mads

Playing professional hockey, he doesn’t have much time to spend keeping up with a healing tattoo, but Jonas scheduled an appointment with you a week ago after his team, the New Jersey Devils, were eliminated in the playoffs. With three months to himself, he told you that now is the perfect time to get started on shading his wrist again.

Jonas curses again as the needle goes over the underside of his wrist, and once again you can’t hide back your laughter. You’ve been a tattoo artist for quite a few years now and are fairly used to the varying reactions your customers have, but expletives always manage to get you to break character. With any other client you’d at least attempt to be stoic, but you’ve been friends for long enough to know he doesn’t mind.

Finally, you finish your work, wiping away the remaining ink and powering off your tattoo gun. “Alright, Siegs, that’s it for today.” you say, wrapping his wrist with the proper coverings. Once you’re done sanitizing your own hands, you admire the art on his skin for a moment.

Jonas does the same, sitting up with a giant grin on his face. “It looks amazing, as always,” he looks like he wants to touch his newly-inked skin, but refrains when seeing the warning on your face.

“Okay,” you say as you lead him to the front of the store to ring up his aftercare supplies. Jonas is no amateur when it comes to tattoos by any means, but you feel the need to remind him anyway because athletes in particular always tend to lax out on tattoo aftercare. “You know the drill, but I’m still telling you anyways,”

Jonas just raises an eyebrow, listening to you list off all aftercare instructions as if he hasn’t been coming to you for years. Strangely enough, he couldn’t actually think of a time you’d hung out with each other outside of your working hours. He’ll have to change that, he hums to himself, especially after seeing the small New Jersey Devils flag you have hung on the wall.

“Have you ever been to a Devils game?” he asks as you’re handing him his aftercare supplies.

“I don’t think so, no. You know I don’t pay attention to hockey that much.”

“You should,” Jonas pushes, following you as you shuffle around the entrance of your parlor, likely looking for some supply he wouldn’t know the name of. “We’re a blast. And playoff hopeful again next season,”

You shoot him a wry smile, the both of you knowing it would take a lot more convincing to get you to leave the comforts of your shop to watch a sport you’ve never kept up with before. “Yeah? I’ll consider it,” you deadpan.

The defenseman takes no offense to your words, instead finding them to be a challenge. Mischievously, he grins. “Your consideration will turn into a yes, just you wait,”

“Sure,” you laugh, changing the subject. “You get an uber yet?” It’s relatively early in the day, so competition for booking one shouldn’t be too difficult.

Jonas shakes his head, unlocking his phone at the reminder of needing to leave. “Nah, my teammate is picking me up. He’s our captain, maybe you’ve heard of him—Nico Hischier?”

You think back to news articles you’ve seen online from late April when the Devils made the playoffs for the first time in years and you think you may have heard something about the team’s captain, but otherwise you don’t know much.

“I thought everyone would have gone home by now,” you say instead. It had been a week since their season ended, after all. Maybe this Nico guy had captain duties to attend to? You figure it’s nice of him to pick his teammate up from getting a tattoo either way, though.

The hockey player hears the curiosity in your voice, wondering how you would react to meeting his captain. “We’re both from Switzerland, so we both agreed to fly home together once we were all finished up here in Jersey. Getting my wrist shaded was the last thing on the list, thankfully,”

You make a noncommittal noise of understanding, your curiosity officially peeked by this ‘Nico’ guy. If you’ve learned anything about how the Swiss act from Jonas, you’re definitely looking forward to seeing if this captain was anything like his teammate.

Soon enough, the bell above your door is ringing as a man enters the parlor. You assume it’s Nico Hischier because of the Devils beanie he’s wearing, and because he looks out of place standing in your little parlor on the opposite side of town where his team plays. You wouldn’t know he has several tattoos himself.

You meet his eyes for a moment, and it almost looks like he’s caught off guard by the sight of you before he spots Jonas. He’s tall, you note to yourself, his shy smile endearing as he greets his teammate with a pat on the back.

“Nico!” Jonas greets happily, engaging in a short conversation before he turns his arm up to show his newly-shaded ink. “This one hurt like a bitch, but it’s looking beautiful now, isn’t it?”

“It is,” the man who you now know to be Nico confirms, admiring your work on his friend’s skin. “You did this?” he suddenly asks, the deep timber of his voice catching you off guard.

“Yeah,” you say, a little breathless. He’s beautiful. You think to yourself, confused about why you suddenly feel so hot when you purposefully keep the temperature in your shop cool. “Jonas is one of my regulars.”

Nico hums in response, eyes flitting back and forth from the lion on Jonas’s wrist and back to you, undoubtedly curious about how long his teammate has known you, and why he feels disappointed that he can’t see the rest of the ink decorating your own arms.

He himself is no stranger to tattoos, but he doesn’t have many nor do his look so intricate on his body like they do on yours. I need a new tattoo artist, he thinks, then mentally slaps himself because what?

With your cheeks feeling like they’re on fire, you turn away from the two hockey players in front of you to try and hide the embarrassment you feel. Unbeknownst to you, your movements make the light catch the dainty jewelry decorating your ears and nose, and Nico now undoubtedly finds himself in awe at your retreating form.

Who are you? He thinks. Siegs is a shit for not introducing you sooner. And then he rolls his eyes at himself again. What the fuck is the matter with him, anyways? He must have gotten a concussion during the playoffs, or something.

“You’re a regular?” He looks to his friend, subtly asking how long you’ve known each other. “You must like them, then,”

Jonas never prided himself on being intuitive; Nico’s prying went right over his head. He says your name with a fond smile, briefly looking to you as you mess around your desk again. “Oh, yeah, they’re the best. They’re fucking amazing with a tattoo gun, not to mention a huge Devils fan, too,”

You just so happen to overhear their conversation. “No, I’m not,” you scowl, but quickly retract your statement because Nico is looking at you like you just kicked his puppy. “Well, I mean, I’m a fan but not, like, a huge fan. I’ve never even been to a game,”

“Siegs, you should’ve brought ‘em around sooner, what the fuck!”

“I tried,”

Nico continues on like he didn’t hear him. “You’re coming to opening night. On me—on us, yeah?”

You’re much too in shock to comment on his slip of tongue, instead staring wide-eyed as he looks at you with determination. Nico just met you, but feels this compelling need to know you beyond the fact that you’re his friend’s reserved tattoo artist.

“You might as well just say yes,” Jonas speaks up, having caught on to your hesitation. “He won’t stop until you do,”

“Damn right.” The captain agrees, crossing his arms to further cement his point.

You’re drawn to the muscles that flex under the material of his shirt, and okay. Wow. With the way your body is heating up you would think that you’ve never been attracted to another human being in your life.

Quickly, your eyes dart back up to Nico’s, and you flush when you see he’s already caught onto your admiration of his body. He raises an eyebrow, teasing, and then you finally blurt out your response lest he call you out. “Well,” you start, clearing your throat when your voice comes out hoarse. “I guess that could be fun, yeah?”

Nico’s infectious grin at your agreement has you returning one of your own, flushed at the way you already knew your life would be a much happier one if you got to see him smile like that at you forever.

The two Devils’ players left soon after that, but not before you exchanged numbers with Nico Hischier himself while a smug Jonas watched from the background. “So I can send you the tickets when the time comes,” he’d said.

It was a perfectly believable excuse to you, but Jonas clapping his teammate on the back as if it were some kind of accomplishment had you questioning if Nico planned on texting you before their opening night.

You forced yourself to forget about it, though, in the meanwhile. You still had two more clients after they left, and you couldn’t exactly do your best work if Nico’s chiseled face and soft eyes wouldn’t leave your head.

And then a sharp pang struck your heart as you figure you’re just being delusional again. Reading too much into a situation that had no call for it, and imagining the way he looked at you like there was something behind your guarded eyes he wanted to explore.

No, you quickly put an end to your thoughts, steeling your resolve as you march back into the shelter of your shop. You aren’t putting yourself through this. Not again.

In a world of meaningless hookups and disappointing endings, you were a damaged romantic who would have once given the world if asked. But that hope for the future you envision with rose colored glasses is long gone, destroyed along with the pieces of your heart that shattered the last time you let yourself get too close to someone.

You decide then and there, with the image of Nico Hischier and his look of awe the moment he first saw you, that you weren’t going to ever grant him the ability to break you like the last person who did so years ago.

Despite the politeness he exudes, you half expect him to start making a move the moment he lands in Switzerland. You think he’ll start with a text that says, ‘Hey, how are you?’ and once you respond (because you will) he’ll send you pictures of him in his homeland, ones that require a compliment or an inquiry about what he’s doing.

You think you have him figured out. Men are predictable, you would know—their brains all work the same, and that includes how they hit on people they’re interested in.

However, you’re surprised to find that a text from him never comes. There’s no message awaiting you in between tattoo sessions, no ‘how are you’ or a picture of a ski lift or whatever it is people do in Switzerland. It irritates you because you don’t have Nico all figured out like you thought.

If you couldn’t place him into the typical group of uncommitted assholes you’d come to learn, then just who is he?

The answer escapes you for many months after. You certainly don’t text him, but you do find his Instagram after drinking one too many glasses of wine and scroll through his pictures. Nico isn’t very active online is what you gather, for his last post was back in May after they got eliminated from the playoffs.

It makes him endearing, much to your displeasure. People glued to their phones and still use Snapchat as their main form of communication irritate you to no end.

Not Nico, though…

He stays on your mind for the entirety of summer, because you just couldn’t get the memory of his eyes out of your head. It panics you a little because it feels like you’re forming a crush, and your last one didn’t exactly bode well for you.

Whatever. It’s just a small, meaningless feeling that just so happens to have stuck. Nico probably wasn’t even going to send you a ticket for opening night.

This is what you tell yourself as September rolls around, the NHL preseason starts, and your stomach sinks deeper and deeper the closer the Devils’ opening night comes.

You’re thinking about him again right now, much to your displeasure, as you finish wiping down one of your stations after your last client of the day left. It was a busy one, and you’re grumpy because your neck hurts from leaning over for so long.

You accidentally knock over your cleaning spray in the midst of your aggressive cleaning, and just as you pick up the bottle there’s a quiet knock on your shop’s door.

“I thought I flipped the closed sign,” you mutter, exiting the room you were just in and walking to the lobby. You’re unable to make out who it is outside, the only striking feature being that they’re tall.

You open the door warily, speaking before they get the chance to. “Sorry, we’re closed for the night. You can come back tomorrow morning or call to book an appointment—”

“I’m not here for a tattoo.” He interrupts you with what sounds like amusement, and you freeze because you would recognize that voice anywhere.

You look up to meet his eyes, and are struck with the same dark brown that’s been haunting your mind for months.

“Nico,” you say, shock written all over your face. You lick your lips, trying to find something to say. “You’re… What are you doing here?”

“I still have the address saved from when Siegs sent it to me,” he admits, aware that’s not what you’re really asking. Facing you now, he finds himself nervous. You hadn’t changed much, except for maybe the addition of another piercing in your right ear, he thinks.

