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@mrsfromthecouch
welcome to my blog!
â #mrsfromthecouch . . . Ë ŕźâĄ â・Ë
she/her
Hi! I post stuff I like. You might like it too. I know a lot about things that donât matter.
Links: Masterlist / Series Masterlist

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Hey everyone. I wasnât planning on addressing this, but Iâve had someone accuse me of using AI to write my stories, so I wanted to clear that up.
I donât 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. Thatâs all.
The only thing I occasionally use AI for is proofreading or checking spelling consistency. Iâm 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, Iâll sometimes use tools to help catch those differences before I post.
But the writing itself, the ideas, dialogue, scenes, characterization, and storytelling is mine.
Iâm 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 donât have to like my writing, and constructive criticism is always fair, but please donât make assumptions about how my work is created.
Thank you to everyone who reads, comments, and supports my stories. It genuinely means a lot to me. â¤ď¸
Brand Alignement
pairing: Mat Barzal x actress!fem!readerÂ
warnings: fake dating, PR stunt, slow burn, first kiss, sexual tension, alcohol, emotional chaos, Mat Barzal being everyoneâs problem
summary: he said âwear my jersey so i know itâs youâ and she showed up at his hotel room with champagne like that wasnât an invitation for disaster.Â
anyway hereâs 2k words of emotional incompetence, PR violations, and the first kiss they absolutely should not have had
Taglist: @ashloveshockey
Read more: Masterlist / Series MasterlistÂ
Previously: Damage Assessment
Your phone buzzes before youâve 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 Matâs text.
You: define âcontrolledâ
Mara: scripted questions. curated visuals. nothing spontaneous.
Mara: PR will be on-site.
Nothing spontaneous.
You let out a quiet laugh that doesnât actually sound amused.
Because of course.
Because obviously.
Because nothing about Mat Barzal has been ânothing spontaneousâ since the moment he looked at you like you were something he couldnât 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: whatâs âcontrolled narrativeâ 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 âcontrol,â 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, Maraâs 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: weâve got a shoot today
You: brand deal. photos. interview.
You: try not to embarrass me professionally
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Mat doesnât make you wait.
Mat: no guarantees
Mat: but iâll look pretty
You stare at that last message for a beat too long.
Then:
You: thatâs unfortunately part of the problem
And against your better judgment,
You smile.
Just a little.
Before the day even starts to misbehave.
â
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.
âPerfect,â the photographer says immediately when you and Mat step onto the set together. âOh, you two are disgustingly good-looking. This is gonna be easy.â
You nearly walk directly back out.
Mat laughs beside you.
âGood start.â
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.
Youâre 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 heâd run his hands through it on the drive over.
Which feels targeted somehow.
âYou good?â he asks quietly.
Your eyes flick toward him.
Big mistake.
Because now youâre remembering: the tunnel his hand on your waist the almost kiss the way he looked at your mouth before getting interrupted
Catastrophic.
âTotally,â you lie.
âThatâs a lie.â
âYou seem weirdly confident about that.â
âYou get this thing right here,â he says, pointing vaguely toward your face.
âWhat thing?â
âThis thing.â
âThat clears it up completely, thank you.â
His mouth twitches.
And annoyingly, immediately, you relax.
âOkay!â the photographer claps loudly. âLetâs start simple.â
Simple.
Right.
Sure.
Five minutes later, Matâs hand is on your waist while a stylist fixes your hair and youâre pretty sure your nervous system is beginning to short-circuit permanently.
âCloser,â the photographer says.
Matâs hand tightens slightly.
You inhale sharply before you can stop yourself.
His thumb moves once against your side.
Tiny.
Absentminded.
Deadly.
âPerfect,â the photographer says immediately. âThat tension right there? Gorgeous.â
Your soul leaves your body.
Mat coughs beside you like heâs trying not to laugh.
âYou think this is funny?â you murmur under your breath.
âA little.â
âYouâre evil.â
âProbably.â
The photographer circles around you both excitedly.
âOkay, now look at each other.â
Absolutely not.
Unfortunately, you do it anyway.
And there it is again.
That horrible, magnetic thing between you.
You donât know when it started feeling less like pretending and more like standing too close to the edge of something.
But suddenly it does.
Matâs eyes flick down briefly.
Your mouth.
Then back up.
Your stomach flips hard.
âNice,â the photographer says. âDonât move.â
You immediately move.
Mat laughs quietly beside you while you step back.
âI need everyone here to be less observant,â you mutter.
âOh, sweetheart,â your stylist says from somewhere behind the monitors, âthat ship sailed at the hockey game.â
Fantastic.
The next setup is somehow worse.
A couch.
You know.
For legal reasons.
To destroy you specifically.
âSit,â 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.
âRelax,â he says quietly without looking at you.
âYou saying that is starting to become threatening.â
His grin flashes quickly.
The photographer lifts the camera again.
âOkay, Mat, pull her in a little.â
You expect him to hesitate.
He doesnât.
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.
âYES,â he shouts. âThat. Stay exactly like that.â
You physically cannot breathe normally anymore.
Matâs fingers flex once against your skin.
Tiny movement.
Massive consequences.
âYou okay?â he murmurs quietly.
No.
Absolutely not.
âPeachy,â you whisper back.
His mouth twitches again.
God.
Youâre starting to hate his mouth.
The interview somehow goes even worse.
Because apparently the producers decided what America really needs is a âcouples compatibility segment.â
Which would almost be funny if it wasnât actively ruining your life.
âWhoâs more stubborn?â the interviewer asks brightly.
You and Mat point at each other instantly.
The crew bursts out laughing.
âWow,â the interviewer says. âNo hesitation there.â
âSheâs terrifying,â Mat says easily.
You stare at him.
âYou literally body-check grown men for a living.â
âProfessionally.â
âOh, my mistake.â
The interviewer grins.
âWho apologizes first after arguments?â
âHe does,â you say immediately.
Mat looks genuinely offended.
âI absolutely do not.â
âYou absolutely would.â
âYouâve known me for like two weeks.â
âAnd yet Iâm correct.â
He stares at you for a second before laughing softly under his breath.
The crew collectively melts.
You can literally feel it happening.
âOh my God,â one of the producers whispers near the monitors. âTheyâre insane together.â
Your heart does something deeply annoying at that.
Because the worst part?
Youâre 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 youâre walking around with exposed wiring.
You and Mat stand together near the monitors afterward while the team reviews shots.
âHoly shit,â someone says behind you. âThese are incredible.â
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 hadnât even noticed it happening.
Matâs looking down at you softly while youâre 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.
âYou okay?â
Matâs 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.
âYeah,â you say softly.
Another lie.
And somehow, you think he knows that too.
â
You should go back to your room.
Thatâs the thing.
You know you should.
The shoot wrapped an hour ago. Youâre exhausted. Emotionally unstable. One accidental hand touch away from a complete psychological collapse.
And yet somehow you still end up standing outside Matâs 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.
âYou know itâs midnight, right?â he says.
You lift the champagne slightly.
âYou gonna invite me in or make this psychologically worse?â
His laugh is soft and surprised.
Then he steps aside.
âCome in.â
The room is warm.
Quiet.
No cameras. No stylists. No PR people.
Just him.
Which suddenly feels far more dangerous.
âYou always carry emergency champagne?â he asks as you sit on the edge of the couch.
âOnly during emotional crises.â
âGood thing weâre having one.â
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 Matâs sitting close enough now that your knees brush every few minutes without either of you moving away.
âYou know whatâs annoying?â you say eventually.
âWhat?â
âYouâre significantly more emotionally intelligent than I expected.â
He looks deeply offended.
âThatâs crazy disrespectful.â
âYou play professional hockey.â
âAnd?â
âAnd statistically?â
He laughs loudly enough that you smile immediately.
God.
That smile is becoming a problem.
âYou know,â he says after a second, quieter now, âI almost kissed you yesterday.â
The air changes instantly.
Your pulse stutters hard.
You look at him slowly.
âI know.â
Silence.
Heavy.
Neither of you move.
âYou didnât seem very opposed to the idea,â he says carefully.
Your throat suddenly feels dry.
âThatâs because I wasnât.â
His eyes darken immediately.
The room feels smaller now.
Warmer.
You should say something smart here.
