elle 🍉

The rumor started with a photograph taken on your twenty-eighth birthday.

Not during the small breakfast Josh and the boys had attempted to make for you that morning, when Miles proudly carried a plate of slightly burned pancakes into the bedroom while Noah dragged a balloon behind him and Jude sat on Josh’s hip, clapping because everyone else was excited.

Not when Josh handed you a thin gold necklace with four tiny charms—an initial for each of your boys, including his—and watched nervously as you opened it.

Not when he kissed you in the kitchen while Miles complained loudly that birthdays were supposed to involve cake, not “gross married stuff.”

The picture appeared later that night.

Josh had planned a dinner for the two of you at one of your favorite restaurants in Denver. It was the first proper date you had managed in weeks. Between Josh’s schedule, Miles’s school, Noah’s determination to climb every piece of furniture in the house, and Jude still waking during the night, time alone had become increasingly rare.

Your mother had offered to watch the children, but Jude had cried as soon as you placed him in her arms. You had nearly canceled. Josh had stood by the front door in his dress shirt, patiently waiting while you walked Jude around the living room and tried to calm him.

“We can stay home,” you had said.

Josh had shaken his head “You’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

“He’s upset.”

“He’ll be okay.”

“What if he isn’t?”

“Then your mom will call us, and we’ll come back.”

You had looked down at Jude, who was clutching the neckline of your dress with one tiny fist. Josh moved closer and rubbed a hand over Jude’s back “Buddy, I already made reservations. You can’t ruin my marriage like this.”

Your mother laughed from the couch, You gave Josh an unimpressed look “He’s one.”

“He knows exactly what he’s doing.” Eventually, Jude settled enough for you to leave.

Dinner had been wonderful.

Josh made you put your phone away so you couldn’t check the baby monitor application every three minutes. He ordered dessert without asking because he knew which one you wanted. He listened while you talked about Miles struggling with reading aloud in class and Noah refusing to use any cup that wasn’t blue.

There had been no argument.

No tension.

No sign that your marriage was falling apart.

But when you left the restaurant, your mother called to tell you Jude had woken up and wouldn’t settle. You were already worried as you stepped onto the sidewalk.

Josh took your hand while answering your mother’s questions through the car’s speaker. He walked slightly ahead because a photographer had appeared near the curb, and he was trying to guide you around him without causing a scene.

The photograph captured only one second, Josh was looking forward with a tense expression. You were behind him, your hand still in his, looking down at your phone.

By the following morning, the image had been reposted by several hockey gossip accounts.

The first caption was relatively harmless.

Trouble in paradise? Josh Manson and his wife look tense after her birthday dinner.

You rolled your eyes when your friend sent it to you. Apparently we’re getting divorced because Jude woke up, you replied.

She responded with three laughing emojis and told you to ignore it.

You intended to.

Then another account reposted the photo beside an older one from the beginning of your relationship.

You were twenty-one in that picture, standing beside Josh at an offseason event. Your face was rounder, your hair was longer, and you were wearing a fitted dress you hadn’t seen in years. The newer photograph showed you at twenty-eight after three pregnancies and countless sleepless nights.

The caption read:

Seven years younger and somehow she’s the one who looks exhausted. Three kids before thirty will do that. Josh already seems checked out.

That one spread quickly. People began arguing about the age difference between you and Josh, some insisted that you had been too young when you started dating him, despite the fact that you had been an adult and neither of you had hidden the timeline.

Others accused you of intentionally becoming pregnant quickly to “secure” the relationship.

Someone claimed Josh had only married you because Miles had been conceived.

That wasn’t true.

You and Josh had already been engaged when you discovered you were pregnant with Miles. The wedding had been postponed because you wanted to wait until after he was born, not arranged because of him.

The facts didn’t matter. Within hours, strangers had constructed an entire version of your life, according to social media, you had sacrificed your twenties to raise Josh’s children while he continued living freely.

You were isolated, he was controlling. You looked miserable, he looked bored. You had aged badly, he would eventually leave you for someone younger, even though you were already seven years younger than him.

At first, the comments almost seemed absurd enough to be funny.

You sent Josh one while he was at practice.

Someone thinks you forced me to have three children.

He responded a few minutes later.

I can barely force Noah to wear pants.

You laughed. Then you made the mistake of continuing to read, someone posted a close-up of your face from the restaurant picture and pointed out the shadows beneath your eyes. Another compared your body before Miles to your body after Jude.

A popular account created a poll asking whether Josh would still be married to you by his thirty-fifth birthday.

The options were:

No

and

Absolutely not

You stared at the poll much longer than you should have, Josh was thirty-four and would turn thirty-five in a few months. You had just turned twenty-eight. The age difference had never felt significant inside your home.

Josh never treated you as though you were younger or less capable. You made decisions together. You argued like equals, you divided responsibilities as fairly as his career allowed.

But strangers reduced you to the younger wife who had spent her best years having children. That phrasing lodged itself in your mind.

Your best years. As though they were already over.

You looked around the living room, there were toys beneath the coffee table, a basket of unfolded laundry beside the couch, and a faint stain on your shirt from where Jude had spit up after breakfast.

You hadn’t washed your hair in three days, your body no longer looked like it had when you met Josh. Your stomach a bit softer. Your hips were wider. Fine lines had appeared around your eyes from exhaustion and laughter. There were pale stretch marks across your skin and a small scar low on your abdomen from Jude’s emergency delivery.

You had never hated those things before.

Some days, you struggled with them, especially when getting dressed for team events surrounded by women who seemed impossibly polished. But Josh had always made you feel wanted.

He kissed your stretch marks, he rested his hand over your stomach when you slept, he still looked at you across crowded rooms in a way that made you feel twenty-one again. But after reading hundreds of strangers say he was only pretending, you started wondering whether you had misread him.

The rumor followed you for the rest of the week, Josh attended a team dinner alone because Noah had a fever. A photograph of him laughing with teammates appeared online.

He looks happier without her.

You skipped a home game because Jude had been awake all night with teething pain and Miles was sad because he lost his drawing, when he was the one who throw it in the trash when he spilled his water on it.

She never supports him anymore.

Josh failed to like the birthday post you uploaded until several hours later because he had been at practice.

He couldn’t even pretend to care on her birthday.

You knew there were explanations, you knew the accounts were manipulating ordinary moments. But knowing something logically didn’t stop it from hurting emotionally.

You began checking your reflection more often.

Every time Josh looked at his phone, you wondered whether he had seen the posts. Whenever he seemed quiet after practice, you wondered whether he was thinking about the poll.

You started changing clothes before he came into the bedroom.

When he walked into the bathroom while you were getting ready, you immediately pulled your robe closed. Josh paused in the doorway “Sorry my love”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“You covered yourself like I caught you committing a crime.”

“I’m cold.”

He glanced toward the shower, which was still filling the room with steam “Right.”

You avoided his eyes.

That night, he tried to pull you closer in bed, you pretended to be asleep. His arm remained around your waist for several minutes before slowly withdrawing.

You felt him roll onto his back. The disappointment in that small movement nearly made you turn around and tell him everything. Instead, you closed your eyes more tightly.

The worst moment happened three days later.

You were in the kitchen packing Miles’s lunch when you heard Noah’s tablet playing a video from the living room. You had restricted most applications, but sometimes clips slipped through the child settings, especially when they included hockey footage.

A woman’s voice came through the speaker “Fans are convinced there could be trouble in Josh Manson’s marriage after recent photos—”

You dropped the sandwich bag onto the counter “Noah.”

He didn’t respond.

You rushed into the living room and found the tablet propped against the couch. Noah was sitting on the floor with toy cars, barely paying attention.

Miles was standing behind him, unlike Noah, he was listening. On the screen, the host showed the birthday photograph.

Then the older picture, your stomach dropped.

“Mommy?” Miles asked. You grabbed the tablet and stopped the video “Where did you find this?”

“Noah pressed it.”

“I didn’t,” Noah protested immediately.

“It was on the hockey video.”

You looked at Miles, his expression was troubled in a way no six-year-old’s face should have been “What did you hear?” He shrugged, but his eyes stayed on the dark screen “Miles.”

He hesitated “The lady said Dad doesn’t want to be married anymore.”

Your chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt “That isn’t true.”

“She said people think he’s going to leave before his birthday.”

“No.” You crouched in front of him. “Dad is not leaving.”

“Because you got old?” The question broke something inside you, you stared at your son. Miles shifted anxiously “They said you look old now because you had us.”

You could barely breathe “No, sweetheart.”

“Did we make you old?”

“No.”

“Did Jude?”

“No.” Your voice cracked. “None of you did anything.”

Miles’s lower lip trembled “Dad still likes you?”

You pulled him into your arms “Dad loves me.”

“Then why did the lady say that?”

You closed your eyes. Because cruelty earned attention, because strangers forgot there were real families behind photographs, because people who had never met you believed they were entitled to explain your marriage to your children.

You couldn’t tell him any of that “Sometimes people on the internet say things that aren’t true,” you whispered. “They see one picture and make up a story.”

Miles leaned back “So Dad isn’t leaving?”

“No.”

“Promise?”

You forced yourself to answer immediately “Promise.”

But after sending him to school, you went upstairs and cried in the bathroom. Not because you truly believed Josh was going to leave.

Not entirely.

You cried because the rumor had reached your child, Miles was six years old, and someone had made him wonder whether he and his brothers had ruined their mother. You sat on the floor between the bathtub and vanity, pressing your sleeve against your mouth so Noah wouldn’t hear you.

That was where Josh found you.

Practice had ended early, but you hadn’t heard him come home. He appeared in the doorway still wearing his team sweats, his hair damp from the shower at the arena.

His face changed instantly “What happened?”

You wiped your cheeks “Nothing.” Josh stepped inside and closed the door behind him “You’re sitting on the bathroom floor crying.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I just had a bad morning.”

He crouched in front of you “Did something happen with the boys?” Your silence made his expression sharpen “Are they okay?”

“They’re fine.”

“Then what happened?”

You looked down at your hands, Josh reached for you, but you shifted away before he could touch your face. His hand stopped in midair, the hurt in his expression made you feel worse “You’ve been doing that all week,” he said quietly.

“Doing what?”

“Moving away from me.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

He sat on the floor across from you “You won’t change in front of me. You pretend to sleep when I touch you. You barely spoke to me at breakfast yesterday.” His voice softened. “Now I come home and find you crying. Tell me what’s going on.”