But you were so unlike other strangers he’s met in the past; they know who he is, all about his life, whereas you look at him like you’re not sure what to think.

Nico finds it refreshing. You’re intriguing, someone to figure out—not to mention he really likes your tattoos. And piercings. He fights the urge to trail his fingers up your sleeves to reveal the art decorating your skin.

You’re raising an eyebrow at him, and then he realizes he’s been silent for a good minute while he’s been staring at you. He releases a quick breath, “You still want to come to opening night, right?”

“I do,” you say, foregoing acting coy. Fuck it, you actually did really want to go. “Why? Is there an issue?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” he reassures, giving you a quick smile. “I’d just rather explain the ticket situation in person than on text,”

His reasoning sounds understandable to you, but you fail to pick up on why he still seems so nervous. It’s just a ticket to a game, right?

“So since it’s just you,” he starts, hesitantly. “You’ll be sitting with, um. You’ll be in the wives and girlfriends section.”

Truthfully, Nico wouldn’t be shocked if you decline after hearing where you’ll be sitting. He himself probably would have, because who, as a stranger, wants to sit with the players’ significant others?

He watches your reaction, holding his breath. But all you do is laugh a little, shrug nonchalantly even though internally you’re shitting your pants.

“Okay, but you do know I’m neither a wife nor a girlfriend,” of you, you want to add, but keep that last part to yourself. Even though over the course of these last few months your mind definitely imagined it.

Your expression is teasing, the corner of your lips quirked up into a small smirk that has the tension falling from Nico’s shoulders. You aren’t mad. This is a start.

He rubs the back of his neck, looking rather sheepish. “I didn’t know if you’d be okay with that,” he mumbles lowly, meeting your eyes. If you look closely you think you can see a rosy hue covering his cheeks.

“It’s just one game, yeah?” You muse, secretly pleased at the fact that he’s the nervous one this time, not you. “Nothing wrong with that,”

Nico lets out a breathless laugh, relieved knowing you won’t be caught off guard when you come to the opening game in October.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Nothing wrong with that all.”

He stays for a few more minutes after that, your conversation surprisingly pleasant with little awkwardness as you shyly ask about his stay back home, and he gladly expresses his joy at being back in Switzerland for a few months.

His unabashed enthusiasm to share his life with you catches you off guard, but you find that you like learning these little things about him. It defeats your whole purpose of not letting yourself get close to him, but you push that worry to the back of your mind for later.

Nico does eventually leave, but not before giving you a hug that leaves your heart racing. One of his hands came to rest respectfully at the small of your back, and you could have sworn you felt his lips brush your cheek before he pulled away.

“See you soon,” he had grinned, his eyes dark and enthused.

Feeling corny and rather irritated with yourself, your fingers brush the spot on your cheek, swearing you could still feel the heat of his lips.

You still don’t hear from Nico even after his visit, and you’re once again struck by the fact that you still can't tell what his intentions are. You find yourself checking your phone anyway, going so far as to stalk his Instagram. Again.

This is most definitely becoming a bad habit. A very bad one. You think to yourself as, one day, you find yourself staring at your screen once more, weeks having gone by with the brown eyed boy still on your mind.

With another client in just over two hours, you find yourself using the break to get some work done on your laptop at the desk in the lobby of your shop. You aren’t very productive, but it makes you feel better about your wandering imagination being so distracting.

Just having happened to save a finished spreadsheet of your recent clients and their pricing, a man is pushing open the door to your shop. You quickly determine that it’s some type of delivery based on the package he carries before he drops it onto your counter.

He reads out your name from a paper, glancing up at you for confirmation of your identity. “Yes, that’s me,” you say, eyeing the unknown sender label. “Do you know who sent this?” You haven’t placed any orders recently, so it isn’t something from you.

The mailman shakes his head, giving you a polite smile before wishing you a good rest of your day. You wave to him offhandedly as he exits the shop, and then find a pair of scissors to carefully cut through the tape holding the box shut.

As if you’re opening Pandora’s box, you’re wary as you unfold the cardboard, your fingers brushing against thick fabric before carefully taking it out.

Unfolded and spread out across your desk, you freeze. You’re lucky no one else is here in the front to see you because your face is a deep shade of tomato red, and you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

Before you lay a jersey for the New Jersey Devils, and you know even before turning it over that it has Nico Hischier’s surname and number printed on the back.

As you’re staring at the jersey in awe, your fingers trailing over the brand new and surely expensive fabric, your phone pings with a new message.

It’s from a number you’d memorized months ago even though you’d never once used it to communicate. A text from Nico Hischier greets you as you unlock your phone.

UPS sent me a notification that the package I sent you arrived. I hope you like it. Looking forward to seeing you next month :)

“Oh, he’s good,” you say out loud, your smile growing even wider if that were possible. Your heart’s tempo picks up, and your fingers fly across the keyboard to respond.

You’re still not sure what he’s about—what are his plans here? Does he like you? Is he flirting for fun or does he have intentions to go forward?

You try not to overthink it as you finalize your response, pressing send soon after.

I just got it. I have to say, you’re bold. I guess I have no choice but to wear it now considering how much it probably cost you.

As if he were waiting for a response, a new message appears almost instantly.

It’s no big deal. Really. Just want to make your first game a memorable one. I’ll sign the jersey for you, too.

Careful, hot shot, I might start thinking you have other intentions here.

You wouldn’t be wrong.

September passes quickly, and before you know it October 12 is here and you’re nervously walking through Prudential Center to the section your seat is in.

You don’t stick out as much as you think you do, which is relieving because everyone around you is too focused on getting to their own seats and discussing the game.

You know you don’t fit the typical bill of someone coming to support a professional hockey player, considering what you think you are to Nico is… Complicated.

Your arms are covered in small but meaningful tattoos, and your ears are decorated with piercings along with the lone stud on your nose. You wouldn’t think someone like Nico would find it all attractive about you, but he’s said so numerous times over call and text.

You think about said communication as you finally sit down, a good thirty minutes before the game starts because nobody else is around you yet.

After Nico sent you his jersey, it’s like the floodgates opened from whatever was holding the two of you back from talking. Despite your reservations, he enraptured you from the get-go and you just couldn’t stop yourself from falling.

Nico is a really good texter, surprisingly. None of the lower case bullshit or long response times you’d expect from a sports player, but instead the exact opposite.

He doesn’t give you the feeling of talking to a child, an immature man who doesn’t know what he wants; in the time spent between him first using your number and going to the game, you’ve noticed how his responses are thought out and intentional. He responds quickly, but not too quickly to make you think he doesn’t have a career to focus on, and he makes you smile when he adds those cute smiley faces after the end of his texts.

You think you’re enjoying Nico Hischier a little too much to be normal, but you choose not to focus on that as you’re greeted by an unknown woman tapping your shoulder.

“Hi!” She says, giving you a welcoming smile that instantly puts you at ease. “Nico said he invited someone to come tonight. And Jonas,” she adds the last part like it was an afterthought, then gives you a slightly apologetic look. “He didn’t have time to tell us your name, so he just said to look for piercings and tattoos. I’m assuming that’s you?”

You’re not offended by others using your slightly unconventional looks to point you out; you’re proud of all of your piercings and the ink decorating your skin. You wouldn’t be you without them.

Slightly overwhelmed at the amount of words that just spewed from her mouth, though, you hide it well as you damper your nerves to respond. “Hi. Yeah, um, that’s me. They both - Nico and Jonas - really wanted me to come tonight.” You don’t include the fact that it was all Nico who sent you the ticket, showed up at your shop, and had been texting you nonstop for the past month.

The woman grins, seemingly relieved she had the right person. “Nico never brings anyone around so we were all pretty excited to meet you. I’m Natalie, Jonas’ girlfriend, by the way.”

Natalie is the exact type of girl you’d be expecting to date a professional hockey player. She’s blonde with a lithe figure, bright blue eyes and a face that could be on the front page of a magazine. She fits in with this crowd, not you, but you try not to let that bother you as you focus on her being the woman who makes one of your good clients happy.

Jonas has mentioned his girlfriend numerous times before, singing nothing but praises, and he’s even shown you a picture. Now that she’s in front of you, you instantly recognize her.

“I thought I recognized you,” you say. “I’m Jonas’ tattoo artist, he talks about you all the time,” maybe you were exaggerating a bit, but. Siegs wouldn’t mind. You were buttering him up to the ‘love of his life’, after all.

“He’s mentioned you too, oh my gosh, now it’s all clicking!” Natalie instantly gasps, sliding into the seat next to you. “You’re crazy talented. All of his tattoos are beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you grin, a little bashful. “He’s a great guy. I enjoy working with him.”

Natalie smiles back, and soon the two of you are joined by the rest of the WAG’s as the puck drop grows closer. Just as you’re about to pull out your phone, Natalie has seemingly managed to break free from whoever she was talking to.

“So, how do you know Nico? Jonas didn’t mention much about you coming, it was mostly Neeks who asked us to greet you,”

Neeks? You file that nickname away for later, and then your face grows red because you’re not sure how to answer her question.

“We actually met because of Jonas, funny enough. He was getting his wrist shaded, right after they got eliminated from the playoffs, and he asked Nico to come pick him up from my shop when it was done.”

“I remember,” Natalie says. “We were flying to Switzerland right after he was done. Sorry, you can continue,”

“You’re good,” you chuckle. “But yeah, then Jonas mentioned how I’d never been to a game, and Nico is who managed to convince me to come tonight.” You keep it simple, vague. No need to provide a complicated answer, mostly because you didn’t know how to reply without making it seem like you and Nico hadn’t been flirting for weeks now.

She looks like she’s about to say something, but suddenly the lights are dimming and an announcer is speaking, his loud voice booming throughout the arena. The next thing you know the lights are coming back on full blast, the puck is dropped, and ten hockey players are whipping across the ice at lightning speed.

Holy shit, you want to say, the sounds of screaming fans and players slamming against the boards rather overwhelming to you but in a good way. It has your blood pumping, and while you don’t understand much of anything - like why the refs blow the whistle randomly or what certain penalties mean - you find that you’re having a good time with Natalie keeping you company, explaining things as they occur.

“That Red Wings player is going into the box which means they’re down a player, and—oh, look, there’s Nico!” She’s pointing to the ice, and you have to squint to follow her line of sight, but you quickly recognize the Swiss captain’s profile and fight the muscles in your face from breaking into a smile.

Alas, you end up losing that battle as a grin manages to fight its way onto your face anyway. You know he can’t see you from so far up, but you like to think he tries as the Jumbotron focuses on him and catches his eyes peering up into the general direction of where you’re seated.

To downplay your excitement at spotting him, you ask, “What’s Jonas’ number?”

“Seventy-one,” Natalie answers, about to say something else, but interrupts herself as she along with almost every other fan in the arena jumps up out of their seats to shout obscenities at the referees.

Yeah, you think to yourself, comically scared of the aggression these hockey fans show for their team. This will take some getting used to.