Instead:
âYouâre very hard to pretend with.â
Mat goes very still.
Then:
âGood thing I stopped pretending a while ago.â
Your breath catches completely.
And after that, neither of you really stands a chance.
You donât know who moves first.
Maybe both of you.
Maybe neither.
All you know is suddenly heâs 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 donât.
Neither does he.
âTell me to stop,â he says softly.
You stare at him for one suspended second.
Then whisper:
âYou first.â
Thatâs 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.
Itâs 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 youâre 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 itâs always belonged there.
When you finally pull back, both of you are breathing too hard.
Foreheads pressed together.
Neither letting go.
âThis is a terrible idea,â you whisper.
âYeah,â 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.
Youâre still close enough to feel his breathing.
Still half in his lap.
âThis feels extremely unprofessional,â you murmur.
Mat huffs a quiet laugh against your mouth.
âPretty sure we crossed that line at the tunnel.â
âFair point.â
Silence settles again.
Not awkward.
Just charged.
Your eyes flick toward the abandoned champagne bottle on the table before drifting back to him.
âSo,â you say carefully, âif we hypothetically start sleeping togetherâŚâ
Matâs eyebrows lift immediately.
âHypothetically.â
âObviously.â
His mouth twitches.
âObviously.â
You try to ignore how warm your face suddenly feels.
âIt technically helps the story,â you continue. âBetter chemistry. Better press. Weâd just be⌠committing to the bit.â
âRight,â he says solemnly. âMethod acting.â
âExactly.â
He looks at you for one long second before his hand tightens slightly against your waist.
âSweetens the deal,â you say softly.
Something shifts in his expression instantly.
Lower.
Hotter.
âDangerous thing to say to me right now,â he murmurs.
Your stomach flips hard.
âBut you agree.â
His eyes drop briefly to your mouth again.
Then back up.
âYeah,â he says quietly.
Another pause.
Heavy.
âYouâre trouble,â he adds softly.
You smile slightly.
âYou kissed me first.â
âPretty sure you showed up here with champagne on purpose.â
You consider arguing.
Unfortunately heâs completely right.
And judging by the way heâs looking at you now?
He knows it too.
It's Just Acting
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 wasnât 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, heâd 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 sheâd been too overwhelmed to sleep.
Heâd been in a hotel room somewhere after a road game, exhausted and half-conscious, and sheâd sounded so happy heâd smiled into the phone anyway.
âItâs the best script Iâve ever read,â sheâd 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, heâd 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, didnât help.
Sidney had disliked Adrian immediately, which felt unfair considering theyâd 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 âeasyâ it was to have chemistry with her.
The room immediately turned into a chorus of chirping.
âOhhhh, Sid.â
âYour girlâs got a work husband.â
âYou watched this movie yet or what?â
Sidney had rolled his eyes, tied his skates tighter than necessary, and ignored them.
But heâd thought about it the entire practice anyway.
Which pissed him off more than the clip itself.
Because it wasnât her fault.
That was the thing.
She hadnât 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 itâd be better to get it over with privately instead of pretending he hadnât 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 wasnât explicit.
Honestly, Sidney almost wished it had been.
Explicit wouldâve 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:
âraw and deeply vulnerable.â
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 wasnât 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 wasnât dramatic. He didnât pick fights. Didnât accuse her of anything.
He justâŚ
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 wasnât 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.
âYou look terrible,â Geno informed him cheerfully.
Sidney kept unlacing his skates.
âThanks.â
âNo, seriously. Like divorced.â
Sidney snorted despite himself.
âIâm not divorced.â
âNot yet.â
âJesus Christ.â
Geno grinned.
Then, more casually:
âMovie bothering you?â
Sidneyâs hands paused for half a second.
Which was apparently answer enough.
Geno burst out laughing.
âOH my God. It IS the movie.â
âItâs not the movie.â
âSidney.â
âItâs not.â
Geno looked delighted.
âYou jealous.â
Sidney stared at him.
Then muttered:
âIâm not jealous.â
A beat.
âIâm annoyed.â
Geno nearly fell over laughing.
The worst part was going home afterward.
Because sheâd 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.
âOkay,â she said carefully. âWhatâs going on with you?â
âNothing.â
Too fast.
Her expression softened instantly.
Which somehow made it worse.
She leaned against the counter quietly.
ââŚis this about the movie?â
Sidney closed his eyes briefly.
God.
He felt so fucking immature.
âNo.â
Another lie.
She waited him out.
That was the problem with dating someone who knew him this well. Silence didnât work anymore.
Eventually he exhaled hard through his nose and looked down at the counter.
âI know itâs acting,â he muttered.
She stayed quiet.
âI know none of itâs real.â
Still quiet.
Then finally:
âBut?â
Sidney laughed once under his breath, humorless.
âBut I hated watching somebody else touch you like that.â
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.
âWhich, I know is unfair, okay? I know that.â
For a second she just looked at him.
Not angry.
Just sad.
Then she walked closer.
Slowly.
âSid.â
He wouldnât look at her.
âDo you know what filming that scene was actually like?â
He shrugged slightly.
She smiled a little.
âThere were like fourteen people in the room.â
That got his attention.
âWhat?â
âIntimacy coordinator. Camera operators. Director. Sound guy who kept coughing every five seconds.â
Sidney blinked.
She laughed softly now.
âAt one point Adrian accidentally kneed me in the ribs and I started crying because it hurt.â
He stared at her.
ââŚseriously?â
âSeriously.â
The tension cracked slightly.
Just enough.
She stepped closer again.
âYou know what I was actually thinking during most of that scene?â
Sidney looked at her carefully.
ââŚwhat?â
A grin tugged at her mouth.
âThat you were going to make fun of me for crying after every take.â
And just like thatâ
there they were again.
Not the movie. Not Adrian. Not the internet.
Just them.
Sidney let out a breath he felt like heâd been holding for weeks.
Then finally pulled her against him, burying his face against her neck.
She laughed quietly.
âYouâre ridiculous.â
âI know.â
âYou wanna know something embarrassing?â
He groaned.
âProbably not.â
âAdrian kept trying to improvise lines.â
Sidney pulled back immediately.
âWhat does that mean?â
She started laughing harder.
And suddenly everything felt normal again.
Damage Assessment
Pairing: Mat Barzal x actress!fem!readerÂ
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 airâs been stolen straight out of your lungs.
âRelax,â 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.
âYouâre thinking too much.â
âIâm not thinking,â you whisper.
âThatâs a lie.â
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.Â
âThere,â he says softly. âThatâs it.â
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 heâd rather be.
It feels terrifyingly real.
His fingers curl and you gasp.
âMatââ
âI know,â he says quietly. âI got you.â
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.
âGood girl,â 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.
âPlease,â you breathe.
âPlease what?â
You whine softly.
He laughs under his breath. Low. Warm. Cruel.
âUse your words.â
Youâre 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 arenât his fingers.
Theyâre yours.
You freeze completely.
âOh my God.â
Mortification slams into you at terminal velocity. You yank your hand away like youâve 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.
âThis is actually humiliating,â 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.
âOh, fuck you,â 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:
âYou have GOT to get a grip.â
You throw your arm over your eyes dramatically.
Because really.
Really?
Youâve known him for maybe ten days.
Ten.
And now your subconscious has apparently decided heâs 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 sheâs smiled in months omg
@nhlupdatesdaily: NHL men being emotionally competent wasnât 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.
AMERICAâS 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 âeffortless.â
âAt one point he literally left with her midway through the event because she looked upset,â one source claims. âHe seemed more focused on taking care of her than the publicity.â
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 Barzalâs seemingly protective nature and Y/Nâs 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.
âThis is a nightmare.â
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 itâs âgood opticsâ
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 itâs u
You: this feels psychologically dangerous
Mat: probably
And somehow thatâs worse.
âââ
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 havenât emotionally processed that.
âYou look hot,â 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.
âI look insane,â you reply.
âYou look invested,â she corrects.
âThatâs worse.â
Ava ignores you completely.
âRemember,â she says as the arena doors open, âcamera-friendly but natural.â
You stare at her.
âWhat does that even mean?â
âIt means if they put you on the jumbotron, donât look like youâre being held hostage.â
âOh, perfect. Great note.â
The second you step inside, the noise hits you.
