Not when you hesitated to let him pick you up at your apartment, not when you refused to introduce him as anything more than Oliver’s skating instructor, not when you cancelled your third date because Oliver woke with a fever , instead, Cole showed up at your door with soup, children’s medicine, and a Canadiens blanket “You didn’t have to come,” you told him.

“I know.”

“You have a game tomorrow.”

“I’m aware.”

“You should be resting.”

“I can rest here.”

He spent the afternoon on the opposite end of your couch while Oliver slept against your chest. Cole watched game footage on his tablet with headphones, occasionally looking over to make sure you didn’t need anything.

When Oliver woke, warm and miserable, Cole played cartoons with him until he fell asleep again, he didn’t make a big production of helping.

He simply did it.

Over the following months, Cole became woven into your lives so gradually that you barely noticed it happening, his extra toothbrush appeared beside yours.

A small pile of his clothes formed in the bottom drawer of your dresser.

Oliver began asking whether Cole would be joining you before you even mentioned weekend plans, Cole attended Oliver’s school performance and sat beside your mother, clapping louder than anyone when Oliver delivered his single line.

He learned which vegetables Oliver would eat and which ones required negotiation, he knew that nightmares meant Oliver needed the hallway light left on and that thunderstorms usually sent him climbing into your bed.

Most importantly, Cole never tried to replace anyone.

He didn’t demand a title, he didn’t force affection, he let Oliver decide what their relationship would become, the skating program eventually ended, but Oliver’s love for hockey did not.

You had known it wouldn’t.

The final day, he left the ice with tears streaming down his face “I don’t want it to be over.”

You crouched in front of him, wiping his cheeks “I know.”

“I want to keep skating.”

“We’ll figure something out.” It was the same kind of promise you had made his entire life, a soft answer designed to delay disappointment.

This time, Oliver recognized it “You said hockey costs too much.”

Cole, standing a few feet away, went still, you glanced at him before returning your attention to Oliver “We can look at different programs.”

“But can I play on a team?”

“I don’t know, baby.”

Oliver’s lower lip trembled, Cole stepped closer “Hey, Ollie.” Oliver turned toward him, Cole knelt beside you “Do you remember what I said on your first day?”

“That you fell a lot.”

“Besides that.”

Oliver sniffed “That being scared is okay.”

“And what else?”

“I don’t know.”

Cole nudged his knee gently “I said you were fearless because you kept trying.” Oliver nodded “So we’ll keep trying,” Cole said. “Your mom and I will figure it out.”

Your head snapped toward him “Cole.” he looked at you calmly “We’ll figure it out.”

Later, after Oliver had gone with your mother to choose a celebratory snack from the vending machines, you pulled Cole aside “You can’t promise him things like that.”

“I didn’t promise anything.”

“You told him we would figure it out.”

“We will.”

“No, I will.”

Cole’s brows furrowed “Why?”

“Because he is my responsibility.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to pay for him.”

“I didn’t say I was going to.”

“But that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking there are a dozen youth hockey organizations in Montreal, and I know people involved in most of them.”

You crossed your arms “I don’t want you calling someone and getting him special treatment because you’re Cole Caufield.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I won’t.” You hadn’t expected him to agree so easily, Cole took out his phone “What are you doing?”

“Looking up the community equipment program I told you about.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

His fingers moved across the screen “There’s an application for registration support, it’s based on household income, not who someone knows.” You stared at him, Cole held the phone toward you “You can apply. Oliver gets the same opportunity as every other kid in the program. No special treatment.”

You looked down at the webpage “They cover equipment?”

“Some of it. There’s also an exchange program for used skates.”

Your eyes burned unexpectedly, you blinked hard, refusing to cry inside the Canadiens’ practice facility “I didn’t know where to start,” you admitted.

“That’s okay.”

“I should have figured it out.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m his mother.”

Cole’s expression softened “Being his mom doesn’t mean you have to know everything.”

“It feels like it does.”

“You’re allowed to ask for help.”

“I’ve been doing everything alone for six years.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how not to.”

Cole slipped his phone back into his pocket “Then start small.” you looked at him “Let me help you fill out the form.”

“That’s your definition of small?”

“I was going to suggest letting me carry the equipment bag, but we haven’t bought one yet.” a laugh escaped you through the tears you were trying to suppress, Cole smiled and stepped closer “Just the form,” he promised. “You make every decision. I’ll just sit beside you.”

You looked through the glass toward Oliver, who was showing your mother a bag of chips, then you looked back at Cole “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Just the form.”

His grin widened “Just the form.”

Oliver made the team.

It was a beginner league with Saturday morning practices and games that mostly consisted of children chasing the puck in one enormous group, he wore secondhand skates, borrowed shoulder pads, and a helmet funded through the community program.

You had never seen him happier, Cole attended the first game wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, hoping not to draw attention away from the children.

It didn’t work.

Within ten minutes, half the parents had recognized him, Cole signed a few autographs but politely redirected every conversation toward the players on the ice “I’m here for number nine,” he said, pointing toward Oliver.

Oliver scored his first goal by accident.

The puck bounced off another child’s skate, hit Oliver’s stick, and slowly slid across the line while the goalie was looking in the opposite direction, Oliver stood frozen for two full seconds.

Then he lifted both arms and screamed.

You jumped to your feet “That’s my baby!” every head in the stands turned toward you, you didn’t care. Cole was already standing beside you, cheering nearly as loudly.

Oliver looked into the crowd, his eyes found you first, then they moved to Cole. He pointed at both of you through the glass. After the game, he came flying out of the locker room still wearing half his equipment “Did you see?”

“We saw,” you laughed as he crashed into you.

“I scored!”

“You did!”

Cole crouched beside him “That was a beauty.”

“It was an accident,” Oliver admitted “They all count.” Oliver threw his arms around Cole’s neck, Cole froze. So did you.

Oliver had hugged him before, but this felt different.

Perhaps because he held on, perhaps because Cole’s arms slowly wrapped around him in return, one hand settling protectively against the back of Oliver’s helmet “You came to my game,” Oliver whispered.

“Of course I did.”

“Will you come to the next one?”