You wanted to, instead, embarrassment rose in your throat “It’s stupid.”

“Let me decide that.”

You shook your head.

Josh watched you for a moment “Did I do something?”

“No.”

“Are you unhappy?”

The fear behind the question made you look at him “What?”

“Are you unhappy with me?”

“No.”

“Then help me understand.”

You drew a shaky breath “Miles saw one of the videos.”

Josh frowned “What video?”

You told him.

You explained the post, the comments, the poll, and the way the rumor had spread. You told him how Miles had asked whether his father still liked you, you did not intend to tell Josh the rest.

But once you started speaking, everything came out “They keep saying I wasted my twenties,” you whispered. “That I had three kids too young and now I look older than you.”

Josh’s jaw tightened “They’re idiots.”

“But I do look different.”

“Of course you look different. It’s been seven years" You flinched, he noticed immediately “That didn’t come out right.”

“It came out honestly.”

“No, it came out badly.”

You stood from the floor, Josh rose with you.

“I know I don’t look the same,” you said. “I don’t need you to pretend.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“You don’t have to protect my feelings.”

“I’m not protecting your feelings. I’m telling you the truth.”

You turned toward the mirror. Your eyes were swollen from crying. Your hair was twisted into a loose bun. There was a small stain on the shoulder of your shirt “I look exhausted.”

“You are exhausted.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m saying you’re exhausted because Jude still wakes twice a night and you refuse to wake me when I have practice.”

“You need to sleep.”

“So do you.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Then tell me what the point is.”

You looked at him through the mirror “The point is that I don’t feel like the woman you married anymore.”

Josh went quiet,you folded your arms over your stomach “She was fun. She traveled with you. She wore dresses without worrying whether anything showed. She didn’t spend every conversation talking about school schedules and pediatric appointments.”

“She also couldn’t cook.”

You turned sharply “Josh.”

“I’m trying to lighten the mood.”

“This isn’t funny.”

His expression softened “I know.”

You looked down “People keep saying you’ll leave me for someone younger.”

“You are younger.”

“That isn’t what they mean.”

“I know.”

“What happens when you turn thirty-five and realize you’re married to someone who already feels fifty?”

Josh stared at you, then he walked forward and gently took your wrists, uncrossing your arms from your stomach “Look at me.” You resisted for a moment before raising your eyes “I am turning thirty-five,” he said. “Not losing my mind.”

You said nothing.

“I’m not waiting for my birthday to suddenly discover I have a wife and three children.”

“They think you look miserable.”

“I was miserable in that picture.” Your throat tightened, Josh squeezed your hands before you could pull away “Because your mom called to say Jude had been crying for forty minutes, the photographer was blocking the car, and I knew you were blaming yourself for leaving the house.”

“Oh.”

“I wasn’t miserable because of you.” You looked away, Josh stepped closer “And I didn’t marry the twenty-one-year-old version of you because I wanted her to stay exactly the same forever.”

His thumbs brushed over your wrists “I married you because I wanted to change with you.”

Your eyes burned.

“The woman I met at twenty-one didn’t know how to calm a newborn while half asleep. She didn’t know every dinosaur Miles has ever mentioned. She hadn’t learned that Noah will eat carrots if you call them orange fries.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, Josh released one of your hands to wipe it away “She hadn’t held my hand in a hospital room while doctors rushed Jude into surgery.”

Your breath caught.

“She hadn’t built this home. She hadn’t made me a dad.”

“You did part of that.”

“A very small part.”

Despite yourself, a weak laugh escaped.

Josh’s mouth lifted slightly “There you are .”

You shook your head, he cupped your face “You didn’t waste your twenties.” His voice was firm now “You lived them. You loved me through surgeries, trades, road trips, losses, and every mood I’ve ever brought home after a bad game. You had three beautiful boys because we both wanted them. You built a career around our family. You made friends in every city hockey dragged us through.”

His forehead touched yours “And you’re twenty-eight. You have plenty of twenties left.”

“I only have two years.”

“Then we’ll make them irresponsible.” You laughed through your tears “I’m serious. We’ll stay out past ten.”

“That is irresponsible for us.”

“We might even order dessert.”

“We always order dessert.”

“Exactly. Wild.”

Your smile faded again “But Miles heard it.”

Josh’s expression hardened “I know.”

“He asked whether they made me old.”

The anger in Josh’s eyes became unmistakable “They?”

“The boys.”

He stepped back and dragged a hand over his jaw “He thinks this is his fault?”

“I told him it wasn’t.”

“But he heard it.”

“Yes.”

Josh paced once across the bathroom, you had seen him angry many times. On the ice, his anger was immediate and physical, at home, it was quieter. More controlled and somehow, that was more intimidating “Where’s the video?”

“I deleted it from the tablet.”

“Find it.”

“Josh.”

“Find it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“That usually means something terrible.”

“I’m not going to fight someone.”

“You sound disappointed about that.”

“I am.” You found the clip through your own phone and handed it to him, he watched the entire thing.

His face remained expressionless until the host repeated the claim that having three children had “aged” you and suggested Josh might be reconsidering the marriage as he approached thirty-five.

Then his jaw flexed. At the end of the video, he handed the phone back “Who is she?”

“A reporter for one of those entertainment channels.”

“Does she come to games?”

“Sometimes.”

Josh nodded once, you knew that look “No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re going to.”

“She talked about our marriage like it was entertainment.”

“That’s what those channels do.”

“She involved our kids.”

“She probably didn’t know Miles would see it.”

“She put it online.”

You reached for his arm “Please don’t make this bigger.”

Josh looked at you “It’s already big enough that our six-year-old thinks I’m leaving.”

You had no response.

That evening, Josh sat with Miles in his bedroom, you remained in the hallway at first, listening while pretending to fold laundry. Miles was sitting beneath his Avalanche blanket, holding one of his stuffed animals.

Josh sat on the edge of the bed “Mom said you saw something online today.”

Miles looked nervous “It came on Noah’s video.”

“You’re not in trouble.”

“I didn’t look for it.”

“I know.”

Miles picked at the stuffed animal’s ear “Are you leaving?”

Josh’s shoulders dropped “No.”

“Even when you’re thirty-five?”

“Especially then.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll need Mom to remind me where I put everything.”

Miles smiled slightly, Josh leaned forward “I’m not leaving mommy buddy, I love her.”

“The lady said you don’t.”

“The lady doesn’t know me.”

“She said Mom looks old because of us.”

Josh’s face tightened “Your mom doesn’t look old.”

“She said—”

“I know what she said.” Josh’s voice softened. “She was wrong.”

Miles watched him carefully “Did we make Mom tired?”

“Yes.” Your mouth fell open in the hallway, Josh continued before you could interrupt “You made both of us tired. You used to wake up every two hours and scream.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.” Miles smiled.

“But being tired isn’t bad,” Josh explained. “Sometimes it means you worked hard at something important.”

“Like hockey?”

“Exactly. Or being a mom.”

Miles considered this “So Mom isn’t sad she had us?”

“No.” Josh glanced toward the doorway, clearly aware you were there. “Mom would choose all three of you again.”

“Even Noah?”

“Probably.”

“Daddy.”

“I’m kidding.”

Miles giggled.

Josh tucked the blanket around him “And nobody gets to tell you things about our family that Mommy and I haven’t told you ourselves. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“If you see another video like that, you bring it to us.”

“Are you going to yell at the lady?”

Josh paused “No.” You released a relieved breath “I’m going to speak very calmly and make her wish I had yelled.” You closed your eyes, Miles grinned.

The opportunity came sooner than you expected.

Two nights later, you attended a home game with the boys, you considered staying home.

The idea of cameras made your stomach twist, but Miles had been asking to watch Josh play all week. Noah wanted popcorn, and Jude had recently become fascinated with the arena lights.

You refused to let the rumor take those moments away from them, you wore jeans, boots, and one of the play-offs jacket. Before leaving, you stood in front of the bedroom mirror and nearly changed three times.

Josh came up behind you “You look good.”

“You have to say that.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do if you want somewhere to sleep tonight.”

Josh placed both hands on your hips “I’m serious.” You looked at him through the mirror, His gaze didn’t move away “You look like my wife.”

You swallowed “Is that supposed to be romantic?”

“To me it is.” He kissed the side of your head before heading downstairs to help Miles find his gloves.

The game went well.

The avalanche won, Miles cheered until his voice became hoarse, Noah spilled half a bucket of popcorn onto the floor, and Jude fell asleep against your chest halfway through the third period.

For several hours, you forgot about the internet.

After the game, you waited with the boys near the family area while Josh finished media availability. Miles and Noah were playing with Gabe’s kids. Jude remained asleep in your arms.

A reporter approached you, you recognized her immediately. She was the woman from the video.

Your entire body went tense.

She smiled as though she hadn’t publicly speculated about the end of your marriage two days earlier “YN, could I ask you a quick question?”

“No.”

Her smile faltered.

“It will only take a second.”

“I’m here with my children.”

“It’s actually about the recent conversation online.”

You adjusted Jude against your chest “I’m sorry but i'm not interested.”

She stepped closer “Would you at least like to address the rumors that you and Josh are experiencing marital problems?”

Miles stopped playing, your eyes moved toward him. The reporter followed your gaze but continued anyway “Some fans have expressed concern after recent photographs—”

“Concern?” Josh’s voice came from behind her, the reporter turned. He was still wearing part of his suit from the game, his tie loosened and his hair damp. His expression was calm, far too calm “Josh,” she said brightly. “I was hoping to ask you—”

“No.” She blinked, he moved to stand beside you and placed one hand against the back of your neck “You don’t get to ask my wife anything.”

“I was only giving her an opportunity to respond.”

“To something you created.”

The reporter’s smile became strained “We reported on public speculation.”

“You started the speculation.”

“The photograph raised questions.”

“It was a picture of us leaving dinner.”

“You appeared unhappy.”

“My one-year-old was crying at home.” She hesitated, Josh continued “You took a picture of my wife on her birthday, compared her body to what she looked like seven years ago, and invited strangers to vote on whether I would leave her.”

“I didn’t personally create the poll.”

“You shared it.”

The reporter glanced toward the other people beginning to watch “This may not be the right setting—”

“You approached her while she was holding our son.” Your hand tightened around Jude, Josh’s voice never rose. That made every word land harder “Our six-year-old saw your video.”