Itâs 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 manâs 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.
Itâs 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 heâs laughing with a teammate by the bench. The next heâs slamming some six-foot-something guy into the glass with enough force to make your stomach flip embarrassingly hard.
âThis should not be attractive,â you mutter under your breath.
A woman beside you hears.
âIt gets worse,â she says sympathetically.
Sheâs 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.
âOh, youâve got to be kidding me,â 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.
Youâre 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.
âThere she is.â
Your stomach does something deeply unprofessional.
âYou look disgusting,â you inform him.
He snorts softly.
âYeah?â
âLike objectively. Itâs upsetting.â
âAppreciate that.â
You move closer before your brain can stop you.
Bad idea.
Very bad idea.
Because up close heâs 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.
âYou came,â he says.
âYou literally texted me.â
âStill counts.â
You lean back lightly against the concrete wall beside him, crossing your arms mostly to stop yourself from touching him for reasons youâd rather not unpack.
âYouâre very cocky for someone who spends his evenings willingly getting punched on ice.â
âWe won.â
âYouâre impossible.â
âBut you had fun.â
It isnât a question.
Which is annoying because heâs right.
You exhale a laugh.
âIt was kind of insane.â
âKinda?â
âOkay, fine. Watching you nearly kill people was apparently very entertaining.â
His grin widens slowly.
âThat so?â
You immediately regret speaking.
âDonât make it weird.â
âIâm not making it weird.â
âYouâre literally smirking.â
âThatâs just my face.â
âYour face is a problem.â
Thereâs a beat.
Then another.
The noise from the arena feels farther away suddenly.
Quieter.
And Matâs looking at you differently now.
Not PR-differently.
Not cameras-around differently.
Just⌠you.
Your pulse stutters hard.
âYou looked good up there,â he says quietly.
Your breath catches slightly.
âThe jersey was a nice touch.â
âOh my God.â
âWhat?â
âYou knew exactly what you were doing with that text.â
His smile turns softer around the edges.
âMaybe.â
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.
âYou know,â he says softly, stepping closer, âthe internet thinks Iâm obsessed with you now.â
Your laugh comes out quieter than intended.
âYeah? Tough break.â
âMhm.â
His hand settles against the wall beside your head.
Not touching you.
Worse.
So much worse.
Because suddenly heâs close enough that you can feel warmth radiating off him and your brain short-circuits entirely.
âYou smell good,â he says absentmindedly.
You blink at him.
âThat feels illegal after a hockey game.â
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.
âYou keep doing that,â he murmurs.
Your voice barely works.
âDoing what?â
âLooking at me like that.â
Your heart slams hard against your ribs.
âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
âThatâs a lie.â
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 thereâs 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.
âMat,â you whisper.
It comes out wrong.
Too soft.
Too breathless.
His eyes darken immediately.
âYeah?â
You should move.
You donât.
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 shutâ
âBARZY!â
You both jerk apart instantly.
A teammate appears at the far end of the tunnel looking deeply confused.
âOh,â he says slowly.
âOhhhhh.â
You want the concrete floor to open beneath you.
Mat drags a hand over his face.
âFor fuckâs sake.â
The teammate grins.
âAm I interrupting something?â
âYes,â both of you say immediately.
He looks delighted by this information.
âYou owe me fifty bucks,â 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 hadnât interrupted, Mat wouldâve kissed you.
And worse?
You wanted him to.

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You Good?
Pairing: Joe Burrow x actress!fem!readerÂ
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.Â
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.
Youâre 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.
âIâm serious,â you mutter. âIf these shoes ever come near me again, Iâm suing somebody.â
Joeâs sitting beside you, jacket discarded, tie loosened slightly, watching you with that quiet amusement he always gets when you start spiralling from exhaustion.
âYou said that three hours ago.â
âYeah, well now I mean it spiritually.â
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.
âWhat?â he asks.
âNothing,â you say quickly.
âLiar.â
You grin tiredly. âYou just look very⌠Met Gala right now.â
âMet Gala,â he repeats flatly.
âYeah. Annoyingly attractive. Like a guy in a cologne ad.â
âThat sounds terrible.â
âIt should. Unfortunately it isnât.â
His mouth twitches.
Then he looks down at you still trapped in the van and holds out a hand automatically.
âCâmon.â
You try to stand on your own.
Immediately wobble.
Joe catches you before you can even pretend you had it handled.
âOkay,â he says. âNope.â
âIâm fine.â
âYou almost died.â
âI looked graceful.â
âYou looked concussed.â
You laugh, grabbing onto his shoulder, but before you can properly climb down, one arm slides around your waist.
Then suddenly,
youâre lifted.
Not dramatically. Not like some huge showy moment.
Just easy.
Effortless.
Like you weigh nothing to him.
âJoe,â
âYou can barely walk.â
âThese shoes are criminal.â
âThatâs what Iâve been saying.â
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.
âYou good?â he asks quietly.
You nod, looking up at him.
Too handsome. Honestly irritating.
âYou know,â you murmur, âyouâre being suspiciously nice to me.â
âSuspiciously?â
âMhm. Makes me think you want something.â
Joe gives you the driest look imaginable.
âI want sleep.â
You grin. âLiar.â
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.
âYou ready?â
You lean into him slightly, still holding his arm.
âYeah,â you say softly.
And with his hand steady at your back, he guides you inside like the rest of the city stopped existing hours ago.
Image Management
Pairing: Mat Barzal x actress!fem!readerÂ
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.
âY/N! Over hereâ!â
âMat! Look this way!â
Your name and his name, tangled together like theyâve always belonged in the same sentence.
You step out.
Heâs right there a second later.
And thenâ
his hand.
Light. Steady. At the small of your back.
Not grabbing. Not pulling.
Justâ
there.
Grounding.
âAre you two together?â
âWhen did this start?â
âIs this official?â
You smile.
Of course you do.
âWeâre just here to support the event,â you say smoothly. âItâs a great cause.â
You feel him glance down at you, amused.
âYeah,â he adds. âWhat she said.â
You move together.
Not perfectly. Not like you rehearsed it.
But it works.
It looksâ
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.
âWell,â you say, glancing at him. âThat was subtle.â
âYeah,â he nods. âI thought we really sold the âwe just met five minutes agoâ vibe.â
You smile.
âVery organic.â
âVery natural.â
You fall into step beside him.
And for a while, itâs easy.
Thatâs 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.
Heâs good at this.
Not in the polished, media-trained way youâre used to.
Just⌠normal.
âSo what is this event actually for?â he asks quietly as you both escape another conversation.
You blink.
âYou donât know?â
âI was told to show up,â he says. âThatâs about as far as I got.â
You laugh.
âYeah, that tracks.â
You grab two drinks from a passing tray, handing him one.
âSome kind of foundation thing,â you say. âRich people feeling better about themselves.â
He nods.
âLove that.â
You take a sip.
âYouâre doing really well, by the way.â
âAt what?â
âPretending to be into this.â
He shrugs.
âIâm having a decent time.â
You glance at him.
ââŚyou are?â
âYeah.â
A beat.
âYouâre funny.â
You choke slightly on your drink.
âWow,â you cough. âThatâs bold of you to admit out loud.â
âJust being honest.â
âCareful,â you say. âPeople might think you like me.â
âWould that ruin the narrative?â
âCompletely.â
Youâre still smiling when it happens.
Itâs not loud.
Not obvious.
Just⌠a shift.
Your eyes catch something across the room.
And then you see him.
Sebastian.
Itâs like someone pulled the floor out from under you.
Sudden.
Sharp.
Heâs standing near the bar.
Laughing.
Sheâs next to him.
Hand on his arm.
Leaning in like she belongs there.
Your chest tightens.
Hard.
Because itâs not just seeing him.
Itâs seeing him like that.
Comfortable.
Easy.
Like nothing happened.
Like you didnât matter.
âYou okay?â
Matâs voice cuts through it.
You blink.
Force your face back into something neutral.
âYeah,â you say quickly. âIâm fine.â
Youâre not.
Youâre absolutely not.
âIâm gonna grab another drink,â he says after a second. âYou want anything?â
You shake your head.
âNo, Iâm good.â
He hesitates.
Just slightly.
Then nods.
