nathan knows it all.

“hiya, teddy,” she says softly, already reaching for the bottles she needs to make his signature mar-toonie.

she knows his name. not the abbreviation of his last name that the bigger half of sudbury knows by now, but his actual legal name, and she makes it sound like heaven.

he hasn’t had a sip all night, didn’t pregame with the b’ys or do anything to celebrate their win tonight besides sit with goody and have their post-game ‘sticks, and he’s already at a loss for words.

but he has other things to focus on right now, namely the way she’s swaying a little bit as she stands, how she’s moving slower than normal and not doing her usual bar tricks.

“y’alright, love?”

“migraine.”

he’s had a concussion or seven before, and knows that being in this kind of place, with the constant bustle and sound of stools scraping back, pool and darts being shot, glasses clinking and drunk idiots yelling over the music that’s already loud enough, a headache is murder.

and she looks like she’s gonna keel over any second now.

“think my nephew and his gross friends got me sick.”

he’s met the aforementioned kids a few times in passing, on days where the U10 practices ended just before the blueberry bulldogs’ started theirs. gross is definitely an apt description. but they idolize him and the b’ys. and her.

for all intents and purposes she’s a stand-in parent, but young and cool enough to occupy a space between mom and sister. of course she let them sleep over on her night off. probably let them stay up late to watch the west-coast nhl games and made pancakes when they woke up at noon the next day, all without complaint.

and now here she is at work, sick as a dog but still made up and dressed in the barmaid’s uniform of a tight-fitting, low-cut shirt and jeans that may have been painted on, because the bar needs her, and because she needs this job to pay for her nephew’s sticks and to keep the lights on at home, and because she’s not a fucking quitter.

he respects that. but he decides then and there that “go till you can’t go no more” does not apply to her.

he still hasn’t responded to her remark, but she’s finished mixing his drink by now, slid the glass across the bartop and is turning around to put the bottles back in their proper place. never one to cut corners, even in a state such as this.

fuck, she’s shivering.

so he does what any self-respecting, love-sick newfie man worth his salt would, and reaches over his head to pull off his sweater, leaving him in just a plain t-shirt beneath.

she’s facing forward again, blinking at him as she tries to figure out what the fuck he did that for, in the middle of february in ontario, unprompted and not obviously part of some idiotics encouraged by his friends, who are nowhere nearby and look to be engaged in a passionate conversation about something dumb.

he extends it toward her. “here.”

more of those sleepy blinks. lard, how does someone with a cold this bad look so cute? is this what she’d look like after waking up in his bed on a lazy sunday morning?

“you’re freezin’,” he prods, and it clicks.

she looks at it for a moment, contemplating.

it’s a really nice sweater. one of those cable-knit ones that fishermen wear, allegedly. he doesn’t remember seeing any of those prince edward island guys with one on. they were more hoodie types. practical to the core and too damn nice. it was a little unsettling, actually.

she finally caves, accepting it and slipping her arms through the too-long sleeves, and he watches her realize that the garment is still body-warm — he’d literally taken it off his back to pass it to her across the bartop.

he may be part of nat’s affectionately-named gang of sluts, but this innocent gesture is going to take a spot in the top five most intimate things he’s ever done with another human.

“thank you,” she says, in a hoarse whisper that he can’t hear over the ruckus of the bar, but he can see the way her lips part around the words, see it in her eyes that he’d just tossed her a lifeline to get her through the next few hours without falling over, and that she’ll be eternally grateful.

“don’t mention it.”