Almost three hours later, the Devils manage to secure the win for their first game of the season. They almost blew it, or that’s what you hear from others around you, but you’re just glad to have something to congratulate Nico for when you go to meet him outside the locker room.

Speaking of, you along with the other WAG’s are walking down there right now, and your nerves from before the game are coming back full-force, stomach-twisting, vomit-inducing and all.

You’re standing next to Natalie as she talks with two other girls, and you’re content to just listen because your nerves aren’t allowing you to do anything else.

Then, as if the universe were tuned into your thoughts, the locker room doors open and multiple Devils players come streaming out. They’re freshly showered, back in the suits they arrived at the arena in, and you don’t even bother to hide your eagerness as you look for Nico in the crowd.

You spot Jonas first, though, as he catches sight of Natalie and bounds over to her with open arms. “Good game,” you think she says, then says something even quieter and that’s when Jonas sees you standing next to them.

He says your name in shock before a broad smile stretches over his face. “You came!” And then he’s also bringing you into a hug, looking all too happy to have some of his favorite people surrounding him.

“I did,” you laugh, pulling back after a moment. “It was really fun to watch. I’m glad you guys won,” you kind of wince at the end, knowing their win was shaky at best, but he looks like he appreciates the humor all the same.

“Yeah, we are too,” he says, then looks as if he just remembered something. “Nico was coming out right behind me, and—oh, there he is! Neeks!” He calls his captain’s name abruptly, and you swivel around to see Nico Hischier in the flesh heading towards you.

“There you are with the nickname again,” Nico chuckles as he approaches, then embraces his friend as if they didn’t just see each other a minute ago.

When he pulls back, his eyes quickly find yours, and unlike the first time you met there’s no awkwardness as Nico gives you a wide grin before wrapping his arms around you.

“You came,” he says into the top of your hair, and you can hear the smile in his voice. He doesn’t give you time to speak before he’s pulling back only slightly, enough to see your face from below peering up at him.

You take in the sight of him above you, rendered speechless as this image of him smiling so happily will likely replay in your memory forever. Nico is pure ecstasy, delight incarnate as those dark brown eyes likely have you painted in a way you could never see yourself in.

Finally finding your words, you duck your head for a moment, embarrassed at the blush you know is on your cheeks. “I wouldn’t miss it,” you say, referring to the game. “You played great, Neeks,”

Nico playfully leans back, lightly groaning at hearing you tease his nickname. “I should’ve known they’d say that in front of you,” he sighs, but you can tell it’s in nothing but jest as his smile remains. “Thank you, though,”

And now it was his turn to be bashful, as the blood rushes to his cheeks. What a picture you’re sure the two of you were; both pairs of hands still holding the other and equally flustered expressions on your faces. You find that you don’t mind the contact, though, despite having a slight aversion to touch. Nico’s warmth is comforting, and you rather like being close to him.

It’s not until Jonas coughs loudly from behind you that you and Nico finally release your hold on one another, and you turn to see he and Natalie looking at the two of you with barely contained excitement.

You meet Nico’s eyes, both of you struggling to hide your laughs at Jonas and Natalie’s failed poker faces. “Nice assist, Siegs,” you say to break the lingering tension, and the four of you come together like you’d all been close friends for years.

As you’re all leaving the arena through the exit the players use, Jonas and Nico walk ahead of you, exchanging teasing words and lighthearted insults, while you and Natalie watch from behind.

“So,” Natalie chirps, looking at you expectantly. “What do you think?”

You’re not dumb. You know she’s asking about Nico, thinking this is the first time you’ve talked to him since you first met him at your tattoo shop.

“Hockey? Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” you say, snickering when she sighs at your avoidance. “I’ll have to go to more games.”

“Not about hockey, about Nico,” Natalie says, whispering his name as if it’s taboo. “We aren’t blind. That was a long hug, and Nico literally never brings anyone here. Ever.”

“Technically, Jonas offered to bring me to a game first,”

The spunky blonde ignores you, offhandedly waving her arm. “Semantics. He also keeps turning around to look at you. Like right now.”

What? You instantly look ahead and see she’s right, your eyes meeting Nico’s. His face turns red as he sends you a shy smile, and then he turns back to Jonas who is still talking beside him.

Natalie observes the interaction, a small grin on her face. “You’ve both been talking long before now, haven’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?” you chuckle bashfully, slightly embarrassed your interactions allow her to pick up on your chemistry so quick. She shrugs, increasing her stride to stand in front of you as you reach their cars. “A little. But I’ve known Nico for a bit now, he’s a good guy. He likes you, too, I think.”

You don’t get the chance to respond before Jonas is wrapping an arm around Natalie’s waist, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. “We gotta get going, yeah? Early morning tomorrow,”

Nico’s hand is brushing against your arm as he moves to your side, unable to tell if the resulting shiver from his touch is from the slight chill in the air or just him. “We have a game in Arizona, a back-to-back,” he clarifies, answering your unspoken question.

“Ah,” you say. “That sucks.”

“Not this time. I’ll have plenty of good things to think about on the flight.” He winks at you, perfectly implying what those ‘good things’ are.

Your face turns red just as Jonas pretends to gag. “That would be our sign to leave. Right, babe?” He attempts to lead his girlfriend away, but Natalie suddenly gasps and runs back to you.

“I forgot to get your number,” she says, thrusting her phone into your hands. “We’re definitely hanging out again.” And, well, okay then. Who are you to deny her?

Jonas and Natalie drive away in his fancy sports car, which leaves you to walk Nico to his own. It’s quiet between the two of you, comforting because you’re both content to revel in each other’s company. Your hands occasionally brush - purely Nico’s fault - until he gathers the bravery to lace your fingers together just as you approach his car.

He doesn’t drop your hand, not even as he turns to face you once you come to a stop. “You have a ride home?”

You shrug sheepishly. No, you hadn’t really thought that far. “I was just planning on ubering…”

Nico scoffs, as if the very thought offends him. “Yeah, no. I’ll drive you home.” At the apprehensive look on your face, his confidence wavers slightly, and he mindlessly rubs his thumb over your hand to calm his own nerves. “If you’re okay with it, of course,”

Why does he have to be so cute? You give in instantly, the tension melting from your bones as, boldly, you use his grip on your hand to tug him closer. “That would be great, Nico, thank you.”

While his car, like Jonas’, is also expensive, you feel comfortable surrounded by the dark material and the scent of Nico’s cologne. The radio is playing softly, and he’s humming along quietly while strumming the fingers of his hand on the steering wheel. His other is resting on the gear shift, but you can tell by the way his hand keeps twitching that he wants to move it closer to you.

If you’ve learned anything about Nico within the weeks that you’ve been talking to him, it’s that he is huge on physical touch. He said it over text, but in person it’s even more obvious because his hands are rarely to himself when he’s next to you.

As the minutes go by, you finally give in to his body’s desire with a laugh as you reach over to tangle your hands together, now resting in your lap. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you liked touching, were you?”

Even with the darkness surrounding him, you can easily spot the maroon flush blooming across his cheeks. He briefly looks to you, unable to hide his grin before turning his attention back to the road. “No,” he laughs, gripping your hand reflexively like he’s testing out the contact. “I wasn’t.”

You’re both significantly more loose after you give in to your want for the other, and the rest of the ride is silent save for the occasional song lyrics mumbled by Nico. Almost too quickly he’s pulling into the parking lot of your apartment complex, and you’re disappointed when your hands release as you climb out of the car.

“Can I walk you to your door?”

“Sure.”

Like the car ride, the walk to your apartment is comfortably silent, and this time Nico doesn’t hesitate when taking your hand. He smiles when you shiver, but doesn’t say anything which you appreciate.

The elevator is stopping at your floor almost too soon, and you find yourself not wanting the night to end. You’re enjoying his company far too much, and you really like holding his hand. Imagining yourself doing this on a regular basis is overwhelming and definitely freaks you out a little once you come to a stop at your door.

“Here I am,” you chuckle, a little awkwardly. So… What do you do now? Thank him? Hug him? Kiss him?

You go to say something, anything… But Nico beats you to it. “Thank you for coming tonight,” he says, squeezing your hand. “I couldn’t see you from the ice, but I liked trying to pretend I could see you watching me.” He winks, then, and you don’t bother denying that yes, you were watching him the entire time.

You still try to be humble, though. “Thank you for getting me a ticket,” you say, trying to decide how forward you should be. His eyes sparkle, though, as you talk, like he can’t get enough of your voice… “All the girls were nice. Welcoming. It was fun pretending I was one of them.”

“I want you to be,” Nico blurts, almost breathless. “‘One of them’, that is. I think I like you,” he laughs like he can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

You’re unable to take your eyes off him, those dark brown of his bearing into you. The color is warm, just like Nico because he reminds you of a summer day and if he's the sun, then you’re a mere leaf desperately searching for his light.

“I think I like you too,” you admit, a little quieter, a little shy. You still don’t like being touched, but as his hands come to cup your cheeks you decide that you do like the feel of his calloused skin against yours, and then he’s dipping his head to capture your lips in a kiss you don’t know you’ve been waiting for.

You melt instantly, sighing into his mouth with relief. Nico’s kisses are long and smooth, and you’re happy to let him lead before he’s pulling back all too soon, his beard scruff leaving the skin around your lips burning pleasantly.

Fluttering eyes open, leaving you with the distinct feeling of coming up from underwater. Nico looks just as elated as you feel, gazing at you from dark brown eyes filled with adoration. His thumb runs across your bottom lip, and then he’s stepping back respectfully.

“I’ll call you when I get back to my place, yeah?” He says, and you’re glad he seems just as eager to continue talking as you are.

“Yeah, that… That works,” English has left your head, and you stumble over what to say next. Nico has left you speechless, literally. “Drive safe.”

He flashes you a blinding smile, and then disappears back into the elevator.

“Oh fuck,” you say to the emptiness of the corridor. “Fuck. I’m so fucked.”

Nico calls you when he gets home, just like he said he would. He also calls you the day after that and the day after that, and when he can’t call because of a game or practice or whatever, he’s texting you.

You’re swept up in the world of Nico Hischier; his friends have become your (albeit, surface) friends, Natalie has taken you under her wing, and as the weeks go by you’re regularly attending games in the WAG section.

There’s no label on your relationship, and while you like that you’re taking this slow, there's still this desire to kiss him in front of everyone after a game won, to show the hockey world that this man, this man right here is yours.

You don’t act on it, though, as much as you may want to. You have this fear that because your appearance isn’t so conventional, that Nico would get hate for being seen with you. Everyone around you subtly hints that this fear of yours is irrational, but you know better.

As the new year comes and goes - it’s the best way you’ve spent new years in forever because Nico kisses you right as the clock strikes twelve, under the flashing lights and his cheering teammates around you - the Devils’ season continues to dominate. They’re projected to make the playoffs again, and you’re going to just about every game now to show your support.

What you don’t realize is that the fans’ scrutiny of the players only grows the closer the end of the regular season comes, and their attention also shifts to the significant others. WAG playoff jackets are apparently a thing, and you hear from Natalie how the designs for this year are already in the works.