The reporter’s expression changed

“He asked whether his brothers made his mom old. Then he asked whether I was leaving them.”

“I’m sorry he saw it, but content online—”

“No.” Josh stepped slightly closer “You don’t get to apologize that he saw it. You apologize for making it.”

She stared at him “I understand you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset because someone criticized me. That comes with my job. I’m upset because you decided my wife’s face, body, age, and motherhood were appropriate entertainment.”

You felt tears threatening again.

Josh’s hand remained steady against your neck “You don’t know her,” he continued. “You don’t know what she has sacrificed for this family. You don’t know what she survived bringing our youngest into the world. And you definitely don’t know anything about my marriage.”

The reporter looked toward her camera operator, clearly wanting the exchange to end.

Josh didn’t give her the chance to redirect it “You wanted an answer to the rumor?” He looked directly at the camera “Here it is. I love my wife. I’m not leaving her at thirty-five, forty-five, or any other age. The only people who damaged anything were the adults who made my six-year-old question whether his family was safe.”

Silence settled around the hallway.

Josh looked back at the reporter “Don’t approach my wife or children again.” then he took Jude from your arms, called Miles and Noah over, and led all of you away.

You remained silent until you reached the parking garage.

Noah was talking excitedly about the popcorn, Miles kept looking at Josh with obvious admiration. Jude slept through everything. Once the boys were buckled into the car, you stood beside the passenger door and stared at Josh.

“What?”

“You confronted her.”

“She confronted you.”

“You knew cameras were recording.”

“Good.”

“Josh.”

He stepped closer “What?”

“That clip is going to be everywhere.”

“Then maybe people will finally repeat something true.”

You looked at him for a long moment “You said you weren’t going to yell.”

“I didn’t.”

“You were terrifying.”

“I was polite.”

“You told her she damaged our child.”

“She did.” His expression softened when he saw yours “Are you angry?”

“No.”

“Embarrassed?”

“A little.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re not.”

“Not even slightly.” You laughed quietly, Josh placed both hands around your waist. The parking garage was cold, and you could hear the boys arguing inside the car over who had cheered louder.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said.

“Yes, I did.”

“You could have ignored it.”

“I tried ignoring it, then it reached our house.” He looked down at you “I can take people talking about me. I’m used to it. But I’m not going to stand there while someone makes you feel ashamed of the life we built.”

Your eyes burned “I do feel ashamed sometimes.”

Josh’s brow furrowed “Of us?”

“Of myself.”

His hands tightened slightly.

You looked away “I know you tell me I’m beautiful. I know you love me. But sometimes I look at old pictures and miss her.”

“The old you?”

You nodded.

“She looked rested.”

“She didn’t have Jude.”

“She was smaller.”

“She didn’t have Jude.”

“She went out.”

“She didn’t have Jude.”

You gave him an annoyed look “Are you blaming everything on the baby?”

“I love him, but yes.” A laugh escaped you, Josh smiled, then became serious again “You’re allowed to miss parts of your old life.”

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“But I chose this.”

“You can choose something and still find it hard.”

You stared at him “Being their mom doesn’t mean you stop being a person,” he said. “And being my wife doesn’t mean you have to be grateful every second or never struggle with what changed.” His thumb brushed against your side “But you need to tell me when you feel like this.”

“I didn’t want you to think I regretted the boys.”

“I would never think that.”

“What if I regret things sometimes?”

“Like what?”

“My body. How tired I am. Not having more time for myself.”

Josh nodded “Then we work on those things.”

“You can’t fix everything.”

“No. But I can wake up with Jude. I can take the boys out so you get time alone. We can find someone to help more when I’m traveling.”

You started to protest, He gave you a look “You don’t get a medal for doing everything until you fall apart.”

“I wasn’t falling apart.”

“You were crying between the toilet and bathtub.”

“That was one time.”

“That I know about.” You looked down, Josh tilted your chin upward “I should’ve noticed sooner.”

“You were working.”

“I’m still your husband.” His expression carried guilt now “You stopped letting me touch you, and I let myself believe you were just tired.”

“I was tired.”

“You were also hurting.”

You leaned into him “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Believing them.”

Josh wrapped his arms around you “You don’t owe me an apology for getting hurt.”

“I knew it wasn’t true.”

“Knowing doesn’t make you bulletproof.” You rested your cheek against his chest, Inside the car, Noah pressed his face to the window “Daddy!”

Josh didn’t release you “What?”

“Are we going home?”

“Eventually.”

“I’m hungry.”

“You ate enough popcorn to feed the team buddy.”

“I need dinner.”

Josh sighed against your hair “This is what aged us.” You laughed so loudly Miles joined in without knowing why.

The confrontation clip spread online before you arrived home, this time, the response was overwhelmingly supportive.

People criticized the reporter. Fans shared photographs of Josh looking at you during games and family events. Other mothers wrote about feeling unrecognizable after having children.

Women you had never met sent messages saying they had also struggled when motherhood changed their bodies and identities.

But you didn’t read much of it, Josh took your phone when he noticed you opening the applications “Positive comments are still comments,” he said.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does to me.” He turned off your notifications and placed the phone on top of the refrigerator

“You know I can reach that.”

“I know. But it makes my point dramatic.”

The next morning, he posted a photograph, it wasn’t from your birthday dinner or the game. It was a picture that your mom had taken several weeks earlier.

You were sitting on the kitchen floor in an oversized sweatshirt, your hair in a messy bun. Jude was asleep against your chest. Noah was stretched across your lap, attempting to reach a bowl of strawberries, while Miles stood beside you wearing Josh’s helmet backward.

You had no makeup on. There were toys everywhere, you looked tired but you also looked happy.

The caption read:

My wife turned twenty-eight last week. We met seven years ago, and she doesn’t look exactly the same now. Neither do I.

Since then, she has moved cities, built a home with me, supported my career, survived three pregnancies, and raised three boys who think she is the center of the world. She has changed because our life changed.

She didn’t lose herself by becoming a mother, and our children didn’t take anything away from her. They added to who she already was.

I loved her at twenty-one. I love her at twenty-eight. I’ll love the woman she becomes at thirty-five, fifty, and every age after that.

The internet saw one photograph. I get the whole life. I know which one I’d choose.

Comments were disabled. When you found the post, Josh was in the kitchen making breakfast “You posted me in my worst sweatshirt.”

He glanced over his shoulder “You love that sweatshirt.”

“It has bleach stains.”

“It has character.”

“My hair looks terrible.”

“You look beautiful.”

“You always say that.”

“Because you keep being beautiful.” You walked toward him, he set down the spatula and opened his arms before you reached him. You tucked yourself against his chest “What are you making?”

“Pancakes.”

You looked into the pan “They’re burning.”

“They’re caramelizing.”

“Josh.”

“I’m defending my family and making breakfast. I can’t do everything.” Miles came running into the kitchen “Dad, Noah took my dinosaur!”

“I didn’t take it!” Noah shouted from the hallway.

“You’re holding it!”

“It likes me!”

Jude began crying through the baby monitor, Josh closed his eyes. You started laughing, He looked down at you “What?”

“Nothing.”

You shook your head and reached for the monitor, Josh caught your wrist “I’ll get him.”

“You’re cooking.”

“I’m burning things. There’s a difference.” He kissed you and headed toward the stairs. At the bottom step, he turned back “And for the record?”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Twenty-eight looks really good on you.”

You smiled “Thirty-five might look good on you too.”

“Might?”

“We’ll see.” Josh placed a hand over his heart as though wounded, then went upstairs to get Jude.

The rumor did not disappear immediately, the internet rarely admitted when it was wrong. But it stopped controlling the way you saw yourself.

You still had difficult days.

Days when nothing in your closet fit the way you wanted, days when motherhood felt less like a gift and more like an endless list of people who needed something from you. Days when you missed the freedom you had at twenty-one.

But when those thoughts became too loud, you told Josh.

Sometimes he reassured you, sometimes he took all three boys out for several hours and returned looking as though he had personally survived a natural disaster, sometimes he simply sat beside you without trying to fix anything.

A week after the confrontation, you found Miles drawing at the kitchen table.

There were five stick figures, one tall figure holding a hockey stick, one figure with long hair. Three smaller figures between them “Is that us?” you asked.

Miles nodded, he pointed toward the figure representing you “That’s you.”

“I guessed.”

“You’re not old.”

You smiled “Thank you baby”

“You’re twenty-eight.”

“I am.”

“That’s kind of old.”

Your mouth fell open, Miles grinned “But Dad is older.”

“Much older.”

Josh walked into the room carrying Jude “I heard that.” Miles laughed and ran away, Josh looked at the drawing “What’s this?”

“Our family.”

He shifted Jude higher on his hip “Why am I so much taller than everyone?”

“Your ego.” He gave you an unimpressed look.

You took the drawing from the table and examined it again, the figure representing you had an enormous smile. There were three children around your legs and Josh beside you.

Josh came to stand behind you, wrapping his free arm around your waist “You okay?” he asked. You leaned back against him, for the first time in days, the answer felt completely true “Yeah.”

He kissed your temple.

“You sure?” You looked at the uneven stick figures, the baby on Josh’s hip, and the three bowls still sitting in the sink from breakfast.

You were not the same woman you had been at twenty-one. You were tired, changed. Softer in places and stronger in others.

You were twenty-eight years old, married to a man approaching thirty-five, with three loud little boys who had transformed every part of your life and none of that made you less worthy of being loved. It only meant you had lived.

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional distant sound of traffic far below. You had been running on empty since noon. Work had drained you completely — back-to-back meetings, a stupid argument with a client, and then the long commute home in the sticky Toronto heat. By the time you’d showered and crawled into bed wearing nothing but one of William’s old Maple Leafs shirts, your body felt heavy, your eyelids already drooping.

You heard the front door click open around eight-thirty. Familiar footsteps, the soft thud of his hockey bag being set down, the rustle of clothes being shed in the hallway. A minute later the bedroom door creaked and there he was — William, freshly showered after practice, blonde hair still damp at the ends, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants slung low on his hips.

His blue eyes found you immediately and softened “Hey, baby,” he murmured, voice low with that gentle Swedish lilt. “You look wiped.”

You gave him a tired smile. “Long day. I’m sorry… I don’t think I have it in me for full sex tonight. I’m just… exhausted.”

