Sonia✩

connor won't tell you when he needs to let off a little extra steam but you'll know it when his arm hooks around your neck, bicep flexing until a needy mewl spills from your lips your head swimming with the subtle restriction of your airflow. you'll know it from his deep strokes, hips pistoning inside you, each thrust jolting you forward like he's trying to press all of his frustration into your body.

"love how you take it," he grumbles, loosening his grip but still keeping you in a headlock, slowing his grinds as he pants in your ear. "so good, every fuckin' time, know you'll take it for me."

the whine that falls from you is downright pathetic, words failing as your brain turns to mush. connor surrounds you, his skin sticky and hot against your back, the musky scent of him filling your nose. your thighs shake, legs and arms feeling like jelly from the overwhelming press of him inside you. all you can do is latch your mouth onto his bicep, biting and sucking on the muscle as your eyes roll back.

While Will scrolled through TikTok saving recipes, Mack was adjacent, letting the red and blue of the Rangers Instagram cast a hue over his features. He had to admit from the aesthetic standpoint of everything a sports team’s social media needed, it checked off all the boxes from eye-catching graphics to player charity work. Though he really discovered gold when he came across a “meet the staff” post for appreciation back in October. 

She was on the third slide smiling ear to ear in a white tee, vintage Rangers logo printed across the center, with her dark hair in waves across her shoulders. “MEET TAYLOR ST. JAMES” was written in big bold letters. There she was, the girl that basically took the blame for a crash she had no part in. It was obvious that she was gorgeous and far too anxious for her own well-being. Her slide had scattered little facts around her headshot, like how she’s a New York native straight out of Brooklyn, how she listens to 2010s pop while editing or how her favorite show is Friends along with other quirks of hers that Mack found equally as endearing.

Usually by now, Mack would've been leaned against the window completely knocked out from the game. You could've said it was the accident that made it especially difficult for him to sleep that night or more accurately, his encounter with the opposing team's pretty media girl. 

He told himself he had no interest in being the Romeo to her Juliet of east and west coast hockey teams, so it wouldn’t hurt just to look her up. Nevertheless, Mack went into the Rangers following typing in Taylor before three accounts popped up. Right at the top of the results was @.taylorsaint with a familiar smile, arms thrown high, sporting an oversized foam finger clearly taken at the Garden. 

Mack hesitated for a moment before tapping on her profile. To his luck, it wasn’t private, and he was instantly let into her world, a world where her camera was always hanging from her neck and she was carrying lattes almost as big as her head. Taylor’s Instagram was both perfectly curated and equally carefree. 

Her most recent post was Taylor sitting cross-legged center ice at an empty Madison Square Garden, camera balanced in her lap, the scoreboard glowing behind her pre-warmups. The second was a shot of the Central Park bridge in the winter. Then came a picture of coffee, another of her editing setup at two in the morning, and finally a candid someone else had clearly taken, Taylor laughing so hard she was doubled over in the tunnel, a camera strap wrapped around her wrist. As the carousel came to an end, Macklin couldn’t stop the soft smile that came to his lips. 

So, he kept scrolling through her life from day in the life reels to hockey, everything circled back to hockey. It was never the players, it was always the job, the subtle behind the scenes that nobody really cared about, yet she found the beauty in. 

A little after midnight, his green eyes were torn from his phone when the blonde next to him spoke up, “Who are we looking at?” 

“No one.” Mack nearly dropped his phone in his efforts to tilt it away from Will. 

“Doesn’t seem like a no one,” Will answered, clearly not convinced by his best friend.

“I was, uh, just looking at something.”

“You were looking at someone.”

"I literally wasn't."

"Mack."

"I wasn't."

“You were smiling at what’s her name? Taylor or something, I couldn’t really see that well from here.”

“Can we not,” Mack whisper yelled, yelling, trying not to bring attention to his curiosity.

“Who is she?” Will insisted.

“She does media for the Rangers.”

“As in the team that kicked our ass six to one.”

“Yeah, she’s the one from the parking lot, apologizing like she was driving the bus, it was kinda sweet though.”

“So, you’re stalking her now.”

“I was just curious.”

“So, follow her.”

“No,” Macklin sighed. “It’d be weird plus she lives across the country.”

“Fine. Don't follow her.”

“I wasn't planning on it.”

He popped another cookie into his mouth.

Mack let out a long sigh before finally locking his phone and slipping it into the pocket of the seat in front of him.

“There,” he said. “Happy?”

