mrsfromthechouch

‎ #mrsfromthecouch . . . ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

she/her

Hi! I post stuff I like. You might like it too. I know a lot about things that don’t matter.

I don’t use AI to write my work.

The specific section that was pointed out was actually written by me, and it was bolded because I was proud of it and wanted keep readers intrigued. That’s all.

The only thing I occasionally use AI for is proofreading or checking spelling consistency. I’m Australian, and sometimes I naturally switch between Australian and American spelling without noticing. Since a lot of my stories are set in the US and most of my readers are used to American spelling, I’ll sometimes use tools to help catch those differences before I post.

But the writing itself, the ideas, dialogue, scenes, characterization, and storytelling is mine.

I’m not angry at anyone, but I will admit it was a little upsetting to see my work dismissed as AI generated when I put a lot of time, effort, and care into it.

You absolutely don’t have to like my writing, and constructive criticism is always fair, but please don’t make assumptions about how my work is created.

pairing: Mat Barzal x actress!fem!reader 

warnings: fake dating, PR stunt, slow burn, first kiss, sexual tension, alcohol, emotional chaos, Mat Barzal being everyone’s problem

summary: he said “wear my jersey so i know it’s you” and she showed up at his hotel room with champagne like that wasn’t an invitation for disaster. 

anyway here’s 2k words of emotional incompetence, PR violations, and the first kiss they absolutely should not have had

Taglist: @ashloveshockey

Read more: Masterlist / Series Masterlist 

Previously: Damage Assessment

Your phone buzzes before you’ve even finished your coffee.

Mat: u alive

You stare at it for a second, thumb hovering.

Then:

You: unfortunately yes

Mat: wow Mat: harsh

You almost smile.

Almost.

Before you can respond again, another notification cuts through.

A new message thread. Not him.

Mara.

Crisis Communications Manager.

Which, honestly, still feels like a sentence you should not have to say about your life.

Mara: good news. we secured a brand alignment shoot.

Mara: editorial feature + controlled interview. high-end fashion house. very clean image reset for you.

Mara: Mat Barzal is confirmed.

Mara: this is very positive for the narrative.

You blink at the screen.

Slowly.

Then glance back at Mat’s text.

You: define “controlled”

Mara: scripted questions. curated visuals. nothing spontaneous.

Mara: PR will be on-site.

Nothing spontaneous.

You let out a quiet laugh that doesn’t actually sound amused.

Because of course.

Because obviously.

Because nothing about Mat Barzal has been “nothing spontaneous” since the moment he looked at you like you were something he couldn’t quite decide to behave around.

Your thumbs move before you overthink it.

You: so basically a photoshoot where we pretend to be in love

Mara: professionally speaking, yes.

Mara: do not phrase it like that in front of press.

A pause.

Then Mat again.

Mat: what’s “controlled narrative” mean

You stare at his message for a second.

Then the irony of it all hits you so hard you almost laugh out loud.

Because if anyone in your life needed “control,” it was absolutely not him.

You type back.

You: it means behave

Mat: no promises

You exhale slowly, setting your phone down.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, Mara’s voice echoes again:

clean image reset.

You glance at your reflection in the window.

At the version of yourself the world has decided to rebuild.

And then, almost against your will, you pick your phone back up.

You: we’ve got a shoot today

You: brand deal. photos. interview.

You: try not to embarrass me professionally

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Mat doesn’t make you wait.

Mat: no guarantees

Mat: but i’ll look pretty

You stare at that last message for a beat too long.

Then:

You: that’s unfortunately part of the problem

And against your better judgment,

You smile.

Just a little.

Before the day even starts to misbehave.

—

The studio is somehow worse than the hockey game.

At least at the arena there had been distance.

Glass.

Crowds.

Noise.

Here, everything feels close.

Too close.

“Perfect,” the photographer says immediately when you and Mat step onto the set together. “Oh, you two are disgustingly good-looking. This is gonna be easy.”

You nearly walk directly back out.

Mat laughs beside you.

“Good start.”

The studio itself is bright, all soft white backdrops and giant lights that make the entire room feel overheated. Stylists move around with steaming irons and makeup palettes while producers whisper near monitors already discussing social engagement like your lives are a military operation.

You’re trying very hard not to look directly at Mat.

Unfortunately, Mat exists directly beside you.

Which makes that difficult.

Very difficult.

Especially because he showed up wearing dark slacks and a black sweater pushed up to his forearms, hair slightly messy like he’d run his hands through it on the drive over.

Which feels targeted somehow.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

Your eyes flick toward him.

Big mistake.

Because now you’re remembering: the tunnel his hand on your waist the almost kiss the way he looked at your mouth before getting interrupted

Catastrophic.

“Totally,” you lie.

“That’s a lie.”

“You seem weirdly confident about that.”

“You get this thing right here,” he says, pointing vaguely toward your face.

“What thing?”

“This thing.”

“That clears it up completely, thank you.”

His mouth twitches.

And annoyingly, immediately, you relax.

“Okay!” the photographer claps loudly. “Let’s start simple.”

Simple.

Right.

Sure.

Five minutes later, Mat’s hand is on your waist while a stylist fixes your hair and you’re pretty sure your nervous system is beginning to short-circuit permanently.

“Closer,” the photographer says.

Mat’s hand tightens slightly.

You inhale sharply before you can stop yourself.

His thumb moves once against your side.

Tiny.

Absentminded.

Deadly.

“Perfect,” the photographer says immediately. “That tension right there? Gorgeous.”

Your soul leaves your body.

Mat coughs beside you like he’s trying not to laugh.

“You think this is funny?” you murmur under your breath.

“A little.”

“You’re evil.”

“Probably.”

The photographer circles around you both excitedly.

“Okay, now look at each other.”

Absolutely not.

Unfortunately, you do it anyway.

And there it is again.

That horrible, magnetic thing between you.

You don’t know when it started feeling less like pretending and more like standing too close to the edge of something.

But suddenly it does.

Mat’s eyes flick down briefly.

Your mouth.

Then back up.

Your stomach flips hard.

“Nice,” the photographer says. “Don’t move.”

You immediately move.

Mat laughs quietly beside you while you step back.

“I need everyone here to be less observant,” you mutter.

“Oh, sweetheart,” your stylist says from somewhere behind the monitors, “that ship sailed at the hockey game.”

Fantastic.

The next setup is somehow worse.

A couch.

You know.

For legal reasons.

To destroy you specifically.

“Sit,” the photographer says.

You sit carefully on one end.

Mat drops down beside you a second later, one arm stretching across the back of the couch behind you.

Too close.

Way too close.

“Relax,” he says quietly without looking at you.

“You saying that is starting to become threatening.”

His grin flashes quickly.

The photographer lifts the camera again.

“Okay, Mat, pull her in a little.”

You expect him to hesitate.

He doesn’t.

His hand settles against your waist easily, guiding you closer until your thigh presses against his.

And because the universe enjoys watching you suffer, his hand lands directly against bare skin where your shirt had ridden up slightly.

The contact burns instantly.

Both of you freeze.

Not visibly.

Just enough.

Enough that you feel it.

Enough that he feels it too.

His eyes cut toward yours immediately.

The photographer practically loses his mind.

“YES,” he shouts. “That. Stay exactly like that.”

You physically cannot breathe normally anymore.

Mat’s fingers flex once against your skin.

Tiny movement.

Massive consequences.

“You okay?” he murmurs quietly.

No.

Absolutely not.

“Peachy,” you whisper back.

His mouth twitches again.

God.

You’re starting to hate his mouth.

The interview somehow goes even worse.

Because apparently the producers decided what America really needs is a “couples compatibility segment.”

Which would almost be funny if it wasn’t actively ruining your life.

“Who’s more stubborn?” the interviewer asks brightly.

You and Mat point at each other instantly.

The crew bursts out laughing.

“Wow,” the interviewer says. “No hesitation there.”

“She’s terrifying,” Mat says easily.

You stare at him.

“You literally body-check grown men for a living.”

“Professionally.”

“Oh, my mistake.”

The interviewer grins.

“Who apologizes first after arguments?”

“He does,” you say immediately.

Mat looks genuinely offended.

“I absolutely do not.”

“You absolutely would.”

“You’ve known me for like two weeks.”

“And yet I’m correct.”

He stares at you for a second before laughing softly under his breath.

The crew collectively melts.

You can literally feel it happening.

“Oh my God,” one of the producers whispers near the monitors. “They’re insane together.”

Your heart does something deeply annoying at that.

Because the worst part?

You’re starting to think she might be right.

By the end of the shoot, everyone is obsessed with you both.

The photographer. The makeup artists. The crew. The PR team.

Which is apparently fantastic news professionally.

Personally, you feel like you’re walking around with exposed wiring.

You and Mat stand together near the monitors afterward while the team reviews shots.

“Holy shit,” someone says behind you. “These are incredible.”

Photo after photo flashes across the screen.

His hand on your waist.

Your head tipped back laughing.

The two of you staring at each other like the room disappeared around you.

One photo stops you cold.

You hadn’t even noticed it happening.

Mat’s looking down at you softly while you’re already looking at him.

No cameras in your expression.

No performance.

Just something warm.

Real.

It hits you strangely hard.

Because for the first time since this stupid arrangement started, you genuinely cannot tell where the act ends anymore.

“You okay?”

Mat’s voice is quieter this time.

Closer.

You look up at him.

His expression shifts slightly when he sees yours.

Concern.

Softness.

Something else underneath it.

“Yeah,” you say softly.

Another lie.

And somehow, you think he knows that too.

—

You should go back to your room.

That’s the thing.

You know you should.

The shoot wrapped an hour ago. You’re exhausted. Emotionally unstable. One accidental hand touch away from a complete psychological collapse.

And yet somehow you still end up standing outside Mat’s hotel room at midnight holding a bottle of champagne like a woman moments away from making deeply questionable decisions.

You stare at the door for one long second.

Then knock.

Footsteps approach almost immediately.

The door opens.

And there he is.

Grey sweats.

Black t-shirt.

Damp hair.

You hate him instantly.

“You know it’s midnight, right?” he says.

You lift the champagne slightly.

“You gonna invite me in or make this psychologically worse?”

His laugh is soft and surprised.

Then he steps aside.

“Come in.”

The room is warm.

Quiet.

No cameras. No stylists. No PR people.

Just him.

Which suddenly feels far more dangerous.

“You always carry emergency champagne?” he asks as you sit on the edge of the couch.

“Only during emotional crises.”

“Good thing we’re having one.”

You laugh quietly.

And then things settle.

Not awkward.

Somehow worse.

Comfortable.

You talk for what feels like hours.

About everything.

The shoot. The internet. His teammates. Your terrible ex. Hockey. Acting.

At some point your shoes end up abandoned near the couch and Mat’s sitting close enough now that your knees brush every few minutes without either of you moving away.

“You know what’s annoying?” you say eventually.

“What?”

“You’re significantly more emotionally intelligent than I expected.”

He looks deeply offended.

“That’s crazy disrespectful.”

“You play professional hockey.”

“And?”

“And statistically?”

He laughs loudly enough that you smile immediately.

God.

That smile is becoming a problem.

“You know,” he says after a second, quieter now, “I almost kissed you yesterday.”

The air changes instantly.

Your pulse stutters hard.

You look at him slowly.

“I know.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Neither of you move.

“You didn’t seem very opposed to the idea,” he says carefully.

Your throat suddenly feels dry.

“That’s because I wasn’t.”

His eyes darken immediately.

The room feels smaller now.

Warmer.

You should say something smart here.

Instead:

“You’re very hard to pretend with.”

Mat goes very still.

Then:

“Good thing I stopped pretending a while ago.”

Your breath catches completely.

And after that, neither of you really stands a chance.