He didn’t look disappointed. He never did when you said no. Instead he crossed the room in three quiet steps, climbed onto the bed, and leaned over you, bracing himself on one arm. His free hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking slowly beneath your eye “That’s okay,” he said, and meant it. “I don’t need anything from you. Let me take care of you, yeah? Just lie back. Let me make you feel good.”

You hesitated only a second before nodding. The truth was, even bone-tired, you wanted his mouth on you. You always did, William kissed you first — slow, deep, unhurried. His tongue slid against yours like he had nowhere else to be. When he finally pulled back, his pupils were blown wide “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart.”

You obeyed. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and slid them down your legs, careful, almost reverent. The cool air hit your bare skin and you shivered. William’s gaze dropped between your thighs and stayed there for a long moment, like he was memorizing the sight “Fuck, you’re pretty,” he whispered.

He settled between your legs, broad shoulders nudging your thighs wider. His hands were warm and steady as they pressed your knees apart, opening you completely to him. You felt exposed in the best way — safe, wanted, adored.

He started with kisses. Soft, open-mouthed presses along the inside of your right thigh, then the left. His stubble scraped lightly, sending little sparks dancing over your skin. Every kiss was slow. Deliberate. Like he was trying to soothe the tiredness out of your body one inch at a time.

When his mouth finally reached your center, he didn’t dive in. He licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, the flat of his tongue dragging warm and wet.

You gasped, hips twitching “William…”

“Shh. I’ve got you.” His voice was muffled against your skin. “Just feel me.”

He did it again. And again. Long, unhurried licks that parted your folds and made everything slick. Each time the tip of his tongue brushed your clit at the top of the stroke, he lingered for a second — a gentle flick, a slow circle — before dragging back down. It was maddening. Perfect. The kind of pace that said he was in no rush to end this.

Your left hand found his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands. Your right hand gripped the sheets. The tiredness was still there, but it was being slowly overwritten by heat pooling low in your belly.

He sealed his lips around your clit and sucked gently, just enough pressure to make your toes curl. Then he released it and went back to those long, slow licks, letting the sensation build and ebb like waves.

“You taste so good,” he murmured between strokes. “Could stay here all night.”

You whimpered. Your thighs tried to close around his head but his hands were firm, keeping you spread. The contrast — his strength holding you open while his mouth was so achingly gentle — made your head spin.

The first orgasm crept up on you slowly. No sudden crash, just a steady climb that tightened everything inside you until it finally broke. Your back arched off the bed, a soft cry leaving your throat as pleasure rolled through you in thick, lazy waves. William didn’t stop. He kept licking you through it, tongue moving slower now, almost soothing, letting you ride every aftershock.

When your breathing started to even out, he lifted his head just enough to look at you. His mouth and chin were shiny. His eyes were dark and fond “One,” he said softly, like he was counting for you. “You’re so beautiful when you come for me.”

You were still trembling, oversensitive, but he didn’t pull away. He lowered his mouth again and started the whole process over — slow licks, gentle suction, the occasional soft hum that vibrated straight through your clit. Your second orgasm built even more gradually. Your body was already sensitive from the first, every nerve lit up, and William knew exactly how to work with that. He slipped one thick finger inside you, curling it slowly against that spot while his tongue kept its lazy rhythm on your clit.

The combination made your vision blur “Willy… fuck… I’m—”

“I know, baby. Let it happen. I’m right here.”

The second orgasm hit harder. Your thighs shook uncontrollably in his grip, your back bowed, and a broken moan tore out of you as you clenched around his finger. He kept going, licking you softly through the peak and the long, rolling aftershocks until you were whimpering from oversensitivity.

Only then did he finally ease off, pressing one last gentle kiss to your clit before kissing his way up your body — your mound, your stomach, the valley between your breasts, your throat, your mouth. You tasted yourself on his tongue and it made you moan into the kiss.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours “Two,” he whispered. “My good girl. Did so well for me.”

You were floaty, boneless, the exhaustion now wrapped in a thick blanket of pleasure. But you could feel him — hard and heavy against your thigh through his sweatpants. You reached down and palmed him, feeling the thick line of his cock.

He groaned quietly “You don’t have to,” he said, even as his hips pressed forward into your hand. “I can just hold you baby, you’re tired.”

“I want you,” you murmured. Your voice was hoarse. “Slow, like you promised. Please.” William’s eyes searched yours for a long second, making sure, then he nodded “Okay, I'll go Slow, just like this.”

He pushed his sweatpants down and kicked them off. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the head already wet. He settled back between your thighs, one hand guiding himself to your entrance. He didn’t push in right away. He rubbed the head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself, teasing your still-sensitive clit with every slow pass.

You whined, hips rolling up to meet him “Easy,” he soothed. “I’ve got you.”

He notched the head at your entrance and pushed in — one slow, steady inch at a time. The stretch was perfect, familiar, making your mouth fall open on a silent moan. William’s jaw was tight, his breathing controlled, like he was fighting the urge to thrust deeper “Fuck… you feel incredible,” he rasped when he was finally buried to the hilt. “So warm. So wet. Taking me so well even when you’re tired.”

He stayed there for a moment, deep inside you, letting you adjust, letting you feel how full you were. Then he started to move.

Slow.

Agonizingly slow.

He pulled out almost all the way, until just the head remained inside, then sank back in with one long, smooth thrust that made you feel every ridge, every vein. At the bottom of each stroke he rolled his hips, grinding his pubic bone against your clit in a way that sent sparks shooting up your spine.

His eyes never left your face. One of his hands found yours, fingers interlacing, pinning it gently beside your head. The other braced beside your shoulder as he kept that deep, rolling pace “You okay?” he checked, voice rough.

“So good,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He fucked you exactly like he’d promised — slow, deep, intimate. Every thrust was measured. Every grind against your clit deliberate. He kissed you between strokes, messy and sweet, swallowing your little moans. When he wasn’t kissing you he was whispering against your mouth, your cheek, your ear.

“Love you so much.”

“You’re perfect.”

“Look at you taking me so deep… fuck, baby.”

The third orgasm built differently — slower, deeper, centered low in your belly and spreading outward. The steady drag of his cock against your walls, the constant pressure on your clit, the way he filled you completely with every thrust… it all combined into something overwhelming.

When it finally crested, you came with a soft, broken cry, clenching hard around him. Your free hand clutched at his back, nails digging in as your body shook.

William groaned, hips stuttering for the first time “Shit… that’s it. Come on my cock, sweetheart. Just like that.”

He kept moving through your orgasm, slow and steady, drawing it out until you were trembling and oversensitive again. Only then did he let himself go — a few deeper, still-controlled thrusts before he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, guttural moan of your name. You felt him pulse inside you, hot and thick, filling you up.

For a long minute neither of you moved. He stayed buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard. His thumb stroked the back of your hand where your fingers were still linked.

Eventually he pulled out carefully, wincing a little at the sensitivity. He disappeared into the bathroom for thirty seconds and came back with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned you gently, thoroughly, murmuring soft apologies when you twitched from oversensitivity. Then he cleaned himself, tossed the cloth in the hamper, and climbed back into bed.

He pulled you straight into his chest, one arm around your waist, the other hand stroking slow lines up and down your spine. Your head tucked under his chin. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear.

“You did so good,” he said quietly, lips brushing your hair. “Even when you were tired. Thank you for letting me take care of you.”

You smiled against his skin, already half-asleep “Thank you for wanting to,” you mumbled. “Even when I said no to everything else.”

William kissed the top of your head “Always want to take care of you, that’s never going to change.” His fingers kept tracing lazy patterns on your back. “Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

you stood behind the shots, reviewing paperwork for the shoot and the questions they would ask. he watched as you crossed off from your list, “you’re taking it way too seriously,” arch mumbled, taking a large sip of his water. you rolled your eyes, “am i supposed to not? this is a big deal.” 

“to you.”

“yes, to me it is a big deal. is that a problem?” your eyes squinted in questioning, arms crossed over your chest. arch chuckled, running a hand through his hair, which seemed way longer than the previous time, then placed the iconic redbull hat back on. 

“it can be, i don’t know… obvious? distracting?” arch argued, his blue eyes straining with annoyance. you’ve tried to be professional, for his sake and yours. he just seemed impossible to handle with his switch-ups and mood swings. 

“well, i’m sorry if me taking my job seriously is distracting you. i’ll be sure next time to not bother your set,” you walked off, your anger probably radiating off of you. your head tried to wrap around his sudden urge to rile you up, for no given reason. who did he think he is? why did he always have to cause problems and be an asshole?

arch looked your way, noticing how you walked off to the back room, probably to fill your coffee cup again for the third time. he knew right off the bat you hadn’t slept well, how you kept blinking to avoid dry eyes, spoke slower than usual, and had a smile that didn’t reach your face. 

you composed yourself before returning to your duties, assisting other media students there with their equipment and paperwork. you watched from afar as arch returned to his humble and proficient mode. laughing, talking with polished words, smiling big for the camera, creating a positive image for himself. 

it was like nothing had ever happened. like he didn’t just try to cause issues. it wasn’t fair. this didn’t seem fair no matter how much you tried to look past it. as arch wrapped up his final q&a, you gathered your belongings and helped the team, knowing if you overstayed your visit, things would go south. 

you thanked everyone for their time and dedication, even got the chance to network and tag along for a future visit with a different athlete under their contract. someone assisted arch in removing the gear on him as you kept a safe distance, not in the mood for his vile comments.  

your eyes found each other without realizing it, a weird feeling dropping in the middle. he didn’t look upset or angry anymore, maybe remorseful? no matter what it was, his words continued to linger in the back of your mind, unable to simply disregard how they made you feel.

both of you went your separate ways. not caring for a last-minute goodbye or to discuss the upcoming plan with his next shoot. whatever occurred today was a clear sign that this would be hard to endure in the weeks ahead. 

if there was one thing about austin, it was that there was always something to do. from comedy shows to concerts, to social events, sports watch parties, marketing events, anything you could think of, it was being hosted somewhere. 

you agreed to a last-minute reservation to a fashion and beauty event in the city. you thanked whichever god was in the cloud for having your hair styled to your preference, wearing a black mini dress that had the straps crossed in front, pairing it with short heels and gold jewelry. 

you hugged and said hi to your friends, who were overjoyed at your sudden acceptance of going out. they handed you a vodka redbull, which made you internally laugh, your head picturing arch out of nowhere. 

you were able to walk around and ask questions about their products, your friend not wasting time to join a waitlist for a pink polka-dot dress that she swore would change her life. everyone took pictures with your camera, making you promise to send them, knowing you procrastinated. 

you and your friends sat near a green couch by a corner, doing what you knew best, which was people-watching while having a catch-up conversation. the summer had been hectic with some starting new internships for graduation, others taking online classes for credits, and some had been out of state with their families. it was the perfect time to catch up and get the details of everyone’s life.

you listened quietly to everyone’s input, drawing some words then and there when it came to something juicy, or it was a topic you had interest in. yet you knew them too well. because they were anxiously waiting on what lore you had yet to drop about a certain someone. 

