𝑻𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆, 𝑩𝒂𝒃𝒚𝒅𝒐𝒍𝒍
𝐼𝑐𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑦 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟!𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑣𝑒 𝑥 𝑓𝑒𝑚 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 (1.8k words)
warnings: vague mentions of Steve being violent on the ice, reader finds Steve attractive, no mention of female anatomy or use of y/n summary: Steve Harrington is no longer King of Hawkins High, but of the Hawkins Gyrfalcons. After the horrors witnessed from the Upside Down, he becomes something he once despised, hardened and cold. But how come after one meeting with you, he doesn't want to keep up his carefully built walls? a/n: heyyy, thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed feel free to let me know, i'd love to hear some thoughts :)
𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑂𝑛𝑒: 𝑆ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑚𝑒, 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒
Steve Harrington looked good in an ice hockey jersey.
This fact has been made increasingly clear to you, specifically every time you’re working the food stand at Hawkins Ice Area, sneaking glances through the windows that look into the rink. A flash of his white teeth. Broad shoulders visible even under the hockey jersey. That dead-eyed stare combined with his winning smile. How his hair falls when he takes off his helmet, sweaty and tangible in a way that’s never seen off the ice. Even from this far away, you feel as if it’s all there in detail.
Unfortunately, this view has distracted you many times from customers. Which has been a constant cause of contention between you and your manager. Like now, for instance, when he calls your name sharply with a piercing glare that send you scrambling to finish heaping fries on some guy’s order.
Once the disgruntled customer has been satisfied and your manager is busy yelling at someone else, you let your eyes wander back to the ice. The Hawkins Gyrfalcons are in their last period against a team from a few towns over, the scores are currently neck and neck. If either team scores just one more goal, then they win. You search the ice for Steve, for the yellow 53 on the back of his blue jersey. When you find him he’s skating across the ice after the puck with a speed that makes you suck in a breath, anticipating him crashing into the boards. But it’s not the boards he crashes into, but an opposing player – probably a deliberate attack. You watch as Steve recovers quickly and shoves the player in the chest, tearing off his helmet to get in his face. Even from up here you can see the harsh set of his brow. How that vein in his neck throbs out at the injustice.
You know the rumours, heard the story. Steve Harrington is pretty well known in Hawkins, used to be seen as a pretty face and not much more. It was only after those strange deaths and weird occurrences from a few years ago died down that he first stepped into the rink. They say he was a natural from the start, something about the violence and aggression of the game spoke to a part of him revealed by the grief Hawkins had experienced. It wasn’t long before he rose up through amateur leagues to being scouted for the town’s official team, and then to captain, heading off to face teams from around the state. He was known as ruthless, always spoiling for a fight to buy time for the team, always the first to shove, to cut dangerously close to another player. Despite his apparent bad attitude, he still carried something of his old ‘King Steve’ self in him. Maybe it was the sharp jawline, or the charm offensive, or even the confidence he held himself with. Whatever it was, it made him magnetic. Both on the ice, and off.
Even now, watching him yell inches away from that player with his finger jabbing into the poor guy’s chest, you can’t bring yourself to look away.
It’s not long before the referee skates up, forcing Steve away from his target, and you turn back to the counter with a sigh as you pick up a cloth to wipe away the grease stains for the sixth time this shift. It’s at that precise moment a group of ten turn up with expectant faces, and you get lost in the frenzy of taking orders and flatly describing the three different ‘snack combo’ options on offer this evening. And then a roar goes up inside the area. This is the one time your manager allows you to slack off, you and your co-workers looking to the window to see the action.
The noise from inside is deafening, even from this distance. Hundreds of hands clapping thunderously, shouts of glee from the Hawkins crowd. They must have won, then.
And in the middle of it all is Steve Harrington. He’s wearing that winning smile, the one with an edge that’s sharp as ice, clapping his teammates on the back. He turns to the crowd, skates a lap around the rink as he grins at them. His fist banging on the plastic barriers as he speeds past, then he’s holding both arms aloft in victory. Your eyes dip just for a second to the sliver of stomach made visible by this gesture, catching only a flash of coarse hair and toned torso before it’s gone and your cheeks are burning. Most of your co-workers have gone back to the counter now, but you remain trapped as a voyeur. Until Steve’s gaze lifts and suddenly his dead-eyed stare is directed at you.
Which is impossible, because he’s down there and you’re all the way up here, and yet…..he’s staring right back. Fixedly, like you’re an anomaly that intrigues him. You swallow nervously, wanting to look away but you’re frozen to the spot like a small thing being watched by a polar bear in the barren expanse of the Arctic. He tilts his head to the side just slightly. And then he’s gone, skating away to his teammates and you’re left reeling, blinking hard to try and regain a normal heartbeat.