âIâll be right back.â
You watch him go.
And the second he disappearsâ
âHey.â
You freeze.
Of course.
You turn slowly.
Sebastian stands there like this is casual. Like this is fine.
âHey,â he says again.
You stare at him.
God, he looks the same.
âHi,â you reply.
Your voice is steady.
You donât know how.
He smiles.
Like he always does.
Like it still works.
âYou look good,â he says.
You almost laugh.
It comes out sharper than you mean it to.
âThanks,â you say. âYou too.â
Your eyes flick to her.
Then back.
He notices.
Of course he does.
âYeah,â he says. âThis isââ
âI know,â you cut in.
You donât need the introduction.
You really donât.
Thereâs a beat.
âI didnât think youâd be here,â he says.
You tilt your head.
âYeah,â you reply. âFunny how that works.â
He shifts.
Like heâs uncomfortable.
Good.
âI was gonna call you,â he says.
You let out a short laugh.
âYou didnât.â
He exhales.
âI just thoughtââ
âWhat?â you cut in. âThat Iâd see it online like everyone else?â
Because you remember.
The message.
Not meant for you.
A name that wasnât yours.
A timeline that made you feel sick.
The confrontation.
Your voice shaking.
His⌠not.
âI didnât want to hurt you,â he says.
âThatâs funny,â you reply. âBecause you absolutely did.â
A pause.
âIt wasnât serious,â he says.
That what does it.
You stare at him.
âWow,â you say softly. âThat actually makes it worse.â
âI just think youâre making it a bigger deal than it was,â he adds.
There it is.
You let out a breath.
Shaky.
âRight,â you say. âBecause getting cheated on is famously not a big deal.â
He runs a hand through his hair.
âLook, we were both busy, things got complicated-â
âDonât,â you cut in.
âDonât rewrite this like it was mutual.â
Thereâs a flicker of irritation in his expression now.
âYouâve clearly moved on,â he says, glancing past you.
You follow his gazeâ
Mat.
Standing a few feet away.
Watching.
You look back at Sebastian.
âOh my god,â you say quietly. âIs that what you think this is?â
He shrugs.
âLooks like it.â
You laugh.
It sounds hollow.
âYeah,â you say. âBecause God forbid I donât sit around crying over you forever.â
His jaw tightens.
âYouâre making a scene,â 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 thenâ
âHey.â
Mat.
He steps in beside you like itâs nothing.
Like this isnât loaded.
Like he didnât just read the entire situation in half a second.
âSorry,â he says easily. âI stole her for a second.â
His hand settles at your back again.
Steady.
Familiar.
Sebastian looks between you.
Mat smiles.
Polite.
Friendly.
Just enough edge underneath it.
âYou good?â he asks you quietly.
You nod.
Too fast.
âYeah.â
He doesnât buy it.
âCool,â he says anyway.
Then, to Sebastianâ
âNice to meet you, man.â
Sebastian nods stiffly.
âYeah,â Mat adds, like itâs an afterthought, âwe were just heading out.â
You werenât.
Not technically.
But you donât correct him.
Sebastian glances at you.
Then at him.
âRight,â he says.
Matâs smile doesnât change.
âYeah,â he replies. âHave a good night.â
Thereâs something in the way he says it.
Not aggressive.
Not confrontational.
Just final.
Sebastian doesnât push it.
He turns.
Back to her.
You watch them go.
Your vision blurs slightly.
âHey,â Mat says softly.
You blink.
Hard.
âYou wanna get out of here?â he asks.
No hesitation.
No we should stay.
No this is good for PR.
Just you.
You nod.
âYeah,â you say.
And thatâs it.
He doesnât make a scene.
Doesnât explain.
He just keeps his hand at your back
guides you through the room
past the noise
past the people
past everything
Until youâre outside.
The air hits cold.
Sharp.
You make it three steps.
And then you break.
Itâs not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just your breath catching, your chest tightening, tears you canât quite stop.
âHey, hey, itâs okay,â he says quickly.
You shake your head.
âItâs so stupid,â you manage. âIâm fine, I justââ
Youâre not.
He doesnât argue.
Doesnât tell you to calm down.
âCome on,â he says gently. âLetâs get in the car.â
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.
âSorry,â you mutter. âThis isââ
âYou donât have to apologise,â he says.
You laugh weakly.
âYeah, I do. Iâm supposed to be, like, fun tonight.â
âYou were,â he says.
That doesnât help.
And also does.
Thereâs a beat.
âWho was that?â he asks, quieter now.
You stare out the window.
âMy ex,â you say.
Simple.
He nods.
âHe cheated on me,â you add.
Because apparently youâre just saying things now.
He doesnât interrupt.
âI found out from a text,â you continue. âNot even a good one. Like if youâre going to ruin my life, at least be creative about it.â
A shaky laugh slips out.
âAnd then when I confronted him, he didnât even fight for me,â you say.
Quieter.
âHe just⌠ended it.â
You swallow.
âAnd then three days later heâs out with her,â you add. âAnd I get to find out about it the same way everyone else does.â
Public.
Clean.
Humiliating.
You let your head fall back against the seat.
âI looked like such an idiot,â you say.
Thereâs a pause.
âThatâs not on you,â he says.
You glance at him.
His expression is steady.
A little tighter now.
âHe didnât even try,â he adds. âThatâs on him.â
Simple.
No bullshit.
You exhale.
âI kind of lost it after,â you admit.
âLike, drinking, going out, doing dumb shit with people I didnât even like.â
You huff a quiet laugh.
âReally great coping mechanisms.â
He doesnât judge.
âThen suddenly Iâm the problem,â you say. âPhotos, headlines, âspiralling actressââall that shit.â
You shake your head.
âItâs just⌠exhausting.â
Silence.
Soft.
âYou donât seem like the problem,â he says.Â
You blink.
âThatâs because you met me after the breakdown,â you reply.
He smiles slightly.
âI think Iâd have the same opinion,â 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.
ââŚthanks,â you say quietly.
He nods like itâs nothing.
And somehow that makes it mean more.
Borrowed Spotlight
Pairing: Joe Burrow x actress!fem!readerÂ
Warnings: Mild language, public setting anxiety, fluff, established relationship
Summary: He hates the attention. Loves you. Somehow, thatâs enough to make him stay.
Taglist: @ashloveshockey
Read more: Masterlist / Series Masterlist
He hates the attention. Loves you. Somehow, thatâs enough to make him stay.
Joe Burrow hates this.
You can tell before the car even stops.
Heâs too still beside you, jaw set, fingers flexing once against his thigh like heâs 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 doesnât need fixing.
âHey,â you murmur. âYou good?â
He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. âYeah. Love this. Big fan of being watched.â
You smile a little. âOnly tonight. Then you can go back to being mysterious and hard to get.â
That earns you a glance.
âHard to get?â he repeats.
âPlease,â you say. âYou barely answer texts.â
âI answer yours.â
âEventually.â
His mouth twitches.
You study him for a second longer, then your voice softens. âYou donât have to walk it with me, you know. You can meet me inside. No one would care.â
He shakes his head immediately.
âNo,â he says. Then quieter, more certain: âIâm here with you.â
That does something to your chest.
You nod once. âOkay. Then just stay with me, yeah? Donât overthink it.â
âI donât overthink,â he mutters.
You raise an eyebrow. âYouâve been staring at that door like it personally offended you for the last thirty seconds.â
ââŚIâm assessing.â
You laugh under your breath. âRight. Of course you are.â
The car door opens.
And suddenly itâs loud.
The flashes hit fast,voices calling your name, overlapping, urgent.
You step out like itâs nothing.
He doesnât.
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. Itâs instinct. Grounding. Yours and his.
âRight here,â you murmur, guiding him forward.
He nods once.
And just like that,he adapts.
Itâs subtle, but you feel it. The shift. The way he settles into himself, not comfortable exactly, but controlled. Like heâs figured out how to exist in the chaos instead of fighting it.
Halfway down the carpet, you glance up at him.
ââŚYouâre doing better than I expected.â
âWow,â he says flatly. âThatâs reassuring.â
âI meant that as a compliment.â
âDidnât sound like one.â
You grin. âYouâre posing, by the way.â
âIâm standing.â
âYouâre doing the jaw thing.â
âWhat jaw thing?â
âThat one,â you say, laughing softly. âThe âI donât care but I actually care a lotâ thing.â
He exhales. âThatâs just my face.â
âSure it is.â
A photographer calls your name.