“cmon! we’re dying to know! how is it going with mr. quarterback?” your friend sat up, leaning forward with a huge grin. you sighed, shoulders slump, thinking of all the previous meetings with him. 

“it could be going worse. we’re both still alive,” you joked, seeing them chuckle nervously. “it possibly can’t be that bad? or is it?” your friend beside you asked, taking a sip of her wine. 

“girls, i’m trying everything to be optimistic about this, but every time we’re around each other, we can’t get along. it starts as small bickering and then switches into a heated exchange of words. no matter what it is, we always end up arguing,” you explained, your hand rubbing your forehead, feeling the drain. 

“what do you think can help ease the tension? or at least make it less troubling?” 

“i have no clue. i’d do anything for this to end, for us to have just the smallest bit of compassion to get through this. we’re both stubborn people, and that’s the issue,” you said, looking up at them all staring at you. 

“he does things to just,” you pinch two fingers, lips pursing, just thinking of his audacity, “push my buttons and frustrations further. he sees and knows damn well how my temper can be, and purposefully drags it out for his self-satisfaction.”

they all laugh, your friend offering a side hug. “maybe you guys need a good round of angry sex; that helped matt and me once,” your friend said, your face morphing into shock, your other friends giggling, knowing she wasn’t teasing.

“one, you and matt are engaged. two, that will never happen. three, it would make our situations worse,” you listed with your fingers, shaking your head at her idea. “so you have thought about it then?” she smirked, her brow raising before taking another sip of her sweet drink. 

“i have not thought about any sort of sexual doing with him,” you whispered through gritted teeth, their laughter getting louder. it was a partial lie; they just didn’t have to know. there was once a time when you did get along, but that was long ago. and it wasn’t something that you and arch could simply skip by. 

“you never know… it could release some of the tension you both have for one another. never say never.” 

the fall semester had not begun yet, but in your mind it already did. 

the amount of deadlines and back-to-back events you had on your planner had sent your mind into a frenzy. you wrote and organized things a certain way, so seeing the messy state of your notes and reminders was driving you crazy. 

today was one of those days where everything felt way too peaceful for your liking. you woke up and had a good breakfast; your makeup and outfit were flawless, there was no traffic on the way to the designated shooting spot, you hadn’t lost any of your notes, and you managed to be gifted an iced matcha. 

arch would shoot a small ad with vuori, a recent partner he signed a few months back. it was simple. be asked some questions, give positive input on how he deals with pressure, pose for the camera to promote their products, and record small videos to be posted on their social media. 

unlike last time, you let the people on set take the lead and prep the scene and arch for the shoot. at that point, you had time to do a report for your portfolio, working in the shade as the texas heat got brutal by the hour. 

“don’t tell me you’re hiding?” you looked up and saw michael standing a few feet away from you. “just needed the shade for a bit,” you joked, standing up and accepting his hug. “what are you doing here?” you asked curiously, hearing him sigh deeply before responding. 

“arch over there is horrible when it comes to remembering when we plan hang out. we had planned to go finishing, but he didn’t let us know he would be role-playing as a model today,” michael joked, earning a laugh from you. 

“crazy because he’s known about this for almost two months,” you said in a hushed tone, afraid that if he heard you, that peaceful setting would be ruined. 

“i’m starting to think he avoided telling us so he could get out of the plans easily, but not on my watch,” michael took a seat next to you, thanking you when you handed a gatorade. “how’s it going with him?” he asked, letting out a small chuckle at how you went still. 

“it’s definitely… interesting. it’s a first timer for me, a learning process as we go,” you explained, offering a small smile. “you have nothing to worry about; you seem like a natural given how arch describes it,” michael nodded. 

“what do you mean?” you asked, brows pulled in. this was total shocker news for you. you had no idea what exactly he meant, or what arch had been saying about you. 

“arch? he says you’re always prepared, asking questions and giving input, freakishly organized, and always prepared for anything. that he quotes ‘a better worker than some people on set’. you didn’t know?” michael asks.

from his point of view, it seemed like michael didn’t know about the feud you two had for one another. you needed to know, for your conscience, if he really had said all these positive things or if it was all lies.   

“i had no idea-”

“had no idea about what?” arch suddenly intervenes, stealing michael's gatorade and finishing it in one go. “that was mine! i barely drank any,” michael complained, arch shrugging his shoulders, “there’s plenty more. what are you doing here?”

“making y/n company, since you bailed on us last minute,” michael replied. 

“she’s busy,” arch pointed to your equipment. you looked at the troubled expression on his face, jaw clenched, his knuckles white from how hard he gripped the plastic. 

“i am not busy. i was taking a break from the sun and catching up with him. nothing bad or distracting here, right?” you asked, mostly hinting to him to take it easy. you reached over and handed michael a fresh new gatorade. “that’s right. i was going to wait until you finished that way we could join the boys after,” michael said. 

arch saw the small interaction, feeling a weird bubble of anger. it was enough enduring the weather, and now this. the sudden goody-goody from both of you, talking like it meant something deeper, making him unbalanced with his feelings? 

“can i talk to you?” arch pulled you aside, his hand gripping your forearm, dragging you away from him. “what’s going on? why are you so mad?” you hissed, harshly moving your arm away. 

“are you seriously flirting with him while you’re working?” 

“i am not flirting with him? we were just having a conversation. that’s all,” you said with irritation. 

“it doesn’t look like that to others. remember this is your job; you should be taking it seriously. i shouldn’t have to remind you,” arch said, making no sense in your head. 

“first, you say i take this way too seriously. secondly, who cares what people think? all me and michael were doing was talking like normal people. thirdly, you need to get your mood swings in check. i’m sick and tired of your constant-” 

“of my constant what? say it,” arch stepped closer; you could almost feel the fury of him radiate onto you. “what is your problem! i haven’t done anything, and you’re treating me like i’ve committed a crime,” you yelled, beginning to walk off, knowing where this would go if you continued to argue. 

“i’m starting to consider this was an entire mistake. we clearly don’t get along and barely tolerate one another. just say the words, and this can all end,” you intimidated. 

arch chuckled, walking around you, his words leaving you puzzled and in an unsure state. “do what you think is best. i don’t care. just quit flirting with my friends and pretending you’re innocent knowing you’re not.” 

you watched as he walked off, saying a few words to michael, who sent a worried look towards you. a deep, shaky sigh left your lips walking to the table, burying yourself into work so you wouldn’t have to endure the panic attack that started creeping into your skin. 

distracting yourself seemed like the best idea, and it helped. you didn’t want to worry or think about how you could potentially be jeopardizing your career over some silly beef. when the time was right, you wanted to sit with him and clear the air. it had been enough, and you wanted nothing to do with it or for it to continue. 

you didn’t realize how fast the day was going until the set had moved where his training facility was, to review the scenes and pictures and confirm what could and could not be posted. arch looked focused and intrigued, like he hadn’t had a screaming match not too long ago. 

you sat across from him, typing into your laptop as the meeting progressed. you had almost three pages of notes, listening and observing quietly, learning from this experience about how the media organization part worked. 

arch watched as you walked off and went to buy a small snack. he didn’t think much of it until he realized more than ten minutes had passed. perhaps you had gone to use the restroom? or maybe had to take a phone call? decided to eat your snack outside to not make any noise? 

he was far from the truth. because outside of the meeting room, the snack you bought wanted to make its way up from your stomach. you freeze, unable to move or speak, seeing him. 

he walked in, his gel-slicked-back hair, a sleeve of tattoos, the washed jeans and quarter zip hoodie. “aw, don’t stand there, tell me how much you missed me?” his voice was still deep, heavy with arrogance. 

“h-how are y-you h-here?” you asked quietly, tears brimming your waterline. he wiped a tear that fell as you forced yourself to move from him. the disgust and pain ran through your veins in a slow, agonizing quiet pain.

“i got out early… didn’t your little lawyers tell you?”

“n-no, they didn’t,” you shook your head, afraid to make eye contact, knowing if you did, those flashbacks would be ready to hit you at one hundred miles an hour. “shame. but i can’t complain, seeing you, seeing how you haven’t changed, how scared you look, it’s pleasant,” he smiled. 

his hand gripped your jaw, earning a soft gasp from you, forcing you to look up at him. “you ruined my life… and if you think you’re going to get away from it, you’re so wrong.”

“don’t touch me! i did what i had to do-”

“you did nothing because i’m here. i’m out. all that hard work to ruin me ended up being a waste… you have no idea what i have in store for you, sweetie,” he said in a vile tone, pushing you back with so much force, you couldn’t breathe. 

arch suddenly appeared, for once being thankful he was able to save you from what was yet to come. he tried to call him out, but it was no use as the stranger walked off. he asked if you were okay, growing uneasy when you didn’t reply, staying still. when you did react, it was like you had transferred into a different person. 

who was that? was it someone you knew? had he done or said something? he wanted to ask, but as of now his only focus was you. seeing of on edge you were since he came out the meeting room.  

“so is he your boyfriend?” arch asked, following behind where you seemed different. you looked visibly shaken up and disoriented. you weren’t arguing or pushing his buttons like you always do. you were an entirely different person. one that settled deep into arch’s insides. 

“he’s my ex-boyfriend. he won’t cause any more problems,” you swore, still avoiding his gaze. you felt like you owed him an explanation, but what if he just laughed in your face and called you dramatic? what if he stood there and judged you for a simple mistake?

“i didn’t mention he would cause problems. if you think he will-” 

“drop it,” you finally looked at him, not realizing you were carrying more than you needed to. physically and mentally. arch saw the way your hands vicariously shook, your eyes twitching, unsure, your body language completely off. 

his eyes squinted in disarray. he didn’t know what to say or do. he knew the signs, he knew what they meant, as he had received them before any game. that feeling where your body betrays your mind, how a sudden, cold, chilling sensation runs down your spine, a huge knot in your throat. 