Nico hinted one night that he wanted you to wear one by mentioning he can’t wait to see you when they’re in the playoffs. You gave him a slight look of suspicion because he said it in a way like he’s anticipating something, but he only shrugged cheekily when you tried prying.

Everything comes to an ugly head, though, when you discover hockey Twitter. You’ve obviously known of the app, but you only download it when you hear how the hockey coverage is extensive and you decide you want to keep up with all NHL news more easily.

That’s when you stumble across a term called ‘puck bunnies’, and how there are accounts dedicated to the players’ dating lives with information as trivial as who they’re being spotted with.

Anxiety takes control one night when you’re scrolling through a gossip page, and you succumb to the urge to search Nico’s name. To your horror, there are posts mentioning how a new person (you) has joined the WAG’s at games, and fans have spotted him leaving with this new person consistently.

You can’t find anything mentioning your identity, but you do find criticisms of your appearance. A lot of them. And, really, you knew this was going to happen, it was just a matter of when. The thought doesn’t comfort you, though, as your stomach drops when past girlfriends of Nico are brought up.

They’re all blondes, the occasional brunette, too. Of course they are. You figure anyways that part of the reason you were so intriguing to him to begin with is because you’re so unlike anyone he’s ever dated before. It still doesn’t make you feel better.

You have unconventional piercings, tattoos and quite a lot of them, and you don’t have the money to splurge on expensive clothing like these models do. A word a lot of these hateful posts use is ‘downgrade’, and your insecurities start to agree.

Why does Nico even like you? What do you have that these other girls don’t? From the looks of it, you’re the first of, well, you that he’s ever dated.

You hate it. You hate all of it. Twitter, stupid puck bunnies (how demeaning, too?), your incredibly strong feelings for Nico, and the thought that you aren’t good enough for him.

Now, what you should be doing is calling him. Hell, even Natalie. You know you need to talk to someone about what you’ve found, get some reassurance that the online gossip is purely just that: gossip.

But, well, you’ve never been reasonable. Anxiety and overthinking has ruled your life since you could talk. Instead, you stay silent, stew in your self-loathing and scroll through more of the disgusting Twitter thread.

You let these strangers’ words get to you, their biting insults swimming around in the back of your mind over the next few days all while everyone else is none the wiser.

Especially Nico, who thinks everything is fine until it isn’t. He’s busy with the team, leading with a grace only a captain could possess, and playing his heart out every game to ensure their spot in the postseason. He thinks your distance is because you know how busy he is and simply just don’t want to bother him.

Which, he appreciates you respecting his career, but your shortened responses, curt replies, and frequent denials to come to his games start to signal warning sirens in his head. You aren’t an open book by any means, but this… Nico finds it startling. He knows something is wrong.

So he pries. He texts you more than normal, during video reviews where he’s supposed to be paying attention to replays and right after practices, too. One could say he’s being overbearing, and in the midst of all your self-loathing and depressive overthinking, you snap.

Nico had kept texting you, over and over again, asking for your schedule over the next few days along with continuously asking about when you could see him next. Your fingers moved faster than you could think, and then you pressed send on a message you keep telling yourself you don’t regret.

I just don’t have time, Nico, jesus. Let it go.

The read receipt had appeared under the message less than a minute later, and not another text came through. You’d most definitely had a slight mental breakdown, wanted to call him and apologize and kiss away the frown you’re sure is marring his beautiful lips, but you try convincing yourself it’s for the best.

You don’t deserve all the good that Nico Hischier brings into your life. He’s far too good for you—everyone else seems to think so, too.

And so, that’s that. Nico doesn’t text you anymore and you certainly don’t text him. You’d burned that bridge with no hesitation, and any sparks that were growing between you are certainly extinguished now. This is what you tell yourself, anyways, even as you still can’t stop yourself from tuning into the Devils games over the next few days.

You throw yourself into your work, even more than before. You switch around scheduling for different clients, place multiple sessions right after the other so the buzz of your tattoo gun is too loud for you to think of anything else.

It works, for a time. But you can only do it for so long, and it doesn’t stop you from watching recaps of Nico nor does it keep you from noticing how off-kilter he seems. You’ve come to realize that whenever the captain is off, so is the rest of the team, and the Devils go on a losing streak over the next two weeks that kills you almost as much as you’re sure it’s killing them.

You still don’t contact him, though. You keep your distance, avoid the bars you know they frequent and dodge Natalie’s attempts at meeting up, too. You’re sure she knows you and Nico aren’t talking, either because of how badly he’s playing or because Jonas told her, and you don’t want to give her an opportunity to pry.

And Nico, well. He’s very obviously a mess. He’s snappy, overwhelmed, angry at the littlest things; he broke his stick against the wall during one practice because Jack had passed him a puck, but Nico botched the play just like everything else in his life, apparently.

A perk about being the captain is that none of his teammates have the guts to come up to him to bluntly ask him what’s wrong. On the other hand, his teammates follow his lead to a T, which means that as a result of his foul mood and horrible playing, their spot in the standings has noticeably suffered.

You don’t leave his head, not when he’s in the middle of a game or lying wide awake in his bed until the early hours of the morning. Many times he contemplates breaking the barrier you’d put between the two of you, to ask what he did and if there’s anything he can do to fix it. Nico thinks it’s his fault, that maybe he came off as too clingy…

He knows of your past, knows you’re so wary to jump into relationships for a reason, and figures he just did something to scare you back into seclusion.

The abrupt silence between the two of you builds, and Nico is so frustrated with himself and with you that when they play a division rival, the Philadelphia Flyers, his pent-up aggravation is released and he plays the best hockey he’s probably ever played before in his life.

Nico has never done drugs, but he’s positive the adrenaline pumping through his veins is similar to the rush of dopamine one would feel right after. He’s high off the elation of winning, and it gives him the courage to finally do something about the mounting irritation from his lack of contact with you.

He leaves the rock as soon as he’s able, breaks a few traffic laws in his haste to get to your shop as quickly as possible. It’s a long shot, showing up this late at night on a Friday, but he knows your habits and he knows you.

As he swerves into a parking spot, his gut tells him he’s right. You’re here. You have to be.

Unfortunately for you, Nico is right. You are, in fact, holed up alone in your shop, postponing the lonely ride to your lonely apartment in place of searching for something to do.

You watched the Devils game in the midst of distracting yourself, because of course you did. You saw how the players’ growing frustration led to pure determination that ultimately secured them the win.

You’re proud of them. Proud of Nico. You want to text him, do something, but… then there’s rapid knocking on the doors, and you’re peeking around the corner to catch a glimpse of the likely drunkard trying to break in.

You’re about to just wave them off, gesture towards the sign hanging on the window you know is switched to close, but the man outside speaks and you’re frozen.

“Please, baby, let me in,” the voice is laced with pure desperation, and oh, now you can see him as clear as day. He mouths your name through the glass, and you don’t have the strength to send him away.

You reluctantly unlock the door, shying away from his touch when he tentatively puts a hand on your arm. Nico is having none of it, though, and quickly grabs your hand to tug you back towards him. He’s had enough of your silence, isn’t going to let you walk away so easily this time.

When you don’t meet his eyes, he lets out a heavy breath, squeezes your hand once, then, “What the fuck is going on?” and you’re still silent, still avoidant, refusing to look up at his face. He says your name, voice anguished as he begs again, “Talk to me, please?”

You dodge his questions. “Why are you here, Nico?”

Nico reads your body language, watches as you refuse to meet his eyes and finally break away from his touch. He realizes he still affects you, and that you pushing him away is purely because you’re in your own head and don’t know how to get out of it

“Did you see my game?” Nico eventually asks, realizing he has to approach this gently, like you’re a wounded animal and in a sense, you are.

You did, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. (He knows, anyway). So you just shrug, pretending to fiddle with the random shit on your desk.

“So that’s a yes,” Nico mutters to himself. Then, he speaks up, louder, so he knows you hear him. “I scored a goal tonight.” he pauses, waits for your reaction.

You look up then, only for a moment, squinting your eyes in what looks to be a glare. “Congratulations.”

The way you look at him screams paranoid, insecure, and suddenly Nico is hit with the memory of a conversation he had with a fan a few days ago. She was young, in her early teens and certainly not out of highschool so he didn’t take her gossip too seriously, but…

“You guys are so cute!” he remembers her squealing, shoving her phone in his face. It was a blurry picture of the two of you holding hands walking out of the arena, that much he remembers. “Everyone’s hating on them online but they’re all just jealous you’re taken now.”

Nico had been signing her jersey when she said that. He raised an eyebrow, was tuning her out slightly. “Hating? On Twitter? Shocking,” he had laughed. “Does anyone take them seriously?”

The girl - whose name he now doesn’t remember - had shrugged. “A few obsessed people, yeah. Don’t go on Twitter if you want to keep your sanity. I’d tell your… friend that, too.”

Except he didn’t. Her words went through one ear and right out the other, and it’s like a halo of light just lit up his head because oh, Nico understands now, and he feels his stomach dropping over the thought that you’ve been living with this for weeks now.

Nico scoffs at your sass but it sounds more like a laugh. He knows what to do, now. “Signed a few fans’ jerseys after the game, and then I remembered an interesting conversation with this one girl a few games back. It was really enlightening. Wanna know what she said?”

You know what’s coming. You’ve already seen what people say about your rumored relationship with Nico, and you think he’s just telling you this to definitively end whatever you started with each other.

Words escape you, but what does manage to come out is a choked up, “Not really”, under your breath.

“She said people talked about us online. Were saying a bunch of bullshit about how you ‘aren’t my type’ and that I’m too good for you. Can you believe that?”

Nico takes a few cautious steps towards you, leans over your desk to gauge your reaction. He sees the light sheen in your eyes, the way your hands tremble as you attempt to look like you aren’t hanging on to his every word.

But Nico sees right through you. He understands immediately, in that moment, why you’re pushing him away, and it breaks his heart into a million pieces.

“Oh, baby,” he coos, softly. “You didn’t think I agreed with them, did you?”

You try to respond, but you cut yourself off by letting out a sob as the overwhelming emotions catch up to you.

Nico immediately rounds the desk, his own eyes tearing up as he wraps his muscular arms around your body in a protective hug. You’re shaking as you bury your head into his neck, spurting apology after apology.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”

“I know,” he shushes, one hand running through your hair while the other rubs soothing circles on your back. “I know. It’s okay,”

“Why don’t you hate me? You should hate me,”

“I could never hate you.”

You don’t let go of Nico, not even as he slides down the wall with you in his arms. It’s behind your desk, so you’re hidden from view. The thought that he did this on purpose so you can break down in peace only makes you cry harder, and yet he doesn’t falter in his comfort.

“Is this why you went silent on me?” He eventually asks, gently, so as to not startle you. “Because of… Twitter?”