You don’t know who moves first.

Maybe both of you.

Maybe neither.

All you know is suddenly he’s closer, your heartbeat loud enough to drown out rational thought while his eyes flick down toward your mouth again.

Slowly.

Giving you time to stop this.

You don’t.

Neither does he.

“Tell me to stop,” he says softly.

You stare at him for one suspended second.

Then whisper:

“You first.”

That’s all it takes.

His hand slides into your hair as he kisses you and suddenly every almost moment, every look, every touch crashes together at once.

It’s not gentle.

Not messy either.

Just intense.

Like both of you have been holding this back for far too long.

You grab the front of his shirt instinctively, kissing him back hard enough to pull a low sound from somewhere deep in his chest that nearly ruins you completely.

And God.

His mouth.

Warm. Slow. Devastating.

The kiss deepens gradually until you’re half in his lap without remembering moving there, champagne abandoned somewhere on the table while his hand settles against your waist like it belongs there.

Like it’s always belonged there.

When you finally pull back, both of you are breathing too hard.

Foreheads pressed together.

Neither letting go.

“This is a terrible idea,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” Mat says softly.

And then he kisses you again anyway.

The second kiss is slower.

Somehow worse.

Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt while his hand slides along your waist, warm and steady beneath your palms as the room blurs softly around both of you.

When he finally pulls back this time, neither of you moves very far.

You’re still close enough to feel his breathing.

Still half in his lap.

“This feels extremely unprofessional,” you murmur.

Mat huffs a quiet laugh against your mouth.

“Pretty sure we crossed that line at the tunnel.”

“Fair point.”

Silence settles again.

Not awkward.

Just charged.

Your eyes flick toward the abandoned champagne bottle on the table before drifting back to him.

“So,” you say carefully, “if we hypothetically start sleeping together…”

Mat’s eyebrows lift immediately.

“Hypothetically.”

“Obviously.”

His mouth twitches.

“Obviously.”

You try to ignore how warm your face suddenly feels.

“It technically helps the story,” you continue. “Better chemistry. Better press. We’d just be… committing to the bit.”

“Right,” he says solemnly. “Method acting.”

“Exactly.”

He looks at you for one long second before his hand tightens slightly against your waist.

“Sweetens the deal,” you say softly.

Something shifts in his expression instantly.

Lower.

Hotter.

“Dangerous thing to say to me right now,” he murmurs.

Your stomach flips hard.

“But you agree.”

His eyes drop briefly to your mouth again.

Then back up.

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

Another pause.

Heavy.

“You’re trouble,” he adds softly.

You smile slightly.

“You kissed me first.”

“Pretty sure you showed up here with champagne on purpose.”

You consider arguing.

Unfortunately he’s completely right.

And judging by the way he’s looking at you now?

Pairing: Sidney Cosby x actress!fem!reader

Warnings: Crude humor and language, Mild sexual references.

AN: This was a request. Thanks so much for sending this in.

Requests are open xx

Taglist: @ashloveshockey

Read more: Masterlist / Series Masterlist

Sidney Crosby had spent most of his adult life learning how to compartmentalize.

Pressure. Noise. Expectations. Losses.

You put it somewhere else. You focus on the next shift. The next game. The next thing in front of you.

Simple.

Except apparently it wasn’t simple when your girlfriend was in a movie that made half the internet believe she was in love with another man.

That part, Sidney was discovering, was harder to compartmentalize.

Way harder.

The thing was, he’d been excited for the film at first.

Really excited.

He remembered her getting the role. Remembered her calling him at nearly two in the morning because she’d been too overwhelmed to sleep.

He’d been in a hotel room somewhere after a road game, exhausted and half-conscious, and she’d sounded so happy he’d smiled into the phone anyway.

“It’s the best script I’ve ever read,” she’d told him.

And he believed her.

Because she loved acting in a way Sidney understood instinctively. The same obsessive, all-consuming way he loved hockey.

So yeah, he’d been proud.

Still was, technically.

That was part of the problem.

The movie came out in October.

By October, the internet was already insufferable about it.

Clips everywhere. Edits. Interview compilations.

Her co-star, Adrian Vale, didn’t help.

Sidney had disliked Adrian immediately, which felt unfair considering they’d only met once for about forty seconds backstage at some premiere.

But Adrian had one of those personalities that filled a room too easily. Too charming. Too smooth. The kind of guy who touched people when he talked to them.

And there were stories.

Always stories.

Actors. Models. Co-stars.

Sidney normally ignored celebrity gossip because ninety percent of it was bullshit.

Unfortunately, the remaining ten percent had decided to ruin his life.

The first time it really got under his skin was in the locker room.

Someone, maybe Rusty, had pulled up an interview clip before practice.

She and Adrian sitting shoulder to shoulder, laughing.

Adrian saying something about how “easy” it was to have chemistry with her.

The room immediately turned into a chorus of chirping.

“Ohhhh, Sid.”

“Your girl’s got a work husband.”

“You watched this movie yet or what?”

Sidney had rolled his eyes, tied his skates tighter than necessary, and ignored them.

But he’d thought about it the entire practice anyway.

Which pissed him off more than the clip itself.

Because it wasn’t her fault.

That was the thing.

She hadn’t done anything wrong.

She was acting.

Literally just acting.

And Sidney knew that. Logically, he knew that.

But logic became significantly less useful once the movie actually came out.

He watched it alone.

Huge mistake.

She was in New York doing press. He had two days off. The apartment was quiet.

He figured it’d be better to get it over with privately instead of pretending he hadn’t seen it.

At first, it was fine.

More than fine, actually.

She was incredible in it.

Not in the vague supportive-boyfriend way people said that kind of thing. She was genuinely incredible.

Every scene felt natural. Effortless.

Sidney found himself smiling without realizing it during the smaller moments:

the way she laughed

the expressions she made when she was embarrassed

little mannerisms he recognized from real life

It felt weirdly intimate watching pieces of the person he loved show up onscreen.

Then Adrian appeared.

And Sidney immediately understood why audiences were losing their minds over them.

Which was deeply unfortunate.

The chemistry was ridiculous.

Not forced. Not overly dramatic.

Just believable.

That was the problem.

It looked real.

Adrian looked at her like she was the only person in the room. Touched her waist casually. Leaned in too close. Smirked at her in ways Sidney irrationally hated immediately.

By the midpoint of the movie, Sidney was sitting forward on the couch with his jaw clenched.

By the final act, he was genuinely miserable.

And then came the sex scene.

It wasn’t explicit.

Honestly, Sidney almost wished it had been.

Explicit would’ve made it easier to separate from reality somehow.

Instead it was emotional.

Slow kisses. Forehead touches. Hands tangled together. Her crying halfway through because the scene was about grief and love and finding each other again.

Critics online had called it:

“raw and deeply vulnerable.”

Sidney wished every critic on earth would shut the fuck up forever.

Because sitting there alone in the dark, watching another man hold her like that,

even knowing it wasn’t real,

made something ugly twist in his chest.

And the worst part?

Part of him hated himself for caring.

After that, things got weird.

Not outwardly.

Sidney wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t pick fights. Didn’t accuse her of anything.

He just…

Got quieter.

A little more distracted.

He stayed on the ice longer after practice. Snapped at himself over mistakes he normally brushed off.

A bad turnover during a game turned into another bad turnover. Then frustration penalties. Then media asking if he was injured because his timing looked off.

He wasn’t injured.

Just stupid, apparently.

Evgeni Malkin noticed first.

Of course he did.

Geno cornered him after practice one afternoon while Sidney was pretending not to aggressively overthink his entire life.

“You look terrible,” Geno informed him cheerfully.

Sidney kept unlacing his skates.

“Thanks.”

“No, seriously. Like divorced.”

Sidney snorted despite himself.

“I’m not divorced.”

“Not yet.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Geno grinned.

Then, more casually:

“Movie bothering you?”

Sidney’s hands paused for half a second.

Which was apparently answer enough.

Geno burst out laughing.

“OH my God. It IS the movie.”

“It’s not the movie.”

“Sidney.”

“It’s not.”

Geno looked delighted.

“You jealous.”

Sidney stared at him.

Then muttered:

“I’m not jealous.”

A beat.

“I’m annoyed.”

Geno nearly fell over laughing.

The worst part was going home afterward.

Because she’d come back from press that morning, exhausted and still beautiful in that unfair way she always was.

And she noticed immediately.

Of course she did.

By midnight, she finally cornered him in the kitchen while he stood there pretending to be interested in the fridge.

“Okay,” she said carefully. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

Too fast.

Her expression softened instantly.

Which somehow made it worse.

She leaned against the counter quietly.

“…is this about the movie?”

Sidney closed his eyes briefly.

God.

He felt so fucking immature.

“No.”

Another lie.

She waited him out.

That was the problem with dating someone who knew him this well. Silence didn’t work anymore.

Eventually he exhaled hard through his nose and looked down at the counter.

“I know it’s acting,” he muttered.

She stayed quiet.

“I know none of it’s real.”

Still quiet.

Then finally:

“But?”

Sidney laughed once under his breath, humorless.

“But I hated watching somebody else touch you like that.”

The second the words left his mouth, shame hit him immediately.

Because there it was. Ugly and irrational and possessive sounding.

He rubbed a hand over his face.

“Which, I know is unfair, okay? I know that.”

For a second she just looked at him.

Not angry.

Just sad.

Then she walked closer.

Slowly.

“Sid.”

He wouldn’t look at her.

“Do you know what filming that scene was actually like?”

He shrugged slightly.

She smiled a little.

“There were like fourteen people in the room.”

That got his attention.

“What?”

“Intimacy coordinator. Camera operators. Director. Sound guy who kept coughing every five seconds.”

Sidney blinked.

She laughed softly now.

“At one point Adrian accidentally kneed me in the ribs and I started crying because it hurt.”

He stared at her.

“…seriously?”

“Seriously.”

The tension cracked slightly.

Just enough.

She stepped closer again.

“You know what I was actually thinking during most of that scene?”

Sidney looked at her carefully.

“…what?”

A grin tugged at her mouth.

“That you were going to make fun of me for crying after every take.”

And just like that—

there they were again.

Not the movie. Not Adrian. Not the internet.

Just them.

Sidney let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for weeks.

Then finally pulled her against him, burying his face against her neck.

She laughed quietly.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“You wanna know something embarrassing?”

He groaned.

“Probably not.”

“Adrian kept trying to improvise lines.”

Sidney pulled back immediately.

“What does that mean?”

She started laughing harder.

Pairing: Mat Barzal x actress!fem!reader 

Warnings: masturbation, suggestive content, emotional damage, Mat Barzal in compression shirts, unresolved sexual tension, one (1) hockey player causing workplace hazards

Summary: An actress in crisis after a public breakup is pushed into a PR-driven plan that forces her to meet an NHL star at a gala, setting everything in motion.

Taglist: @ashloveshockey

Read more: Masterlist / Series Masterlist

His hand slides up your stomach slowly, warm skin and heavy breathing surrounding you until the entire room feels smaller. Hotter. Like the air’s been stolen straight out of your lungs.

“Relax,” Mat murmurs against your neck.

His voice is rough. Sleepy. Heavy.

You feel his mouth just below your ear and your fingers tighten instinctively against his shoulders as he presses you deeper into the mattress.

“You’re thinking too much.”

“I’m not thinking,” you whisper.

“That’s a lie.”

You can hear the smile in his voice. Feel it.

His hand slips lower, and your breath catches hard when his fingers drag between your thighs, slow enough to make your entire body tense beneath him. You're already soaking. He circles your clit once, then twice, and he wastes no time in sliding two fingers inside of you. 

“There,” he says softly. “That’s it.”

Your head falls back against the pillow.