Cole looked over Oliver’s shoulder at you “As long as your mom wants me here.” Oliver released him and turned toward you “Do you?”

Your heart felt painfully full, you met Cole’s gaze.

He had never asked for more than you were prepared to give. He had stood beside you exactly as promised, never taking control, never making you feel incapable.

He loved Oliver.

You could see it in every expression, every patient answer, every Saturday morning he spent at a rink when he could have been sleeping after a game. And somewhere along the way, you had fallen completely in love with him too.

“Yes,” you said softly. “I want him here.”

Oliver smiled “Every game?”

You laughed “We’ll check his schedule.”

Cole reached for your hand, his fingers slipped between yours with an ease that still amazed you “Every game I can,” he promised.

Oliver nodded, satisfied, then he looked between the two of you “Can I call you Dad now?”

The hallway went silent, your breath caught, Cole’s hand tightened around yours “Ollie,” you began gently but Cole lowered himself until he was eye level with him “Do you want to?”

Oliver nodded.

“You know you don’t have to, right?” Cole asked. “You can call me Cole forever, and I’ll still come to your games. I’ll still help you practice. I’ll still care about you exactly the same.”

“I want to.”

Cole’s eyes turned glassy, you covered your mouth with your free hand, Oliver shifted nervously “Is it okay?”

Cole pulled him into his arms “Yeah, buddy,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “It’s more than okay.”

Oliver hugged him tightly.

You watched them, tears finally slipping down your cheeks, six years earlier, you had sat in a doctor’s office convinced that your life was ending.

In reality, it had only been beginning.

The road had been harder than you could have imagined. You had spent years counting every dollar, questioning every decision, and trying to become every person Oliver might ever need.

You had believed accepting help meant you had somehow failed, Cole had shown you otherwise, you had not failed because Oliver needed more people to love him.

You had succeeded in raising a child whose heart was open enough to welcome them.

Cole stood with Oliver still clinging to his side and reached for you, you stepped into his embrace. Oliver became squished between you, laughing as he complained that he couldn’t breathe.

Cole kissed the top of his helmet before pressing his lips to your forehead “I love you,” he murmured, you leaned into him “I love you too.” Oliver wriggled until his face appeared between you.

“I love hockey.”

You and Cole both laughed “We know,” you told him.

“And I love you.” Your expression softened “I love you too, baby.”

Oliver looked at Cole “And I love Cole.” Cole closed his eyes briefly, his smile trembling at the edges “I love you too, Ollie.”

For once, you weren’t thinking about what came next.

You weren’t calculating the price of new skates or worrying about next month’s schedule. You weren’t wondering whether something good would eventually be taken away.

You simply stood between the two people you loved most, surrounded by the sound of children laughing and skates cutting across the ice, you had brought Oliver to the program believing hockey might give him something you couldn’t afford.

Instead, it had given both of you something money could never buy.

random MACK AND WILL ❤️

random slide two...

random WHO DID YOU CROP OUT

random that's literally blonde hair 😭

random bro cropped 90% of the person and left the hair

random worst FBI agent ever

mackcelebrini poor fan you cropped out dude

_willsmith2 wow thanks

mackcelebrini wasn't a compliment

random EVEN MACK NOTICED 😭

random okay but who is she???

random girlfriend reveal loading...

random imagine if it's someone we all know

gabeperreault44 impressive editing skills

_willsmith2 appreciate it

gabeperreault44 wasn't a compliment either

random LMAOOO

random i'm telling you there's a girl

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youruser summer reset 🌊

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random beach girl forever

random pickleball season!!

random who's the guy next to her though 👀

random okay wait...

random guy + sunset = suspicious

mackcelebrini next time i'm winning

youruser you literally weren't invited

mackcelebrini rude

_willsmith2 skill issue

mackcelebrini whose side are you on???

_willsmith2 the winning teams'

random 😭😭😭

random so it was will next to her???

random the lego keychains are SO CUTE

random who has the matching one??

random matching lego keychains is relationship behavior...

random i'm filing that away

liked by youruser, mackcelebrini, graceccsmith and 301,992 others

_willsmith2 off days ☀️

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random WHO IS HE SMILING AT LIKE THAT

random definitely a girl

random the blonde hair AGAIN

random SHE'S BACK

graceccsmithi know that jbl speaker from somewhere...

_willsmith2 no you don´t

gabeperreault44 just post her at this point

_willsmith2 no

gabeperreault44 coward

mackcelebrini who's "her"

_willsmith2 no one you know

mackcelebrini sure

random THAT PAUSE 😭

random WILL PANICKED

random the crop is somehow even worse this time

random bro left HALF HER HAND

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youruser 📸

View all 1,483 comments

random THAT CAMERA

random WAIT

random wasn't that in will's post???

random am i connecting dots or am i insane

random slide three????

random WHO IS ON YOUR LAP

random BLONDE MAN ALERT

mackcelebrini what is that thing on your lap???

youruser sleepy

mackcelebrini that's not what i asked

youruser next question

random 😭😭😭

_willsmith2 looks comfortable

youruser it was

random HELLO???

random WHY WOULD HE COMMENT THAT

random hold on...

random no way

random impossible

random unless...

random Mack would kill him

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_willsmith2 lately 🙂

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random HE'S IN THE KITCHEN AGAIN

random WHO IS THE BLONDE GIRL

random just hard launch her already

random slide two 😭

random SHARING HEADPHONES???

random boyfriend activities

mackcelebrini alright enough mysterious posts

_willsmith2 what do you mean

mackcelebrini i know you're hiding something

_willsmith2 am i?

mackcelebrini yes

random LITTLE DOES HE KNOW

random imagine if it's Mack's sister 😭😭😭

mackcelebrini absolutely not

random mack would actually kill him

random yeah will values his life too much

random definitely not his sister lol

youruser maybe it's just a friend

random WAIT WHY IS SHE DEFENDING HIM

random hmmmm...

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youruser go sharks 💙🦈

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random nice jersey!!

random whose jersey is it???

random okay why did you crop mack out 😭

random GIRL THAT'S LITERALLY JUST WILL YOU POSTED

random poor mack got sacrificed

mackcelebrini excuse me???

youruser artistic vision

mackcelebrini i'm barely in the picture

youruser exactly

_willsmith2 i think it looks great

mackcelebrini OF COURSE YOU DO

random WILL WAS SO FAST

random bro liked the crop a little TOO much

random WAIT

random didn't will crop somebody out...

random and now she cropped mack out...

random ARE THEY

random nah

random impossible

random ...right?