You nod imperceptibly, feeling rather embarrassed now that it’s said out loud how much online gossip has bothered you. It wasn’t just because of that, though. “It’s stupid, I know—”

“No, no it’s not. Your feelings aren’t stupid.” He says immediately. “I’m sorry you found those things online. I wish you would’ve told me, or something, that way I could’ve reassured you,”

“I should have,” you say. You almost lost him, this person you care about so deeply. “You scare me so much, though, you know?”

Nico jerks, aghast. “No, no, not like that,” You reassure, unable to stop yourself from smiling. “I mean… What I feel for you scares me. Like it’s too good to be true,”

You’re nervous to continue, but then his fingers begin tracing the tattoos on your arms and you shiver because of an entirely new reason, other nerves forgotten.

“And, I don’t know. I guess I was looking for reasons to doubt… Us. Which is wrong, I know. And then I found the Twitter thread, and I let their words confirm what I was already thinking.”

One of his hands trails up the back of your neck, gently massages the skin there for a moment, and is then carefully smoothing over some of your older piercings, admiring how the jewelry looks against your skin. He’s working to calm you down, and it’s working because you then realize you've forgotten how to speak.

“Um,” you swallow, throat dry. “You’re here, though,” you finish lamely, finally meeting his eyes in awe.

“I am.” He affirms. The hand on your arm joins the other to cup your face, and then your eyes flutter shut as he presses a gentle kiss to your lips. “And I’m not going anywhere, yeah? Not unless you tell me to fuck off. ”

“Okay,” you whisper, assured and now content as his arms go back to curling you into his chest. “Okay. Sounds good.” And then a thought strikes you, like the deprivation of his life you’ve been forcing yourself to deal with has had enough. “When’s your next game?”

Nico’s face breaks out into a beautiful smile, one that takes your breath away. “There’s one at home next Thursday,” he says. “I think Natalie might hurt me if I tell her that you’re still too busy, so does this mean you’ll come?”

“Can’t have that now, can we?” you murmur, matching his grin. “But yeah, yeah, I’ll go,” and back to cool nonchalance you go, unable to take the love rushing through you.

Finally, you find the strength to lift yourself off the floor. He immediately grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together. As you stand in the middle of your shop, smiling goofily at each other, he looks nervous again, and his thumb smooths over the back of your hand reflexively.

“I’ve missed you,” Nico admits, looking down at you shyly. “Didn’t realize how much I liked having you in my life.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, genuinely upset with yourself for shutting him out. “I missed you too. A lot.”

“So we’re good now, then?” he looks anxious, like he thinks he still did something wrong. “You’ll talk to me next time?”

“We’re good. I’ll talk to you,” you swear. And you’re serious this time. It hurt you just as much as it hurt him to fall out of contact for weeks. Terrifyingly enough, you’re sure it’s because you’re falling in love with him.

You’ll hold back from saying those three words for a little while longer, though.

“So,” you say after a moment. “Catch me up? On everything I missed?”

He grins again, and you think it’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on. “Can we recap back at my place?” At the suggestive look on your face his face quickly turns red. “I just miss having you in my bed,” he mumbles, and at your laugh just starts dragging you to the door.

“Wait, wait, I need to lock up!” Nico playfully groans, squeezes your hips with a mocking “hurry up” and then you’re running out onto the busy streets of New Jersey like two reckless teenagers looking to elope.

It’s healing, freeing, and dangerous all at once because you can’t stop giggling and Nico can’t stop kissing you, and as you look at his face outlined by the red of a stoplight you think, I could fall in love with him.

You’re sure he’ll catch you when you hit the bottom, too.

A/N: I was planning on including smut but since I wrote this with a gender neutral reader not even I could make that work LMAO regardless, I hope you still enjoyed! I haven’t written a 10k+ fic in a while so I had a lot of fun with this one. As always, comments and reblogs are much appreciated <3

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His hair was dishevelled from his hands running through it, his cheeks flushed and t-shirt sporting a few beer stains, but it was a sign he had a good night, rightfully so for his birthday. But he still gazed at her like she’d hung out the moon for him, with dilated pupils, whether from the alcohol or from the love for her that coursed through her veins.

His hands settled on her hips, kneading at the flesh and using his energy to formulate a coherent sentence. “M’tired though, wanna go…go to bed.” 

“Brush your teeth, I’m gonna piss.” She giggled, patting his chest, twisting and wiggling from him, stepping towards the toilet but catching his gaze following her moves, “Quinn, stop looking and brush.”

He gave a lazy chuckle, fumbling with his toothbrush and toothpaste, her doing the same not long after before they stepped into the bedroom again, finding their designated sides. Clumsily, he pulled off his clothes and slid under the sheets, waiting for y/n before scooping her into his chest, his hand stroking along her thigh, listening to the silence between them and in the room. His eyes were heavy, yet he didn’t want to sleep just yet, not when there were so many words on the tip of his tongue that by the morning he’d forget to say. But his mind was still jumbled, fogged with alcohol and everything tangled.

“I love you; I ever tell you that?” he said with a gravel in his voice, pulling the important words out. “And you’re pretty, like, super pretty. Two years to ask you out.”

As soon as she processed the words, it felt like she’d sobered up more in an instant. How have they been together for so long and she didn’t know that. Two years to ask her out. Two years he’d been into her, and she hadn’t known, because if she had, she would’ve acted sooner too. In a way it ached her heart a bit, that Quinn couldn’t share these thoughts and truths unless drunk, but perhaps that was something they could work on together when sober, have a proper talk about it. 

She propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at his drowsy face, his weak smile. He said it as if it didn’t carry a weight to it, and something about it, to her, felt like he’d been keeping a secret the whole time. 

“What?” she asked, a soft confusion to her tone but the surprise rattled her more. “No, Quinn, what?”

“It took me two years to ask you on a date. Was so nervous, then you were seeing that guy and I was devasa- devtase- sad. Like, what was so great about him? What was wrong with me? Then you stopped seeing him, and I wanted you to be happy, so I didn’t say anything…don’t wanna be that guy, you know?” he stumbled over his words and remained his view on the ceiling, letting his feelings untangle themselves and release into the open.

So many feelings. All the feelings and the thoughts he’d been stashing away, pushing aside until they’d become a weight on his chest. But now, now that weight was lifting the more, he mindlessly confessed. He sensed her gaze on him, strong and alert, those pretty eyes wide with surprise but he didn’t look. He couldn’t look her in the eye, he couldn't even see straight anyway but Quinn always talked about these buried feelings better when looking away. It didn’t feel…pressuring, like there was any expectation to give the correct answer. 

She paused, wetting her lips and watching him. Delicately, she brushed strands of his hair away from his face, tucking them behind his ears and brushing the back of her knuckle over his stubble. 

With a weak smile and small voice, she mumbled, “Then you did ask me on a date.”

Quinn turned his head to face her, eyes finding hers and leaning into her touch, the smile of his face warming and filling her heart. His head was still muzzy, but the memories he kept dear were embedded into his memory, crystal clear to tell everybody.

“July nineteenth, two-thousand and twenty-one, in the kitchen. You came to Michigan with me. I rember- remeb- remember.” He managed to pull together the last word, it was important enough to have to try, for her, 

Oh God, for her. His y/n. The love of his life, anything for her. The big things, the little things, everything was worth trying for her. Everything was worth remembering, even at his drunkest. 

“I’m happy you did. I love you, happy birthday.” 

She leaned down and pressed her lips to his, softly, sweetly, her hand on his cheek. No words could respond to him, but actions and affection could and the giddiness in his chest felt like his heart was jumping. He’d had a lot of birthdays, but everyone where he woke up to her, heard her voice and fell asleep next to her were the best, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

[Masterlist] [Requests CLOSED]

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A little too sleepy, and a little too tipsy, Luke was only making out bits and pieces of your conversation, still going strong. Some animated debate about someone’s ex and the questionable choice of still following your situationship’s mom on Instagram. He spares a glance at the clock that hangs a little too high on the wall above the bar: 12:22 am.

Truthfully, Luke had been more than ready to go home over an hour ago now—wanting nothing more than to dive into bed with you by his side. But he wouldn’t dare interrupt. Moments like this—when you really let yourself let loose, when the rest of the world melted away—were so rare for you. 

Just when he was starting to nod off, the table burst into a fit of giggles, fueled by too many shots of Fireball to count. A lazy smile tugs on Luke’s lips at the sound of your laugh.

He can’t help himself.

Luke’s arms fully wrap around your waist, slow and deliberate, like he’s finally given in to his need to hold you. His head tucks against your shoulder, hair brushing your cheek. He smells like cedarwood and mint and something undeniably him.

You glance up at your boyfriend to give him a quick smile before turning around once more, answering a question directed towards you. He pulls back ever so slightly to hide his pout behind his beer can—the cool metal doing little to ease the burning he felt in his chest.

The last of Luke’s buddies have begun to filter out of the bar now, clapping him on the back as they pass, tossing him lazy waves and half-hearted goodbyes. One of them even whooping at the sight of Luke practically glued to your side. He barely reacts.

Instead, his eyes find the clock that hangs a little too high on the wall above the bar. 

12:43 am.

You’re animated now, laughing at something one of the girls said, your hand brushing the air mid-story, as if you were painting a picture. Luke loves the way you talk with your whole body—like the story isn’t just something you’re telling, but something you’re re-living. 

He watches as the neon light of a Corona sign bounces across your face, bathing you in lemon color and honey glow. 

He must have been burning holes into you, because you finally turn to look at him. The conversation falls into a natural lull, and you reach out to run a hand through Luke’s curly mop. He melts at your touch, finally reciprocated, leaning further into you.

“I think we’re gonna turn in for the night ladies,” you announce to the group, and suddenly Luke is wide awake.

Finally.

Leaving the bar is a blur for Luke, whiskey and Jack Daniel’s still coursing through his system. In between the See you again soon’s and lingering hugs, you and Luke eventually find yourself outside—the cool October air sending a shiver down his spine to sober him up. 

“The Uber will be here in a few minutes Lukey,” you call out from beside him, clutching at his hand to steady Luke.

“M’sorry…” he mumbles, moving closer to wrap his arms around you once more. You’re pulled flush against his chest, listening to the steady pounding of his heart.

“Sorry?” you say, though it’s muffled against him, “What’re you sorry for?”

He peers down at you, brushing hair from your face as he speaks. The wind was beginning to pick up, whipping your hair every which way.

“I made us leave, and you were having such a good time…” Luke pouts.

You can’t help but smile at his concern—at how much Luke cared, even when his words were slurred and his limbs too loose to hold up all that tenderness properly.

“You didn’t make us leave,” you say, voice soft as you lean into the warmth of him again. “You were falling asleep in there. I figured I’d save you from face-planting into the table.”

He chuckles against your forehead, arms tightening around your waist. “Would’ve been worth it if you kept laughing like that,” he mumbles, barely loud enough to catch over the wind.

You tilt your chin up, studying him—flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, the lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looks a little disheveled, curls messy from your touch earlier, shirt wrinkled from the way he kept leaning against you like he couldn’t stand up straight without touching you somehow. Still beautiful, still your Luke.