The room is dark except for the faint glow spilling through the curtains, enough to catch the shape of him above you. Bare shoulders. Messy hair. The sharp line of his jaw as he looks down at you like he has nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

It feels terrifyingly real.

His fingers curl and you gasp.

“Mat—”

“I know,” he says quietly. “I got you.”

The praise in his voice nearly destroys you.

Your legs part further automatically, your body reacting before your brain can catch up, and he notices immediately because apparently dream-Mat is offensively attentive.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

Your entire body goes molten.

You reach for him blindly, needing closer, needing more, your fingers catching in the back of his shirt as his mouth drags along your throat.

“Please,” you breathe.

“Please what?”

You whine softly.

He laughs under his breath. Low. Warm. Cruel.

“Use your words.”

You’re so gone you barely notice it at first. The strange disconnect. The angle. The fact his hand feels slightly wrong.

Different.

Your eyes flutter open halfway.

Dark room.

Empty bed.

Silence.

And then the horrifying realization hits you all at once.

Those aren’t his fingers.

They’re yours.

You freeze completely.

“Oh my God.”

Mortification slams into you at terminal velocity. You yank your hand away like you’ve touched a live wire, staring at the ceiling in absolute disbelief while your heart pounds hard enough to rupture something important.

No.

No, no, no.

Because not only were you dreaming about Mat Barzal fingering you into another dimension, you were apparently so committed to the experience that your body decided to participate.

“This is actually humiliating,” you whisper to yourself.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Which is a mistake.

Because immediately your brain supplies the memory of his hand at your back last night. Steady. Grounding. The quiet way he said you wanna get out of here? like it was the easiest decision in the world.

The way he looked at Sebastian.

The way he listened to you in the car.

No judgement. No impatience. Just there.

Heat coils low in your stomach again.

“Oh, fuck you,” you mutter weakly to yourself.

Unfortunately your body does not listen.

Your fingers slip back down before your dignity can stop them. You take turns circling your fingers around your swollen clit and pumping them in and out while you imagine his hands instead of yours. You come hard with his name trapped somewhere in your throat, thighs tightening as your back arches off the mattress for one embarrassing, catastrophic second before you collapse back against the bed breathing hard.

Silence.

Then:

“You have GOT to get a grip.”

You throw your arm over your eyes dramatically.

Because really.

Really?

You’ve known him for maybe ten days.

Ten.

And now your subconscious has apparently decided he’s the solution to all your emotional problems.

Fantastic.

Your phone buzzes aggressively from somewhere in the blankets.

Then again.

Then again.

With the exhausted resignation of someone being cyberbullied by their own career, you grab it.

Thirty-one notifications.

Texts from your publicist. Your manager. Your stylist.

One from your mother.

Mom: saw the photos

Mom: that man is built like a refrigerator

You bark out a laugh.

Traitor.

You open Instagram first.

Immediate mistake.

Your entire feed is you and Mat.

Photos from last night flood your screen. Him standing close behind you at the gala. His hand at your waist. The two of you laughing near the bar.

One photo catches your attention immediately.

You outside the venue, eyes glassy from almost crying while Mat leans down toward you with one hand shielding your head as he helps you into the car.

The comments underneath are absolute chaos.

@hockeyswifey: oh he is DOWN BAD

@ynnation: the way he looks at her??????

@matbarzalsgfreal: this is the first time she’s smiled in months omg

@nhlupdatesdaily: NHL men being emotionally competent wasn’t on my bingo card

@filmsandpucks: need him biblically actually

You stare at the last one for a long moment.

Honestly.

Fair.

Another notification appears.

A news article.

AMERICA’S NEW FAVORITE COUPLE?

You open it carefully. The headline alone makes you want to fake your own death.

But the article itself is… good.

Disturbingly good.

After months of concerning headlines following her breakup with actor Sebastian Hale, Y/N L/N appears happier and healthier than ever alongside New York Islanders star Mat Barzal.

The pair attended the Vanier Gala together Thursday evening, where onlookers described their chemistry as “effortless.”

“At one point he literally left with her midway through the event because she looked upset,” one source claims. “He seemed more focused on taking care of her than the publicity.”

You blink slowly.

Oh.

That one lands somewhere weird in your chest.

You keep reading despite yourself.

Fans online have already become obsessed with the unexpected pairing, praising Barzal’s seemingly protective nature and Y/N’s noticeably brighter demeanor.

Attached underneath is a compilation of tweets.

@puckbunny444: i fear this man likes her BAD

@celebwatchdaily: the hand on her back every five seconds???

@ynupdates: she actually looks safe with him :(

@sportsandstyle: this is either real or they deserve oscars

You drop your phone directly onto your face.

“This is a nightmare.”

Your phone buzzes again.

Mat.

Your stomach immediately betrays you.

Mat: u alive

Mat: pr people said u might wanna come to the game tonight

Mat: apparently it’s “good optics”

Mat: whatever the fuck that means

You: depends

You: are u gonna violently assault people on live television

Mat: almost definitely

You: tempting

Mat: wear my jersey so i know it’s u

You: this feels psychologically dangerous

Mat: probably

And somehow that’s worse.

———

The arena is loud.

Not regular loud.

Not gala loud.

Not Hollywood loud.

This is different.

Heavier.

The noise vibrates through the floors beneath your feet as thousands of people scream somewhere beyond the tunnel entrance.

You tug nervously at the sleeves of the Islanders jersey your stylist, Ava, forced onto your body an hour ago.

BARZAL.

Across your back.

You still haven’t emotionally processed that.

“You look hot,” Ava says, adjusting the collar of the jersey she forced onto your body twenty minutes ago.

You glance down.

White Islanders jersey.

Blue and orange stripes.

“I look insane,” you reply.

“You look invested,” she corrects.

“That’s worse.”

Ava ignores you completely.

“Remember,” she says as the arena doors open, “camera-friendly but natural.”

You stare at her.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means if they put you on the jumbotron, don’t look like you’re being held hostage.”

“Oh, perfect. Great note.”

The second you step inside, the noise hits you.

It’s overwhelming.

The arena practically vibrates beneath your feet, thousands of voices crashing together under bright lights and pounding music. Everything smells faintly like beer, ice, and adrenaline.

You follow security through the lower corridors toward the private suite, trying very hard not to think about the fact you are currently wearing another man’s name across your back after getting off to thoughts of him twelve hours ago.

The game is absolute chaos.

Loud. Violent. Freezing.

The arena shakes every time someone gets slammed into the boards hard enough to make you physically flinch, but everyone around you just cheers like this is a completely normal recreational activity.

Which apparently it is.

Unfortunately for you, Mat is horrifyingly good at it.

You try to be normal about the whole thing. You really do.

But then he skates onto the ice during warmups, hair curling slightly at the ends beneath his helmet, jaw sharp under the arena lights, and suddenly you understand why hockey fans behave the way they do online.

It’s less of a sport and more of a public health crisis.

And Mat?

Mat is a nightmare.

Fast hands. Sharp turns. Broad shoulders under all that equipment.

One second he’s laughing with a teammate by the bench. The next he’s slamming some six-foot-something guy into the glass with enough force to make your stomach flip embarrassingly hard.

“This should not be attractive,” you mutter under your breath.

A woman beside you hears.

“It gets worse,” she says sympathetically.

She’s right.

Because halfway through the second period, Mat scores.

The entire arena explodes.

People screaming. Lights flashing. Music blaring loud enough to rattle your bones.

And then, somehow, impossibly, Mat looks directly toward your suite.

Toward you.

His grin flashes quick and cocky as his teammates practically tackle him into the boards celebrating, and your stomach drops somewhere near your shoes.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you whisper.

The Islanders win 4-2.

Mat gets first star of the game.

Which means they put his face on the giant screen while the crowd cheers like he personally ended world hunger.

Then the camera cuts to you in his jersey.

The crowd cheers louder.

You consider walking directly into the ocean.

You’re halfway through considering whether death by embarrassment is a medically recognized condition when your phone buzzes.

Mat: u still here?

You glance down at the ice.

Empty now except for arena staff and scattered equipment.

People are starting to leave the suites around you, the energy of the game fading into something looser. Messier.

You: unfortunately

Mat: come downstairs

Mat: tunnel by the locker rooms

Your stomach flips instantly.

You hate that your pulse speeds up the entire walk downstairs.

The arena corridors are quieter now. Distant voices echo somewhere behind concrete walls while staff move equipment past you, the cold air still lingering from the ice nearby.

You round the corner toward the private tunnel and immediately spot him.

And unfortunately.

Unfortunately.

He looks insane.

Game over now, gear gone, suit pants sitting low on his hips with a black compression shirt clinging damply to his chest and arms like the universe itself wants you dead personally.

His hair is wet from the shower, curling slightly at the ends.

You stop walking for half a second.

Mat notices immediately.

His mouth tilts.

“There she is.”

Your stomach does something deeply unprofessional.

“You look disgusting,” you inform him.

He snorts softly.

“Yeah?”

“Like objectively. It’s upsetting.”

“Appreciate that.”

You move closer before your brain can stop you.

Bad idea.

Very bad idea.

Because up close he’s all post-game warmth and expensive cologne underneath lingering sweat, cheeks still flushed slightly from adrenaline.

And all you can think about is the dream.

His hands. His voice. Good girl.

Catastrophic.

“You came,” he says.

“You literally texted me.”

“Still counts.”

You lean back lightly against the concrete wall beside him, crossing your arms mostly to stop yourself from touching him for reasons you’d rather not unpack.

“You’re very cocky for someone who spends his evenings willingly getting punched on ice.”

“We won.”

“You’re impossible.”

“But you had fun.”

It isn’t a question.

Which is annoying because he’s right.

You exhale a laugh.

“It was kind of insane.”

“Kinda?”

“Okay, fine. Watching you nearly kill people was apparently very entertaining.”

His grin widens slowly.

“That so?”

You immediately regret speaking.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird.”

“You’re literally smirking.”

“That’s just my face.”

“Your face is a problem.”

There’s a beat.

Then another.

The noise from the arena feels farther away suddenly.

Quieter.

And Mat’s looking at you differently now.

Not PR-differently.

Not cameras-around differently.

Just… you.

Your pulse stutters hard.

“You looked good up there,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches slightly.

“The jersey was a nice touch.”

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You knew exactly what you were doing with that text.”

His smile turns softer around the edges.

“Maybe.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

And the thing is, you should step away.

Probably.

Instead you stay exactly where you are while tension thickens slowly between you until it feels impossible to breathe normally.

His eyes flick downward briefly.

Your mouth.

Then back up again.

Your stomach flips violently.

Dangerous.

This feels dangerous.

“You know,” he says softly, stepping closer, “the internet thinks I’m obsessed with you now.”

Your laugh comes out quieter than intended.

“Yeah? Tough break.”

“Mhm.”

His hand settles against the wall beside your head.

Not touching you.

Worse.

So much worse.

Because suddenly he’s close enough that you can feel warmth radiating off him and your brain short-circuits entirely.

“You smell good,” he says absentmindedly.

You blink at him.

“That feels illegal after a hockey game.”

He laughs softly under his breath.

And then silence falls again.

Heavy.

Charged.

Your eyes drop to his mouth before you can stop yourself.

Big mistake.

Because he notices.

Immediately.

The expression on his face shifts almost imperceptibly.

Lower.

Hotter.

Your entire body tightens.

“You keep doing that,” he murmurs.

Your voice barely works.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

Your heart slams hard against your ribs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s a lie.”

The words hit like a pulse low in your stomach because suddenly all you can think about is waking up tangled in your sheets with his name in your mouth.

Heat crawls up your throat.

Mat takes one slow step closer.

Now there’s almost no space left between you at all.

Your breathing turns embarrassingly shallow.