Will looked at the now-dark screen and Mack pulled his hoodie over his eyes, settling deeper into the window seat.

APRIL 2025

Back in New York, things moved swiftly as they do in such a bustling city, April came by in no time, and the incident was well behind her. Well enough behind her after she’d posted an official statement on the teams behalf outlining the whole event and the part the organization had in it. The statement was practically an apology crafted from her own heart that all but mentioned her name in it. Not to mention that HR had a rather lengthy conversation after her parking lot encounter.

The Rangers were officially out of playoff contention, and their final home game was set in stone for the 24 to 25 season. Taylor had been carefully selecting photos and videos from the season to include in this year's farewell post for the past hour. Her coffee went forgotten and cold beside her computer when her task was interrupted by one of the new communications assistants. 

"Taylor."

She looked up from her monitor.

"Uh... Rick wants to see you."

"Now?" She frowned.

The assistant nodded in response as she saved her project. She took a deep breath, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles on her shirt before making her way toward the communications offices. To her surprise, her boss was already at his door, ready to greet her. 

“Come on in, Taylor,” Rick said, unusually flat as he took a seat, completely avoiding her eye contact. 

She obliged, stepping inside, trying her best to ignore the knot in her stomach. "You wanted to see me?"

"Close the door and take a seat," the older man stated, straightening a file across his desk.

The brunette carefully took her seat, letting the silence deafen her. Her eyes carefully watched his expression crack and sort of deflate beneath her gaze.

"The organization has decided to terminate your employment effective immediately."

"...What?" For a second, she genuinely thought she'd misheard him.

"We're ending your position with the communications department."

"I... I don't understand." She blinked, unable to fathom what she just heard.

Rick silently slid a file across her desk, prompting her to open it. 

As she opened the file, Taylor was met with fuzzy screenshots that came from an oh-so-familiar video that went viral across hockey socials. There in her hand were photos of her across from Macklin Celebrini over three weeks ago when their bus ruined his car, profusely apologizing. It’d been long enough that all these accounts were calming down from it, and anyone who did know it was her at the scene mostly forgot about it. But clearly, she thought wrong.

"As you know, there was an incident involving members of another NHL organization following the San Jose Sharks game." 

“The bus.”

“Yes, the bus,” he began before continuing, "The video has circulated more than we'd like." 

"I was... apologizing."

"I know that."

"So why am I—"

"Because," Rick interrupted quietly, "ownership believes your involvement created unnecessary liability."

Taylor just stared, brows furrowing.“I created liability?"

"They feel as if your actions blurred professional boundaries with opposing players and put heat under our organization. On top of that they believe that your involvement hurt the reputation of our organization as well "

“All I did was say sorry,” Her voice wavered, trying to come to terms with the decision. “I-I-I even put out a statement across all our socials about it too. I thought it was enough.”

"I argued that." Rick looked genuinely miserable.

"And?"

"And the decision wasn't mine to make."

“So, that’s it? I’m just fired.”

“I’m sorry.”

Her eyes scanned his office, fixed on the hockey memorabilia before landing on the floor. “I never missed a single deadline. I’ve worked past midnight most nights for the last two and a half years, and I can’t even name how many family events I missed just to be here.”

Rick frowned at her words, mumbling an apologetic “I know.”

“I graduated high school a year early because everyone here told me this job would be waiting for me.”

“I wish this conversation were different,” he stated, watching tears prick the corners of her eyes.

Taylor listened to him explain her next steps about returning everything and picking up her final check. 

Breath still shaky, she finally got up to leave. Rick escorted her out. She swallowed around the lump in her throat, "...thanks for the opportunity."

Rick stood too.

"For what it's worth, Taylor..." She paused at the door.

"...you're one of the hardest workers I've ever managed."

She offered a tiny nod before opening the door, and not even half an hour later, she had a cardboard box balanced on her hip, taking her final looks at Madison Square Garden.

For the first time in her life, she had nowhere she needed to be.

Later that night, Taylor laid in bed surrounded by merchandise and decor from a job that seemingly dumped her to the side. It was almost comical how much this job infiltrated her life. 

It’s like God was messing with her when she got a memory notification from her photos. As she clicked on it to see what she was up to a year or two ago, she was met with a sixteen year old Taylor sitting in the goal net right before it was to be taken down. That day still felt like yesterday, where her coworker insisted she take a picture of her to commemorate her first year as a media intern. 

And for a minute, Taylor’s eyes were locked on the screen. How she nearly fell backwards in the net from laughing too hard, how big Madison Square Garden felt at the time, even how she’d get lost in her first days. She remembered how she ran to her mother the first time her photos had been posted by the Rangers and how much joy the almost three years of being there brought her. 