Then his.
Joe blinks slightly, leaning in just enough that only you hear him. âWhy do they know me here?â
You tilt your head. âJoe⌠youâre not exactly invisible.â
âFeels different,â he mutters.
You hum. âYeah. Because tonight, youâre with me.â
He glances down at you at that.
âDangerous statement,â he says quietly.
âWhy?â
His hand shifts at your waist, more natural now. More certain.
âBecause I look better than you expected.â
You pause.
Just for a second.
Your eyes flick over him,slow, deliberate.
ââŚOkay,â you admit. âYeah. You do.â
That smirk? Immediate.
âI knew it.â
âI didnât say all that.â
âYou didnât have to.â
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. âYouâre insufferable.â
âAnd you brought me anyway.â
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.
âAlright,â he says, grabbing a drink. âThat partâs done.â
You bump his shoulder lightly. âYou didnât hate it.â
âI didnât love it,â he corrects.
âBut you didnât run.â
He glances at you. âYou had a grip on me like I might.â
âI did think that.â
âWow.â
You grin. âAnd yet,you stayed.â
Thereâs a pause.
Something softer slips into his expression now, something less guarded.
âI told you,â he says. âI wanted to be here with you.â
You hold his gaze for a second.
âYeah,â you say quietly. âI know.â
The noise of the room fades a little around you.
Then he looks you over,quick, but not subtle.
ââŚYou look insane, by the way.â
You smirk. âGood insane or concerning insane?â
âBoth.â
âIâll take it.â
Another beat.
Then, lighter now, you lean in just slightly. âYou did good tonight.â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â Your voice dips just a little. âMight even be worth something.â
His eyebrow lifts. âOh, yeah?â
You shrug, teasing, not breaking eye contact. âDepends if you keep behaving.â
He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âAnd youâre still here,â you point out.
âYeah,â he says.
Then, softer:
âYeah, I am."
Checking in to see if you would be open to a Joe Burrow x actress request?
Of course!! Iâd be totally open to a Joe Burrow x actress request, sounds like such a fun idea. Did you have anything specific in mind for it? Like a particular vibe, storyline, or setting you want me to include?
"now you can blush"

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First Impression
Pairing: Mat Barzal x actress!fem!readerÂ
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 youâre ready.
It always does.
âY/N, over here!â
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 thatâs 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.
âY/N, how are you feeling tonight?â
You turn automatically, smile already in place.
âGood,â you say easily. âItâs a beautiful event. Iâm really happy to be here.â
It sounds real.
Thatâs the trick.
âAny comment on everything thatâs been happening lately?â
You tilt your head slightly, like youâre considering it.
âI think people love a story,â you say, light, almost amused. âSometimes more than they love the truth.â
A ripple of laughter. Pens moving. Cameras flashing like you said something clever instead of something tired.
âDo you have any upcoming projects?â
âIâd love to,â you say, smiling just enough, âbut I enjoy having a job, so I probably shouldnât.â
More laughter.
God, youâre good at this.
âY/N,Sebastian was seen earlier this week,â
You step back before the sentence finishes.
âThank you so much, guys,â you say smoothly. âEnjoy the night.â
You donât 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.
Itâs quieter here, but not really. Conversations overlap. Glasses clink. Laughter rises and falls like itâs being performed for the room.
People look at you.
Then look away.
Then look back when they think you wonât 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 thatâs just you.
Across the room, a couple stands too close. Her hand rests on his chest like itâs always belonged there.
You look away.
Your fingers tighten around the stem.
You could leave.
The thought is sharp. Tempting. Immediate.
Youâve done enough. You showed up. You smiled. You gave them something to write about that isnât you falling apart.
You could disappear. Go somewhere quiet. Somewhere dark. Somewhere,
âDonât.â
Mara.
You donât look at her.
âI wasnât going to,â you say.
A lie.
âMm.â
She lets it sit.
âGive it ten minutes,â she says. âYouâve already done the hard part.â
You let out a breath.
âThis is the hard part.â
âNot if you play it right.â
Of course.
âYou see him yet?â she asks.
Your stomach drops.
âNo.â
âGood,â she says. âHeâs here.â
Of course he is.
Your gaze drifts, slow, reluctant, and then, you find him.
Heâs not where you expect.
Not front and center. Not orbiting attention.
Heâs off to the side, talking to someone older, nodding along, one hand loose around a drink he hasnât 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 itâs,
easy.
God.
Itâs so easy.
Not rehearsed. Not curated. Not trying.
Just⌠him.
You stare a second too long.
âThatâs him?â you ask quietly.
Mara follows your gaze.
âYes.â
You donât answer right away.
Because now that youâre actually looking,
really looking,
Heâs,
Right.
Okay.
Thatâs,
Thatâs not what you expected.
Because Mara said safe.
Mara said clean image.
Mara did not say,
that.
Because heâs,
annoyingly,
really hot.
Not in a polished, camera-ready way. Not in a look at me way.
Just,
effortless.
Like he doesnât know.
Or worse,
like he knows and doesnât care.
Your stomach does something traitorous.
âOkay,â you murmur. âThatâs⌠not terrible.â
Mara glances at you.
Thatâs all it takes.
Sheâs gone.
Youâre 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 itâs the room.
Itâs not.
It happens quickly.
Of course it does.
âY/N, good to see you.â
A hand. A smile. A name you half-remember.
You play along.
âOf course, yeah, you too.â
âI donât know if youâve met,â
You turn.
And,
heâs there.
Closer now.
Close enough that you donât have the distance to observe safely.
Up close, heâs,
You blink.
Oh.
Thatâs,
worse.
Because somehow heâs even better looking up close.
Thereâs something about him that doesnât 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.
âI know who she is,â he says, easy.
His voice is lower up close.
Thatâs also a problem.
You smile, because thatâs what you do.
âGood,â you say. âThat wouldâve been a really awkward introduction.â
His mouth lifts, just slightly.
âYeah,â he says. âWouldâve been tough to come back from.â
Thereâs a beat.
And itâs,
not awkward.
Not forced.
Just⌠there.
You feel it settle.
You donât like that you feel it settle.
Up close, he doesnât feel like a plan.
He feels like someone you could accidentally like.
Which is worse.
âSo,â you say, tilting your head, slipping into something safer. âDo you usually get set up at charity events, or is this a Vanier Gala exclusive?â
Thereâs the edge.
The test.
He doesnât flinch.
âIf I say no, does that make this better or worse?â he asks.
You let out a quiet laugh.
âDepends,â you say. âAre you lying?â
He thinks about it.
Actually thinks about it.
âNo,â he says. âBut I feel like I should be.â
You blink.
That,
lands.
âWhy?â you ask.
He glances past you briefly,toward where Mara disappeared,then back at you.
âBecause Iâm pretty sure this isnât a coincidence,â he says. âAnd Iâm not usually this lucky.â
Your brain stalls for half a second.
Because itâs not smooth.
Itâs not rehearsed.
Itâs not even particularly clever.
Itâs 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,
Heâs really hot.
You almost laugh.
God.
You are unbelievable.
âHey, can we get a photo?â
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 heâs giving you the choice.
Itâs small.
Itâs 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 doesnât show.
âOver here!â
âTogether!â
You turn into him, your hand resting against his chest like it belongs there.
Like this is natural.
Like this is easy.
Like youâve done this a hundred times before.
His hand doesnât tighten.
Doesnât pull you in.
Just stays.
Grounded.
For a second,
it feels real enough to forget it isnât.
The flashes slow.
âPerfect, thank you!â
You step back first.
Of course you do.
Space returns.
You feel it more than you should.
âThis part always this weird?â he asks, glancing at the cameras.
You let out a breath that turns into a soft laugh.
âOnly when people care,â you say.
He looks at you.
âAnd they care a lot?â
You glance around the room. The watching. The whispering. The story already being built.
âTonight?â you say. âYeah.â
Thereâs a pause.
He nods, like that makes sense.
Like you didnât just admit something heavier than it sounded.
âOkay.â
Simple.
No follow-up.
No performance.