And then his hand touches your waist.

Just lightly.

Barely there.

But your entire body reacts instantly.

“Mat,” you whisper.

It comes out wrong.

Too soft.

Too breathless.

His eyes darken immediately.

“Yeah?”

You should move.

You don’t.

Neither does he.

For one suspended second the entire world narrows down to: his hand on your waist your back against the wall the sound of both of you breathing too hard

Then his gaze drops to your mouth again.

And stays there.

Your brain stops functioning entirely.

He leans in slightly.

Slow enough that you could stop this.

Slow enough that it feels intentional.

Your eyes flutter halfway shut—

“BARZY!”

You both jerk apart instantly.

A teammate appears at the far end of the tunnel looking deeply confused.

“Oh,” he says slowly.

“Ohhhhh.”

You want the concrete floor to open beneath you.

Mat drags a hand over his face.

“For fuck’s sake.”

The teammate grins.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes,” both of you say immediately.

He looks delighted by this information.

“You owe me fifty bucks,” he calls to someone behind him.

Mat groans.

You stare at the floor because if you look at him right now you might actually lose your mind.

And the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

You know without a doubt that if his teammate hadn’t interrupted, Mat would’ve kissed you.

And worse?

Pairing: Joe Burrow x actress!fem!reader 

Warnings: Mild language, public setting, fluff, established relationship

Summary: After the Met Gala afterparty, Joe helps you out of the van, and suddenly getting back to the hotel feels a little impossible to resist.

AN: I haven't posted in a while. Sorry. I have been too busy watching off campus. It's soooo fucking good. 

Taglist: @ashloveshockey

Read more: Masterlist / Series Masterlist

The afterparty finally spits the two of you back out into the cold New York night sometime after two in the morning.

Your heels are killing you.

Not in the cute, exaggerated way actresses pretend in interviews, either, genuinely killing you.

You’re halfway folded over in the back of the van, laughing deliriously as you try to unclip one of the impossible silver straps digging into your ankle.

“I’m serious,” you mutter. “If these shoes ever come near me again, I’m suing somebody.”

Joe’s sitting beside you, jacket discarded, tie loosened slightly, watching you with that quiet amusement he always gets when you start spiralling from exhaustion.

“You said that three hours ago.”

“Yeah, well now I mean it spiritually.”

That actually gets a laugh out of him.

A real one.

Low and warm and tired.

The driver opens the van door, and suddenly the noise of Manhattan floods in, camera shutters somewhere down the street, muffled music leaking from another event, traffic lights reflecting off wet pavement.

Joe steps out first.

Even exhausted, he still looks unfairly good. Hair a little messy now, sleeves pushed up slightly, expensive black tailoring somehow even better after midnight.

You stare for a second too long.

He notices immediately.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” you say quickly.

“Liar.”

You grin tiredly. “You just look very… Met Gala right now.”

“Met Gala,” he repeats flatly.

“Yeah. Annoyingly attractive. Like a guy in a cologne ad.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“It should. Unfortunately it isn’t.”

His mouth twitches.

Then he looks down at you still trapped in the van and holds out a hand automatically.

“C’mon.”

You try to stand on your own.

Immediately wobble.

Joe catches you before you can even pretend you had it handled.

“Okay,” he says. “Nope.”

“I’m fine.”

“You almost died.”

“I looked graceful.”

“You looked concussed.”

You laugh, grabbing onto his shoulder, but before you can properly climb down, one arm slides around your waist.

Then suddenly,

you’re lifted.

Not dramatically. Not like some huge showy moment.

Just easy.

Effortless.

Like you weigh nothing to him.

“Joe,”

“You can barely walk.”

“These shoes are criminal.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying.”

Your laugh disappears into his shoulder for a second as he steadies you against him on the pavement. The city buzzes around you, flashes flickering distantly somewhere across the street, but he barely seems to notice now.

His focus stays completely on you.

One hand firm at your waist.

The other still holding yours.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

You nod, looking up at him.

Too handsome. Honestly irritating.

“You know,” you murmur, “you’re being suspiciously nice to me.”

“Suspiciously?”

“Mhm. Makes me think you want something.”

Joe gives you the driest look imaginable.

“I want sleep.”

You grin. “Liar.”

That finally breaks him a little.

A tired smile. Small but real.

Then he glances toward the hotel entrance, toward the warm gold light spilling out onto the sidewalk.

“You ready?”

You lean into him slightly, still holding his arm.

“Yeah,” you say softly.

Pairing: Mat Barzal x actress!fem!reader 

Warnings: Crude humour and language, Breakups, Fictional Character / Events, alcohol + party coping behaviour, cheating / betrayal (past relationship), Sexual References.

Summary: An actress in crisis after a public breakup is pushed into a PR-driven plan that forces her to meet an NHL star at a gala, setting everything in motion.

Taglist: @ashloveshockey

Read more: Masterlist / Series Masterlist

The car door opens.

Flashbulbs hit immediately.

“Y/N! Over here—!”

“Mat! Look this way!”

Your name and his name, tangled together like they’ve always belonged in the same sentence.

You step out.

He’s right there a second later.

And then—

his hand.

Light. Steady. At the small of your back.

Not grabbing. Not pulling.

Just—

there.

Grounding.

“Are you two together?”

“When did this start?”

“Is this official?”

You smile.

Of course you do.

“We’re just here to support the event,” you say smoothly. “It’s a great cause.”

You feel him glance down at you, amused.

“Yeah,” he adds. “What she said.”

You move together.

Not perfectly. Not like you rehearsed it.

But it works.

It looks—

convincing.

Inside, the noise softens into something warmer.

Less sharp.

More contained.

You exhale, just slightly.

His hand drops from your back.

You notice.

Immediately.

“Well,” you say, glancing at him. “That was subtle.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I thought we really sold the ‘we just met five minutes ago’ vibe.”

You smile.

“Very organic.”

“Very natural.”

You fall into step beside him.

And for a while, it’s easy.

That’s the part that throws you.

You move through the room together, stopping when you have to, slipping away when you can. People talk to you. To him. To both of you.

He’s good at this.

Not in the polished, media-trained way you’re used to.

Just… normal.

“So what is this event actually for?” he asks quietly as you both escape another conversation.

You blink.

“You don’t know?”

“I was told to show up,” he says. “That’s about as far as I got.”

You laugh.

“Yeah, that tracks.”

You grab two drinks from a passing tray, handing him one.

“Some kind of foundation thing,” you say. “Rich people feeling better about themselves.”

He nods.

“Love that.”

You take a sip.

“You’re doing really well, by the way.”

“At what?”

“Pretending to be into this.”

He shrugs.

“I’m having a decent time.”

You glance at him.

“…you are?”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“You’re funny.”

You choke slightly on your drink.

“Wow,” you cough. “That’s bold of you to admit out loud.”

“Just being honest.”

“Careful,” you say. “People might think you like me.”

“Would that ruin the narrative?”

“Completely.”

You’re still smiling when it happens.

It’s not loud.

Not obvious.

Just… a shift.

Your eyes catch something across the room.

And then you see him.

Sebastian.

It’s like someone pulled the floor out from under you.

Sudden.

Sharp.

He’s standing near the bar.

Laughing.

She’s next to him.

Hand on his arm.

Leaning in like she belongs there.

Your chest tightens.

Hard.

Because it’s not just seeing him.

It’s seeing him like that.

Comfortable.

Easy.

Like nothing happened.

Like you didn’t matter.

“You okay?”

Mat’s voice cuts through it.

You blink.

Force your face back into something neutral.

“Yeah,” you say quickly. “I’m fine.”

You’re not.

You’re absolutely not.

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” he says after a second. “You want anything?”

You shake your head.

“No, I’m good.”

He hesitates.

Just slightly.

Then nods.

“I’ll be right back.”

You watch him go.

And the second he disappears—

“Hey.”

You freeze.

Of course.

You turn slowly.

Sebastian stands there like this is casual. Like this is fine.

“Hey,” he says again.

You stare at him.

God, he looks the same.

“Hi,” you reply.

Your voice is steady.

You don’t know how.

He smiles.

Like he always does.

Like it still works.

“You look good,” he says.

You almost laugh.

It comes out sharper than you mean it to.

“Thanks,” you say. “You too.”

Your eyes flick to her.

Then back.

He notices.

Of course he does.

“Yeah,” he says. “This is—”

“I know,” you cut in.

You don’t need the introduction.

You really don’t.

There’s a beat.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” he says.

You tilt your head.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Funny how that works.”

He shifts.

Like he’s uncomfortable.

Good.

“I was gonna call you,” he says.

You let out a short laugh.

“You didn’t.”

He exhales.

“I just thought—”

“What?” you cut in. “That I’d see it online like everyone else?”

Because you remember.

The message.

Not meant for you.

A name that wasn’t yours.

A timeline that made you feel sick.

The confrontation.

Your voice shaking.

His… not.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says.

“That’s funny,” you reply. “Because you absolutely did.”

A pause.

“It wasn’t serious,” he says.

That what does it.

You stare at him.

“Wow,” you say softly. “That actually makes it worse.”

“I just think you’re making it a bigger deal than it was,” he adds.

There it is.

You let out a breath.

Shaky.

“Right,” you say. “Because getting cheated on is famously not a big deal.”

He runs a hand through his hair.

“Look, we were both busy, things got complicated-”

“Don’t,” you cut in.

“Don’t rewrite this like it was mutual.”

There’s a flicker of irritation in his expression now.

“You’ve clearly moved on,” he says, glancing past you.

You follow his gaze—

Mat.

Standing a few feet away.

Watching.

You look back at Sebastian.

“Oh my god,” you say quietly. “Is that what you think this is?”

He shrugs.

“Looks like it.”

You laugh.

It sounds hollow.

“Yeah,” you say. “Because God forbid I don’t sit around crying over you forever.”

His jaw tightens.

“You’re making a scene,” he says.

There it is.

Not what he did.

Not how he hurt you.

Just how it looks.

You swallow hard.

Your eyes sting.

And then—

“Hey.”

Mat.

He steps in beside you like it’s nothing.

Like this isn’t loaded.

Like he didn’t just read the entire situation in half a second.

“Sorry,” he says easily. “I stole her for a second.”

His hand settles at your back again.

Steady.

Familiar.

Sebastian looks between you.

Mat smiles.

Polite.

Friendly.

Just enough edge underneath it.

“You good?” he asks you quietly.

You nod.

Too fast.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t buy it.

“Cool,” he says anyway.

Then, to Sebastian—

“Nice to meet you, man.”

Sebastian nods stiffly.

“Yeah,” Mat adds, like it’s an afterthought, “we were just heading out.”

You weren’t.

Not technically.

But you don’t correct him.

Sebastian glances at you.

Then at him.

“Right,” he says.

Mat’s smile doesn’t change.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Have a good night.”

There’s something in the way he says it.

Not aggressive.

Not confrontational.

Just final.

Sebastian doesn’t push it.

He turns.

Back to her.

You watch them go.

Your vision blurs slightly.

“Hey,” Mat says softly.

You blink.

Hard.

“You wanna get out of here?” he asks.

No hesitation.

No we should stay.

No this is good for PR.

Just you.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say.

And that’s it.

He doesn’t make a scene.

Doesn’t explain.

He just keeps his hand at your back

guides you through the room

past the noise

past the people

past everything

Until you’re outside.

The air hits cold.

Sharp.

You make it three steps.

And then you break.

It’s not dramatic.

Not loud.

Just your breath catching, your chest tightening, tears you can’t quite stop.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says quickly.

You shake your head.

“It’s so stupid,” you manage. “I’m fine, I just—”

You’re not.

He doesn’t argue.

Doesn’t tell you to calm down.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s get in the car.”

He opens the door.