_connorbedard i'm just here to observe

random CONNOR KNOWS SOMETHING 😭

gabeperreault44 mack's gonna need a minute when he finds out

mackcelebrini finds out what?

gabeperreault44 nothing

random I'M LOSING MY MIND

The fact that you and Cale hadn't actually encountered each other yet had your best friend at a complete loss.

You'd met Cale's sister on the first day of pre-med, surrounded by other students looking equally as intimidated. She'd sought you out, the only other girl there wearing black even in the late summer heat.

"I love your hoodie!" She'd said, all excited eyes and bouncing blonde hair.

"Thanks?" and okay, so you weren't the most sociable person in the world, and you were also pretty skeptical that she knew the band adorned across your back.

Except she had, and she'd also been persistent even in your skepticism and to cut a long story short, you'd been best friends ever since.

That had been eight years ago, so the fact that you and her brother had never crossed paths was somewhat impossible given how many holidays you had spent with their family.

Still, she was desperate for you two to meet, her two favourite people in the world. That was how you'd ended up at the Avalanche brunch on a rare day off from rotation.

"He's around here somewhere, I'll go find him, stay here." She said, before catching the attention of someone across the room and working her way through the crowd.

You eyed the men behind the tressel tables currently adorned with piles of breakfast food and decided you'd have a better time waiting if you had food in your hand.

That's when he sees you.

You're wearing a dark blue skirt that's probably a touch too short for brunch with people you don't know and a pretty white flowing blouse that was your usual go to for formal events.

He's clocked you before you've noticed him, mid conversation with Gabe who stops talking to see what Cale is staring at.

You start further down the line, chatting with another woman about your age as a couple of little girls giggle in front of you.

Its Nathan MacKinnon that starts handing out the food first, and it feels a bit weird, you're adjacent to these people without you really knowing them, and they have no idea who you are.

It's while you're making polite conversation with the man that Cale appears.

Or rather, disappears on his way to talk to you.

You can't help the snort you let out as you watch him trip over something covered by the tables, arms flailing in the air before you actually hear his body hit the floor.

"Jeez Cale, watch what you're doing you dumbass," Brent sniggers from the opposite side of the line tipping his head back with a laugh as Cale tries and fails to scramble to his feet.

"I thought hockey players were supposed to be good on their feet," you laugh, leaning over the food a little to see your best friend's brother looking a little worse for wear in a pile of napkins.

"He's not a hockey player, he's an idiot." Gabe pipes up from further down.

"Nate help him up, I can't serve this on my own," the captain says before turning back to the piles of bacon and eggs in front of him.

Cale finally gets himself vertical, dusting off the maroon apron and running a hand through his hair.

"y/n, right? Katie's best friend?" He says, and you nod, holding back the giggle as his team mates make faces behind him.

"The very same, good trip?" you ask with a smirk, you can see the blush working its way up his neck.

"Katie said you were nice," and you didn't think it could be that endearing to watch a grown man pout.

"We both know your sister sees the best in people," you reply, moving further along the tables as the line starts to get busy behind you.

"Where is she anyway? Mom wants a picture of us all together," he asks.

"Schmoozing with the big dogs over there I think, she was looking for you,"

That's all that's said between you for the moment as you leave in search of your best friend.

You find her chatting with some CFO from Denver about in house first aid training and tag into the conversation while you empty your plate.

By the time you've both done the rounds, Cale has been tracking you across the room the whole time, somewhat ignoring his brunch duties, much to Gabe's annoyance.

"Will you focus? What are you even looking at?" Gabe grumbles from next to him.

"Not what, who. Did you and I not see the same woman laughing at me earlier? I'm trying to see my future wife." Cale says it without a hint of sarcasm.

"You're insane, you don't even know the girl," Gabe laughs quietly as he plates up the scrambled eggs for a family in front of him with a smile.

"I basically do, Katie talks about her all the time, this is just the first time meeting her in person, you should see the way my parents talk about her, mom says shes like her second daughter." Cale replies, stepping back to swipe some bacon while no one was looking.

"Aren't you supposed to be serving that to us? What, don't they feed you in the NHL?" You ask, you'd caught the tail end of that conversation, satisfaction settling in deep at the knowledge that the Makar's thought of you as family.

Cale is staring at you with his mouth hanging open, cheeks rosy pink.

"Ugh dude, close your mouth we're in public," Katie snaps as she rounds the end of the table.

"Nice to see you too Kit-kat,"

"Heard you face planted in front of your teammates, that's embarrassing," her tone is sing song in that way siblings love to annoy each other.

"I don't know why I invite you to these things,"

"Because you love me. Now, have you and y/n properly met? She's been dying to meet you," you slap her arm half heartedly and duck your head, because while no one that knows you would believe that, these men don't know you, and you'd be dead before admitting such a thing.

And the thing was, you did want to meet him, mostly because he was Katie's favourite person other than you and you knew it was important to her, but also kind of because he was hot and you liked a man that was good at his job.

"She's full of shit, I'm only here for the food." You smile, finishing off your second helping of eggs.

"You're breaking my heart here, y/n." Cale says, eyes all sincere but a grin plastered on his face.

"Cale's got a crush on you too don't worry," Gabe adds in which garners a laugh from the others who had now congregated around you four.

"All of you suck," he whines, but he's smiling at you with that boy next door baby face and you can't help the butterflies in your stomach.

"We need to go take our seats," you say, turning Katie by the shoulders in the direction of a table out of ear shot of the over excited hockey players giddy at the prospect of their superstar having a crush.

"I told you he likes you," Katie says as you take your seats.

"Will you quit it? He's your brother." You moan.

"So? I give you permission, you two would make such cute babies, and then we'd actually be sisters, mom will be thrilled." She goes on, shes got the calculated look on her face like all her plans are coming together at once and all you can do is roll your eyes and finish your food.