Across the room, Mara is watching.
You donât 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 heâs looking at you like youâre 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 hasnât felt like damage control.
And that?
That might be the worst possible outcome.
Damage Control
Pairing: Mat Barzal x actress!fem!readerÂ
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.
Itâs the kind of lighting that makes your skin look worse, your eyes more tired, your life choices more visible.
Youâre late.
Not fashionably late. Not dramatically late. Just late enough that when you walk in, everyone already knows you didnât want to be here.
Which, fair.
You donât.
Your heels click too loud against the floor. Your head is pounding in that dull, persistent way that tells you last night wasnât 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.
âMorning,â you say.
Itâs almost noon.
No one corrects you.
Across from you, Mara Klein looks like sheâs 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.
Thereâs a girl in the corner typing. You donât know her. You donât want to know her.
Mara slides a tablet toward you.
You donât touch it.
âYouâre trending in five countries,â she says.
You take a sip of your coffee.
It tastes like absolute shit.
âGlobal era,â you mumble. âLove that for me.â
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 itâs 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 werenât meant to see. A name that wasnât yours. A timeline that didnât add up.
And when you confronted himâ
he didnât fight for you.
He ended it.
Clean. Quick. Like you were the complication.
Three days later, heâs smiling at someone else like you never existed.
You look away like it physically burned you.
âBrand deal is paused,â Mara says, like sheâs reading the weather.
âCool,â you reply. âLove a little financial instability to go with emotional devastation.â
Daniel exhales quietly through his nose.
âThey havenât pulled out,â he says gently. âTheyâre waiting.â
âWaiting for what?â you snap. âFor me to stop being publicly embarrassing?â
Neither of them answer that.
Which is answer enough.
âAnd the film?â you ask, quieter now.
Mara doesnât soften it.
âThe studio is concerned.â
There it is.
Concerned.
You let out a short, humorless laugh.
âConcerned that I got dumped?â you say. âOr concerned that he upgraded publicly within, what, three days?â
âConcerned about perception,â Mara says.
You finally pull your sunglasses off.
Your eyes feel exposed. Tired. Probably a little bloodshot.
âPerception,â you repeat. âRight. Because the perception is that Iâm the crazy ex.â
Mara doesnât correct you.
Because she canât.
You lean back, crossing your arms.
âDo we want to talk about the fact that he was already seeing her?â you ask. âOr are we just skipping that part because it doesnât fit the narrative?â
Daniel shifts uncomfortably.
Mara stays still.
âWeâre not managing his image,â she says. âWeâre managing yours.â
That hits harder than you expect.
Because itâs 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 thenâ
Three fucking days.
And now heâs smiling at someone else like you never existed.
You laugh under your breath, shaking your head.
âYeah,â you mutter. âGreat. Love that for him.â
Mara taps the tablet again, bringing up another screen.
This oneâs worse.
You.
Outside a club.
Flashbulbs catching you mid-blink, mid-step, mid-not okay.
Headlines:
Y/N Spirals After Breakup
Sources Say Sheâs âDifficultâ on Set
Is This the End of Her Awards Chances?
You stare at it.
God, you look tired.
âIf we donât correct this in six weeks,â Mara says, âyou will not be nominated.â
There it is.
The real threat.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just⌠final.
You inhale slowly.
Six weeks.
Six weeks to fix your entire life.
âOkay,â you say, voice flatter now. âSo whatâs the plan? I disappear? Go cry somewhere private and come back rebranded as emotionally stable?â
âNo,â Mara says. âYou stabilize.â
You let out a laugh, sharper this time.
âI am heartbroken, Mara,â you say. âNot a brand in need of repositioning.â
âYou are both,â she replies.
God.
You hate her.
You also know sheâs right.
Thereâs a beat.
You stare at the table, then back up at them.
âTell me,â you say. âWhat does âstableâ look like this week?â
Mara doesnât hesitate.
âGrounded.â
Tap.
âComposed.â
Tap.
âIn control.â
Tap.
âIn a relationship.â
You blink.
Then laugh.
Actually laugh.
âOh, youâve got to be kidding me.â
Daniel leans forward slightly.
âIt would help shift the narrative,â he says.
You look at him like heâs lost his mind.
âYeah, Iâm sure the public would love me jumping into another relationship immediately,â you say. âThat wonât look desperate at all.â
âNot with the right person,â Mara says.
You shake your head.
âNo. Absolutely not. Iâm not doing another actor. Iâm not doing another, whatever the fuck Sebastian was.â
âNot an actor,â Daniel says quickly.
You pause.
ââŚwhat?â
Mara slides the tablet back toward you, new image on screen.
âAn athlete.â
You stare at her.
Then down at the screen.
Itâs a photo.
Him.
Mid-laugh. Head tilted slightly. Completely unbothered.
Not posed. Not curated.
Just⌠real.
You frown.
ââŚwho is that?â
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.
âIâve literally never heard of him,â you say.
âGood,â Mara replies.
You huff out a laugh.
âFantastic. Love dating a stranger for career survival.â
Daniel gestures slightly.
âHeâs well-liked. Clean image. No scandals. Veryââ
ââstable,â you finish.
âYes.â
You sit back, studying the photo again.
ââŚheâs cute,â you admit quietly.
You regret it immediately.
Mara clocks it. Of course she does.
âHeâs agreed to meet,â Daniel says.
You look up sharply.
âHeâs what?â
âAgreed to a meeting.â
Your stomach drops slightly.
ââŚyou already set this up.â
Mara holds your gaze.
âWe donât have time to wait for you to be comfortable.â
That stings.
Because sheâs right.
Again.
âHow does this even work?â you ask, quieter now. âWhat, we just⌠bump into each other and fall in love on cue?â
Mara finally leans back.
âNo,â she says. âYou meet him at the Vanier Gala on Saturday.â
You freeze.
ââŚIâm not going to that.â
âYes, you are.â
âI declined that weeks ago.â
âWe accepted yesterday.â
You stare at her.
âYou what?â
âItâs a controlled environment,â Mara continues. âPress will be there. Photographers. Enough visibility without chaos.â
Daniel adds gently, âItâs a good place to reintroduce you.â
Reintroduce.
Like youâre a product.
âAnd heâll just be there?â you ask.
âYes.â
âAnd we just⌠what? Talk?â
âYes.â
âAnd people will just happen to see it?â
Mara gives you a look.
âYes.â
You let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through your hair.
âThis is insane,â you mutter.
âEffective,â Mara corrects.
You look back down at the photo again.
At him.
At the way he looks like heâs never had his heart broken in a way that rewires your brain chemistry.
At the way he looks like he wouldnât understand why you spent last night drunk in a bathroom staring at your phone, trying not to look at those photos again.
âHeâs not going to like me,â you say before you can stop yourself.
It comes out quieter than everything else.
More honest.
Maraâs voice doesnât soften.
âHe doesnât have to like you,â she says. âHe has to be seen with you.â
That lands.
Hard.
You nod once.
Slow.
Because what else are you supposed to do?
Say no?
Walk away?
Watch everything youâve worked for disappear because youâre 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.
âSaturday,â you say finally.
Mara nods.
âYes.â
You toss the tablet back onto the table and stand, grabbing your bag.
ââŚthis is such a fucking bad idea,â you mutter.
And the worst part?
Youâre not even thinking about the gala.
Or the cameras.
Or the headlines.
Youâre thinking about Sebastian.
About the way he smiled at her.
About how easy it looked.
And for the first time since the breakup, you wonder what it would feel like if someone chose you just as easily.
Damage Control
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
Warnings: masturbation, suggestive content, emotional damage, Mat Barzal in compression shirts, unresolved sexual tension, one (1) hockey player causing workplace hazards
okay so⌠i just went back and reread my mat barzal x actress!reader series for the first time in forever and oh my god???
who let me post that. actually. who approved that. was i supervised???
like i was reading it with my own two eyes thinking âwow this author is so braveâ because what do you MEAN that was the first thing i ever posted đ itâs giving no plot just vibes, itâs giving i discovered italics and never looked back
there are some parts i still like, but overall⌠yeah no she needs help.