Waits.

You slide in.

He gets in after you.

Tells the driver something low and quick.

The car pulls away.

You wipe at your face, frustrated.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “This is—”

“You don’t have to apologise,” he says.

You laugh weakly.

“Yeah, I do. I’m supposed to be, like, fun tonight.”

“You were,” he says.

That doesn’t help.

And also does.

There’s a beat.

“Who was that?” he asks, quieter now.

You stare out the window.

“My ex,” you say.

Simple.

He nods.

“He cheated on me,” you add.

Because apparently you’re just saying things now.

He doesn’t interrupt.

“I found out from a text,” you continue. “Not even a good one. Like if you’re going to ruin my life, at least be creative about it.”

A shaky laugh slips out.

“And then when I confronted him, he didn’t even fight for me,” you say.

Quieter.

“He just… ended it.”

You swallow.

“And then three days later he’s out with her,” you add. “And I get to find out about it the same way everyone else does.”

Public.

Clean.

Humiliating.

You let your head fall back against the seat.

“I looked like such an idiot,” you say.

There’s a pause.

“That’s not on you,” he says.

You glance at him.

His expression is steady.

A little tighter now.

“He didn’t even try,” he adds. “That’s on him.”

Simple.

No bullshit.

You exhale.

“I kind of lost it after,” you admit.

“Like, drinking, going out, doing dumb shit with people I didn’t even like.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“Really great coping mechanisms.”

He doesn’t judge.

“Then suddenly I’m the problem,” you say. “Photos, headlines, ‘spiralling actress’—all that shit.”

You shake your head.

“It’s just… exhausting.”

Silence.

Soft.

“You don’t seem like the problem,” he says. 

You blink.

“That’s because you met me after the breakdown,” you reply.

He smiles slightly.

“I think I’d have the same opinion,” he says.

You look at him. Really look. And for the first time all night, you feel something shift.

Not fixed.

Not okay.

But less alone.

“…thanks,” you say quietly.

He nods like it’s nothing.

Pairing: Joe Burrow x actress!fem!reader 

Warnings: Mild language, public setting anxiety, fluff, established relationship

Summary: He hates the attention. Loves you. Somehow, that’s enough to make him stay.

Taglist: @ashloveshockey

Read more: Masterlist / Series Masterlist

He hates the attention. Loves you. Somehow, that’s enough to make him stay.

Joe Burrow hates this.

You can tell before the car even stops.

He’s too still beside you, jaw set, fingers flexing once against his thigh like he’s trying to shake something off. Outside, the flashes are already going off, a frenzy of light bleeding through the tinted windows.

Your world.

Not his.

You turn toward him, softer now, reaching over to fix the edge of his sleeve even though it doesn’t need fixing.

“Hey,” you murmur. “You good?”

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. Love this. Big fan of being watched.”

You smile a little. “Only tonight. Then you can go back to being mysterious and hard to get.”

That earns you a glance.

“Hard to get?” he repeats.

“Please,” you say. “You barely answer texts.”

“I answer yours.”

“Eventually.”

His mouth twitches.

You study him for a second longer, then your voice softens. “You don’t have to walk it with me, you know. You can meet me inside. No one would care.”

He shakes his head immediately.

“No,” he says. Then quieter, more certain: “I’m here with you.”

That does something to your chest.

You nod once. “Okay. Then just stay with me, yeah? Don’t overthink it.”

“I don’t overthink,” he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’ve been staring at that door like it personally offended you for the last thirty seconds.”

“…I’m assessing.”

You laugh under your breath. “Right. Of course you are.”

The car door opens.

And suddenly it’s loud.

The flashes hit fast,voices calling your name, overlapping, urgent.

You step out like it’s nothing.

He doesn’t.

Not at first.

But then you feel it,the moment he chooses to.

Joe steps forward, shoulders straightening, and you slip your hand into his without thinking. It’s instinct. Grounding. Yours and his.

“Right here,” you murmur, guiding him forward.

He nods once.

And just like that,he adapts.

It’s subtle, but you feel it. The shift. The way he settles into himself, not comfortable exactly, but controlled. Like he’s figured out how to exist in the chaos instead of fighting it.

Halfway down the carpet, you glance up at him.

“…You’re doing better than I expected.”

“Wow,” he says flatly. “That’s reassuring.”

“I meant that as a compliment.”

“Didn’t sound like one.”

You grin. “You’re posing, by the way.”

“I’m standing.”

“You’re doing the jaw thing.”

“What jaw thing?”

“That one,” you say, laughing softly. “The ‘I don’t care but I actually care a lot’ thing.”

He exhales. “That’s just my face.”

“Sure it is.”

A photographer calls your name.

Then his.

Joe blinks slightly, leaning in just enough that only you hear him. “Why do they know me here?”

You tilt your head. “Joe… you’re not exactly invisible.”

“Feels different,” he mutters.

You hum. “Yeah. Because tonight, you’re with me.”

He glances down at you at that.

“Dangerous statement,” he says quietly.

“Why?”

His hand shifts at your waist, more natural now. More certain.

“Because I look better than you expected.”

You pause.

Just for a second.

Your eyes flick over him,slow, deliberate.

“…Okay,” you admit. “Yeah. You do.”

That smirk? Immediate.

“I knew it.”

“I didn’t say all that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you brought me anyway.”

Inside is quieter.

Not silent,but manageable.

You feel the moment it leaves him, the tension draining out as he exhales properly for the first time all night.

“Alright,” he says, grabbing a drink. “That part’s done.”

You bump his shoulder lightly. “You didn’t hate it.”

“I didn’t love it,” he corrects.

“But you didn’t run.”

He glances at you. “You had a grip on me like I might.”

“I did think that.”

“Wow.”

You grin. “And yet,you stayed.”

There’s a pause.

Something softer slips into his expression now, something less guarded.

“I told you,” he says. “I wanted to be here with you.”

You hold his gaze for a second.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I know.”

The noise of the room fades a little around you.

Then he looks you over,quick, but not subtle.

“…You look insane, by the way.”

You smirk. “Good insane or concerning insane?”

“Both.”

“I’ll take it.”

Another beat.

Then, lighter now, you lean in just slightly. “You did good tonight.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Your voice dips just a little. “Might even be worth something.”

His eyebrow lifts. “Oh, yeah?”

You shrug, teasing, not breaking eye contact. “Depends if you keep behaving.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re still here,” you point out.

“Yeah,” he says.

Then, softer:

Pairing: Mat Barzal x actress!fem!reader 

Warnings: Crude humour and language, Breakups, Fictional Character / Events, alcohol + party coping behaviour, cheating / betrayal (past relationship), Sexual References.

Summary: An actress in crisis after a public breakup is pushed into a PR-driven plan that forces her to meet an NHL star at a gala, setting everything in motion.

Taglist: @ashloveshockey

Read more: Masterlist / Series Masterlist

The car door opens before you’re ready.

It always does.

“Y/N, over here!”

Flashbulbs hit first. White, blinding, relentless. Your name follows half a second later, pulled apart and thrown back at you from every direction like it belongs to everyone but you.

You step out anyway.

Because that’s the job.

Because Mara said Saturday, and Saturday turned into the Vanier Gala, and the Vanier Gala turned into this, standing under lights that make everything sharper, harsher, more visible.

Chin up. Shoulders back. One hand smoothing over the fabric of a dress that fits perfectly and still feels like armor.

You smile.

Not too much. Not too little.

Controlled.

Effortless.

Fine.

You are very, very good at being fine.

“Y/N, how are you feeling tonight?”

You turn automatically, smile already in place.

“Good,” you say easily. “It’s a beautiful event. I’m really happy to be here.”

It sounds real.

That’s the trick.

“Any comment on everything that’s been happening lately?”

You tilt your head slightly, like you’re considering it.

“I think people love a story,” you say, light, almost amused. “Sometimes more than they love the truth.”

A ripple of laughter. Pens moving. Cameras flashing like you said something clever instead of something tired.

“Do you have any upcoming projects?”

“I’d love to,” you say, smiling just enough, “but I enjoy having a job, so I probably shouldn’t.”

More laughter.

God, you’re good at this.

“Y/N,Sebastian was seen earlier this week,”

You step back before the sentence finishes.

“Thank you so much, guys,” you say smoothly. “Enjoy the night.”

You don’t rush.

You never rush.

You move like nothing touches you.

Even when everything does.

Inside the Vanier Gala, the lighting softens.

Golden. Expensive. Intimate in a way that feels staged.

It’s quieter here, but not really. Conversations overlap. Glasses clink. Laughter rises and falls like it’s being performed for the room.

People look at you.

Then look away.

Then look back when they think you won’t notice.

You notice.

You always notice.

You take a glass of champagne from a passing tray, lifting it to your lips just to have something to do.

It tastes like nothing.

Or maybe that’s just you.

Across the room, a couple stands too close. Her hand rests on his chest like it’s always belonged there.

You look away.

Your fingers tighten around the stem.

You could leave.

The thought is sharp. Tempting. Immediate.

You’ve done enough. You showed up. You smiled. You gave them something to write about that isn’t you falling apart.

You could disappear. Go somewhere quiet. Somewhere dark. Somewhere,

“Don’t.”

Mara.

You don’t look at her.

“I wasn’t going to,” you say.

A lie.

“Mm.”

She lets it sit.

“Give it ten minutes,” she says. “You’ve already done the hard part.”

You let out a breath.

“This is the hard part.”

“Not if you play it right.”

Of course.

“You see him yet?” she asks.

Your stomach drops.

“No.”

“Good,” she says. “He’s here.”

Of course he is.

Your gaze drifts, slow, reluctant, and then, you find him.

He’s not where you expect.

Not front and center. Not orbiting attention.

He’s off to the side, talking to someone older, nodding along, one hand loose around a drink he hasn’t touched. His tie is slightly undone, collar just open enough to look like he stopped caring ten minutes in.

He laughs.

Head tipping back slightly.

And it’s,

easy.

God.

It’s so easy.

Not rehearsed. Not curated. Not trying.

Just… him.

You stare a second too long.

“That’s him?” you ask quietly.

Mara follows your gaze.

“Yes.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because now that you’re actually looking,

really looking,

He’s,

Right.

Okay.

That’s,

That’s not what you expected.

Because Mara said safe.

Mara said clean image.

Mara did not say,

that.

Because he’s,

annoyingly,

really hot.

Not in a polished, camera-ready way. Not in a look at me way.

Just,

effortless.

Like he doesn’t know.

Or worse,

like he knows and doesn’t care.

Your stomach does something traitorous.

“Okay,” you murmur. “That’s… not terrible.”

Mara glances at you.

That’s all it takes.

She’s gone.

You’re left standing there, staring at a man who is about to become part of your life for reasons that have nothing to do with either of you.

Your pulse picks up.

You tell yourself it’s the room.

It’s not.

It happens quickly.

Of course it does.

“Y/N, good to see you.”

A hand. A smile. A name you half-remember.

You play along.

“Of course, yeah, you too.”

“I don’t know if you’ve met,”

You turn.

And,

he’s there.

Closer now.

Close enough that you don’t have the distance to observe safely.

Up close, he’s,

You blink.

Oh.

That’s,

worse.

Because somehow he’s even better looking up close.

There’s something about him that doesn’t photograph the same. Something sharper. Warmer. Real in a way that cameras flatten.

His eyes flick over your face, not lingering, not assessing.

Just… taking you in.

Like a person.

Not a headline.

Not a problem.

Not something already explained to him.

“I know who she is,” he says, easy.

His voice is lower up close.

That’s also a problem.

You smile, because that’s what you do.

“Good,” you say. “That would’ve been a really awkward introduction.”

His mouth lifts, just slightly.

“Yeah,” he says. “Would’ve been tough to come back from.”