The rest of your shift is uneventful, and you’re left to close. Although as you wipe down the sink and sweep the floor, your mind keeps wandering back to Steve. That briefest of moments where he looked back at you. Well, at least you’re pretty sure that’s what happened. To be honest, it wouldn’t surprise you if it you made it all up, daydreamed a little too far. Except it stays resolutely in your head, those brown eyes boring into you from the rink, pinning you to the spot.
Everytime you blink you see him.
A sharp tap on the counter pulls you from your thoughts, and you look up to tell whoever it is that you’re closed. The words die instantly on your tongue because standing in front of you, is Steve Harrington. His hair is wet from the showers, a little floppier than normal. He looks different dressed in sweats. Frayed at the edges, maybe. A droplet of water drips onto his forehead, and you are left powerless but to track it as it slides down his face. A sudden urge to lean over and brush it away with your fingertips rises in you. It’s only when Steve clears his throat you realize how hard you’d been staring at him.
“Hey. What kind of food do you guys do?” He asks. His voice is low and gravelly, which makes sense. You’ve always imagined him to be a smoker, despite his obvious athleticism.
“….Oh, we don’t anymore.” You blurt out, and then add “As in, we’re closed, sorry.” A frown tugs at his lips as one large hand comes up to card through his damp hair.
“You sure about that?” He rakes his cool gaze over you. And you remember with horror that you’re still wearing your uniform.
“Yeah, I’m sure. We close at 9:45, and it’s-“ you glance at the clock on the wall over his shoulder “-10 o’clock right now. I’m sorry.” You reply, managing to keep your voice firm even though you can hear your pulse roaring in your ears.
Steve sighs heavily, an exaggerated display of disappointment. His gaze flicks to the menu boards behind you. “What, not even a small loaded nachos?”
You hesitate. Steve notices immediately. He leans a little closer, a smirk curling at his lips. “C’mon. Winning gives you an appetite, you know.” His voice is more intimate this time, almost conspiratorial. As if he’s inviting you to partake in some petty crime with him. Just like watching him on the ice, you find yourself unable to remove your eyes from his face. Unable to refuse.
You nod mutely, not trusting yourself to speak, turning to pull a paper tray from under the counter. Your agreement is rewarded with a full smirk from Steve.
He watches you move around the small space in silence, tracking your actions with interest. There’s something unassuming about you that he can’t shake off, a quiet grace you seem to carry even in the face of someone as indomitable as him. He finds it confusing, a puzzle he can’t work out.
You place the now full paper tray on the counter with a timid smile, wiping your hands on the apron tied around your waist to disguise how shaky they are. Steve nods, still smirking, and pulls out a wad of notes from his pocket. He sets them down on the counter and picks up the nachos.
“Thanks for being so understanding.” He tips his head to you, a botched attempt at a gentlemanly gesture that has him internally kicking himself. But it still sets off butterflies in your gut. To distract yourself, you count the notes, eyes widening.
“You’ve given me too much, loaded nachos are only $6.50. There’s $25 here.” When you look back at him he shrugs indifferently.
“I know. Keep the change.”
You shake your head immediately. Making food past closing time is one thing but accepting such a large tip is another entirely. “I appreciate it, but I can’t accept this. It’s too much.”
He grins at you then, seeming as if he knows something you don’t. “Well, that’s just tough love, baby doll. I’m not taking it back.” The nickname takes you by surprise, as does the flicker of heat that rolls through your abdomen at hearing it fall from his cracked lips. Steve’s grin softens the slightest touch.
“I’m Steve, by the way.” He says, for once sounding unprepared. Wanting to know your name so badly wasn’t something he anticipated.
“I know.” You respond, then wish you should shove the words back into your mouth from his raised eyebrow. “I mean, I work here, so I’ve seen you playing.” You quickly correct. When this too is met with amused silence, you tell him your name. Steve nods thoughtfully, considering something, deciding.
“We’re having this party. Me and the team, to celebrate the win. You should come.” He states, disguising the want in his tone behind the matter-of-fact presentation. You stare at him, wondering for a long moment whether you’re hallucinating.
“…That’s nice of you, but- “
“-Nope. Just come tonight, okay? It’s at my place.” Although his interruption is harsh you can see the flicker of honesty in his eyes. He really does want you to go.
“I’ll think about it.” You reply hesitantly. Steve grins, satisfied. He picks up the tray and nods to you before sauntering off down the hall. You’d never admit it, but you lean over the counter to watch his silhouette recede until he turns a corner, craning your neck for one last look. And you swear he turns his head to look back at you before disappearing from sight.