“hey, are you okay?” 

“i’m fine. i just need to head out. i have a long drive to get to work,” you dismissed his attempt at comfort, knowing you didn’t trust yourself completely to be vulnerable around him. at any given moment, he could throw back at you, and it wasn’t something you were prepared for. you’d endured enough. this wasn’t needed or wanted. 

“you’re not okay, just sit down and breathe,” he tried again, watching you stammer, grabbing all of your equipment and belongings, prepared to make a run for it. you didn’t want him to see this side of you. you felt sick and embarrassed at the idea of him seeing you in that state. anyone else could have their flaws, but you. 

alex, for all you knew, should’ve been behind bars, doing his time. yet justice and karma didn’t seem to exist or occur to him. seeing him so abruptly, in your space, in real life, had done more damage than before. he looked and acted the same. bringing you memories of that night you wish never occurred. 

he meant trouble. if he came back, it was to mess your life up more. if he was back, it was to ensure you got the payback he felt you deserved. alex wasn’t simply to forget and move on. he would make it his mission to ruin you entirely. and at the most important time of your career, it wasn’t something you could afford. 

if anyone had found out what you’d done, what he did. you were finished. 

“y/n,” arch tried again, reaching for you, his eyes softening and hand clamping around your wrist. 

“i'll see you tomorrow, arch.” 

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The camera was supposed to be following Parker, that was the entire purpose of the video.

The Avalanche media team had decided to film a casual behind-the-scenes feature following Parker through a game day. Nothing too complicated. A few clips of him arriving at the arena, warming up, joking with teammates, and preparing for the game.

Parker had been informed about the camera following him, although that had not stopped him from forgetting about it every few minutes.

Which was exactly what happened when he wandered toward the family lounge after morning skate.

He had promised Rasmus that he would bring him one of the extra pucks from practice, and Parker was determined not to disappoint the six-year-old who had already asked him about it twice that morning.

The cameraman followed a few steps behind him, still recording as Parker pushed open the lounge door. Neither of them expected to find the Landeskog family in the middle of a conversation.

Rasmus was sitting on the edge of one of the couches, still wearing the small Avalanche jersey Gabriel had helped him put on earlier. His blond hair was slightly messy from the winter hat he had abandoned somewhere near the entrance, and his legs swung back and forth as he listened to you.

Gabriel stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. You were crouched in front of your son.

The conversation had clearly already begun before Parker entered the room “But Papa talks Swedish all the time,” Rasmus argued.

You smiled patiently “Yes, he does.”

“And Grandma talks Swedish.”

“She does.”

“And Grandpa.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m Swedish.”

Gabriel’s lips twitched from where he stood, you glanced at him briefly before turning your attention back to your son “You are Swedish,” you agreed. “But you are also Canadian and you live in Denver, a place where not everybody understands Swedish.”

Rasmus frowned as if this was a very complicated problem.

A few minutes earlier, he had answered one of the staff members in Swedish after Gabriel asked him a question. The employee had laughed kindly, but Rasmus had continued talking without realizing that the man could not understand him.

You had gently pulled him aside afterward “Speaking Swedish isn’t bad,” you explained. “Papa and I want you to speak Swedish. It’s part of who you are, and it helps you talk to your family when we visit Sweden.”

Rasmus nodded slowly.

“But when you are around people who don’t speak Swedish, and you know they don’t understand you, it can sometimes feel rude if you keep speaking it in front of them.”

His eyebrows pulled together “Why?”

“Because they might think you are talking about them or they might feel left out of the conversation.”

“I wasn’t talking about him.”

“I know you weren’t.” You placed one hand gently on his knee. “You weren’t trying to be rude. I know that. But being polite is also about making sure other people feel included.”

Rasmus looked toward his father for confirmation, Gabriel immediately straightened when he realized he had been brought into the discussion “Mamma is right,” he said.

You turned your head toward him, narrowing your eyes playfully “Thank you for your contribution.”

Gabriel smiled “I’m helping.”

“You’ve been standing there silently for five minutes.”

“I’m supporting you.”

Parker stopped just inside the doorway, the cameraman stopped behind him. Neither of them said anything.

Rasmus considered your explanation for another moment “So I can speak Swedish with Papa?”

“Of course.”

“And with you?”

“You can try,” you said, making Gabriel laugh softly.

Your Swedish had improved significantly after years of being married to Gabriel, but Rasmus had recently discovered that speaking quickly made it much harder for you to understand him.

He occasionally took advantage of that.

“But if someone else is talking with us,” you continued, “we should speak a language everybody understands or we can explain what we said afterward.”

Rasmus nodded “Because we don’t want them to feel left out.”

“Exactly.”

He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around your neck “I’m sorry, Mamma.”

You immediately hugged him back “You don’t have to apologize to me, älskling, you didn’t know.”

“I’ll say sorry to Mr. Daniel.”

“I think he would appreciate that.”

Rasmus pulled away, looking much happier now that the problem had been solved “Can I tell Papa something in Swedish first?”

You glanced at Gabriel “That depends. Is it about me?”

Rasmus giggled “No.”

Gabriel pushed himself away from the wall and walked closer, Rasmus cupped his hands around his mouth even though he was nowhere near Gabriel’s ear “Jag älskar Mamma mest.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows rose. You understood enough of the sentence to gasp dramatically “You love me the most?”

Rasmus burst into laughter, Gabriel placed a hand over his heart “That is very hurtful.”

“I love you too,” Rasmus promised quickly. “But Mamma makes pancakes.”

“I make pancakes.”

“Mamma’s are better.”

Gabriel looked at you. You tried to hide your victorious smile “I didn’t teach him to say that.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Parker finally said from the doorway. All three of you turned toward him, Parker lifted the puck in his hand “I brought this for Rasmus.”

Rasmus immediately jumped off the couch and rushed toward him, the serious conversation completely forgotten “Is it from practice?”

“Yes.”

“Did Papa score with it?”

Parker glanced at Gabriel “No, but I did.”

“That makes it less cool,” Rasmus said honestly, you covered your mouth, trying not to laugh. Gabriel failed completely, Parker stared down at the child “You know what? I’m keeping it.”

“No!” Rasmus grabbed his arm. “It’s still a little cool.”

The room filled with laughter.

For the rest of the day, nobody thought much about the moment, you hadn’t even noticed the camera behind Parker. Gabriel had seen it eventually, but he assumed it had been lowered before Parker entered the lounge.

It had not.

The media team discovered the footage while editing the Parker Kelly feature later that week, the clip was never supposed to be included. It had nothing to do with Parker’s preparation for the game, aside from the final thirty seconds where Rasmus insulted his puck.

But the editor hesitated before deleting it.

The conversation between you and Rasmus was sweet, but that was not the part that caught everyone’s attention.

It was Gabriel.

Throughout the entire conversation, he barely looked away from you.

His expression had been soft from the moment the camera entered the room. He watched you explain the importance of including other people with a quiet smile, his arms folded comfortably as he listened.

When you reassured Rasmus that speaking Swedish was still important, Gabriel’s expression changed completely. There was pride in his eyes and something much deeper.

The media manager watched the clip twice before sending it to Gabriel for approval.

He showed it to you that evening.

You were curled beside him on the couch at home while Rasmus slept upstairs “They filmed that?” you asked, horrified.

“Apparently.”

“I didn’t even see the camera.”

“Neither did Rasmus.”

The video paused on an unfortunate frame of you crouched in front of the couch. You pointed at the screen “They cannot post that.”

Gabriel looked confused “Why?”

“Look at me.”

“I am.”

“That is the problem. Look at my hair.”

“Your hair looks beautiful.”

“It looks like I fought with Rasmus’s winter hat and lost.”

Gabriel smiled, placing his hand on your thigh “You always look beautiful.”

You looked back at the screen.

The clip had been edited down to less than a minute. Most of the explanation remained, followed by Rasmus claiming that he loved you more because your pancakes were better “You really want them to post this?”

Gabriel shrugged “I think it’s nice.”

“It was private.”

“They asked us first.”

You leaned closer to him “You only think it’s nice because Rasmus said my pancakes are better.”

“I’m secure enough in my abilities to admit defeat.”

“You complained about it for the rest of the day.”

“I was joking.”

“You made pancakes the next morning to prove him wrong.”

“That was unrelated.” You laughed, resting your head against his shoulder, Gabriel replayed the clip. This time, you noticed what the media manager had clearly noticed.

Gabriel was not watching Rasmus, he was watching you. For nearly the entire conversation, his eyes followed every small movement you made. When you smiled, he smiled. When you reached for your son, Gabriel’s expression softened.

You lifted your head from his shoulder “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Gabriel kept his eyes on the screen “Like what?”

“Like that.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re barely blinking.”

He laughed quietly “I was listening.”

“To me explaining manners to a six-year-old?”

“You were being a good mother.” The teasing disappeared from your expression, Gabriel turned toward you “You always are.”

You studied his face for a moment “You really looked that in love with me while I was lecturing our child?”

“I wasn’t aware that I needed a specific reason to be in love with my wife.”

You felt your cheeks warm. Even after years together, Gabriel could still say things so casually that they left you completely speechless.

He brushed his thumb over your knee “I like watching you with him,” he admitted. “You’re patient with him. You explain things instead of making him feel bad for not knowing.”

“He’s six.”

“Exactly. Sometimes adults forget that children are still learning how the world works.”

You looked back at the paused video. Rasmus was staring at you seriously while Gabriel stood behind him, wearing that unmistakably lovesick expression “You look ridiculous,” you whispered.

Gabriel kissed your temple “I look married.”

The Avalanche posted the clip two days later.

It was added to the end of Parker’s feature under the caption:

Parker Kelly delivers a puck and accidentally interrupts a Landeskog family meeting.

The video spread almost immediately, most fans loved Rasmus’s brutal assessment of Parker’s puck.

Others focused on the conversation about speaking Swedish, praising the way you explained it without making Rasmus feel ashamed of being bilingual.

But the majority of the comments were about Gabriel.

Gabriel did not hear a single word. He was too busy staring at his wife.

That man is still completely obsessed with her.

The way his face changes when she says Swedish is part of who Rasmus is.

He looks like he’s watching her walk down the aisle again.

Parker Kelly accidentally exposing his captain for being the world’s biggest wife guy.

Parker found Gabriel in the locker room shortly after the video was posted “You’re welcome,” he announced.