There’s a beat.

And it’s,

not awkward.

Not forced.

Just… there.

You feel it settle.

You don’t like that you feel it settle.

Up close, he doesn’t feel like a plan.

He feels like someone you could accidentally like.

Which is worse.

“So,” you say, tilting your head, slipping into something safer. “Do you usually get set up at charity events, or is this a Vanier Gala exclusive?”

There’s the edge.

The test.

He doesn’t flinch.

“If I say no, does that make this better or worse?” he asks.

You let out a quiet laugh.

“Depends,” you say. “Are you lying?”

He thinks about it.

Actually thinks about it.

“No,” he says. “But I feel like I should be.”

You blink.

That,

lands.

“Why?” you ask.

He glances past you briefly,toward where Mara disappeared,then back at you.

“Because I’m pretty sure this isn’t a coincidence,” he says. “And I’m not usually this lucky.”

Your brain stalls for half a second.

Because it’s not smooth.

It’s not rehearsed.

It’s not even particularly clever.

It’s just,

honest.

And for some reason, that hits harder.

Okay.

Okay, this might not be so bad.

The thought slips in, quieter this time.

Followed immediately by,

He’s really hot.

You almost laugh.

God.

You are unbelievable.

“Hey, can we get a photo?”

The moment snaps.

You turn.

Cameras.

Of course.

This is it.

This is the point.

You glance at him.

A question.

He catches it.

And instead of stepping in,

instead of assuming,

he pauses.

Just enough.

Like he’s giving you the choice.

It’s small.

It’s everything.

You nod.

He steps closer.

Not too close.

Just enough.

His hand settles at your waist, light but steady.

Warm.

You feel it instantly.

Your breath catches,just slightly.

You hope it doesn’t show.

“Over here!”

“Together!”

You turn into him, your hand resting against his chest like it belongs there.

Like this is natural.

Like this is easy.

Like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

His hand doesn’t tighten.

Doesn’t pull you in.

Just stays.

Grounded.

For a second,

it feels real enough to forget it isn’t.

The flashes slow.

“Perfect, thank you!”

You step back first.

Of course you do.

Space returns.

You feel it more than you should.

“This part always this weird?” he asks, glancing at the cameras.

You let out a breath that turns into a soft laugh.

“Only when people care,” you say.

He looks at you.

“And they care a lot?”

You glance around the room. The watching. The whispering. The story already being built.

“Tonight?” you say. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause.

He nods, like that makes sense.

Like you didn’t just admit something heavier than it sounded.

“Okay.”

Simple.

No follow-up.

No performance.

Across the room, Mara is watching.

You don’t need to look.

You can feel it.

Everything is working.

Exactly how she planned.

And yet, when you look back at him, at the way he’s looking at you like you’re just, you, not something broken, not something to manage, not something temporary, something shifts.

Because this was supposed to be easy.

Fake.

Controlled.

But standing here, with your pulse still slightly off and his hand still a phantom warmth at your waist, you realise, quietly, that this might be the first time in weeks that something hasn’t felt like damage control.

And that?

Pairing: Mat Barzal x actress!fem!reader 

Warnings: Crude humour and language, Breakups, Fictional Character / Events, alcohol + party coping behaviour, cheating / betrayal (past relationship), Sexual References.

Summary: An actress in crisis after a public breakup is pushed into a PR-driven plan that forces her to meet an NHL star at a gala, setting everything in motion.

Read more: Masterlist / Series Masterlist

The room is too bright.

It’s the kind of lighting that makes your skin look worse, your eyes more tired, your life choices more visible.

You’re late.

Not fashionably late. Not dramatically late. Just late enough that when you walk in, everyone already knows you didn’t want to be here.

Which, fair.

You don’t.

Your heels click too loud against the floor. Your head is pounding in that dull, persistent way that tells you last night wasn’t worth it.

None of the nights lately have been.

You drop your bag onto the glass table, slide into your chair, and keep your sunglasses on like that might protect you from literally anything.

“Morning,” you say.

It’s almost noon.

No one corrects you.

Across from you, Mara Klein looks like she’s been awake for days and somehow still sharper than everyone else in the room combined. Next to her, Daniel is trying very hard to look calm and failing in small, subtle ways.

There’s a girl in the corner typing. You don’t know her. You don’t want to know her.

Mara slides a tablet toward you.

You don’t touch it.

“You’re trending in five countries,” she says.

You take a sip of your coffee.

It tastes like absolute shit.

“Global era,” you mumble. “Love that for me.”

Nothing.

Not even a pity smile.

Mara taps the tablet. The screen lights up.

You catch it in flashes without meaning to.

Him.

Of course it’s him.

Sebastian.

Laughing. Smiling. Leaning into her.

Her hand on his chest like she belongs there.

The photo is clean. Intentional. Perfect lighting. Not paparazzi, placed.

A soft launch.

Of course it is.

Your stomach drops before you can stop it.

Because just weeks ago, that was you.

That was your place. Your life. Your person.

You were in love with him in that humiliating, all-consuming way. The kind where you ignore the small red flags because the big picture feels worth it.

And then you found out.

Not from him. Of course not.

From a message you weren’t meant to see. A name that wasn’t yours. A timeline that didn’t add up.

And when you confronted him—

he didn’t fight for you.

He ended it.

Clean. Quick. Like you were the complication.

Three days later, he’s smiling at someone else like you never existed.

You look away like it physically burned you.

“Brand deal is paused,” Mara says, like she’s reading the weather.

“Cool,” you reply. “Love a little financial instability to go with emotional devastation.”

Daniel exhales quietly through his nose.

“They haven’t pulled out,” he says gently. “They’re waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” you snap. “For me to stop being publicly embarrassing?”

Neither of them answer that.

Which is answer enough.

“And the film?” you ask, quieter now.

Mara doesn’t soften it.

“The studio is concerned.”

There it is.

Concerned.

You let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Concerned that I got dumped?” you say. “Or concerned that he upgraded publicly within, what, three days?”

“Concerned about perception,” Mara says.

You finally pull your sunglasses off.

Your eyes feel exposed. Tired. Probably a little bloodshot.

“Perception,” you repeat. “Right. Because the perception is that I’m the crazy ex.”

Mara doesn’t correct you.

Because she can’t.

You lean back, crossing your arms.

“Do we want to talk about the fact that he was already seeing her?” you ask. “Or are we just skipping that part because it doesn’t fit the narrative?”

Daniel shifts uncomfortably.

Mara stays still.

“We’re not managing his image,” she says. “We’re managing yours.”

That hits harder than you expect.

Because it’s true.

And you hate it.

You swallow, jaw tightening.

You remember the late nights, the promises, the way he made you feel like you were everything.

And then—

Three fucking days.

And now he’s smiling at someone else like you never existed.

You laugh under your breath, shaking your head.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Great. Love that for him.”

Mara taps the tablet again, bringing up another screen.

This one’s worse.

You.

Outside a club.

Flashbulbs catching you mid-blink, mid-step, mid-not okay.

Headlines:

Y/N Spirals After Breakup

Sources Say She’s ‘Difficult’ on Set

Is This the End of Her Awards Chances?

You stare at it.

God, you look tired.

“If we don’t correct this in six weeks,” Mara says, “you will not be nominated.”

There it is.

The real threat.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just… final.

You inhale slowly.

Six weeks.

Six weeks to fix your entire life.

“Okay,” you say, voice flatter now. “So what’s the plan? I disappear? Go cry somewhere private and come back rebranded as emotionally stable?”

“No,” Mara says. “You stabilize.”

You let out a laugh, sharper this time.

“I am heartbroken, Mara,” you say. “Not a brand in need of repositioning.”

“You are both,” she replies.

God.

You hate her.

You also know she’s right.

There’s a beat.

You stare at the table, then back up at them.

“Tell me,” you say. “What does ‘stable’ look like this week?”

Mara doesn’t hesitate.

“Grounded.”

Tap.

“Composed.”

Tap.

“In control.”

Tap.

“In a relationship.”

You blink.

Then laugh.

Actually laugh.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Daniel leans forward slightly.

“It would help shift the narrative,” he says.

You look at him like he’s lost his mind.

“Yeah, I’m sure the public would love me jumping into another relationship immediately,” you say. “That won’t look desperate at all.”

“Not with the right person,” Mara says.

You shake your head.

“No. Absolutely not. I’m not doing another actor. I’m not doing another, whatever the fuck Sebastian was.”

“Not an actor,” Daniel says quickly.

You pause.

“…what?”

Mara slides the tablet back toward you, new image on screen.

“An athlete.”

You stare at her.

Then down at the screen.

It’s a photo.

Him.

Mid-laugh. Head tilted slightly. Completely unbothered.

Not posed. Not curated.

Just… real.

You frown.

“…who is that?”

Mara says it like it should land:

Mathew Barzal

You stare at the name.

Nothing.

You look back at his face.

Still nothing, except,

He looks easy.

And right now, nothing in your life is easy.

“I’ve literally never heard of him,” you say.

“Good,” Mara replies.

You huff out a laugh.

“Fantastic. Love dating a stranger for career survival.”

Daniel gestures slightly.

“He’s well-liked. Clean image. No scandals. Very—”

“—stable,” you finish.

“Yes.”

You sit back, studying the photo again.

“…he’s cute,” you admit quietly.

You regret it immediately.

Mara clocks it. Of course she does.

“He’s agreed to meet,” Daniel says.

You look up sharply.

“He’s what?”

“Agreed to a meeting.”

Your stomach drops slightly.

“…you already set this up.”

Mara holds your gaze.

“We don’t have time to wait for you to be comfortable.”

That stings.

Because she’s right.

Again.

“How does this even work?” you ask, quieter now. “What, we just… bump into each other and fall in love on cue?”

Mara finally leans back.

“No,” she says. “You meet him at the Vanier Gala on Saturday.”

You freeze.

“…I’m not going to that.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I declined that weeks ago.”

“We accepted yesterday.”

You stare at her.

“You what?”

“It’s a controlled environment,” Mara continues. “Press will be there. Photographers. Enough visibility without chaos.”

Daniel adds gently, “It’s a good place to reintroduce you.”

Reintroduce.

Like you’re a product.

“And he’ll just be there?” you ask.

“Yes.”

“And we just… what? Talk?”

“Yes.”

“And people will just happen to see it?”

Mara gives you a look.

“Yes.”

You let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through your hair.

“This is insane,” you mutter.

“Effective,” Mara corrects.

You look back down at the photo again.

At him.

At the way he looks like he’s never had his heart broken in a way that rewires your brain chemistry.

At the way he looks like he wouldn’t understand why you spent last night drunk in a bathroom staring at your phone, trying not to look at those photos again.

“He’s not going to like me,” you say before you can stop yourself.

It comes out quieter than everything else.

More honest.

Mara’s voice doesn’t soften.

“He doesn’t have to like you,” she says. “He has to be seen with you.”

That lands.

Hard.

You nod once.

Slow.

Because what else are you supposed to do?

Say no?

Walk away?

Watch everything you’ve worked for disappear because you’re too heartbroken to play along?

You grab the tablet, staring at his face one more time.

At the ease of it.

At the normalcy.

At the possibility that this could either fix everything

or make it so much worse.

“Saturday,” you say finally.

Mara nods.

“Yes.”

You toss the tablet back onto the table and stand, grabbing your bag.

“…this is such a fucking bad idea,” you mutter.

And the worst part?

You’re not even thinking about the gala.

Or the cameras.

Or the headlines.

You’re thinking about Sebastian.

About the way he smiled at her.

About how easy it looked.

Pairing: Mat Barzal x actress!fem!reader

Summary: An actress in crisis after a public breakup is pushed into a PR-driven plan that forces her to meet an NHL star at a gala, setting everything in motion.