Now it was all over. 

 Her eyes stung once again, thumb hovering over the Instagram app for no reason. Taylor wasn’t sure why she opened a blank post, but there’d been tons of pictures never shared before. The photo dump started with that picture of her in the net, followed by empty arenas, selfies from the press box, and pictures with coworkers turned friends. 

Then she began typing. 

“When I was 16 years old, I never thought being an intern would eventually land me a media coordinator job in the NHL. This organization took a chance on me and let me grow alongside some of their most loved rookies. For the past almost 3 years, I’ve had the privilege to document some amazing stories and witness history in the making. 

While this chapter has come to an  end, I’ll always be grateful for the opportunities and lessons I’ve learned. 

Thank you to everyone who trusted me with a camera. 

MSG will always have a piece of my heart. 

❤️Here’s to the next chapter 💙”

It wasn’t bitter or angry, it was goodbye. Before she could change her mind, she pressed share. 

Notifications of well wishes and good vibes came her way from family, friends, and fans. 

In California, Mack was stretched across Toff’s couch, mindlessly scrolling Instagram when her post popped up. He hadn’t followed her, but he kept up with her on TikTok and Instagram in what could only be described as discreet stalking. 

He frowned at her caption, somewhat sorry for the bubbly girl portrayed on her accounts. Mack didn’t have much time to dwell on it before Will and Cat were calling him to the kitchen. 

He wakes up first, slowly extricating himself from under you. He starts moving around the room, getting ready, trying to stay as quiet as possible so as not to wake you up.

He goes for a run, hits the hotel gym, and when he gets back you’re awake. Laying on the bed, scrolling tiktok on your phone, your face lights up when you see him.

“Good morning, handsome!” you say, throwing your arms open, clearly waiting for a hug. Caleb’s sweaty, gross, and wants nothing more than to shower. He also isn’t a huge fan of the idea of you touching him while he’s this stinky, but you just called him handsome, and you look so cozy on the bed, that he can’t help it. He crosses the room in seconds, and then he’s falling into your arms, burying his sweaty face in the crook of your neck. You sniff dramatically and then let out a cough at the smell of him, saying, “Woah. You reek.”

Caleb scoffs, and lifts his head. “You’re the one who wanted a hug right after I got back from the gym. This is on you, not me.”

You kick him lightly in the leg, both of you giggling for a few seconds, before you quiet. Right now, it’s just the two of you in his hotel room, the best friend bubble that you’re so familiar with and comfortable in. You have a few hours to get ready, to try and stay as calm as possible. But then it’s going to be 7pm, and then you’re going to be at the draft, waiting for his name to be called.

He seems to remember this at the same time you do, and you feel his body tense against yours. Caleb lets out a heavy sigh, and moves to press his face back into your neck, his arms tightening around your body.

Neither of you say anything for a long moment, breathing in sync as both your minds run wild with possibilities and nervousness.

After a few minutes of this, you feel Caleb’s breaths start to speed up against the skin of your neck, the telltale sign of an incoming freak out. He clenches his eyes shut tight, and he starts trembling ever so slightly.

You don’t hesitate to reach up and tangle one hand in his curls, nails scratching at his scalp the way you know he likes. He shivers, and then his body relaxes, melting into yours with a soft exhale from his nose. You smile softly and lean your cheek against his head, squeezing your arms around him. This kind of thing doesn’t work every time, but Caleb does best with physical reassurance, and nobody knows that better than you.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your neck ever so softly.

Your heart stutters in your chest, even though it shouldn’t. You and Caleb do things like this all the time, kissing each other on the cheek, forehead, you occasionally like to kiss the tip of his nose. It’s completely normal for the two of you. Above that, though, he’s your best friend, nothing more.

Everybody thinks the two of you are made for each other. You met on the first day of kindergarten, and have been inseparable ever since. People have also been saying that you should get together for the same amount of time. But you’re best friends. Friends. And even though you sometimes (all the time) think that maybe people are right, wish that Caleb would open his eyes, wish that you had the confidence to actually tell him how you feel… that’s just not your reality.

You comb your fingers through his curls and stare up at the ceiling. You know, deep down, that you and Caleb aren’t going to happen. As hopelessly in love with your best friend as you are, he’s oblivious. Absolutely oblivious. But you’re content with where you are, staying by his side and supporting him in everything he does.

Everything’s going to be perfect.