Things settle for a while, speeches from a few different Avalanche personnel taking place, giving you a reprieve from her meddling.

"I'm thirsty, you want anything?" She asks once the room starts to get a little louder.

"Yeah, I could murder a coffee," she nodded knowingly, you were on ED nights at the moment and your body still hasn't adjusted to the sleep schedule.

She disappears into the crowd, leaving you to muse over the morning so far.

"One coffee for my future w—" you turn at the sound of Cale's voice, just in time to see one of the little girls from earlier run straight in front of him and dislodge the coffee from his hand, straight down his front.

"You're not very good at this being a waiter thing," you muse as he stands there, coffee dripping down his front.

"I won the Stanley Cup once," he groans, sitting down in the empty chair next to you.

"I'm aware, I was there." You reply with a gentle smile.

"Yeah but I couldn't see you so I wasn't distracted,"

"Oh so today is all my fault?"

"Uhm, wait no—that's not—"

"You're kind of cute when you're flustered," you say quietly, looking up at him through your lashes with a smile.

"Let me take you on a date," he says suddenly, like his brains come back online all at once.

"Aren't you in the middle of a playoff push?"

"I'll make time,"

"I'm on nights for the next eight weeks,"

"We'll go for lunch,"

"I'll be asleep,"

"We'll go for breakfast then,"

"I'll be in my scrubs,"

"I'm sure you'll look incredible,"

"You're really adamant about this, aren't you?"

"I don't know what that means, but if it means I really want to take you on a date? Then the answer is yes." He's the mirror image of Katie when she's on a mission to get what she wants, and you know you're going on the date before the affirmation is even out of your mouth.

"Fine. Yes, you can take me on a breakfast date."

It was his fault. He kept you up late last night. He couldn't blame you for the way you clung to the pillow, drool pooling on the soft cotton, blanket haphazardly flung across your bare skin, and hair forming a knotty halo around your head. Much like he was last night, this morning he was struck by your beauty, no matter how much of a drooling mess you were. 

Cale sighed to himself, gnawing on his lip as he made himself turn away from you, wondering if he should wait for you to wake up, or simply just make you a warm tea to entice you out of bed. As much as he loves you, it felt like an itch on the inside of his skull as he realised the only way he could make his bed to finalise his morning routine was if you were out of the bed in question.

Every morning, Cale followed a simple yet non-negotiable routine - wake up, eat, wash his dishes, and make his bed. It was not up for debate, or at least, it never had been before. 

Rationally, he knew it would be fine if he didn't make the bed, that your sleep would always be more important, especially if he was the cause of your lack of sleep. And yet, it felt like an effort to get himself out of his bedroom and to his kitchen.

Sipping from his smoothie, Cale breathed deeply and attempted to distract himself by tidying his kitchen bench. There was nothing to clean. Furrowing his brows, he swept his eyes over the living room, free of clutter.

He was home late after his game last night, but you were still there from before he left, from when you and he wrestled, played, and made a mess of the house. When he arrived home, he hadn't noticed that you had tidied everything up in his haste to ravish you in celebration of his win. 

Cale felt his heart swell. He knew that even though you weren't a particularly messy person, you definitely didn't enjoy cleaning in the same way he did. You were comfortable with clutter in a way that he has never been before. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat, turning to see you shuffling out from the hallway, wrapped in the comfort of his bedshirt that he didn't actually sleep in last night, with comically fuzzy socks that he was sure would make you slip on the hardwood floors at one point or another. 

“Good morning, beautiful,” he cooed affectionately, watching you as you grabbed the blanket from the couch, pulling it over you with a small grumble. You shuffled towards him in the kitchen, bumping your forehead against the hard plains of his chest, sighing contentedly and snuggling a little closer into his warmth.

“G’ mornin’,” you yawned out. He carded his fingers through your messy hair, catching at your chin and lifting so he could meet your gaze. You smiled warmly as he leaned down to kiss you deeply, hungrily, swallowing your little moans that pulsed through his system. He pulled away, knowing that he didn't have time to delve into your flesh this morning and risk being late. 

“Did I wake you?” You shook your head.

“No, my alarm went off. I wanted to make sure I saw you before you left for practice today.” He smiled, and just like it always did when he looked at you like that, your heart skipped a beat. “Have to give you a good luck kiss, don't I?”

“It’s just practice,” his cheeks reddened. For the life of you, you couldn't understand how he could be so shy when you complimented him when he could unravel you shamelessly and without restraint in the container of the bedroom.

“Well, you need practice luck, too.” You kissed him again, shorter this time, before shuffling over to make yourself a tea. “I was thinking I could whip something up for us to eat tonight? Make a little date of it?” 

“Sounds amazing, I'll pick up some wine on the way home,” he nodded, heat blooming in his chest at the ways in which you looked after him. Checking his watch, Cale quickly made his way to the bedroom to make the bed.

“Could you pick up a white wine? I think that'll pair really nicely with what I have in mind.” You called out to him, pretending that you weren't overtly checking out his ass.

“Anything for you, beautiful,” he called back. “Can I grab you anythi-”

He stopped short, looking at the bed. The already made bed, sheets and blankets folded exactly the way he liked it, the corners tucked in all the right ways, the pillows fluffed and placed to perfection, and without a wrinkle in sight. 

“Sorry, what was that?” He distantly heard you respond. Cale was too stunned that you remembered every detail, that you even bothered to do this for him, especially when he knew for a fact you didn't really care to make your own bed back at your apartment. 

You were sipping from your mug when he walked back in the kitchen, removing the mug from your hands and placing it on the counter before he grabbed your face with both hands and pulled your lips in to meet his in the middle. You didn't hesitate to answer him in kind, working your mouth against his with muffled moans of pleasure, gripping his shirt to keep from toppling over from the force of his kiss. Cale's large hands still framed your face as the two of you separated, breathless yet wanting more.

“What was that for?” You puffed out, wishing he never stopped.

“You made the bed.” Cale answered firmly. You cocked an eyebrow in turn.

“Is that all it takes? If I had known sooner, I'd do it every time I sleep over.” He grinned, pressing his lips to your forehead. You shrugged, “I figured it's important to you since it's the first thing you do in the morning.”

