You don’t really remember the exact moment Will Smith started acting different around you.
Not different in a loud, obvious way—he’s still the same kid who used to trip over his own skates in warmups and laugh like it was the funniest thing in the world—but somewhere between late high school and the draft, something shifted. Or maybe it didn’t shift at all. Maybe you just finally started noticing it.
You’ve known Grace Smith since you were both still figuring out how to survive high school without losing your minds. She’s the kind of person who makes friends easily, the kind who drags you into conversations you didn’t ask to be part of and somehow makes them feel like home. Through her, you met Will.
He was younger than you by two years—still awkward in that lanky, half-grown way when you first met him. A hockey stick always in his hand, a grin always threatening to break through even when he tried to act cool about it. Back then, you just thought he was “Grace’s little brother who plays hockey.”
But Will… didn’t think of you that way.
You notice it in small things first.
The way he goes quiet when you’re in the room, even when he’s loud with everyone else. The way he always seems to end up sitting near you, even if there’s a whole couch empty somewhere else. The way he laughs a little too hard at your jokes, like he’s trying to prove he gets them.
Grace notices before you do.
“Stop doing that,” she says once, elbowing him when you’re in the kitchen grabbing drinks.
“Doing what?” he asks, too fast.
“That thing where you act like you forgot how to speak English around her.”
He turns red immediately. You don’t hear the rest, but you catch the tail end of Grace whispering something like, “Just talk to her like a normal person, idiot.”
Because Will doesn’t talk to you like a normal person.
He talks to you like you’re something delicate he’s afraid of breaking just by looking at too hard.
Years pass like that. Games, practices, summer breaks where he comes back taller, stronger, a little more confident on the ice—but still somehow the same around you. Still glancing at you like he’s checking whether you’re real.
And you? You don’t think too much about it. Not at first.
Everything changes for him overnight. Interviews, training camps, flights across the country. Suddenly, he’s not just “Grace’s little brother who plays hockey.” He’s Will Smith, prospect, future something, someone people start recognizing.
But when he comes back for a short break after the draft, he still finds you the same way he always did.
You’re sitting on the back steps when he shows up, still in his travel hoodie, hair messy from the flight. He stops like he’s not sure he’s allowed to just walk into your space anymore.
“You’re staring,” you say without looking up from your drink.
“I’m not,” he says immediately.
You finally glance over at him.
His ears go pink. “Okay, I am. Sorry.”
You snort. “What’s wrong with you?”
That makes him laugh, soft and breathy, like he didn’t expect you to be the same either. Like part of him thought you’d changed while he was gone. “Nothing. I just… forgot how loud you are in person.”
“You are,” he says, and there’s a grin trying to hide in his voice. “It’s kind of your thing.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling anyway. “So how’s the big NHL life treating you?”
At that, he shifts like he always does when the conversation turns to him. He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, even though it obviously is. “It’s good. Weird. A lot. Everyone’s older than me.”
“You’re fine,” you say. “You’re basically a baby deer on skates, but you’re fine.”
He laughs harder at that than he should. His shoulders shake, and he looks down like he’s trying to physically contain it.
You notice something then.
He still does that thing.
The thing where he looks at you like he can’t quite believe you’re talking to him.
It hits differently now, though. Because he’s not a kid anymore. Not really. He’s built, confident on the ice, spoken about in scouting reports and interviews.
And yet here he is, standing in your backyard, laughing like you just said something life-changing.
“You’re still weird,” he says finally, quieter now.
“I know,” he admits, and scratches the back of his neck. “Grace says I got worse.”
“Grace says a lot of things.”
“Yeah.” He hesitates. “She also says I’m obvious.”
You look at him properly this time.
He’s still smiling, but it’s different now—smaller, uncertain, like he’s testing whether it’s safe to say what he’s thinking out loud.
He immediately panics. “Not like— I mean—she didn’t mean it like that—”
You’ve seen him take hits on the ice without flinching. You’ve seen him get shoved into the boards and bounce back up laughing.
But right now, he looks like he’s bracing for impact anyway.
You tilt your head. “Are you nervous right now?”
He lets out a breath that turns into a laugh halfway out. “Yeah.”
That honesty sits between you for a second.
Then he adds, softer, “I always am with you.”
It should feel like a big moment. It kind of is.
But mostly, it just feels like something you’ve both been circling for years finally stopping pretending it’s not there.
“You’re kind of terrible at this,” you tell him.
“I know,” he says again, immediately.
Then, very quietly, he asks, “Do you want me to stop being terrible at it?”
You don’t answer right away.
Because the truth is, you’ve known him long enough to recognize this version of him—the one who’s trying so hard it makes him shaky, the one who still looks at you like you’re something he never thought he’d actually get to keep.
“No,” you say finally. “Just… don’t run away mid-conversation.”
His whole face changes at that. Relief, confusion, and something warm and bright all at once.
“I won’t,” he says quickly. Then, like he can’t help himself, he adds, “I mean— I’ll try not to. I might still be weird.”
“You are weird,” you remind him.
He laughs again, softer this time, and this time it doesn’t feel like he’s holding anything back.
“Yeah,” he says. “But I think I’m your kind of weird.”
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