You hum, “Plus, you can barely keep your hands off me…figure I’d get you home before you started something you couldn’t finish,” you tease, your voice low, just for him.

Luke chuckles, dropping his forehead to your shoulder with an exaggerated sigh. “You make it pretty hard to be a gentleman.” he mumbles, words muffled into the fabric of your coat.

The two of you are suddenly bathed in the harsh light coming from your Uber rounding the curb, Luke wincing at the brightness. 

“My poor baby,” you tease, “Then let’s get you home, hm? Then you can hold me to your heart’s content.”

Luke lets you lead him to the car, legs heavy and a dopey smile settling on his face at the idea, “Promise?”

If you had told me a month ago that I’d be tutoring Ethan Edwards, the star forward of our college hockey team, in Shakespeare, I would have laughed in your face. Or, more realistically, I would have buried my nose deeper into my book and ignored you entirely.

I wasn’t exactly known for my social life. Most of the English department knew me as “that quiet girl” who could quote Hamlet on demand but probably couldn’t tell you the score of the last football game if her life depended on it.

So, of course, Professor Daniels chose me for this little project.

“Y/N,” she’d said last week, peering over her glasses. “Ethan Edwards needs to pass his literature class to stay eligible for hockey. He’s struggling with the Shakespeare unit. I think you’d be the perfect tutor.”

Translation: You’re responsible and introverted enough not to be distracted by his… reputation.

Ethan Edwards was practically a campus legend. He was tall, charming, and annoyingly attractive in that “I just rolled out of bed and somehow look like a magazine cover” way. Girls in the library whispered about him constantly, even when he wasn’t there.

I, on the other hand, had zero interest.

At least… I thought I had zero interest.

—

The first tutoring session was supposed to be at 5 p.m. in the library’s back study room. At 5:10, I was still alone with my carefully highlighted copy of Much Ado About Nothing.

Typical.

At 5:15, the door creaked open, and in walked Ethan Edwards — hockey bag slung over one shoulder, baseball cap on backward, a sheepish grin on his annoyingly handsome face.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, dropping his bag onto the floor with a thud. “Practice ran late.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re fifteen minutes late.”

He grinned wider, like my irritation amused him. “You timed that?”

I gestured to the clock. “It’s right there.”

He leaned back in the chair across from me, folding his arms behind his head like he owned the place. “Okay, Professor. What’s first? Do I gotta read, like, a sonnet or something?”

His tone made it sound like sonnet was a foreign word.

I slid the book toward him. “We’re starting with Much Ado About Nothing. Act One. Scene One. Benedick and Beatrice. It’s a battle of wits.”

He smirked. “Sounds like us already.”

I ignored the flutter in my stomach.

He read through the first few lines, stumbling over phrases like ‘methinks’ and ‘thou art.’

“This guy Benedick,” Ethan said, frowning at the page. “He’s kinda sarcastic, huh?”

I nodded. “Yes. He pretends not to care about love, but he’s secretly head over heels for Beatrice.”

Ethan leaned back in his chair, smirking again. “So, he’s basically me.”

I stared at him flatly. “Do you always compare yourself to fictional characters you just met?”

“Only the handsome ones.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

After twenty minutes of reading, he groaned dramatically and dropped his head onto the table.

“Y/N,” he said into the wood surface. “This is torture.”

“It’s Shakespeare,” I corrected. “Close enough,” he mumbled.

I sighed, reaching for the book. “Fine. Let’s try something else.”

I stood, walked to the whiteboard on the wall, and wrote: ‘Friendship is constant in all other things / Save in the office and affairs of love.’

“Read this line,” I said.

He squinted. “English, please?”

“It is English,” I said, suppressing a smile. “It means friendship stays steady unless love gets involved. Then things get complicated.”

Ethan looked at me for a long moment. “Huh.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Just… didn’t expect Shakespeare to be talking about real life like that. Sounds like something my buddy said after his ex dumped him.”

I bit back a laugh. “See? Shakespeare’s more relatable than you think.”

He smirked again, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe you’re just a good teacher.”

And for some reason, that one stupid compliment made my cheeks warm.

We wrapped up the session after an hour. He packed up his stuff but lingered at the door.

“So,” he said casually, “same time next week?”

I nodded. “If you actually show up on time.”

He grinned. “I’ll try. No promises.”

As he left, I told myself I was only doing this for the grade requirement, for the professor, for the tutoring hours.

But deep down, I already knew Ethan Edwards was going to be trouble.

The worst part?

A tiny, traitorous part of me didn’t mind.

—

The next Tuesday, I was at the library fifteen minutes early because apparently, I am both a tutor and a chronic overachiever.

I had Much Ado About Nothing open, highlighters lined up like little soldiers, and a stack of notes ready for Ethan. I’d even written “Benedick = sarcastic hero” in big bold letters because maybe — just maybe — simplifying things would help.

At exactly five p.m., the door swung open.

Ethan walked in, grinning like he’d just won something. “Look who’s on time.”

I glanced at the clock. “Barely.”

“Hey, I could’ve been late again,” he said, dropping into the chair across from me. “But I wasn’t. You should give me some credit.”

I handed him the book. “Read from page thirty-four. Beatrice enters here.”

He flipped the pages slowly, like they were written in hieroglyphics. “Right. Beatrice. She’s the one who roasts everyone?”

“She uses wit to keep people at arm’s length,” I explained. “She doesn’t want to get hurt, so she pretends she doesn’t care about love.”

Ethan smirked. “Sounds familiar.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not Benedick.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, grinning. “I’m charming. Handsome. Obviously intelligent.”

“You didn’t know what ‘methinks’ meant last week.”

He pointed at me like I’d proved his point. “Exactly. Character growth. That’s what makes it a good story, right?”

I stared at him, unsure whether to be impressed or irritated. Maybe both.

We started reading.

Or rather, I read. Ethan half-read, half-performed like he was auditioning for a bad soap opera.

“I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you,” I read as Beatrice.

He leaned back in his chair, clearing his throat dramatically. “What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?”

I gave him a look. “Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what?” he asked innocently.

“Like… Shakespeare was from New Jersey.”

He grinned. “Because it’s funnier that way.”

I sighed. “It’s supposed to be romantic.”

“Everything’s romantic if you try hard enough,” he said, winking.

I told myself the warmth in my cheeks was irritation. Definitely irritation.

After forty-five minutes, Ethan slumped forward, head in his hands.

“Y/N,” he groaned, “why did this guy write like this? Couldn’t he just say, ‘Hey, I like you’?”

I smiled despite myself. “Because love isn’t that simple.”

He peeked at me through his fingers. “You sound like you know from experience.”

I hesitated. “I read a lot.”

“Reading’s not the same thing,” he said softly.

Something about the way he said it made my stomach flip, so I quickly changed the subject.

“Let’s take a break,” I suggested. “We can go over Benedick’s monologue after.”

He leaned back, arms behind his head. “Fine by me. What do tutors do on breaks? Play Uno?”

I reached into my bag and pulled out two granola bars. “We eat snacks.”

He laughed. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”

“Because I brought food?”

“Because you’re…” He tilted his head like he was studying me. “Different. Not like most people I meet.”

I opened my granola bar slowly. “You mean girls who know what iambic pentameter is?”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “Hot stuff.”

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.

We sat in comfortable silence for a minute, the kind that felt weirdly… easy.

Then he said, “So what’s your deal, Y/N?”

I looked up. “My deal?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re always here in the library. You tutor people. You read old books for fun. What’s the story?”

I shrugged. “Not much to tell.”

“Come on,” he said, leaning forward on his elbows. “There’s always a story.”

I hesitated. “I like school. I want to teach literature one day. Maybe write a book.”

He nodded thoughtfully, like this was the most interesting thing he’d heard all week.

“What about you?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He grinned. “Hockey. NHL. That’s the dream.”

“I figured,” I said.

“You sound like you don’t believe me,” he teased.

“It’s not that,” I said carefully. “It’s just… I don’t really get sports.”

He put a hand over his heart like I’d just stabbed him. “Blasphemy.”

I smiled a little. “Sorry.”

He leaned closer. “Tell you what. You keep teaching me Shakespeare, and I’ll teach you hockey.”

I snorted. “That seems… uneven.”

“Fine,” he said. “Skating lessons. I’ll teach you how not to fall on your face.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again.

Because for some reason, the idea didn’t sound terrible.

—

The next Thursday, we met again.

Ethan was actually early this time, leaning against the table when I walked in.

“Look who’s late,” he said, smirking.

I glanced at the clock. “I’m two minutes late.”

“Still counts.”

I ignored him and opened my notebook. “Today we’re working on Benedick’s soliloquy. It’s important for the exam.”

He groaned but read it anyway, stumbling over the words until I started laughing.

“Why is this funny to you?” he asked, pretending to be offended.

“Because you sound like you’re trying to order a sandwich in Shakespearean English,” I said, giggling.

He grinned. “Maybe I should. ‘Hark! Bring forth thine Italian sub!’”

I was still laughing when the librarian poked her head in to shush us.

We both tried to look serious, but the moment she left, Ethan whispered, “Totally worth it.”

As the session went on, something shifted.

He was still sarcastic and ridiculous, but he was trying harder this time. Asking real questions. Actually listening when I explained metaphors.

At one point, he read a line about love being “too young to know what conscience is” and paused.

“Kind of wild, huh?” he said softly. “Love making people do stupid stuff.”

I glanced at him. “Like what?”

He shrugged. “Like skipping practice to drive two hours just to see someone. Or getting their name tattooed on you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You have a tattoo?”

He smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

I told myself I didn’t care.

By the end of the night, we were both packing up slowly, neither of us rushing to leave.

“Hey,” he said casually, “about that skating lesson…”

I looked up. “You were serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Saturday. The rink. I’ll teach you.”

I hesitated. “I’ve never even worn skates before.”

“Perfect,” he said, grinning. “Beginner’s luck.”

I sighed, but some traitorous part of me was already curious.

“Fine,” I said. “One lesson.”

He grinned wider, like he’d just scored a goal.

And for reasons I didn’t fully understand, my heart did a weird little flip.

—

By Saturday afternoon, I was already regretting this.

The rink was buzzing with life — kids wobbling on tiny skates, teenagers racing each other, couples gliding hand-in-hand like something out of a winter romance movie.

Meanwhile, I was standing by the rental counter clutching a pair of skates like they were medieval torture devices.

Ethan spotted me instantly. Of course he did. He was impossible to miss — tall, broad-shouldered, in a Michigan hoodie and backwards cap, looking like he belonged here more than the ice itself.

“Y/N!” he called, grinning like this was the best idea he’d ever had. “You ready to conquer the ice?”

I held up the skates. “Define ‘conquer.’”

“Not falling on your face,” he said cheerfully. “Step one.”

I glanced at the rink, then at him. “This is a mistake.”

He smirked. “You’ll be fine. I’m a great teacher.”

“That’s exactly what you said about Shakespeare,” I reminded him.

“And look at you now,” he said, leading me toward the benches. “Quoting sonnets like a pro.”

I sat down reluctantly, yanking off my boots. “Sonnets don’t require balance.”