“I love you.” Cale's soothing voice whispered over you, lighting you up from the inside out.

Zach knew something was wrong the second he unzipped his suitcase.

At first, he thought maybe he was just tired. It had been a long travel day — early flight, delayed connection, too many people crowding baggage claim, and a team staff member who had been rushing everyone toward the bus like the airport itself was on fire. Zach had barely looked at his luggage before it had been loaded with the rest of the bags.

Black hard-shell suitcase, silver zipper, tiny scratch near the handle, same as his or, apparently, not his.

Because the second he opened it in his hotel room, instead of finding neatly folded team clothes, extra shoes, and the hoodie he’d thrown in last minute, he was staring at a soft cream sweater, a makeup bag, a book with a bent corner, and something pink and silky that made him immediately slam the suitcase shut like it had burned him “Oh my god,” he muttered.

From the other bed, Kirby looked up. “What?” Zach stared at the suitcase, then at the luggage tag, then back at the suitcase.

His stomach dropped, because hanging from the handle was not his tag, it was yours. Your name, your phone number and beneath it, your hometown.

The same one he had grown up in, for a second, Zach just stood there like an idiot, because there was no way, no actual way.

He hadn’t seen you in years. Not properly, at least. There had been the occasional Instagram story, the odd mutual friend reposting something, the blurry memory of your smile in the background of summer pictures from home. But real life? Face to face? Not since before hockey had fully taken him away.

And now your suitcase was sitting in his hotel room, which meant his suitcase was probably with you, which meant he had your clothes and you had his “Dude,” kirby said slowly, narrowing his eyes. “Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?”

Zach swallowed “I have the wrong suitcase.” Kirby blinked, then grinned. “That’s not great.”

“No,” Zach said, still staring at your name. “It’s really not.”

“Is it some random person’s?” Zach hesitated and that hesitation was all it took, Kirby sat up immediately. “Oh, you know her.”

Zach ran a hand over his face. “Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“We grew up together.” that wasn’t exactly the full truth, the full truth was that you had lived three streets over from him. That your parents knew his parents. That he had seen you every summer at neighborhood barbecues, every winter at the outdoor rink, every school event where he tried way too hard to act cool whenever you were nearby.

The full truth was that when Zach was thirteen, he used to intentionally miss the first shot during driveway hockey if you were watching because he thought maybe it would make you laugh, the full truth was that at fifteen, when someone asked him who his first real crush was, your name almost came out before he managed to cough and say “nobody.”

The full truth was that you had been his childhood crush, not a small one either a devastating one, the kind that made him forget how to talk when you smiled at him. The kind that made him keep the friendship bracelet you had made him at some summer camp event even after it got too small for his wrist. The kind that never fully went away, even when life got busy and distance turned you into someone he thought about only when he was feeling nostalgic.

Kirby's grin widened. “Oh, this is good.”

“It’s not good,” Zach said quickly.

“It’s a romantic comedy.”

“It’s a luggage mix-up.”

“With a girl you know.”

“With a girl I haven’t talked to in years.”

“Even better.”

Zach ignored him and picked up his phone, typing your number from the tag before he could overthink it, then he stared at the message box.

Hi, I think I have your suitcase.

Too dry.

Hey, this is Zach Bolduc. I think there was a luggage switch-up at the airport.

Too formal.

Hey, this is Zach. I promise I’m not trying to steal your sweaters, but I think we have each other’s suitcase.

He stared at that one for three full seconds before deleting it, horrified at himself, Kirby was now openly watching him. “Are you writing a novel?”

“Shut up.”

Eventually, Zach sent:

Hey, this is Zach Bolduc. I think there was a mix-up at baggage claim. I accidentally ended up with your suitcase. I’m guessing you might have mine?

He pressed send before he lost his nerve, for exactly one minute, nothing happened, then two, then three. Zach tried to act casual about it, but he kept glancing at his phone every few seconds. Kirby snorted from across the room “Real smooth.”

“I’m checking because this is important.”

“Sure.”

Then his phone buzzed, your name popped up.

Zach Bolduc???

His heart did something stupid, then another text came through.

Oh my god. I was literally about to call the airline because I opened my suitcase and found hockey gear.

Zach laughed under his breath, relief loosening his shoulders.

Yeah. That would be mine. Sorry about that.

Your reply came almost instantly.

I was so confused. I thought I was losing my mind because the suitcase looked EXACTLY like mine.

The second he sent it, Zach froze.

Same. I opened it and immediately realized I was not the owner of a cream sweater and pink silk thing.

“Oh no,” he whispered, Kirby looked up again. “What did you do?”

“I mentioned the pink silk thing.”

Kirby burst out laughing, Zach wanted the floor to open and swallow him, your typing bubble appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again. Zach held his breath.

Finally, your reply came through.

Zachary Bolduc.

He winced, another message followed.

Please tell me you did not inspect my suitcase.

His face went hot.

I swear I opened it, panicked, and closed it immediately.

You panicked?

It felt like a crime scene.

My pajamas are not a crime scene.

So it was pajamas, that did not help at all, Zach sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck.

Good to know.

Your reply came seconds later.

Do not make this worse for yourself.

He smiled despite himself, there it was, you still had the same sharp humor he remembered. The same ability to make him feel like an awkward teenage boy with one sentence.

I’m trying very hard not to.

How did this even happen?

One of the staff members grabbed it in a hurry. We both have the same suitcase.

Clearly one of us has excellent taste.

Or one of us copied the other.

I had mine first.

Zach grinned.

You don’t know that.

I absolutely do.

He leaned back against the bed frame, phone in hand, suitcase forgotten in front of him, for a moment, it didn’t feel like years had passed. It felt like being sixteen again, standing near the outdoor rink with frozen fingers and red cheeks while you teased him for pretending he wasn’t cold.

Then your next message came.

Where are you staying? I’m at a hotel close to the rink , I have a meeting tomorrow morning, but I can come swap them tonight if you’re close.

Zach sat up immediately, he was close, very close, too close for him to avoid this. Not that he wanted to avoid it, that was the problem.

I’m at the team hotel downtown. I can meet you halfway. You shouldn’t have to bring my giant hockey suitcase around, It is very heavy, Sorry.