Caleb is ready about an hour before you are, as always. The two of you spent pretty much the entire day together, getting lunch, playing uno, and rewatching your favorite episodes of your comfort shows to keep his nerves at bay. His parents and siblings checked in multiple times throughout the day, keen eyes watching his every move, trying to gauge how he’s feeling without asking outright.

He doesn’t say it, but they should know by now. He’s with you, so he’ll be fine.

You run back to your hotel room just to get everything you need to get ready in his. He puts his suit on, fixes his hair, puts his shoes on, and then he looks around and realizes your dress is still hanging on the bathroom door.

He peeks into the bathroom, and his knees buckle at the sight of you.

You’re sitting on the counter, feet in the sink, hair in rollers as you swipe mascara onto your lashes.

Caleb thinks you always look beautiful. Every time he looks at you, no matter what state you’re in, he loses his breath for a few seconds. You’re gorgeous, and it has nothing to do with how you style your hair or how much makeup you put on. It’s you.

“Y’know, you don’t need that much goop on your face,” he says, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe.

He smiles as you make eye contact with him through the mirror, glaring playfully at him. “You sure know how to charm a lady,” you say sarcastically.

“I try,” he says, shrugging with a smirk on his face. “What are you even doing? You’ve been in here for like an hour.”

You look at him for a few seconds, chewing your bottom lip lightly. And then you wave your hand at him and say, “C’mere.”

So he does.

He moves closer, having to consciously control his expression as he enters your cloud of vanilla scented lotion and shampoo. He sidles up next to you, resting his hip on the counter as you gesture down at your collection of beauty products.

“This is a nicer event than I usually go to,” you explain. “So I’m going for a bit more makeup. More of a glam look, though I don’t want to go too over the top, because I want to still look like myself. You know what I mean?”

He nods. He thinks you look gorgeous no matter what, but he gets what you mean.

You then do something miraculous.

You talk him through everything you do. Narrate every step you take, tell him exactly what you’re doing as you do it. Not in a condescending way, because you think he won’t understand, but because you want to. You’ve done this before, where you describe your actions as you take them. He’s told you before that he finds watching you get ready for something, do your makeup or hair, really satisfying. In the past, he’s asked for it a few times. But he doesn’t have to ask for it anymore, you just do it.

Caleb stands there and listens to you talk for a full ten minutes. It’s amazing.

He loves the sound of your voice. Caleb could listen to you talk for hours on end, and it would probably be the best hours of his life. You always know exactly what to say, how to say it. Everything about you is a comfort to him, but your voice? Whenever Caleb gets too anxious, when his thoughts are running wild and he has no idea how to stop it, he doesn’t hesitate to call you. You’re really the only person who can calm him down, make him breathe easy again, with just a few words.

Then you start doing your hair, and he has to make up an excuse to leave the bathroom. Your hair smells so good, and you look like a princess, and he thinks that his heart is going to explode if he doesn’t go take a breath, so he leaves the bathroom and lays on the bed waiting for you to be done.

When you come out of the bathroom again a while later, wearing your dress that looks so perfect on you, and the star pendant necklace he got you for your last birthday, he can’t help the way his mouth drops open in surprise.

“Do I look okay?” you ask, panicked at the look on his face. “I-I packed other outfit options if this is too much. I get it, I don’t want to draw too much attention to you. I just wanted to look good. I’ll–hold on, I’ll find something else to wear, don’t—”

“Wait, no!” he exclaims, stopping you from reaching into your suitcase. “No, you look… beautiful. I just… I’m sorry. You’re gorgeous.”

His eyes roam your figure, feeling embarrassment begin to bloom in his chest at knowing that you’re watching him do this, but he can’t help it. You got all dressed up… for him. Well, for his draft, but still. You look perfect in every way, and no matter when he gets selected in the draft, all that matters is that you’re going to be there, that he’s going to be with you.

He almost blurts it out right then. I love you. I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since I was five years old. Please come to the draft with me as my girlfriend, not my best friend.

But he holds himself back, because he can’t risk that right now. Can’t have the possibility of freaking you out and not having you there at all, which is literally his worst nightmare. Caleb needs you by his side right now, and that’s the only thing that matters.

So he clears his throat and mutters a quick, “We should go,” before heading straight for the door. He reminds himself the entire way down to the lobby of the hotel that you’re his best friend, just his best friend. That you’re nothing more, and even though he wants it so badly, you probably never will be. He’s tried his best to make peace with that over the years, but it’s harder than it sounds.