“Neither will this,” he said. “That’s what I’m here for.”

It took me five full minutes to lace up the skates. Ethan watched the whole process like it was comedy gold.

“Wow,” he said finally. “You tie your skates like you’re defusing a bomb.”

“They’re… tight,” I muttered, wiggling my toes.

He knelt down suddenly, right in front of me, and without asking, started re-lacing one of them properly.

I froze.

He was close enough that I caught the faint smell of his cologne — clean and warm, like cedar and soap. Close enough that I could see the way his hair curled slightly at the edges under his cap.

“There,” he said, giving the lace a final tug. “Now you won’t break your ankle.”

“Thanks,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound weird.

He glanced up at me with that easy grin. “Don’t mention it.”

The second my skates hit the ice, I knew I was doomed.

“Ethan,” I hissed, clutching the wall. “This is… this is unnatural.”

He laughed, gliding backward effortlessly like the laws of physics didn’t apply to him. “Relax. Bend your knees a little. Lean forward.”

“I am leaning forward,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Not like you’re about to face-plant,” he teased. “Here—”

Before I could protest, he skated up behind me, big hands wrapping gently around my elbows.

I stiffened instinctively. “What are you doing?”

“Helping,” he said. “I’m not letting you fall, promise.”

My heart did this ridiculous flip, and I told myself it was because I didn’t want to break my tailbone. Definitely not because of the way he was so close I could feel the warmth of him even through my coat.

“Okay,” he said softly, steering me away from the wall. “Little steps. Like you’re marching.”

I shuffled awkwardly, clinging to his arms like my life depended on it.

He was laughing. I could hear the smile in his voice. “You look terrified.”

“Because I am terrified,” I snapped.

“You’re fine,” he said calmly. “I’ve got you.”

And for some reason… I believed him.

After a few wobbly laps with him holding my elbows, I finally let go.

For about five seconds, I was skating by myself.

Then my left foot betrayed me, and I yelped, windmilling my arms.

Ethan caught me instantly, big hands steadying my waist as I slammed into his chest.

“Whoa,” he said, laughing. “Easy there, Bambi.”

I was pressed against him, breathless, heart pounding way too fast for someone who’d moved maybe three feet.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, stepping back quickly.

“Don’t be,” he said casually. “I said I wouldn’t let you fall.”

He was still holding onto me lightly, fingertips brushing my sides like he hadn’t decided whether to let go yet.

And honestly… I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.

We kept going.

He taught me how to glide without tripping over myself, how to stop without crashing into the wall, and how to turn without looking like a malfunctioning robot.

At one point, he skated backward in front of me, grinning like a show-off.

“See? It’s not so bad,” he said.

I glared at him. “You’ve been skating since you were what, three?”

“Two,” he said smugly. “Prodigy.”

I tried to elbow him and nearly fell again. He caught me — again — steadying me by the waist.

His hands lingered just a fraction too long this time.

“You’re doing better,” he said softly.

Something in his voice made my pulse jump.

I forced a laugh. “That’s… debatable.”

Eventually, we ended up at the center of the rink, both of us standing still, catching our breath.

My cheeks were flushed from the cold — or maybe not just the cold — and his grin had softened into something almost… warm.

“You’re a decent teacher,” I admitted reluctantly.

He raised an eyebrow. “Decent?”

“Passable,” I said, fighting a smile.

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to make my stomach flip. “So, what’s my reward for teaching you?”

I blinked. “Reward?”

“Yeah,” he said casually. “Hockey players like rewards. We’re simple creatures.”

I crossed my arms. “Like what, a gold star?”

He smirked. “I was thinking dinner.”

I stared at him. “Dinner?”

“Or coffee,” he said quickly. “Whatever counts as a date in your book.”

Date.

The word hung between us like a challenge.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again because what was I supposed to say?

This was Ethan Edwards — hockey star, campus legend, the guy half the school drooled over.

And he was asking me.

Me.

Before I could answer, a group of kids barreled past, breaking the moment.

Ethan grinned like nothing had happened. “Think about it,” he said lightly, skating backward a few feet.

I just stood there, heart hammering, unsure whether to yell at him or… say yes.

We skated for another half hour before collapsing onto the bench to untie our skates.

“My feet hurt,” I groaned.

“You’ll survive,” he said, tugging at his laces.

“You’re bossy, you know that?” I muttered.

He smirked. “Comes with being a teacher.”

I glanced at him sideways. “You’re not bad at it.”

He grinned. “So you do think I’m a good teacher.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He leaned back, stretching his arms along the bench. “Too late.”

As we walked out of the rink, the late-afternoon sun casting long shadows across the parking lot, Ethan glanced at me casually.

“So,” he said, “coffee sometime?”

I hesitated.

“It’s not a big deal,” he added quickly. “Just… coffee. Two people talking. No Shakespeare required.”

I looked at him for a long moment.

And for reasons I didn’t fully understand, I finally said, “Maybe.”

His grin was instant — and way too smug.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

—

The next tutoring session was on a Wednesday night. The library was quiet, the kind of quiet where every page turn echoes and you can hear the hum of the vending machine down the hall.

Ethan was… late. Again.

I was halfway through highlighting Benedick’s final soliloquy when the door banged open and he strolled in, all easy charm and crooked smile.

“Sorry,” he said, dropping his bag with a thud. “Coach kept us after practice.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t leave,” I muttered, flipping a page.

“You wouldn’t leave,” he said, plopping into the chair across from me. “You like me too much.”

I gave him a flat look. “You’re delusional.”

He grinned like he’d won something.

We read for a while, the usual banter flowing as easily as ever. But somewhere between Beatrice’s sarcasm and Benedick’s love confession, the conversation shifted.

“Do you ever think about, like… after this?” Ethan asked suddenly, leaning back in his chair.

I looked up. “After college?”

“Yeah.” He twirled his pencil absently. “After hockey. After school. What comes next.”

I hesitated. “I mean… I want to teach literature. Maybe write a novel someday. Something people actually want to read.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “You’d be good at that.”

I blinked. “You’ve known me for, like, three weeks.”

“Yeah,” he said simply. “But I can tell.”

I felt my face heat.

“What about you?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He shrugged. “NHL’s the dream. Playing for real. Not just college games.”

“And after that?”

He hesitated. “Haven’t thought that far. I just… want to make it first, you know?”

I nodded. Because even though I didn’t get the whole sports obsession, I understood wanting something big.

We packed up around ten. As we walked out of the library, the night air cool around us, Ethan glanced sideways at me.

“Hey,” he said casually, “there’s this party Friday night. Big one. You should come.”

I froze. “A… party?”

“Yeah. Real college experience,” he said with a grin. “Music. Drinks. People making bad decisions.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re really selling it.”

He laughed. “Come on. It’ll be fun. You can’t study every weekend.”

I hesitated. Because parties were not my thing. At all. But something in his expression — hopeful, almost — made me finally sigh.

“Fine,” I said. “One party.”

His grin was instant. “Knew you’d say yes.”

—

Friday night was… loud.

The house was already packed when I got there — music thumping through the walls, red cups littering the porch, laughter and shouting spilling out into the yard.

I tugged at the hem of my sweater, feeling instantly out of place among the crowd of girls in glittery tops and guys in backwards caps.

And then I spotted Ethan across the room.

He was leaning against the kitchen counter, talking to a couple of teammates, looking effortlessly at home in all the chaos.

When he saw me, his face lit up in a way that made my stomach do a weird little flip.

“Y/N!” he called, weaving through the crowd toward me. “You made it.”

“Barely,” I said. “This place is… loud.”

He grinned. “You’ll survive.”

He introduced me to a few people — teammates whose names I instantly forgot, girls who gave me curious looks like they couldn’t quite figure out why I was there.

Ethan handed me a soda instead of a beer without asking, like he somehow knew I wasn’t a drinker.

“Thanks,” I said, surprised.

He just shrugged. “Figured you’d want the non-chaotic option.”

Things were… fine. For about twenty minutes.

And then he showed up.

Some guy I didn’t know — tall, dark hair, the kind of too-slick smile that set off instant warning bells — wandered over while Ethan was talking to someone across the room.

“Hey,” the guy said, leaning way too close. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Yeah,” I said, taking a step back. “I don’t really come to these things.”

He smirked. “That’s a shame. A girl like you should get out more.”

I opened my mouth to respond — probably something sarcastic — but then Ethan was suddenly there, sliding between us like a wall of hockey-player-sized irritation.

“Hey,” Ethan said flatly, one hand on the guy’s shoulder. “She’s with me.”

The guy raised his eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ethan said, voice calm but with an edge that made the other guy hold up his hands in mock surrender.

“Didn’t know, man,” he said before disappearing into the crowd.

I blinked. “What was that?”

Ethan turned to me, jaw tight. “He was hitting on you.”

I crossed my arms. “And?”

“And I didn’t like it,” he said bluntly.

I stared at him. “Why?”

He hesitated, then muttered, “Because.”

“Because?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Because you’re… you,” he said finally, like that explained anything.

I opened my mouth to argue, but he looked so ridiculously annoyed — and maybe a little jealous — that I didn’t know what to say.

“Come on,” he said finally, grabbing my hand.

I froze.

“Where are we going?” I asked as he tugged me through the crowd toward the back door.

“Outside,” he said shortly. “It’s too loud in here.”

The backyard was quieter, strung with fairy lights and dotted with a few people talking in small groups.

Ethan dropped onto the steps of the porch, running a hand through his hair.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I just… didn’t like that guy talking to you.”

I crossed my arms, trying not to smile. “Sounded a little like jealousy.”

He shot me a look. “Maybe it was.”

My heart did that stupid flip again.

We sat there for a minute, the noise of the party fading behind us.

Finally, I said softly, “You know, you can’t scare off every guy who talks to me.”

“Don’t want to,” he said instantly. Then, quieter: “Just the ones who aren’t good enough for you.”

I blinked. “And who decides that?”

He met my eyes. “Me.”

Something in his voice — serious, almost possessive — made my breath catch.

Before I could respond, someone inside cranked the music even louder, laughter spilling out the door, breaking the moment.

Ethan sighed, standing. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

I hesitated. “I can walk myself—”

“Not at night,” he said firmly. “I’m walking you.”

And there was something in his tone that made me let him.

—

The walk back to my apartment was quiet. Not awkward-quiet — more like… charged.

When we reached my door, I turned to him. “Thanks. For, you know… stepping in.”

He nodded, hands shoved in his pockets. “Anytime.”

For a moment, we just stood there, the air between us feeling heavier than it had any right to.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said finally, voice low.

“Goodnight,” I said softly.

And as he walked away, I wondered when, exactly, this whole thing had started to feel like more than tutoring sessions and skating lessons.

—

The week of finals and the championship game was pure chaos.

Everywhere I went, people were buzzing — about exams, about the team’s chance to take the state title, about how Ethan Edwards was about to either become a legend or crash spectacularly under the pressure.

Me? I was mostly just trying not to fail my British Literature final.