In order:

Damage Control

Warnings: Crude humour and language, Breakups, Fictional Character / Events, alcohol + party coping behaviour, cheating / betrayal (past relationship), Sexual References.

First Impression

Warnings: Crude humour and language, Breakups, Fictional Character / Events, alcohol + party coping behaviour, cheating / betrayal (past relationship), Sexual References.

Image Management

Warnings: Crude humour and language, Breakups, Fictional Character / Events, alcohol + party coping behaviour, cheating / betrayal (past relationship), Sexual References.

Damage Assessment

who let me post that. actually. who approved that. was i supervised???

like i was reading it with my own two eyes thinking “wow this author is so brave” because what do you MEAN that was the first thing i ever posted 😭 it’s giving no plot just vibes, it’s giving i discovered italics and never looked back

there are some parts i still like, but overall… yeah no she needs help.

SO. i’m rewriting it. same idea, same characters, but with actual skill this time and significantly less cringe (hopefully).

the original will stay up as a historical artifact of my downfall.

ALSO if you guys have any plot ideas, tropes, scenes, or just things you wanna see in the rewrite pls tell me 🙏 i’m fully taking suggestions because clearly we need all the help we can get

Emergency Contact

Pairing: Sidney Cosby x actress!fem!reader

Warnings: Crude humor and language, Mild sexual references, Injury, Pain Medication.

Requests are open xx

Masterlist

The call comes during practice.

Sid doesn’t answer unknown numbers mid-skate.

He ignores it once. Twice.

The third time, the trainer waves him over.

“That number’s called three times,” he says. “Might be important.”

Sid skates off, annoyed, breath still heavy, grabbing his phone.

“Yeah?”

“Hi, is this Sidney Crosby?”

His tone shifts instantly. “Yes.”

“This is Dr Alvarez from,” there’s a shuffle of papers, background noise, “we have Y/N L/N here. You’re listed as her emergency contact.”

Everything in his body goes still.

“What happened?”

“There was an on-set incident. A stunt, she took a fall. She’s stable,” the doctor adds quickly. “Conscious earlier, but we’ve administered pain management and she’s being monitored. We’d like you here if possible.”

Sid’s already moving.

“How bad?”

“Non-life-threatening,” the doctor says carefully. “Possible fracture. We’ll know more after imaging.”

Non-life-threatening.

It should help.

It doesn’t.

“I’m on my way,” Sid says, already stripping off his gloves.

—

Flights take too long.

That’s the only thought looping in his head as he sits on the plane, knee bouncing, jaw tight, phone in his hand like it’s going to give him answers.

He replays everything.

Your last text.

“Going into stunt rehearsal. If I die, delete my search history.”

He’d replied: “You’re not dying.”

You’d sent back: “Rude. Let me be dramatic.”

He closes his eyes.

You’re fine.

You have to be fine.

—

By the time he gets to the hospital in LA, it’s late. The kind of late where everything feels too quiet and too bright at the same time.

He gives your name at the desk. They recognize him, of course they do, but to their credit, they don’t make a thing of it.

“Room 412,” the nurse says gently.

His hand hesitates on the door.

Just for a second.

Then he pushes it open.

—

You’re awake.

Sort of.

Propped up in the hospital bed, hair a mess, arm in a temporary brace, one knee wrapped. There’s an IV in your hand. Monitors beeping softly beside you.

And your eyes—

Your eyes light up like someone just handed you the best surprise of your life.

“Sidney!” you gasp, way too loud for a hospital room.

He exhales. It’s almost a collapse.

“Hey,” he says, stepping in quickly. “Hey, I’m here.”

“You’re real,” you say, squinting at him. “Okay. Good. For a second I thought they gave me the good drugs and I hallucinated you.”

He huffs a shaky laugh, moving to your bedside. “You didn’t hallucinate me.”

“Damn,” you say. “Because if I did, I was gonna make you take your shirt off.”

He chokes.

“Jesus,” he mutters, already flushing.

You grin at him, absolutely unfiltered. “Oh my god, you’re blushing. That’s so cute. I love when you do that.”

He runs a hand over his face. “You’re on something.”

“Yeah,” you say happily. “And it’s amazing. Highly recommend. Everything feels like… warm soup.”

“Warm soup.”

“Yeah,” you nod seriously. “Emotionally.”

He sits down carefully beside you, eyes scanning you over. Checking. Counting. Making sure you’re actually okay.

“What hurts?” he asks quietly.

You consider this. “Everything. But in a chill way.”

He snorts despite himself.

Your good hand reaches for him, clumsy but determined, grabbing onto his sleeve.

“You came,” you say, softer now.

“Of course I did.”

“You had practice.”

“I left.”

“You always leave for me,” you mumble, eyes drifting for a second.

His chest tightens.

“I’m not leaving you here,” he says gently.

You blink back at him, suddenly very focused again. “Good. Because I feel like shit and I need emotional support and also maybe… like… a little bit of inappropriate attention.”

He stares at you. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m injured,” you say. “Be nice to me.”

“I flew across the continent,” he points out.

“Bare minimum,” you reply.

He laughs, real this time. Relief cracking through everything else.

You tug on his sleeve again. “Come closer.”

“I’m literally right here.”

“Closer.”

He leans in, and you immediately grab his face with both hands (one functional, one… less so).

“You’re so pretty,” you inform him very seriously.

He freezes.

“You’ve said that before.”

“Not like this,” you say. “This is medical-grade honesty.”

“Okay,” he mutters.

You squint at him. “Are you gonna kiss me or just sit there looking like a confused golden retriever?”

He chokes on a laugh. “You’re in a hospital.”

“And?”

“And—”

“And I could’ve died,” you interrupt dramatically.

“You didn’t.”

“But what if I had and my last thought was ‘wow, Sidney Crosby didn’t kiss me enough’?”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head, but he leans in anyway.

The kiss is gentle. Careful. Grounding.

You sigh into it like it fixes something.

“Better,” you murmur.

He rests his forehead against yours for a second.

“You scared me,” he admits quietly.

You blink at him, some of the haze clearing just enough to catch the weight in his voice.

“I’m okay,” you say softly. “Just… stupid.”

“What happened?”

“Missed the landing,” you shrug slightly. “Thought I was cooler than I am.”

“You are not allowed to do that again.”

You smile faintly. “You sound like my insurance company.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” you say, reaching up to brush his cheek. “I’ll be more careful.”

There’s a pause.

Then, because the morphine is still very much doing its job, you grin again.

“Also,” you add, “if I’m stuck in bed for a while, you’re gonna have to entertain me.”

He narrows his eyes. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Oh, it is,” you say cheerfully. “I have ideas.”

“Of course you do.”

“Very good ones,” you insist. “Creative. Inspiring. Possibly illegal in some states.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

You beam. “And you love me.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” he says.

You settle back into the pillow, still holding onto his hand.

“Good,” you mumble, eyes getting heavy. “Because I’m not sharing you.”

He squeezes your fingers gently.

“Not going anywhere,” he says.

And this time, when your eyes finally drift closed, it’s not from pain.

And… the Gloves Are Off

Pairing: Mat Barzal x actress!fem!reader

Warnings: Crude humour and language, and Sexual references and nudity.

Requests are open xx

AN: Ayyyyy. Loved writing this. Again, I didn't know what POV i should have written this in. But... oh well.

Masterlist

It starts like any other shift.

Cold air. Loud building. Legs already burning a little because we’re halfway through the second and it’s been one of those games where nobody’s giving an inch. Tight, chippy, stupid little slashes after the whistle. The kind of game where you can feel something ugly brewing under the ice like a cracked pipe.

I’m lining up for a draw in their end, leaning over my stick, sweat already dripping down my nose. The ref’s talking, winger’s cheating in, everyone’s twitchy.

And then their centerman leans in closer.

Too close.

You know that distance. The one that isn’t about hockey anymore.

He taps his stick against mine, casual. Like we’re about to talk about the weather.

“Hey,” he mutters, voice low enough that it’s just for me. “Your girl’s movie.”

I don’t react. Not yet. I’ve been in the league long enough to know the bait when I hear it.

Drop the puck. Win the draw. That’s the job.

I stare straight down at the dot.

He keeps going.

“Yeah. Saw it last night,” he says. “Packed theatre too. Everyone real interested.”

I win the faceoff clean back to Dobber. Good. Simple. Get off the ice, reset.

But he’s not done.

“Didn’t expect to see her tits that clear though,” he adds under his breath, like he’s commenting on ice conditions.

There it is.

I feel it hit my chest first. Not even anger yet. Just… heat.

I skate out of the circle, tracking the puck, telling myself to leave it. It’s noise. It’s bullshit. Guys chirp about girlfriends, wives, whatever. Comes with the territory.

But Y/N isn’t just “a girlfriend” to these idiots.

And it’s not what he said.

It’s how he said it.

We get the puck deep. I swing behind the net, call for it, take a hit as I move it up the boards. Clean. Hockey play. I can handle that all day.

Whistle goes.

I’m turning to skate to the bench when he glides past me again.

“Whole place went dead quiet when she got naked,” he says, grinning now. “Not gonna lie… worth the ticket.”

I don’t look at him.

I should keep skating.

I don’t.

“She always like that?” he keeps going, skating right beside me now. “Or just for the cameras? Bet you weren’t complaining though, hey?”

And then, softer, right by my ear—

“Must be weird knowing a couple million guys have seen your girl like that. Probably done more with her in their heads than you have in real life.”

And that’s it.

That’s the exact moment something in my brain just… snaps.

Not like a slow burn. Not like a simmer.

Just gone.

I don’t even remember deciding.

I just turn and grab him.

Full fist on his jersey, yanking him back toward me so hard his helmet almost pops off. His eyes go wide for half a second because he wasn’t expecting it to escalate that fast.

Too late.

“You wanna say that again?” I’m in his face now, voice low and shaking in a way I hate because it means I’m already past the point of control.

He grins.

Fucking grins.

“Relax, man,” he shrugs. “She put it out there. Not exactly private anymore, is it? Whole world’s had a look.”

I drop the gloves before he finishes the sentence.

They hit the ice with that heavy, final sound. Like a door slamming shut.

And then we’re going.

I don’t even hear the crowd at first. It’s just blood in my ears and his jersey in my fist and the clean, solid crack of my first punch landing across his cheek.

He tries to square up but I’m already inside his reach. I’ve got him off balance, dragging him down and throwing again. Helmet comes loose, his stick clatters away, refs shouting somewhere far off.

He gets one in. Catches me near the jaw. Good hit. I feel it.

Don’t care.

I just keep going.

“You don’t talk about her,” I’m spitting it now between punches, each word coming out like it’s been sitting in my chest for days. “You don’t—fucking—talk—about—her.”

He tries to grab, tries to wrestle it down, but I’ve got him pinned. Adrenaline’s doing that thing where you feel ten pounds lighter and twice as strong.

Another punch. Another.

The crowd’s loud now. Like really loud. That roar that comes when a fight actually means something.

Linesmen finally get in, grabbing arms, pulling us apart. I’m still trying to lunge back in, still trying to get one more in, like that’ll somehow fix the fact that he said it at all.

“Barzal, that’s enough!”

Hands everywhere. Someone’s dragging me backward. My chest is heaving, vision sharp and narrow and bright.

He’s still chirping.

Of course he is.

“You’re mad because it’s true!” he shouts, blood on his lip now, held back by a ref. “Whole world’s seen her, buddy! Not so special anymore!”

And I lose it again.

I actually break one arm free and try to go back in. They grab me harder this time, practically hauling me off the ice as the whistle blows everything dead.

Penalty box.

Door slams.

And suddenly it’s quiet.