All that matters right now is that you’re with him and that you’re supporting him.

That’s okay with him. That’s all he’ll probably ever get.

You’re sitting next to Caleb, of course, with the Malhotra family. His dad is on the other side of you, and his mom is on the other side of him. There’s plenty of room on the couch, but the two of you are sitting so close to each other the entirety of your arms are touching. You’re not holding hands, not quite, but your hands are resting against each other, your pinkies intertwined.

The draft is set to start officially in five minutes. The Malhotra family is talking around the two of you, the buzz of excitement making the air feel electric.

Next to you, Caleb is vibrating with nervousness. He’s looking straight down at his lap, taking controlled, deep breaths. Nobody’s talking to him, because they all can see that he’s stuck in his head right now, and nothing they can say to him will get him out of it.

You don’t talk first, knowing that’s not what he needs right now. Right now, he needs you to be steady, and confident, and calm. The exact opposite of him.

So you sit there and let him be silent, let him process his thoughts as best he can, while staying a steady physical presence for him. You almost remind him that you’re always here for him if he needs you, that no matter what you’re in this together, but you don’t. Because he already knows.

The draft begins, and no one is surprised by Gavin McKenna being chosen by the Leafs, making him the first overall pick in the 2026 draft. You and Caleb clap appropriately, making sure that if any cameras catch you, you’re both looking supportive and excited for Gavin. Of course you are, Caleb especially. He never expected to be chosen by the Leafs, and he’s not really expecting to be chosen by the Sharks, either. So he’s not necessarily disappointed when Laila Edwards calls out Ivar Stenberg’s name.

But then it’s the Canucks turn. In the few minutes between Stenberg being chosen by the Sharks, and the Canucks announcing their pick, Caleb’s anxiety ratchets up to a thousand.

“I’m nervous,” he says, so quiet only you can hear. He’s keeping himself under control on the outside, but you can tell that he’s a mess. His chest heaves up and down with shallow breaths, but his face remains neutral, as always. “I’m so fucking nervous, oh my god.”

The third overall pick has been a sensitive topic with Caleb the past few weeks. Manny was hired as the Canucks head coach just a few weeks ago, and ever since, the two have been carefully avoiding the topic of whether or not Caleb would be drafted to the team his dad is now coaching.

One night, a few weeks ago, when the two of you were snuggled under the same blanket on his living room couch, you asked him about it. He told you that it would be a dream to play for the team his father coaches, that he wants it so bad, but is terrified of actually believing it might happen. Because as amazing as it would be, Caleb could never imagine that he would be the third overall pick of the draft.

You believe in him, but it’s hard to make him see himself how you see him.

You don’t say anything in response, because you know that there’s nothing you can say. Instead, you rest your head on his shoulder, and softly take his hand in yours. You give his hand a squeeze, and caress the back of his hand with your thumb as the NHL commissioner takes the stage.

And then Cobie Smulders is on the screen.

“With the overall third pick for the 2026 draft is… Caleb Malhotra!”

You gasp, and then you’re clapping and screaming. Caleb stands, and you stand with him. His smile is huge, lighting up his entire face and bringing warmth to your heart. He instantly turns to you, wrapping his arms around your waist, yours settling around his neck.

Caleb holds you for longer than he probably should have, face buried in your neck and swaying you back and forth slightly. When he finally lets go, he turns to his mother first, then siblings, then finally his father. Then he makes his way onto the stage, putting the Canucks jersey on, and taking a picture with the commissioner.

It takes you a few minutes to realize that you’ve started crying, the pure joy and pride flowing through you coming out in the form of tears. You glance over to Joann, and find that she’s crying, too.

Caleb moves to the other side of the stage and is handed a microphone. He sits down next to the reporter, and you sit back down on the couch with his family to listen to what he’s asked, and what he has to say.

She asks about his dad, of course. The huge smile on Caleb’s face as he talks about what a dream it is to be in his father’s shoes after dreaming of filling them causes a fresh wave of emotion to roll through you. You probably know better than his parents do how badly he wanted this, how long he’s wanted this. How conflicting it was when Manny was hired as the Canucks head coach, because of how much of a dream it would be to play for him, but Caleb never thought that he was going to be picked this early into the draft.

And then she asks about his family, his support system.

He talks about how grateful he is for his family for a bit, how he wouldn’t be here without them. You don’t think you’ll be mentioned, why would you? You didn’t pay for any hockey equipment, or drive him to practices, or teach him how to skate. None of the important stuff. You’re not his family, you’re just his best friend.