Okay, and maybe I was also trying not to think about how jealous Ethan had looked at that party. Or how my heart had done that ridiculous flutter thing when he walked me home afterward.

It didn’t mean anything. Probably.

—

The night before my exam, Ethan showed up to our tutoring session looking like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Hey,” I said, eyeing the dark circles under his eyes. “You okay?”

He dropped into the chair with a groan. “Coach is running us into the ground. Practice, film, weights… I’m dead.”

I handed him a stack of flashcards. “Then let’s make sure you don’t flunk this final on top of everything else.”

He groaned louder but took the cards.

We studied for an hour. Somewhere between Macbeth quotes and the difference between iambic pentameter and blank verse, Ethan leaned back and said,

“Do you ever feel like… your whole life comes down to one week?”

I blinked. “That’s dramatic.”

“I’m serious,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “If we win Saturday, scouts start paying attention. If I bomb… it’s over.”

I frowned. “It’s one game, Ethan. That doesn’t erase everything you’ve done so far.”

“Feels like it, though,” he muttered.

I hesitated, then said softly, “You know… even if hockey ended tomorrow, you’d still be you. That wouldn’t change.”

He looked at me then, eyes unreadable. “Yeah? And who exactly am I?”

I shrugged, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Annoying. Cocky. Terrible at Shakespeare.”

He smirked. “Wow. So kind.”

“But also…” I hesitated, heat creeping up my neck. “Hardworking. Funny. Not as shallow as you want people to think.”

His smirk faded into something softer. “Careful, Y/N. You almost sound like you like me.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

But my face was warm, and we both knew it.

—

The next morning was my final exam.

I got there early, nerves jangling, and ran into Ethan outside the building.

“Hey,” he said, offering me one of those crooked smiles. “You’re gonna crush this.”

I snorted. “You’re the one who needs the grade.”

“True,” he said, falling into step beside me. “But you’re the one who actually studied, so…”

He was unusually quiet as we walked in, like something was weighing on him.

“Big game tomorrow,” I said as we reached the classroom.

“Yeah.” He hesitated, then said, “You’ll come, right?”

I blinked. “To the game?”

“Yeah.” His voice was careful, like the answer mattered more than it should have.

I hesitated for half a second too long, and his jaw tightened.

“I mean… you don’t have to,” he said quickly, like he was trying to play it off.

“I’ll be there,” I said before I could overthink it.

And the way his whole face lit up made something twist in my chest.

—

The exam was… brutal. Shakespeare quotes, essay questions, analysis of sonnets — all the fun stuff.

When I turned in my paper, Ethan was still scribbling furiously. For someone who’d claimed to hate Shakespeare, he looked determined.

As we walked out afterward, he blew out a long breath.

“Okay,” he said. “That wasn’t as bad as I thought.”

“See? All the studying paid off.”

He gave me a sideways grin. “Guess I owe my brilliant tutor some kind of thank-you.”

I smirked. “I accept cash, coffee, or bookshop gift cards.”

He laughed. “Noted.”

—

Game day was insane.

The arena was packed, the noise deafening. Students in face paint and jerseys filled the stands, chanting and stomping until the whole place shook.

I found a seat near the middle, clutching my hot chocolate like it was a lifeline.

When the team skated out, the place went wild. Ethan was easy to spot — number 17, moving like he owned the ice.

I told myself I was only there to be supportive. Nothing else.

But when he glanced up into the stands during warmups, scanning the crowd until his gaze landed on me, and his mouth curved into that stupid grin — yeah. My heart didn’t get the memo.

The game was intense.

Fast. Physical. A blur of sticks and skates and the constant roar of the crowd.

Ethan was everywhere — stealing the puck, setting up plays, taking hits that made me wince.

By the third period, the score was tied. Two minutes left. The whole arena was on its feet.

And then it happened.

Ethan stole the puck, weaved past two defenders, and fired a shot that slammed into the back of the net with a satisfying clang.

The place exploded.

Students were screaming, the band was playing, his teammates mobbed him on the ice — and Ethan just threw his arms up like he’d known all along he was going to win the whole thing.

After the game, the team was swarmed by reporters, fans, people shoving microphones in faces.

I hung back near the edge of the chaos, unsure if I should even stay.

And then Ethan spotted me.

He broke away from the cameras, still grinning, and jogged over.

“You saw that, right?” he said, practically bouncing with adrenaline.

“Hard to miss,” I said dryly, but I was smiling.

He laughed, running a hand through his messy hair. “We’re going to nationals. Can you believe that?”

“I can,” I said softly. “You were amazing.”

Something in his expression shifted at that, the grin fading into something warmer.

“Come to the team party,” he said suddenly. “Celebrate with us.”

I hesitated. “Ethan, I don’t—”

“Please?” His voice was earnest, hopeful in a way that made it hard to say no.

I sighed. “Fine. For a little while.”

—

The party after the game was even louder than the last one.

Music thumped, people cheered every time someone yelled “CHAMPIONS,” and Ethan was the center of it all.

But every few minutes, his gaze flicked toward me across the room, like he was checking to make sure I was still there.

At one point, I slipped outside for some air, the noise inside rattling my skull.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open behind me.

“Thought I’d find you out here,” Ethan said, leaning against the railing.

“Too loud in there,” I admitted.

He nodded, watching me for a long moment. “You really came. To the game. To this.”

“Of course I came,” I said, frowning. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He hesitated, then said quietly, “Because I wasn’t sure it mattered to you.”

I blinked. “Ethan—”

“It matters to me,” he said, voice low. “That you’re here.”

The way he said it — like it was the only thing in the world he was certain about — made my heart stumble in my chest.

We stood there, the noise of the party fading behind us, the night air cool around us.

Neither of us spoke for a long moment.

And then Ethan said softly, almost like he couldn’t help it, “I don’t want tonight to end.”

I swallowed hard. Because suddenly, neither did I.

—

The championship win was still buzzing through the arena, the air electric with excitement, when I found myself standing at the edge of the ice, clutching my jacket like a lifeline.

Ethan Edwards was everywhere at once — shaking hands, high-fiving teammates, giving post-game interviews — and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He’d been unstoppable tonight, weaving through defenders like they didn’t exist, scoring the final goal that clinched the championship, and yet… he looked over at me constantly.

I tried to tell myself it was just the adrenaline. That he was probably just looking for someone to hand him a towel.

But I knew better.

The locker room was chaos. Hockey sticks leaned against walls, bags littered the floor, and guys were shouting, laughing, celebrating. I lingered by the doorway, unsure if I should even go in.

And then Ethan appeared, sweat glistening on his forehead, hair mussed, jersey hanging loose. He was grinning like a kid who’d just won the biggest game of his life.

“Y/N!” he called, waving me over. “Come here!”

I hesitated, then stepped into the locker room. The smell of sweat and leather was overwhelming, but seeing him up close — triumphant, alive, radiant — made my knees weak.

“You were amazing out there,” I said, voice barely above the din.

He laughed, brushing his hair back with a forearm. “Thanks. But the real MVP tonight… you.”

I blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer. “You believed in me. You came to the game, sat through all the noise, and probably scared a few people away just by glaring at them.”

I felt heat rush to my cheeks. “I’m not a scary person.”

He smirked. “Try telling that to the guy at the party last week.”

I shook my head, laughing. “I think you overreacted.”

“Did I?” he said softly, stepping closer until I could feel his warmth radiating. “Because I wasn’t just protecting you… I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else looking at you like that.”

My heart skipped a beat.

There was a long pause, the kind that made the air between us thick and heavy.

Then, Ethan reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He tapped a few times and handed it to me.

“What’s this?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he took my hand and led me toward the front of the arena, where the jumbotron loomed large above the ice.

The screen flickered, and then my name appeared in huge letters, flashing across the arena:

“Y/N, want to go on a real date?”

I froze, staring at the words, my mouth dry, my heart hammering like it might burst from my chest.

The crowd started cheering — thousands of people, some who didn’t know me at all, all caught up in the moment — and all I could do was stare at Ethan.

His grin was wide, vulnerable, completely unlike the cocky smirk I’d gotten used to.

“You… you did that?” I asked, voice trembling.

He shrugged, pretending to be casual, though his eyes betrayed him. “Yeah. Figured it was time to stop playing it safe.”

I wanted to say something clever, witty, sarcastic — anything to mask the ridiculous flutter in my stomach.

But I couldn’t.

Instead, I let out a soft laugh and shook my head. “You’re insane.”

“And you love it,” he shot back immediately, stepping closer, his hand brushing against mine.

I opened my mouth, then closed it. Because yes, I did love it. More than I expected.

He leaned in slowly, giving me every chance to pull away. My pulse raced, every nerve in my body alive, as his hand came up to cup my cheek.

“Y/N,” he murmured, voice low, just for me. “I’ve wanted this… wanted you… for weeks.”

I swallowed hard, unable to form words.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispered. “Just… let me.”

And then his lips were on mine.

It wasn’t like in the movies. It was better. Soft, tentative at first, then deepening, urgent, as though all the tension, teasing, and late-night library sessions had built into this one perfect moment.

I pressed closer to him, my hands sliding around his neck, pulling him in. The world fell away — the crowd, the noise, the lights — and it was just us.

When we finally pulled back, breathless, he rested his forehead against mine.

“You’re real,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” I whispered back, heart still racing.

He grinned, one hand still on my cheek. “So… dinner? Coffee? Maybe something a little fancier than the library?”

I laughed, nodding. “I think I can manage something fancier.”

He kissed me again, quick, teasing, and whispered against my lips, “Good. Because I’ve got plans.”

The crowd around us was still cheering, but we didn’t care.

We left the ice, walking side by side, fingers brushing, both of us glowing from adrenaline and that first, perfect kiss.

Later that night, after everyone had gone home, Ethan and I were sprawled on the couch in his apartment, the kind of comfortable, intimate silence that comes after fireworks.

“I can’t believe you did that,” I murmured, still feeling the tingling warmth of the jumbotron moment.

He smirked, draping an arm around me. “Told you. I’m insane. But I’m also persistent.”

I nudged him playfully. “Persistent is one word. Crazy is another.”

“Crazy works too,” he said, laughing softly, then his tone softened. “But only for you.”

I rested my head against his shoulder, feeling that dizzy, heady mixture of relief, joy, and something dangerously close to love.

“Do you… do you think this is real?” I asked quietly.

He kissed the top of my head. “It’s as real as it gets, Y/N. And I don’t plan on letting it go.”

And in that moment, I knew I felt the same. The chemistry, the teasing, the late-night study sessions, the skating lessons — it had all led to this.

My hand found his, fingers intertwining, and I realized I had never been more certain of anything in my life.

“Then… let’s see where this goes,” I whispered.

He pulled me in for another long, slow kiss. “Oh, we will,” he murmured against my lips. “We definitely will.”

The championship trophy gleamed in the corner, but it didn’t compare to the spark between us.

And as we sat there, wrapped up in each other, the world outside — the noise, the crowds, the exams, the hockey games — all of it faded.

Because we had each other.