Gabriel looked up from tying his skates “For what?”

“Your entire public image is now devoted husband.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow “I was already a devoted husband.”

“Yeah, but now everyone has video evidence.”

A few players laughed from nearby stalls, Parker sat down across from him “The comments are brutal.”

“About you?”

“No, unfortunately. Everyone loves me.”

“Rasmus said your puck wasn’t cool.”

“He said it was a little cool.”

“After you threatened to take it away.”

Parker ignored him “They’re calling you a wife guy.”

Gabriel finished tying his skate “I am a wife guy.” The answer came without embarrassment or hesitation, Parker stared at him.

“That’s all you have to say?”

Gabriel stood “What else would I say?”

Across the room, one of the players made an exaggerated kissing noise, Gabriel threw a roll of tape at him.

That evening, you found him in the kitchen helping Rasmus with his Swedish homework. Your son sat at the counter, carefully writing words into a small notebook while Gabriel corrected his spelling.

You leaned against the doorway “Are we speaking Swedish?” Rasmus looked up immediately “Only because nobody else is here.” you smiled “Good job.”

Gabriel turned toward you and once again, he gave you the same look, soft, proud, completely in love.

You crossed your arms “You know people can see you doing that now.”

“Doing what?”

“Staring at me.”

“I’m looking at you.”

“There’s a difference.”

Gabriel walked over, placing both hands on your waist “I don’t care if people see.”

“You didn’t know they were filming before.”

“I still wouldn’t have cared.”

Rasmus made a dramatic noise from the counter “You’re being weird again.” Gabriel looked over his shoulder “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You say that now.”

You laughed as Gabriel leaned down and kissed you. It was soft and familiar, the kind of kiss that came from years of choosing each other in quiet moments nobody else normally saw.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours “Jag älskar dig,” he whispered (i love you)

You smiled “I understood that one.”

From the counter, Rasmus sighed loudly “You have to speak English when other people don’t understand.” Gabriel looked at you, fighting a smile “You taught him well.”

You met Cale Makar when you were six years old.

Technically, he met you.

You had been sitting on the curb in front of your house, glaring down at the bloody scrape covering your knee after falling off your bicycle. Your pink helmet was crooked, one shoelace was untied, and the bicycle itself had been abandoned dramatically in the middle of the sidewalk.

You had been trying very hard not to cry, then a boy with flushed cheeks and messy brown hair stopped in front of you, his hockey stick still held in one gloved hand “Are you okay?”

You sniffled, straightening your shoulders “Yes.”

He looked at your knee “You’re bleeding.”

“I know.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No.” It hurt terribly.

The boy remained silent for a moment before reaching into the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a slightly crushed packet of fruit snacks and held it toward you “My mom gives me these after hockey.”

You stared at the packet “Why are you giving them to me?”

“Because you look sad.”

“I’m not sad.”

He nodded seriously “Okay. But you can still have them.”

That was the beginning.

Cale helped you push your bicycle home, even though his house was in the opposite direction. He waited on your front steps while your mother cleaned your knee, and when you came back outside with a bandage covered in tiny yellow stars, he was still there.

You split the fruit snacks between you, after that, there was rarely a day when Cale wasn’t somewhere nearby.

You attended the same elementary school, lived only three streets apart, and spent nearly every afternoon together. When Cale had hockey practice, you sat in the cold arena with a coloring book balanced on your knees. When you had dance recitals, he sat beside your parents wearing a tie his mother had forced him into, clapping louder than anyone else when you appeared onstage.

He taught you how to skate, you taught him how to braid friendship bracelets.

He was terrible at it.

“You made all the colors crooked,” you complained, inspecting the bracelet he had tied around your wrist when you were nine.

“It’s supposed to look like that.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It’s unique.”

“It looks broken.” Cale frowned at the matching bracelet around his own wrist “I like it.” you looked at him for several seconds before softening “Fine. I like it too.” He wore it until the threads became so thin that it finally fell apart during practice.

When you were twelve, he punched a boy for pulling your hair, when you were thirteen, you helped him study for a history test by turning important dates into ridiculous hockey statistics, when you were fourteen, he walked you home through a snowstorm because neither of your parents could reach the school.

At fifteen, everything began to change.

Not dramatically.

There was no sudden moment when you looked at Cale and understood that he was no longer simply the boy who traded snacks with you or let you borrow his hoodie.

It happened slowly, it was noticing how much taller he had grown over the summer, it was the warmth spreading through your chest whenever he smiled at you from across a crowded hallway, it was recognizing his footsteps outside your bedroom before he knocked on the door, it was the way your stomach twisted when girls began appearing at his hockey games wearing his number.

Cale never seemed particularly interested in the attention.

He was polite, occasionally awkward, and entirely oblivious whenever someone flirted with him, you were not oblivious “Emma likes you,” you told him one afternoon.

You were lying beside each other on the floor of his basement, pretending to do homework while a movie played quietly in the background.

Cale stopped writing “Emma who?”

You turned your head toward him “Emma Richards.”

He stared blankly “She sits behind you in math.”

“Oh.”

“She’s been to your last four games.”

“A lot of people come to the games.”

“She wears your jersey.”

“So does my mom.” you threw a pillow at him, Cale caught it before it struck his face “What?”

“She likes you.”

He studied you carefully “Why do you care?”

Your heartbeat stumbled “I don’t.”

“You sound like you care.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“With what?”

“Getting a girlfriend.”

His expression shifted in a way you couldn’t understand “I don’t need help.”

“You’ve never even kissed anyone.”

Cale’s cheeks turned pink “Neither have you.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“It seems relevant.”

You sat upright, crossing your arms “You could kiss Emma.”

“I don’t want to kiss Emma.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t like her.”

“Then who do you like?” The question hung between you, Cale’s eyes remained fixed on your face, his expression strangely nervous. For one impossible second, you thought he might say your name, instead, he looked down at his notebook “No one.”

You ignored the disappointment settling inside your chest “Right. Me neither.”

Neither of you mentioned the conversation again.

A year later, Cale took someone else to the winter formal, you told yourself it didn’t bother you, you even helped him choose his tie, the girl’s name was Natalie. She was kind and pretty, and you hated yourself for resenting her when she had done absolutely nothing wrong.

“You look nice,” you told Cale when he stopped by your house before the dance. He stood awkwardly in your living room wearing a dark suit, his hands buried inside his pockets “You think?”

“Your tie is crooked.”

“I knew something was wrong.” You stepped closer and reached for it, Cale became completely still as you straightened the fabric against his chest. You could feel him watching you, but you kept your attention on the knot “There.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Neither of you moved, his face was so close to yours that you could see the faint freckles scattered across his nose. You wondered what would happen if you leaned forward, then a car horn sounded outside, Cale stepped back “That’s probably Natalie.”

“Probably.”

He hesitated beside the door “You’re sure you don’t want to come?”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“You could come with us.”

“As your third wheel?”

“As my friend.”

The word hurt more than it should have, you smiled anyway “Go have fun, Cale.”

He left reluctantly.

You watched from the window as Natalie climbed out of the car and greeted him with a hug. Cale glanced back at your house before getting inside, you spent the rest of the evening eating popcorn with your mother and pretending that your chest didn’t ache.

Cale came to your house after the dance.

It was nearly midnight when he tapped on your bedroom window from the roof of the porch, you nearly screamed “What are you doing?” you whispered after pushing the window open.

“Can I come in?”

“You’re in a suit.”

“I know.”

“It’s snowing.”

“I noticed.”

You stepped aside, letting him climb through the window, Cale’s hair was damp with melting snow, and his cheeks were red from the cold. He loosened his tie before sitting at the foot of your bed “How was the dance?” you asked.

“It was fine.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Not really.”

You tried not to appear too relieved “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Did Natalie do something?”

“No. She was great.”

“Then why are you here?”

Cale looked at you “I wanted to see you.”

The answer left you speechless, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small, folded napkin. When he opened it, there were two slightly crushed cookies from the dessert table inside “They had the chocolate ones you like.”

Your heart softened painfully “You stole cookies for me?”

“I took them.”

“That’s stealing.”

“They were free.”

“You still hid them in a napkin.”

“So they wouldn’t get frosting on my pocket.” You took one of the cookies and broke it in half, Cale smiled, you sat beside him on the bed, sharing stolen desserts while snow gathered outside your window.

Neither of you spoke about Natalie, neither of you spoke about how close his hand was to yours, by graduation, everyone knew Cale was leaving.

His hockey career was already carrying him toward places far beyond your neighborhood. You were proud of him. You had always been proud of him, but standing inside his bedroom while cardboard boxes covered the floor, you realized that being proud did not make saying goodbye any easier “You’re acting like I’m disappearing,” Cale said.

You folded another sweatshirt and placed it into the open suitcase “You’re moving thousands of miles away.”

“We can call.”

“You hate talking on the phone.”

“I’ll learn.”

“You’ll be busy.”

“Not too busy for you" you looked down before he could see how much those words affected you, Cale sat beside the suitcase “You could come visit.”

“I will.”

“You promise?”

You turned toward him “Of course I promise.” he held out his little finger, you stared at it “We’re eighteen.”

“And?”

“You’re asking me to pinky promise.”

“It’s legally binding.”

You laughed and hooked your finger around his “Fine. I promise.”

Cale didn’t release your hand immediately, his thumb brushed over the side of your finger, his expression becoming serious “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Your breath caught “What?” he looked nervous. More nervous than you had ever seen him before an important game or exam “I…”

His phone rang on the desk, the sound made both of you jump, Cale closed his eyes briefly “It’s my dad.”

“You should answer.”

“It can wait.”

“He’s probably calling about the flight.” Cale looked at you for another second before releasing your hand “Right.”

You never discovered what he had intended to say.

Distance changed things, even though neither of you wanted it to, at first, you spoke every day, Cale sent photographs of campus, the arena, and the terrible meals he attempted to make when he was tired of dining hall food.

You sent updates about home, photographs of his parents’ dog, and recordings of his younger brother making fun of how frequently Cale mentioned you.

Then life became busier.

Practices became more demanding. Your own classes became more difficult. Sometimes his games overlapped with your exams, and sometimes your calls went unanswered because one of you had fallen asleep.

Still, Cale remained the first person you called when something wonderful happened and the person you wanted when everything went wrong.