Apparently, Caleb thinks different.

“Honestly though, I wouldn’t be here without my best friend,” he says, and all the air leaves your lungs. “Y/n, she’s… she’s my rock. Whenever I need her, she’s there. She comes to all my games, gets food with me after practice, and I know I can talk to her about anything. I hope I make you proud.”

You can practically feel all the cameras swerving onto you, surely catching your look of surprise before it melts into a shy smile. Of all the things you thought Caleb was going to say, it definitely wasn’t that. You try your hardest to act natural, like his words didn’t hit you right in the chest and start burrowing their way into your heart, but you know you fail. You know your pupils have turned into little hearts as you look at Caleb up on the stage, who’s looking right back, even though you’re pretty sure he can’t actually see you from under all those lights.

The interviewer asks him a few more questions, and Caleb answers them. In the minutes after his words to you, your phone starts blowing up. Texts from your friends are flooding in, telling you that you need to just go for it already, tell him how you feel. That he’s obviously as in love with you as you are with him, even more so. It’s obvious, one of the texts reads. Just kiss the poor boy already!

And as wonderful as that sounds, you definitely can’t tell him how you feel now. Caleb was just drafted third overall, to the Canucks, the team that his father is the head coach of. The pressure is mounting, the expectations are coming in, and he’s going to feel it.

He needs to focus on himself, on his career. He doesn’t need the confusion of his best friend telling him that she’s in love with him.

So instead of running backstage, jumping into Caleb’s arms, and professing your love for him, you sit back on the couch with his family and watch the rest of the first round.

The media gauntlet was intense.

Caleb knows that if he’s going to become the NHL star he dreams of being, he’s going to have to get used to reporters and interviews. But right now, it’s incredibly intimidating.

Honestly, he would have felt ten times better if you were standing behind the cameras, giving him your perfect, encouraging smile.

You weren’t, though. You were with his family, watching the rest of the draft while he got pictures taken, answered thousands of questions, and talked to people on the Canucks team for so long he wondered if it was ever going to end.

The night finished with the photographers pulling his family in for a picture. You were nowhere to be seen, and even though Caleb wanted to ask where you were, wanted to insist that you should be in the picture too, it all happened so fast. People were positioning him and his family, suggesting poses, calling for him to smile. The flash of the camera nearly blinded him, and then the Malhotra family was being ushered from the room.

“Where’s Y/n?” he asks his mom, head swivelling around in search of you. You’re the person he wanted to share this night with the most, and he feels like he hasn’t seen you at all.

“She said she felt like she couldn’t be in the family picture, so she hung back here,” his mom explains, looking around as well. “We tried to tell her that she’s just as much in the family as you are, but she insisted. She said she would stay around here, but… oh! There she is, talking to that young man over there.”

Caleb’s stomach drops before he even turns around and sees who you’re talking to.

It’s Chase Reid.

Caleb’s talked to Chase a few times, and he’s seemed like a nice guy. He doesn’t know him very well, but from the interactions they’ve had in the past, he’s liked him enough.

Right now, there’s no one in the world Caleb hates more.

Chase is looking at you with an expression that’s… eager. His cheeks are pink, his chest is puffed, and his body is tilted towards yours, inching closer with every passing second.

You’re oblivious. Smiling and nodding like you always do, laughing at a joke Chase makes.

Caleb tries to take a second to calm himself down, telling himself that it’s probably nothing. He’s heard from people that Chase is a flirt, so he probably should have expected this. Bringing his beautiful, gorgeous, model of a best friend to the NHL draft? Of course she’s going to get hit on by another hockey player.

Unfortunately, Caleb’s attempts at keeping himself rational don’t exactly succeed.

He’s striding across the room before he can really process what he’s doing, long legs carrying him across the room in just a few steps. Someone is calling his name, probably to tell him that there’s something else he needs to do. Another picture to pose for, another question from a reporter to answer, but he doesn’t care. All he sees is Chase Reid flirting with you.

Then he’s standing behind you, sliding one hand around your waist and pulling you back into his body. You let out a little yelp of surprise, but smile when you look over your shoulder and see who it is.

“Hi!” Your voice is full of happiness, excitement. Caleb swells with pride at seeing how your face lights up when you make eye contact with him. “Chase and I were just talking about you.”

Caleb’s eyes drift up to Chase’s, who looks far too smug. “Oh, really?” he asks, keeping eyes locked onto Chase’s as he leans down and rests his chin on your shoulder. Your hand reaches up and hooks on his shoulder, pulling him even closer into you. “All good things I hope.”