Not actually quiet, the arena’s still buzzing, but inside the glass it’s like everything gets muffled. Like I’ve been dunked underwater.

I sit down hard on the bench, breathing like I’ve just skated a double shift.

My hands are shaking.

Knuckles already swelling.

And then it hits me.

Not the chirp. Not the fight.

Her.

Y/N.

Because the thing is… he’s not wrong about one part.

She did that scene.

And she was fucking incredible.

I remember sitting in that theatre at the premiere, hand in hers, watching her on that screen. Completely fearless. Raw in a way that made my chest ache. Not even about the nudity. Just… her. The way she exists in a role like it’s oxygen.

I was so proud I thought I might actually explode.

Still am.

But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with some idiot on skates reducing it to… that.

Like she’s something to pass around in a locker room conversation.

Like she isn’t the smartest, most talented person I’ve ever met.

Like she isn’t mine.

I drag my hands down my face, helmet off now, sweat cooling on my skin.

Across the ice, he’s in his own box. Still talking. Still running his mouth.

I just stare at him.

Not even angry anymore.

Just… done.

Our D taps the glass as he skates past. “You good?”

I nod once.

“Yeah.”

I’m not.

But I will be.

Because I know exactly what’s waiting for me after the game.

Her.

Probably curled up on the couch in one of my hoodies, hair a mess, half paying attention to whatever show she’s watching. She’ll look up when I walk in, smile like nothing in the world is complicated.

And I’ll tell her about it.

And she’ll probably laugh first. Because that’s who she is.

Then she’ll get that look. The one where she tilts her head and goes soft and serious all at once.

“Did you win?” she’ll ask.

And I’ll say, “Yeah.”

Because I did.

Not the fight.

That doesn’t matter.

But her?

Every day.

Pairing: Mat Barzal x actress!fem!reader

Warnings: Crude humour and language, Angst, Sexual References, Mentions of Pregnancy, NICU and vomiting.

Requests are open xx

AN: Okay. So this is kind of a long one...

Masterlist

He just stands there for a second, blinking at you like you’ve just told him the sky is green or the Islanders traded Sorokin.

Then he laughs, just one soft, stunned exhale, and runs a hand through his hair.

“Wait… like… actually?”

You shrug, the movement sending little ripples across the water. “I don’t know yet. I mean, I haven’t taken a test. But, this morning, I threw up so hard I saw stars. And I’ve been exhausted. Like, bone-deep exhausted. And my boobs feel like someone ran them over with a Zamboni.”

Mat’s face twitches. “Hot.”

You give him a look. “Not the time.”

“Right. Sorry.”

He walks around to the other side of the tub and crouches down, eye level with you now. His expression softens. His fingers brush some wet hair off your cheek. A lump catches in your throat.

“I thought we were done, Mat.”

“I know.”

“We gave away the crib. And the baby swing. And the bottle steriliser. I finally stopped leaking when I sneeze.”

He tries not to smile. “We can get new stuff. And there’s always panty liners.”

“Mat.”

He sobers again. “I know. I know, baby. I’m just, trying to stay calm. Breathe through it.”

You press a hand to your face. “It’s just, we talked about it. We were done. After Halle and the early labour and the NICU and, fuck, I still have nightmares about that hospital beeping. I can’t go through that again. I can’t.”

His hand slips into the water and finds yours. He laces your fingers together, his thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles.

“Then we don’t go through it alone,” he says quietly. “Whatever happens. We figure it out. Like we always do.”

You look at him, at the man who somehow still makes you feel safe even when your whole world is spiraling.

“I don’t even know for sure,” you whisper. “It could be nothing.”

“Or it could be something,” he says. “Want me to go grab a test?”

You shake your head. “Not with the kids still up. I don’t want Jesse asking what a ‘pee stick’ is. I’ll do one tomorrow. When it’s quiet.”

He nods, his eyes never leaving yours. “Okay.”

You sit like that for a moment, you in the water, him crouched beside the tub, your fingers tangled, everything warm and silent and terrifying.

Then you mutter, “You really should’ve worn a condom, Barzal.”

He barks out a laugh, leans forward, and kisses your hand.

“Well,” he grins, “you did tell me it ruined the vibe.”

You splash him. “You’re so annoying.”

And he just smiles, because he knows you’re scared, and overwhelmed, and two seconds from crying again, but you’re still you. Still his you.

And maybe, just maybe…

You’re about to be us again.

Just the five of you.

-

The next morning feels weirdly quiet.

No vomiting, which is a win. But also… no appetite. Just a heavy sort of stillness pressing on your chest. The kind you get before a big test or a scary doctor’s appointment.

Or before peeing on a stick that might tell you your entire life is about to change. Again.

Mat has a late practice, so he offers to do the school run. You decide to come too. Jesse gives you a suspicious look, like, why is Mom here on a Tuesday morning?, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s too busy reciting dinosaur facts from a book Mat bought him last week.

Halle, meanwhile, insists on wearing her Elsa dress over her clothes, and you just don’t have the energy to fight it. So there she is, sparkly blue tulle trailing behind her in the car like a tiny Disney princess, cereal bar in one hand and a stuffed dog in the other.

Once you drop the kids off, Jesse with a wave, Halle with a dramatic kiss on both cheeks, you pull out of the school zone, turn toward the shops, and silence falls.

Mat’s hand rests on the gear shift. You reach over and hold it, not saying anything.

The pharmacy is quiet. A few old people wandering through the aisles. Some sad pop song playing through the speakers. The lights are too bright, and your hoodie is suddenly too hot.

You make your way toward the section.

That section.

There they are, lined up like tiny boxes of potential heartbreak and chaos and second chances. Bright pinks, soft pastels, bold promises of 99% accuracy. One even has sparkles on the box. Like that’s going to make this easier.

You stand there for a minute, just staring.

“Do you know which one’s best?” Mat asks, hovering behind you with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He sways a little, like he’d rather be anywhere else, but is trying really hard not to make it obvious.

You nod. “Yeah. This one’s good for early detection. More sensitive.” You grab it. Then pause. “Actually… maybe I should get a digital one too. Just in case.”

Mat raises an eyebrow. “Double confirmation?”

You shrug. “I want to be sure. Like, sure sure.”

He gives you a soft smile, still rocking on the balls of his feet. “Okay. Whatever you need.”

You grab the second box, clutching both in one hand like you’re buying snacks and not potential existential crises.

At the front counter, the woman working is probably in her fifties. Kind face. Silver-framed glasses. She glances down at the boxes, then up at you, then at Mat hovering just behind you in his backwards cap and hoodie. A knowing smile spreads across her face like butter on toast.

“Ohhh,” she says softly, scanning the boxes. “Exciting.”

You force a polite smile, but something twists in your stomach.

She thinks you’re excited.

That you’re some young couple trying for your first baby, giddy with hope and love and Instagram nursery boards.

She doesn’t know you already have two kids. That you barely survived the last pregnancy. That you gave away all your baby stuff and celebrated being past the newborn phase with margaritas and finally sleeping through the night. That you cried from relief when your period came two months ago because it meant you weren’t pregnant then.

She thinks you want this.

And for a second, you’re not even angry at her.

You’re angry at yourself.

Because what if it’s positive?

What if you are pregnant?

Are you allowed to be upset? Allowed to feel scared and resentful and anxious about starting all over again?

What kind of mom does that make you?

And worse…

What if a tiny part of you isn’t upset?

What if some irrational, hormonal corner of your heart sees that faint pink line and feels something like… joy?

You hate that you don’t know how you feel. That the answer isn’t clear. That guilt is already crawling up your throat before you even know what you’re dealing with.

The cashier hands you the bag gently, still smiling.

“Good luck,” she says warmly.

You nod, mumble a thanks, and grab Mat’s hand as you step back into the morning sun.

The bag crinkles in your grip. The boxes inside feel like bricks.

Mat looks at you as you walk toward the car. “You okay?”

You don’t answer right away. You look at him, his dumb cap, the scruff on his jaw, the way he always unlocks the car for you first, and something about it makes your chest hurt.

“I don’t know,” you say quietly. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.”

He opens the passenger door for you, leans in close.

“You feel however you want,” he says. “Whatever you need to feel, I’ll handle the rest.”

You swallow hard. Climb in. Clutch the bag like it might explode.

The tests are in there.

Somewhere in that little paper bag is a yes or a no.

A future you didn’t plan for.

And in a few hours…

You’re going to find out.

You crack open your Frank Green bottle the second you get into the car and chug. No pauses, just full-on gulping like a dehydrated camel crossing the Sahara. By the time you’re pulling out of the parking lot, the entire bottle is gone.

Mat gives you a sideways look. “Damn,” he grins. “Filling up the tank, huh?”

You snort. “You better hope I’m not pregnant, because if I am, you’re on pee cup duty for the next nine months.”

“Hot.”

“Shut up.”

He smiles, that quiet, cheeky smile of his. The one he uses when he’s trying to make you laugh but also knows you might burst into tears at any moment. Honestly, he’s been kind of… amazing since you told him. Calm. Gentle. Still himself, but more tuned in. Like he’s walking that perfect line between giving you space and staying close.

And you can’t even be mad at him for knocking you up. Not really.

You’re two grown adults. You both knew exactly what you were doing.

And he was so good last night, about everything.

If this is real… at least you have him.

When you get home, Mat parks and jogs around to open your door before you even touch the handle. You give him a look.

“Chivalry? Really?”

“Just trying to butter you up before you scream at me in twenty minutes.”

You roll your eyes and kiss his cheek as you walk past him, the paper bag crinkling in your hand.

Inside, you make a beeline for the bathroom. Mat follows, but lingers outside the door like a very awkward bouncer.

The door stays open, you’ve been married for nearly a decade, there are no secrets here, but he turns away, giving you some privacy while still staying close.

You pull the tests out. Unwrap them. Take a deep breath.

Sit down.

And… nothing.

Your bladder? Silent.

Your body? Acting like you didn’t just drink a litre of water.

You sit there. Legs cold. Elbows on knees. Brows furrowed in betrayal.

“I can’t pee.”

Mat turns slowly. Concern flashes first, then he sees your face, and you know he’s dying inside. His lips twitch. His shoulders tremble.

But he doesn’t laugh.

He walks in, crouches in front of you. His hands settle on your knees, thumbs rubbing gentle circles like he’s about to coach you through labour again.

“Babe,” he says softly, “it’s okay. Just breathe. Relax. Your body’s freaking out. It knows this is a big deal.”

You nod. Your heart is pounding.

He keeps rubbing, keeps looking at you with those grounding eyes. “Just focus on me. You’ve got this. We’ve done worse. Remember when you sneezed mid-labour and farted on your OB?”

“Mathew.”

“What? I’m trying to lighten the mood.”

You glare. He grins.

And then, you feel it.

Finally.

You start to pee.

You make eye contact with your husband, crouched there like your personal emotional support human, and you laugh.

Soft at first. Then more.

Because what is this?

You’re peeing in front of him, about to take a test that could change everything, and he’s crouched like a goalie at your knees.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” you say, wiping tears from your eyes.

He smiles. “I can. This feels like us.”

You finish, dip the sticks exactly like the instructions say, set them on the counter. Step back. Pull your hoodie over your hands because they’re shaking.

Mat stands, grabs his phone, sets a five-minute timer.

“Okay,” he says. “Now we wait.”

You sit on the edge of the tub, bouncing one leg. Mat leans against the sink, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and the tests.

Silence.

Loud, suffocating silence.

Then the timer beeps.

You inhale sharply. Your heart is in your throat.

Mat looks at you. “You want me to check?”

You shake your head. “No. I have to do it.”

You stand. Reach for them. Take a breath.

Flip the caps.

Pregnant. Pregnant.

Two bold, unmistakable results.

You stare.

Mat waits.