What do you even pack in here? Bricks?

some clothes and hockey stuff.

So yes.

Zach laughed again, Kirby looked at him with raised brows “Still just a luggage mix-up?”

Zach threw a pillow at him, they agreed to meet at a small coffee place between both hotels. Zach changed out of his travel sweats into jeans and a jacket, then changed again because suddenly the first shirt felt wrong. Then he stared at himself in the mirror and muttered, “Relax. It’s just a suitcase.”

Kirby made a dramatic coughing noise from behind him “Childhood crush.”

Zach pointed at him. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You coughed it.”

“I have allergies.”

Zach left before he could say anything else, the coffee place was quieter than he expected when he arrived, all warm lighting and soft music. Outside, the evening had turned cold, and people moved quickly down the sidewalk with their collars up and hands tucked into their sleeves.

Zach stood near the entrance with your suitcase beside him, suddenly aware of every single second that passed, then the door opened.

And there you were and for a heartbeat, he forgot how to move.

You looked older, obviously. Not in a way that changed you completely, but in a way that made his memory of you feel softer around the edges. You still had the same eyes. The same smile pulling at your mouth when you spotted him. The same easy confidence that had once made teenage Zach trip over a hockey stick in his own driveway.

You were dragging his suitcase behind you with both hands “Zach?” He smiled before he could stop himself. “Hey.”

You stopped in front of him, looking him up and down in a way that made his ears heat “Wow,” you said. “You got taller.”

He laughed. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“I mean, I knew you got taller. I’ve seen pictures. But still.” You tilted your head. “You used to be all elbows.”

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

“You were just short.”

You gasped, offended, and Zach felt something bright and familiar bloom in his chest “Oh, so this is how we’re starting?” you asked.

“I’m defending myself.”

“You were all elbows and bad hair.”

He put a hand over his chest. “Bad hair?”

“Terrible.”

“I was fifteen.”

“That’s not an excuse.” he shook his head, smiling like an idiot. “Good to see you too.” your teasing expression softened slightly “Yeah,” you said, quieter. “Good to see you.”

For a second, neither of you moved, then you both seemed to remember the reason you were there, you pushed his suitcase forward. “One hockey bag disguised as normal luggage.”

He slid yours toward you. “One definitely-not-a-crime-scene suitcase, your eyes narrowed. “You’re lucky I’m choosing to be forgiving.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You should.”

Zach reached for the handle of his suitcase, but you didn’t immediately take yours. Instead, your gaze dropped to the luggage tag, then back to him “I didn’t know you were flying in today.”

“Yeah, we got in this afternoon.”

“For a game?”

He nodded. “Tomorrow night.”

“That’s cool,” you said, and it sounded genuine. “Really cool, actually, there was something about the way you said it that made him look at you more carefully. “You follow hockey?”

“A little.”

“A little?”

“My dad still talks about you like he personally trained you for the NHL because he gave you one ride to practice when we were kids" Zach laughed, the memory hitting him instantly. “He did save me that day. My mom was stuck at work.”

“He tells everyone.”

“Good. He deserves credit.”

“He also says you were very polite.”

“I was.”

“You were quiet.”

“I was shy.” your smile turned amused. “Around everyone or just me?”

Zach froze, there it was, one casual question and suddenly he was fifteen again, you saw it too. He knew you did, because your smile shifted into something more curious “Zach?”

He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t that shy.”

“You barely looked at me for two years.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is very true. I thought you hated me.”

His head snapped up. “What? No.” you blinked at the suddenness of his answer, he exhaled, laughing a little under his breath. “No, I definitely didn’t hate you.”

Your expression softened, something in the air changed, the coffee shop felt warmer all of a sudden. Smaller. Like the world outside had gone quiet just to listen “You didn’t?” you asked.

Zach looked at you, and he knew he could dodge it. He could laugh. He could say something harmless. He could make this about being awkward as a teenager and move on, but he was older now, not always braver, maybe, but old enough to know that some chances didn’t come back twice “No,” he said. “I had a crush on you.”

Your lips parted slightly, Zach felt his heart hammering against his ribs, then you said, “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“You had a crush on me?”

“Pretty bad, actually.”

Your face changed in the most satisfying way, surprise first, then disbelief, then a slow smile that made his stomach flip “Zach Bolduc,” you said softly. “You had a crush on me and your strategy was to avoid eye contact?”

“It was a very advanced strategy.”

“It was terrible.”

“I was nervous.”

“You played hockey in front of hundreds of people.”

“Yeah, but none of them were you.” the words came out before he could stop them, you went quiet, Zach nearly closed his eyes, too much, maybe. Too honest, but then you smiled, smaller this time. Not teasing. Not amused. Something gentler “I had a little crush on you too,” you admitted.

Zach stared at you “No, you didn’t.”

You laughed. “Yes, I did.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“You called my hair terrible.”

“It was terrible. That doesn’t mean I didn’t like you.” he was grinning now. He couldn’t help it. “This is unbelievable.”

“You were cute,” you said, shrugging like it wasn’t currently rewriting his entire teenage history. “And you were sweet. And you always helped me tie my skates when my fingers got too cold.”

“You remember that?”

“Of course I remember that.”

Zach’s smile softened, he remembered too, he remembered pretending not to notice how close you were. He remembered kneeling in the snow, fumbling with your laces while you complained about the cold. He remembered wanting to hold your hand afterward but shoving his own into his jacket pockets instead.

“All these years,” he said, shaking his head.

“All these years,” you echoed, then your phone buzzed in your coat pocket. You glanced down, and reality seemed to return around both of you.

“I should probably get back,” you said reluctantly. “Early meeting.”

“Yeah. Of course.” neither of you moved, your suitcase stood between you like the world’s strangest matchmaker, Zach looked at you. “Can I ask you something?”

“Depends.”

He smiled. “Do you want to get coffee? Not luggage exchange coffee. Actual coffee.”

Your eyes flickered to the café around you “We’re already in a coffee shop.”

“Okay, smartass. I mean another time.”

You looked pleased with yourself. “Another time?”

“Yeah.” He swallowed. “Maybe after the game tomorrow? Or whenever you’re free. No pressure.”