“Of course!” you giggle, completely oblivious to the two boys having a very intense staring contest. “He asked how we knew each other, and I was telling him that we’ve been friends for years.

Fuck. You were telling Chase that you and Caleb are friends, just friends. Chase’s eyebrow quirks up, head tilting slightly, almost as if in challenge.

Caleb doesn’t back off, staying right where he is. “That’s nice,” he murmurs, fingers tightening on your waist. “Listen, my parents want to go out to dinner. Coming?”

You nod. “Of course. I need to run to the bathroom really quick, though.”

You pull yourself from his grip, turning around to peck him on the cheek before rushing off, leaving Chase and Caleb alone, staring each other down.

“Your friend is really pretty,” Chase tells him, the smirk on his face making Caleb want to punch him.

“I know,” Caleb responds, because he does.

They stare each other down for a few seconds, eyes narrowed, each trying to figure out the move the other will make.

Finally, Chase asks, “Ever tried anything with her?”

Caleb could lie. He could say that yes, he has, and it’s gone well. That you’re kind of in the middle of something right now, and the only reason you said that you’re just friends is because you’re trying to keep the relationship on the down-low. He could even say that you’ve kissed before (which is true), and leave it at that.

Instead, Caleb grits his teeth and says, “No.”

Chase nods, licking his lips. He contemplates something for a few seconds, before looking back up at Caleb and saying, “I asked for her Snap, and she gave it to me.” Caleb suddenly feels like he’s going to puke. “I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you, but… it seems like you let her go. So I might as well try my luck, right?”

“Stay away from her,” Caleb says, voice deadly calm. He’s fighting to keep his face neutral, to not alert his parents to his rising anger and protectiveness over you. But the triumphant look Chase is sporting, and his air of confidence, is throwing Caleb off entirely.

Chase smirks. “I can do whatever I want.” He takes another step towards Caleb, and leans in as he says, “And I want to get with your friend.”

The conversation ends after that, with Chase tipping his new Seattle Kraken cap at Caleb and strutting off, looking far more confident than Caleb would like.

Caleb’s quiet and moody all dinner, and you can’t figure out why. You try asking him what happened while you were in the bathroom, if Chase said anything, but he carefully avoids your questions.

You think that maybe Chase told you that you gave him your Snap, but there’s no way Caleb’s upset about that. Honestly, you don’t really know why you did it. You rarely use your Snapchat, and a hockey player asking for it was a huge ick. You gave it to him because you didn’t know how to say no. He’s added you already, but you’ve yet to add him back.

Manny and Joann don’t notice their son’s mood, spending the entire dinner reminiscing on his life, the first time he skated, his first goal. They talk about how they’re so incredibly proud of him, and can’t wait to see where he goes. You second the sentiment, but your mood is tainted by Caleb’s. The two of you tell each other everything, so the fact that he’s not telling you this confuses and stresses you out.

You finally make it back to the hotel at around midnight, Caleb’s family breaking off to go to their separate hotel rooms. You follow Caleb into his even though he didn’t invite you.

Caleb kicks off his shoes and takes his suit jacket off while you sit down on the bed. You watch as he bustles anxiously around the room, plugging in his phone, brushing his teeth, trying to take his tie off. He struggles with it, grunting in frustration, getting angrier and angrier the longer he fails to loosen the strip of fabric.

You stand up and then you’re in front of him, gently easing his hands off his tie and taking it off yourself.

His chest heaves, his brows are furrowed, and the look of devastation on his face is like no expression you’ve seen from him before in your life.

“What’s going on?” you ask softly. “What happened?”

Caleb’s mouth opens and closes, like he’s gasping for air. You can see the war he’s raging in his mind, his shoulders bunched up near his ears. You rest your hands on his chest and try to give him the most encouraging look you possibly can, desperately needing to know what’s bothering your best friend.

Finally, he blurts it out.

“Did you give your Snapchat to Chase Reid?”

You gape at him. For the second time tonight, Caleb’s absolutely stunned you with his words. You didn’t think he knew about that, and if he did, didn’t think he would worry about it, but apparently he is.

“Uh… y-yeah,” you stutter out, caught completely off guard. “I did.”

“Why?” he asks, sounding… heartbroken.

“He asked for it, I… I don’t know,” you say, feeling more confused than you probably ever have. “What’s the problem with that?”

“Do you like him?” he demands.