SO. iâm 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 đ iâm fully taking suggestions because clearly we need all the help we can get
anyway thank you for being here while i fix my past mistakes đ
Actress reader xSid! She gets hurt doing a stunt on set and Sid is her emergency contact. When heâs finally able to get to wherever she is (NY or LA) sheâs high AF on morphine and is soooo happy to see him itâs borderline inappropriate which makes him blush.
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 doesnât answer unknown numbers mid-skate.
He ignores it once. Twice.
The third time, the trainer waves him over.
âThat numberâs called three times,â he says. âMight be important.â
Sid skates off, annoyed, breath still heavy, grabbing his phone.
âYeah?â
âHi, is this Sidney Crosby?â
His tone shifts instantly. âYes.â
âThis is Dr Alvarez from,â thereâs a shuffle of papers, background noise, âwe have Y/N L/N here. Youâre listed as her emergency contact.â
Everything in his body goes still.
âWhat happened?â
âThere was an on-set incident. A stunt, she took a fall. Sheâs stable,â the doctor adds quickly. âConscious earlier, but weâve administered pain management and sheâs being monitored. Weâd like you here if possible.â
Sidâs already moving.
âHow bad?â
âNon-life-threatening,â the doctor says carefully. âPossible fracture. Weâll know more after imaging.â
Non-life-threatening.
It should help.
It doesnât.
âIâm on my way,â Sid says, already stripping off his gloves.
â
Flights take too long.
Thatâs the only thought looping in his head as he sits on the plane, knee bouncing, jaw tight, phone in his hand like itâs going to give him answers.
He replays everything.
Your last text.
âGoing into stunt rehearsal. If I die, delete my search history.â
Heâd replied: âYouâre not dying.â
Youâd sent back: âRude. Let me be dramatic.â
He closes his eyes.
Youâre fine.
You have to be fine.
â
By the time he gets to the hospital in LA, itâs 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 donât make a thing of it.
âRoom 412,â the nurse says gently.
His hand hesitates on the door.
Just for a second.
Then he pushes it open.
â
Youâre awake.
Sort of.
Propped up in the hospital bed, hair a mess, arm in a temporary brace, one knee wrapped. Thereâs an IV in your hand. Monitors beeping softly beside you.
And your eyesâ
Your eyes light up like someone just handed you the best surprise of your life.
âSidney!â you gasp, way too loud for a hospital room.
He exhales. Itâs almost a collapse.
âHey,â he says, stepping in quickly. âHey, Iâm here.â
âYouâre real,â you say, squinting at him. âOkay. Good. For a second I thought they gave me the good drugs and I hallucinated you.â
He huffs a shaky laugh, moving to your bedside. âYou didnât hallucinate me.â
âDamn,â you say. âBecause if I did, I was gonna make you take your shirt off.â
He chokes.
âJesus,â he mutters, already flushing.
You grin at him, absolutely unfiltered. âOh my god, youâre blushing. Thatâs so cute. I love when you do that.â
He runs a hand over his face. âYouâre on something.â
âYeah,â you say happily. âAnd itâs amazing. Highly recommend. Everything feels like⌠warm soup.â
âWarm soup.â
âYeah,â you nod seriously. âEmotionally.â
He sits down carefully beside you, eyes scanning you over. Checking. Counting. Making sure youâre actually okay.
âWhat hurts?â he asks quietly.
You consider this. âEverything. But in a chill way.â
He snorts despite himself.
Your good hand reaches for him, clumsy but determined, grabbing onto his sleeve.
âYou came,â you say, softer now.
âOf course I did.â
âYou had practice.â
âI left.â
âYou always leave for me,â you mumble, eyes drifting for a second.
His chest tightens.
âIâm not leaving you here,â he says gently.
You blink back at him, suddenly very focused again. âGood. Because I feel like shit and I need emotional support and also maybe⌠like⌠a little bit of inappropriate attention.â
He stares at you. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âIâm injured,â you say. âBe nice to me.â
âI flew across the continent,â he points out.
âBare minimum,â you reply.
He laughs, real this time. Relief cracking through everything else.
You tug on his sleeve again. âCome closer.â
âIâm literally right here.â
âCloser.â
He leans in, and you immediately grab his face with both hands (one functional, one⌠less so).
âYouâre so pretty,â you inform him very seriously.
He freezes.
âYouâve said that before.â
âNot like this,â you say. âThis is medical-grade honesty.â
âOkay,â he mutters.
You squint at him. âAre you gonna kiss me or just sit there looking like a confused golden retriever?â
He chokes on a laugh. âYouâre in a hospital.â
âAnd?â
âAndââ
âAnd I couldâve died,â you interrupt dramatically.
âYou didnât.â
âBut what if I had and my last thought was âwow, Sidney Crosby didnât kiss me enoughâ?â
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.
âBetter,â you murmur.
He rests his forehead against yours for a second.
âYou scared me,â he admits quietly.
You blink at him, some of the haze clearing just enough to catch the weight in his voice.
âIâm okay,â you say softly. âJust⌠stupid.â
âWhat happened?â
âMissed the landing,â you shrug slightly. âThought I was cooler than I am.â
âYou are not allowed to do that again.â
You smile faintly. âYou sound like my insurance company.â
âIâm serious.â
âI know,â you say, reaching up to brush his cheek. âIâll be more careful.â
Thereâs a pause.
Then, because the morphine is still very much doing its job, you grin again.
âAlso,â you add, âif Iâm stuck in bed for a while, youâre gonna have to entertain me.â
He narrows his eyes. âThat sounds dangerous.â
âOh, it is,â you say cheerfully. âI have ideas.â
âOf course you do.â
âVery good ones,â you insist. âCreative. Inspiring. Possibly illegal in some states.â
He laughs, shaking his head. âYouâre unbelievable.â
You beam. âAnd you love me.â
He doesnât hesitate.
âYeah,â he says.
You settle back into the pillow, still holding onto his hand.
âGood,â you mumble, eyes getting heavy. âBecause Iâm not sharing you.â
He squeezes your fingers gently.
âNot going anywhere,â he says.
And this time, when your eyes finally drift closed, itâs not from pain.
Itâs because heâs there.

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Can you write something liiiikkeeee a player chirps mat about actress reader during a game and he goes bananas?? Fight and allâŚ.
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 weâre halfway through the second and itâs been one of those games where nobodyâs 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.
Iâm lining up for a draw in their end, leaning over my stick, sweat already dripping down my nose. The refâs talking, wingerâs cheating in, everyoneâs twitchy.
And then their centerman leans in closer.
Too close.
You know that distance. The one that isnât about hockey anymore.
He taps his stick against mine, casual. Like weâre about to talk about the weather.
âHey,â he mutters, voice low enough that itâs just for me. âYour girlâs movie.â
I donât react. Not yet. Iâve been in the league long enough to know the bait when I hear it.
Drop the puck. Win the draw. Thatâs the job.
I stare straight down at the dot.
He keeps going.
âYeah. Saw it last night,â he says. âPacked theatre too. Everyone real interested.â
I win the faceoff clean back to Dobber. Good. Simple. Get off the ice, reset.
But heâs not done.
âDidnât expect to see her tits that clear though,â he adds under his breath, like heâs 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. Itâs noise. Itâs bullshit. Guys chirp about girlfriends, wives, whatever. Comes with the territory.
But Y/N isnât just âa girlfriendâ to these idiots.
And itâs not what he said.
Itâs 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.
Iâm turning to skate to the bench when he glides past me again.
âWhole place went dead quiet when she got naked,â he says, grinning now. âNot gonna lie⌠worth the ticket.â
I donât look at him.
I should keep skating.
I donât.
âShe always like that?â he keeps going, skating right beside me now. âOr just for the cameras? Bet you werenât complaining though, hey?â
And then, softer, right by my earâ
âMust 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.â
And thatâs it.
Thatâs the exact moment something in my brain just⌠snaps.
Not like a slow burn. Not like a simmer.
Just gone.
I donât 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 wasnât expecting it to escalate that fast.
Too late.
âYou wanna say that again?â Iâm in his face now, voice low and shaking in a way I hate because it means Iâm already past the point of control.
He grins.
Fucking grins.
âRelax, man,â he shrugs. âShe put it out there. Not exactly private anymore, is it? Whole worldâs had a look.â
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 weâre going.
I donât even hear the crowd at first. Itâs 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 Iâm already inside his reach. Iâve 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.