“No pressure,” you repeated, but your smile gave you away, Zach waited, trying not to look as hopeful as he felt, finally, you said, “I’m free after the game.”

His chest warmed “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You pulled your suitcase closer. “But only if you promise not to steal my luggage again.”

“I didn’t steal it the first time.”

“That’s exactly what a suitcase thief would say.”

“I’m a victim here too.”

“You had my pajamas.”

“For thirty traumatic seconds.” You laughed, and Zach decided right then that he wanted to hear that sound again. Often, if possible.

“I’ll see you tomorrow”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You turned to leave, pulling your suitcase behind you, but after a few steps, you looked back “Oh, and Zach?”

“Yeah?”

Your smile turned teasing again “Your hair got better.”

He laughed, shaking his head as you walked out into the cold evening, the next morning, when Zach opened his actual suitcase and found all his own clothes exactly where they should be, he also found something else tucked between his hoodie and a pair of socks.

A small note, written on hotel stationery.

if the owner of this suitcase its the Zach Bolduc i think, I always thought the shy thing was cute.

Zach stared at it for a long moment, then he smiled so hard his cheeks hurt, Kirby noticed immediately “What now?”

Zach folded the note carefully and tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie“Nothing.” Kirby narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”

Zach zipped up his suitcase, still smiling, maybe he was, but for once, he didn’t care, because one rushed airport staff member, two identical suitcases, and years of bad timing had somehow managed to do what Zach never had the courage to do as a kid.

Well, Cole’s strong. He’d find a way.

Your hand moves to curl around his bicep. He holds the remote with this hand, arm dangling partially off the couch. The smooth skin of his inner arm calls to you, your thumb finding the vulnerable vein that pops away from his skin. You can almost feel the blood running through it and even in the dark with the television glowing all different colors from scene to scene, you can see the light blue tint of the vein against his pale skin. You trace the flowing line, mimicking the pace of his back rubs.

Cole’s lips lift into a smile. You’re aware of it, even with your head on his chest and face turned toward the television. He kisses the top of your head and halts his movements, bringing his hand to the small of your back and resting it there.

You whine at the loss and turn to look at him, resting your chin between his pecs. You’re laying atop him, like you often do on movie night. You’re not sure how or when the position became your go-to, but Cole always reclines back on the pillows and beckons you forward, encouraging and sometimes imploring you to crawl into his space.

He’s shirtless today, firm muscle radiating heat. His favorite black joggers hug his thighs and his crotch, creating a delicious picture that you couldn't help but invade. He looks good enough to eat – instead, you’ve decided to cuddle. You’re in a cotton pajama set with cartoon blue whales dotting the white background.

“Such a diva,” Cole teases. “I stop rubbing your back for two seconds and you get all pouty?”

“You’re the exact same,” you say, returning your head to its place on his sternum. “You squish me in bed if I stop spooning you.”

Cole laughs quietly. “I’m just rolling over.”

“That’s what you say every time,” you grumble, then press your lips to Cole’s chest so he knows you’re playing around. You don’t mind when he crushes you in bed because he’ll pepper your face with kisses until you’re squealing and wiggling away. Then, he’ll kiss down your neck and dig his fingers into your side until you wheeze with laughter. Sometimes, you stop spooning him just to get that treatment.

The movie playing on the TV is some action flick, Cole’s choice this week, and the loud sounds emanating from the speakers are distracting more than anything. You don’t know how you’re supposed fall asleep after watching fight scenes and explosions and gunshots, so you turn your head away from the television and shift, tucking your face into Cole's neck and inhaling his natural musk.

He starts to rub your back again, raising goosebumps on your arms and sending shivers throughout your body. You feel tingly, fuzzy almost. His touch is soothing and soft, just like his presence in your life. You’re so comfortable with Cole, in love with his bright smile and deep dimples and carefree attitude. He’s so go-with-the-flow that it combats your need for routine and makes you more easygoing. Cole benefits too – your planning keeps him in line for the fun things in life, like date nights and grocery trips.

You hum against his pulse, pursing your lips and leaving a lingering kiss on the thick column of Cole’s throat. His chest rises with a breath and you press another onto his skin, opening your mouth and gently sucking a mark beneath his jawline. Your eyes are closed, breathing even.

You’re not marking Cole to excite him. That’s just a fun perk.

As small hickeys blossom over Cole’s skin, his hand grows heavier on your back. His touches are loaded, as are your kisses, and your next kiss falls on his lips.

With the movie forgotten, your mouth slots against Cole’s over and over. He tastes like your dinner, a protein-heavy taco bowl, but you chase the taste instead of pulling away. Cole chuckles as your tongue dives into his mouth, taking control. He places his hands on your hips and leaves them there, abandoning the remote on the side table. Your palms go flat on his collarbone and cradle his face respectively.

His smile quirks and you lap at his soft flesh, gently nibbling his bottom lip.

“Needy,” Cole whispers between kisses.

“Bothered?” you ask, a wet smack echoing between you.

“Never.”

Cole helps you change position, your knees now bracketing his hips and his bulge prominently resting beneath your wanting core. You bend at the waist, unwilling to part with Cole’s talented tongue for even a second.

His grip guides your bottom half, as your touch maneuvers his head.

It's the same motion: up, down. Up, down. Up... and down.

Cole shudders beneath you and you realize what he’s doing – pulling your hips over his cock, stimulating himself through your clothes, a warmth building between your bodies.

His cock has swelled, impressive for his size and mouth-watering when bared before your face. It seeks your wet hole like a moth to a flame, even with multiple layers separating the two. 

You part from him momentarily, threading his wavy hair through your fingers. You scratch Cole’s scalp, seeing his eyelashes flutter from enjoyment and head tip back. Smiling, you roll your hips. 

“Shit, babe,” he murmurs, seemingly torn between increasing your pace and halting you entirely. His fingertips bore into your sides. “What’s gotten into you?”

You exchange a kiss. “Nothing, really,” you reply. “Wanna see my pretty boy come in his pants.”

Cole’s eyebrows lift to his hairline.