You’re not sure how to answer that. No, not really, but he’s cute. He seemed nice. And even though you should tell him that, you don’t like the way he’s talking to you. You and Caleb have gotten into a total of four fights in all your years of knowing each other, so this is unfamiliar territory. So even though you want to say whatever it’ll take to calm down, to ease the tension in the room, you don’t.

“First of all, are we in middle school? Who cares who I like?” you question, taking a step back. Caleb’s whole being right now is vibrating with angry, frustrated energy, and you want nothing to do with it. “Second of all, why are you so angry about this? It literally has nothing to do with you.”

Caleb lets out a huff and turns away, beginning to pace the small hotel room. “Just answer the question, please. Do you like him?”

You roll your eyes. “Caleb, what is going on? You’re making zero sense.”

When he turns to face you again, there’s a renewed fire in his eyes. “Did he pressure you? Into giving it to him?”

“What?” You can’t believe your ears. Caleb Malhotra, who knows you better than anyone in the whole entire world, thinks you could be pressured into giving someone your Snapchat. If he had maybe asked you this question in a different tone, with a different implication behind his words, you wouldn’t be as offended as you are right now. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. “Did you seriously just fucking ask me that?”

Caleb just looks at you, crossing his arms over his chest. “Did he?” his voice cracks slightly, and he clamps his mouth shut. A few seconds later, he opens it again to ask: “Just tell me if he did. I can handle it.”

“You can handle it?” Incredulous doesn’t even begin to describe what you’re feeling right now. “I heard you wrong, right? There’s no way you just told me you could handle something for me. Right?”

It’s like a dam broke loose.

“I just… why were you even talking to him? I was right about to leave. I was on the way to you. Why did you have to start talking to Chase fucking Reid, of all people?” he spits out.

“Caleb, I was waiting for you,” you genuinely can’t believe that you’re having this conversation. “And for the record, I didn’t come up to him. Chase started the conversation with me. So chill out.”

He turns away again, staring at the wall instead of looking at you. The argument hits a lull, both of you exhausted from the day and from whatever’s going on right now.

You can’t believe this is how the night is going to end. Today was supposed to be entirely about celebration, about Caleb getting drafted and then making sure he knows just how proud you are of him. You didn’t think he would react to a simple conversation with another player to cause such chaos between the two of you, and you can’t figure out why it did.

“Chase Reid is an asshole, you know,” he says like an accusation. “You can do a lot better than him.”

“Oh… my… god!” You exclaim, in utter disbelief. “What are you even talking about right now? I haven’t even added him back on Snap yet. You’re acting like I just date whoever talks to me first.”

Caleb looks at you for a few seconds that seem to stretch on forever. He looks down, his fists clenched at his side as he says, “Could’ve fooled me. You seemed pretty eager when he was talking to you.”

Your mouth drops open in shock.

For a third, and final time, Caleb Malhotra has left you absolutely speechless.

His words sting, they hurt. You never thought he could hurt you, not really. Not like this. Your eyes fill with tears, your breath coming out in choppy little bursts as you stare at him. He’s not looking at you, gaze stuck securely to the floor so he doesn’t have to see the effect his words had on you.

You say the only thing you can think of. “You’re unbelievable, Caleb.”

Then you turn on your heels and leave without another word, only allowing the tears to fall once the hotel room door is closed behind you.

As soon as you’re gone, Caleb collapses on the bed, bracing his elbows on his knees, his head hanging between his shoulder blades. He’s sick to his stomach, the feeling of guilt and self-hatred immediately coursing through him.

He doesn’t know why he said what he said. He didn’t have to. He shouldn’t have brought up Chase or Snapchat at all, really. But he did, and then he was yelling at you, and saying things that he knew would hurt you.

Now you’re mad at him. Rightfully so.

Caleb’s not sure what he was thinking, starting that conversation in the first place. He shouldn’t have gotten mad at you, either. He had no right to. You’re your own person, and if you want to give Chase Reid your Snapchat, you can. The two of you are best friends, nothing more. You’re not his girlfriend, he’s not your boyfriend.

He needs to stop acting like he is.

Caleb doesn’t sleep that night, he can’t. He picks up his phone a hundred times, contemplating texting you, calling you, anything. At one point, he opens his door, and almost walks to your hotel room. But he doesn’t.

You probably don’t want to talk to him right now.

So Caleb lays on his bed, staring at his ceiling as the sun comes up outside his window. He should be celebrating right now, ecstatic about being drafted third overall to the Canucks. He should be celebrating with you. Instead, the two of you are separated.

Caleb knows that he fucked up.

And he has no idea how to fix it.