Donât care.
I just keep going.
âYou donât talk about her,â Iâm spitting it now between punches, each word coming out like itâs been sitting in my chest for days. âYou donâtâfuckingâtalkâaboutâher.â
He tries to grab, tries to wrestle it down, but Iâve got him pinned. Adrenalineâs doing that thing where you feel ten pounds lighter and twice as strong.
Another punch. Another.
The crowdâs loud now. Like really loud. That roar that comes when a fight actually means something.
Linesmen finally get in, grabbing arms, pulling us apart. Iâm still trying to lunge back in, still trying to get one more in, like thatâll somehow fix the fact that he said it at all.
âBarzal, thatâs enough!â
Hands everywhere. Someoneâs dragging me backward. My chest is heaving, vision sharp and narrow and bright.
Heâs still chirping.
Of course he is.
âYouâre mad because itâs true!â he shouts, blood on his lip now, held back by a ref. âWhole worldâs seen her, buddy! Not so special anymore!â
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 itâs quiet.
Not actually quiet, the arenaâs still buzzing, but inside the glass itâs like everything gets muffled. Like Iâve been dunked underwater.
I sit down hard on the bench, breathing like Iâve 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⌠heâs 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 itâs oxygen.
I was so proud I thought I might actually explode.
Still am.
But that doesnât mean Iâm okay with some idiot on skates reducing it to⌠that.
Like sheâs something to pass around in a locker room conversation.
Like she isnât the smartest, most talented person Iâve ever met.
Like she isnât mine.
I drag my hands down my face, helmet off now, sweat cooling on my skin.
Across the ice, heâs 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. âYou good?â
I nod once.
âYeah.â
Iâm not.
But I will be.
Because I know exactly whatâs 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 sheâs watching. Sheâll look up when I walk in, smile like nothing in the world is complicated.
And Iâll tell her about it.
And sheâll probably laugh first. Because thatâs who she is.
Then sheâll get that look. The one where she tilts her head and goes soft and serious all at once.
âDid you win?â sheâll ask.
And Iâll say, âYeah.â
Because I did.
Not the fight.
That doesnât matter.
But her?
Every day.
And Iâd drop the gloves a thousand times over for that.
Apparently Too Much Pt.2
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 youâve 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.
âWait⌠like⌠actually?â
You shrug, the movement sending little ripples across the water. âI donât know yet. I mean, I havenât taken a test. But, this morning, I threw up so hard I saw stars. And Iâve been exhausted. Like, bone-deep exhausted. And my boobs feel like someone ran them over with a Zamboni.â
Matâs face twitches. âHot.â
You give him a look. âNot the time.â
âRight. Sorry.â
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.
âI thought we were done, Mat.â
âI know.â
âWe gave away the crib. And the baby swing. And the bottle steriliser. I finally stopped leaking when I sneeze.â
He tries not to smile. âWe can get new stuff. And thereâs always panty liners.â
âMat.â
He sobers again. âI know. I know, baby. Iâm just, trying to stay calm. Breathe through it.â
You press a hand to your face. âItâs 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 canât go through that again. I canât.â
His hand slips into the water and finds yours. He laces your fingers together, his thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles.
âThen we donât go through it alone,â he says quietly. âWhatever happens. We figure it out. Like we always do.â
You look at him, at the man who somehow still makes you feel safe even when your whole world is spiraling.
âI donât even know for sure,â you whisper. âIt could be nothing.â
âOr it could be something,â he says. âWant me to go grab a test?â
You shake your head. âNot with the kids still up. I donât want Jesse asking what a âpee stickâ is. Iâll do one tomorrow. When itâs quiet.â
He nods, his eyes never leaving yours. âOkay.â
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, âYou really shouldâve worn a condom, Barzal.â
He barks out a laugh, leans forward, and kisses your hand.
âWell,â he grins, âyou did tell me it ruined the vibe.â
You splash him. âYouâre so annoying.â
And he just smiles, because he knows youâre scared, and overwhelmed, and two seconds from crying again, but youâre still you. Still his you.
And maybe, just maybeâŚ
Youâre 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 doctorâs 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 doesnât say anything. Heâs 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 donât 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.
Matâs 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 thatâs going to make this easier.
You stand there for a minute, just staring.
âDo you know which oneâs best?â Mat asks, hovering behind you with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He sways a little, like heâd rather be anywhere else, but is trying really hard not to make it obvious.
You nod. âYeah. This oneâs good for early detection. More sensitive.â You grab it. Then pause. âActually⌠maybe I should get a digital one too. Just in case.â
Mat raises an eyebrow. âDouble confirmation?â
You shrug. âI want to be sure. Like, sure sure.â
He gives you a soft smile, still rocking on the balls of his feet. âOkay. Whatever you need.â
You grab the second box, clutching both in one hand like youâre 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.
âOhhh,â she says softly, scanning the boxes. âExciting.â
You force a polite smile, but something twists in your stomach.
She thinks youâre excited.
That youâre some young couple trying for your first baby, giddy with hope and love and Instagram nursery boards.
She doesnât 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 werenât pregnant then.
She thinks you want this.
And for a second, youâre not even angry at her.
Youâre angry at yourself.
Because what if itâs 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 worseâŚ
What if a tiny part of you isnât upset?
What if some irrational, hormonal corner of your heart sees that faint pink line and feels something like⌠joy?
You hate that you donât know how you feel. That the answer isnât clear. That guilt is already crawling up your throat before you even know what youâre dealing with.
The cashier hands you the bag gently, still smiling.
âGood luck,â she says warmly.
You nod, mumble a thanks, and grab Matâs 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. âYou okay?â
You donât 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.
âI donât know,â you say quietly. âI donât know how Iâm supposed to feel.â
He opens the passenger door for you, leans in close.
âYou feel however you want,â he says. âWhatever you need to feel, Iâll handle the rest.â
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 didnât plan for.
And in a few hoursâŚ
Youâre 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 youâre pulling out of the parking lot, the entire bottle is gone.
Mat gives you a sideways look. âDamn,â he grins. âFilling up the tank, huh?â
You snort. âYou better hope Iâm not pregnant, because if I am, youâre on pee cup duty for the next nine months.â
âHot.â
âShut up.â
He smiles, that quiet, cheeky smile of his. The one he uses when heâs trying to make you laugh but also knows you might burst into tears at any moment. Honestly, heâs been kind of⌠amazing since you told him. Calm. Gentle. Still himself, but more tuned in. Like heâs walking that perfect line between giving you space and staying close.
And you canât even be mad at him for knocking you up. Not really.
Youâre 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.
âChivalry? Really?â
âJust trying to butter you up before you scream at me in twenty minutes.â
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, youâve 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 didnât just drink a litre of water.
You sit there. Legs cold. Elbows on knees. Brows furrowed in betrayal.
âI canât pee.â
Mat turns slowly. Concern flashes first, then he sees your face, and you know heâs dying inside. His lips twitch. His shoulders tremble.
But he doesnât laugh.
He walks in, crouches in front of you. His hands settle on your knees, thumbs rubbing gentle circles like heâs about to coach you through labour again.
âBabe,â he says softly, âitâs okay. Just breathe. Relax. Your bodyâs freaking out. It knows this is a big deal.â
You nod. Your heart is pounding.
He keeps rubbing, keeps looking at you with those grounding eyes. âJust focus on me. Youâve got this. Weâve done worse. Remember when you sneezed mid-labour and farted on your OB?â
âMathew.â
âWhat? Iâm trying to lighten the mood.â
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?
Youâre peeing in front of him, about to take a test that could change everything, and heâs crouched like a goalie at your knees.
âI canât believe weâre here,â you say, wiping tears from your eyes.
He smiles. âI can. This feels like us.â
You finish, dip the sticks exactly like the instructions say, set them on the counter. Step back. Pull your hoodie over your hands because theyâre shaking.
Mat stands, grabs his phone, sets a five-minute timer.
âOkay,â he says. âNow we wait.â
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. âYou want me to check?â
You shake your head. âNo. I have to do it.â
You stand. Reach for them. Take a breath.
Flip the caps.
Pregnant. Pregnant.
Two bold, unmistakable results.
You stare.
Mat waits.
And then you say, âWell. Fuck.â