You laugh, erasing his shock with a few languid licks into his mouth. Once Cole is pliant beneath you, hands sliding to grasp your behind and tug you closer, you begin to move again. You kiss him with your whole body, your beings intertwining from sheer proximity. Cole groans into your mouth and you rock into him, your wetness seeping into your panties and his natural urge for more, more, more manifesting in small blurts of precum that dampen the front of his joggers. 

You rock against each other, giving and taking and kissing all the time. The space between your legs is full, Cole’s friction satisfying but far from enough.

At least... for you.

Cole makes a guttural noise, one that plants deep in your chest and roots itself. You pull back and kiss down his neck, leaving a wet trail as far as you can reach. He throws his head back and bucks his hips. You bounce in place, biting your bottom lip to keep from whimpering as his cock nudges your clit.

“You gonna make a mess, baby?” you tease, running a light hand over Cole’s chest. You brush his left nipple with your right hand, flicking over the bud with your thumbnail. “Y’feel so good you’re going to come in your pants, make ‘em all white and wet for me?”

“Motherfucker.” Cole shivers and squeezes his eyes shut, front teeth visibly biting down to steel himself.

You emulate his own go-to move, fishing his lip free and soothing it with a sweet kiss. Your grinding is downright dirty, juxtaposing the pace between yours and Cole’s mouths. He can't decide which sensation to dive into – he switches between kissing you feverishly and letting you move your hips freely, and mouthing uselessly against your lips, jaw, and neck while his lower half dominates the moment. Whimpering when Cole's shaft nestles in your slit, running from your hole to your clit and back again, he shoves his hands beneath your pajama bottoms to get flesh on flesh.

Cole drags you forward once, twice, three times, and on the fourth, a new wetness spreads between your bodies. You both moan at the same time at the same pitch, with Cole pursuing his climax and the aftershocks and you aiming to join him.

He’s hyper-sensitive after coming, always is. You gyrate against his cock as long as he’ll let you, only stopping when he keens against you and pinches your hips like a nonverbal warning.

You pout slightly, so close to your orgasm but delayed by Cole’s discomfort.

He apologizes with a kiss. “Sorry,” Cole mumbles, massaging your side with his dexterous fingers. “Here, baby, lay down. Make it even, yeah?”

You switch places with him, laying your head on a pillow and accepting Cole’s weight between your legs. You’re braless beneath your pj set and Cole takes advantage of your hardened nipples, pinching and rolling them between the pads of his thumbs and forefingers. You arch into him, relenting to his insistent tongue and lips, and go to wrap your legs around his waist. Cole stops you.

“Spread ‘em,” he instructs, an easy smile brightening his face. He’s got a post-nut glow around him, giddiness touching his features. It makes you want to giggle, the pairing of the twinkle in his eye and the rapidly drying stain on the front of his favorite pair of athleisure-wear.

You grin and kick your legs out wide, ankle hooking over the back of the sofa. You’re still in your pajama shorts and panties, but they're loose enough that Cole simply pulls them to the side and dips his middle finger into your cunt, sheathing his digit past his second knuckle.

He pumps it steadily from the get-go, a mirthful smirk transforming his expression into something more evaluating, examining. Cole watches your reaction carefully, cataloguing each contortion and flexed muscle.

You run your fingers over your neck sensually, then eye Cole.

He shakes his head knowingly. You frown in an exaggerated, clownish way, but Cole guffaws quietly. He reaches out and fiddles with the top button on your pajama top, unfastening it and spreading the cotton so he can see the expanse of your collarbones. He pulls away and places his free hand on your knee by his side.

A flush creeps over your cheeks and neck, squirming at his intense attention.

Cole looks you up and down, quirking an eyebrow.

Wordlessly, you understand his desire and unbutton the rest of the buttons on your top. You spread the shirt panels until your chest is completely bare, Cole’s pupils dilating when he makes eye contact with your tits. You cup the warm flesh in your hands and knead your skin, paying extra attention to your sensitive nipples and putting on a show for your boyfriend.

To make things even, to torture you as much as you're torturing him, Cole adds another finger to your heat and rubs circles over your clit with his thumb.

You sigh, allowing your eyelids to drift shut, and pinch your pebbled buds. You can see, in your mind's eye, Cole’s arm veins bulging and muscles flexing as his fingers wiggle over your sweet spot. His heavy gaze weighs on you. You’re intimately aware of Cole: his thick digits inside you, his gentle caress over your inner thigh, his presence between your legs.

“Such a pretty girl,” Cole breathes reverently. “All mine, huh?”

You blink and look at him through your lashes. Your line-of-sight flickers to the mess on the front of his pants, then back up. You cock your head to the side and deadpan, “Says the boy who came from a little dry humping.”

He laughs, but you continue.

“I mean, honestly, Cole–” You jolt when he probes your g-spot, rubbing it insistently. “I’m all yours, but I haven’t even come?”

Cole leans down and shuts you up with a kiss, moving to suck a matching hickey over your carotid. He shuffles back on his knees, sucking a nipple into his mouth. He licks over it eagerly before abandoning it to go even lower. His lips grace your ribs, your stomach, your abdomen, and your hip prior to fastening around your clit and slurping it into his mouth.

His tongue swirls over the moist bundle of nerves, suction pulling you to orgasm like a lasso around your neck. You writhe on the couch, fisting Cole’s golden waves until he releases a strangled moan and shoves a third finger into your cunt, curling all three and pulsing them against the spongy spot that always makes you unravel.

“Fuck,” you squeak in a high voice, legs shaking and trying to close around Cole’s head. The corners of his lips lift in a smile and he continues suckling, pumping his fingers through your aftershocks before drawing them from your wetness and wiping them on the fabric of your pajama bottoms.

“Payback,” he chuckles before wrapping his lips around your clit again and giving it one final suck, just to hear you squeal from over sensitivity. He covers your spent pussy with your panties and bottoms and crawls up your body, laying atop you how you laid on his chest.

The credits of the movie started scrolling minutes ago. You missed the final act completely, but you can’t find it in yourself to rewind and watch it back. Cole can’t either, it seems.

He wraps his arms around your middle and kisses each of your breasts before laying his head on the swell of them like a pillow.

“You’re crushing me,” you faux-complain.

Cole sighs loudly, pushing himself up so he can start attacking your face with his lips.