When he was drafted, you cried harder than his mother, when he made his NHL debut, you watched from your apartment wearing the old crooked friendship bracelet he had made you, now preserved carefully inside a small glass frame.

When he scored, you screamed so loudly that your roommate ran into the room believing someone had broken in, Cale called you later that night “Did you see it?”

“Did I see it? Cale, I nearly suffered a heart attack.” he laughed, the sound warm despite the exhaustion in his voice “I wish you were here.”

Your smile faded slightly “Me too.”

There was silence “Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I miss you.”

Your throat tightened “I miss you too.”

You almost told him then, you had loved him for years, maybe you had always loved him. But Cale was beginning a life that was larger and more complicated than anything you had imagined for either of you. You were afraid that telling him would feel like adding another responsibility to his shoulders.

So you said goodnight instead.

Years continued passing, Cale became one of the best players in the world, but to you, he remained the boy who forgot to replace the empty milk carton and called you whenever he needed help choosing a birthday present for his mother.

You visited Colorado whenever your schedule allowed, he returned home during the summers, every reunion felt effortless, as though no time had passed at all and every goodbye became harder, there were other people.

You dated a classmate for six months, Cale dated a woman he had met through friends.

Neither relationship lasted.

You never discussed why.

Whenever Cale mentioned another woman, you smiled and asked polite questions while a familiar ache spread through your chest, whenever he saw photographs of you with another man, he became unusually quiet.

His teammates noticed “You’re glaring at your phone,” one of them observed as Cale sat inside the locker room.

“I’m not glaring.”

“You look like you want to fight it.”

Cale locked the screen “It’s nothing.”

“Is that Y/N?”

Cale glanced sharply toward him “How do you know about Y/N?”

“You talk about her constantly.”

“I do not.”

“You told us she broke her arm when she was eleven.”

“She fell out of a tree.”

“You also told us she hates raisins, collects old postcards, and once dressed as a traffic cone for Halloween.”

“She lost a bet.”

“Sure.”

Cale frowned.

The photograph was still burned into his mind, you were standing beside a man at a friend’s wedding, smiling while the man’s hand rested against the small of your back. Cale had spent years convincing himself that he had time.

Time to become settled, time to understand what he could offer you, time to find the courage to risk the most important friendship he had ever known.

But perhaps time was exactly what he had been losing.

The following summer, Cale returned to Calgary earlier than expected, you discovered this when someone knocked on your apartment door at eight in the morning.

You opened it wearing an oversized shirt and sleep shorts, your hair tangled around your shoulders, Cale stood in the hallway with two coffees and a paper bag.

You stared at him “What are you doing here?”

“Good morning to you too.”

“You said you weren’t coming home until next week.”

“I changed my flight.”

“Why?”

He lifted the bag “I brought breakfast.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I missed you.” Your irritation disappeared immediately.

You stepped aside.

Cale walked into the apartment as though he belonged there, placing the coffee on your kitchen counter before examining the photographs attached to your refrigerator.

Most of them included him, birthday parties. Graduations. Summer trips. His first visit after college. A photograph of you on his back after he had carried you across a muddy field.

Then he saw the newest one.

You stood at the wedding beside the same man from the photograph online “Who’s that?” Cale asked.

You followed his gaze “Daniel.”

“Daniel who?”

You raised an eyebrow “Are you interrogating me?”

“No.”

“You sound like you are.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“We met a few months ago.”

“Are you dating?”

You turned toward the coffee, hoping he wouldn’t notice your expression “We’ve been out a couple times.”

Cale’s jaw tightened “You never told me.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“I’m never too busy for you.”

The familiarity of those words made your chest ache “You don’t have to know everything about my life, Cale.”

“I thought I did.”

“So did I.”

He fell silent, the tension between you was unusual and uncomfortable, you pulled two breakfast sandwiches from the bag “You brought bacon.”

“You like bacon.”

“You remembered.”

“I remember everything about you.”

You looked at him, Cale appeared to realize what he had said, but instead of retreating, he held your gaze, your phone vibrated against the counter. Daniel’s name appeared on the screen, Cale’s eyes dropped toward it “Are you seeing him today?”

“He asked me to dinner.”

“Don’t go.” The words came so quickly that you thought you had misunderstood “What?” Cale swallowed “Don’t go to dinner with him.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like him.”

“You haven’t met him.”

“I don’t need to.”

You stared at him in disbelief “You don’t get to come home unexpectedly and decide you don’t like someone simply because I went on two dates with him.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re acting ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“Cale.”

“I know.” He dragged a hand through his hair and turned away, you had watched Cale face crowded arenas, endless interviews, and some of the most intimidating athletes in the world without appearing afraid.

But standing inside your kitchen, he looked terrified “I saw the photograph from the wedding,” he admitted.

“What photograph?”

“The one where he had his hand on you.”

Understanding dawned slowly “Are you jealous?”

Cale released a breath “Yes.”

Your heart began pounding “You’re jealous.”

“I’ve been jealous for years.”

You forgot how to breathe, Cale stepped closer, though he still left space between you “Every boyfriend. Every date. Every man who looked at you and understood immediately what I was too afraid to admit.”

Your voice emerged as a whisper “Admit what?” his eyes met yours “That I’m in love with you.”

The room became completely still “You’re in love with me?”

“I think I always have been.”

Your eyes burned “You can’t say that.”

Cale’s expression fell “Why not?”

“Because I’ve spent years trying to stop loving you.”

The pain disappeared from his face, replaced by stunned hope “You love me?”

You laughed unsteadily, wiping beneath your eyes “Of course I love you, Cale. I’ve loved you since we were teenagers.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried.”

“When?”

“The day I left for college.”

You remembered his bedroom. The half-packed suitcases. His nervous expression before his phone rang “That’s what you were going to say?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me later?”

“Because you seemed happy. Then I was playing all the time, and everything was changing, and I didn’t know whether asking you to be part of my life would be fair.”

“You were already part of mine.”

“I know that now.”

You shook your head “We wasted so much time.”

Cale moved closer “We don’t have to waste any more.”

Your chest tightened “What if this ruins everything?”

“You’re already everything.” The words broke through the final pieces of hesitation you had been carrying for years, Cale lifted his hand slowly, giving you enough time to stop him. His fingers touched your cheek, warm and slightly unsteady “Can I kiss you?”

You had imagined this moment in a hundred different ways, at school dances, in airport terminals, at your childhood home while snow fell outside.

None of your imagined versions included tangled hair, cold coffee, or a paper bag of breakfast sandwiches sitting between you, somehow, the reality was better “You took long enough,” you whispered.

Cale laughed softly before kissing you, the first touch of his lips was gentle and careful, as though he still couldn’t believe you were allowing it, then your hands curled into his shirt, pulling him closer.

Cale kissed you again.

Years of stolen glances, unfinished conversations, and feelings hidden beneath friendship disappeared in a single breath, when you separated, his forehead rested against yours “You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to do that.”

“Probably fewer times than I have.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

You smiled “You’re still not getting credit for waiting twelve years.”

“I was trying to be respectful.”

“You were being an idiot.”

“That too.”

Your phone vibrated again, Cale glanced toward it “Daniel?”

“Probably.”

He looked worried “You should answer.”

“I’ll text him later.”

“You don’t have to cancel because of me.”

“I’m not canceling because of you.” You touched his cheek “I’m canceling because I was only going out with him to convince myself I could move on.”

Cale’s gaze softened “And can you?”

“Apparently not.”

“Good.”

You narrowed your eyes “Don’t sound so pleased.”

“I’m extremely pleased.”

You kissed him again before he could continue, telling your families should have felt significant, instead, it was humiliating “You owe me fifty dollars,” Cale’s brother announced the moment you walked into the Makar family home holding hands.

Their mother gasped.

“You bet on us?”

“I said it would happen before Cale turned thirty.”

Cale stared at him “That isn’t supportive.”

“I’ve been waiting since middle school.”

Your mother was no better “You finally told her?” she asked Cale.

You looked between them “You knew?”

“Honey, everyone knew.”

“We didn’t know,” you protested.

“That was the problem.”

Dating Cale was surprisingly similar to being his best friend, he still stole food from your plate, you still reminded him of birthdays and appointments, he still called after road games, although now he ended every conversation by telling you he loved you.

There were differences too.

His hand found yours whenever you were near, he kissed your forehead when he passed behind you and after years of sleeping in separate rooms during visits, you finally understood how comforting it was to fall asleep beside the person who had known you nearly your entire life.

Several months later, you found Cale sitting on the floor of your childhood bedroom, you were spending Christmas with your family, and he had disappeared while everyone gathered downstairs “What are you doing?” you asked.

Cale looked up from an old box “Your mom said our school pictures were in here.”

“You’re snooping.”

“She gave me permission.”

You sat beside him, photographs covered the carpet, there was one from your first day of school. Another from your thirteenth birthday. One showed Cale asleep against your shoulder during a family road trip.

He picked up a photograph from the winter formal.

You hadn’t attended the dance, but your mother had apparently taken a picture of the two of you before Cale left, you were fixing his tie. Cale was looking at you as though there was no one else in the room “I loved you then,” he said quietly.

You leaned your head against his shoulder “I know.”

“You know now.”

“I think some part of me knew then too.”

He searched through the box before pulling out something tangled beneath a stack of old birthday cards, a faded friendship bracelet, the threads were crooked and nearly colorless with age.

Cale smiled “You kept it.”

“Of course I kept it.”

“It looks terrible.”

“It’s unique.”

He laughed, recognizing his own childhood defense, you took the bracelet and tied it carefully around his wrist. It was too small now, so it rested loosely across two of his fingers “You know,” you said, “you promised we’d be best friends forever when you gave me that.”

“I remember.”

“You kept your promise.”

Cale looked at you with the same softness that had been there when he was nine years old, sitting beside you on the curb with fruit snacks between you “I intend to keep it for the rest of my life.”

You smiled.

“Good.”

He kissed you slowly, surrounded by photographs documenting every version of the two of you, children, teenagers, best friends.

Two people who had spent years circling the truth without realizing that love had been growing quietly between them the entire time.

Cale had been there for scraped knees, school dances, college departures, career changes, and everything in between, he had always been the person you searched for first, the person who felt like home.

Falling in love with him had not happened suddenly, it had happened in hockey arenas and snowstorms, in stolen cookies and late-night phone calls, in every goodbye that hurt too much and every reunion that felt too easy.

You had not fallen in love with Cale all at once, you had fallen slowly.

Softly.