cece 🤍🐰

peaceful, predictable, no waiting around for 5000 years.

you toss a detergent pod into the drum and slam the door. your basket sits at the side while you take a seat on top of the spinning machine, untangling your earphones while the door opens. you don’t look up.

“huh,” they speak, “was starting to think you’d transferred.”

you freeze.

god, please no.

you look up.

will’s standing in the doorway with an overflowing laundry basket in his hands, looking almost surprised by your existence. the second your eyes meet, he grins.

you tuck a bit of your hair behind your ear, lowering your hands as you try to fight the blush. “i . . what? what are you talking about?” you play dumb, forcing a laugh.

ok, so what if you’ve subconsciously been going out of your way to avoid will after you kissed him? only by a little bit - it’s not like you’re taking massive repercussions just to avoid him.

did you cross the soaking, soggy, muddy grass in the middle of campus and ruin your sneakers because he was walking in your direction? maybe, but you were running late for practice anyway.

did you completely by coincidence, start switching up seats from your usual spot just for a change? yeah, ‘cause it seemed . . fun to do?

did you duck underneath the cheerleading table during the student involvement fair because you spotted his baseball cap weaving through the crowd? yeah, but you thought your earring had fell out at the same moment.

will has actually been . . an angel. he’s left you alone. he hasn’t pried. hasn’t seeked you out to hound you. it’s you — you think about him for even a second and you’re riddled with guilt, you hear him and your face flushes with embarrassment, you see him and your chest starts beating too fast and your stomach gets that weird tingly sensation like it did when his tong—

“you’re getting creative.”

he snaps you out of your daze. you blink, lost. “what . . what do you mean?”

“you’re avoiding me.”

his voice makes you straighten, although he’s smiling, gum smacking in his mouth. he has a navy hat on, some baseball team on it, matching his navy t-shirt. “i’m . . i’m not,” you try to play off. “i’ve been busy.”

“doing what?”

“just with classes and stuff . . cheerleading . . usual.”

“i haven’t seen you in class. i was looking for you.”

that makes your heart squeeze with guilt. you’re unfazed when he doesn’t show up to class, he’s missed a dozen classes due to hockey, whether college-related or some variant of international play - you get on with your day.

when you don’t show up one day, will’s brain is wracked wondering if everything’s ok.

“i’ve been every day,” you answer, and you have, you’re not lying . . . you’ve just been on the complete opposite side you usually sit on. “did you need something . . ? my file—”

he shakes his head while lowering his basket, placing it on the floor to opening a machine door. “i just . . wanted to make sure i hadn’t done something.”

you frown. “what?”

he shrugs one shoulder, slightly turning his back to you while he loads up his machine. “just figured i made you uncomfortable or somethin.”

the joking tone is gone.

it’s so matter-of-fact that it makes your chest tighten. “no,” the answer comes instantly as you shake your head. “no will, that’s not . . . no. you didn’t make me uncomfortable.”

he watches you closely, turning around to you. “you promise?”

“i promise,” you hold up your hands as if to prove you’ve got nothing crossed. you even uncross your legs. “you didn’t make me uncomfortable. i . . it’s me.” you confess.

you slump in your spot, like you can no longer carry the weight. “it’s just — every time i see you, i — i get embarrassed. i can’t believe i tried to kiss you and i’m so sorry for it. ‘n then i was scared in case you started telling people and if brad found out so i’ve had this god-awful anxiety all week, it makes me sick—”

will’s standing in front of you now, his brows furrowed as he moves his hands across like as if to cut you off. you do. “you’d think i’d tell people?”

you raise a shoulder. “. . well yeah, like i thought . . maybe you’d tell your friends.”

he just looks at you.

“and they’d joke about it . . .”

still nothing.

“and then someone would overhear . .”

he slowly shakes his head.

“or maybe you’d bring it up to brad.”

will’s brows furrow. “you think i’d tell brad?”

“—not in a cruel way,” you say quickly. “just . . because you two don’t like each other and . . i thought maybe you’d . . . rub it in or something?”

a long silence settles between you. will steps closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you’re no longer talking across the room. you can smell his signature scent better, cleanliness and something masculine. “i don’t really like brad.”

“i know.”

“but i like you a lot more than i don’t like him.”

you close your eyes and that, feeling like your heart could melt through your fingers.

he says it so casually, with no shame or embarrassment.

“why would i do something like that? at your cost?”

your throat tightens as he keeps going, and you have to lift your hand to get him to stop taking. “will—”

“—you really thought i’d use you to get at him?”

“n—no.” the word comes out small. “i don’t know what i thought i just . . was overthinking it every possibility,” you lower your head. “. hiding just makes the most sense.”

he smiles, but it’s smaller this time - softer. the one that kind of pulls at your heartstrings. “hey,” he says quietly, waiting until you meet his eyes. “you really don’t have to do all that.”

“what?”

“hide from me.”

the words aren’t teasing anymore, and his gaze holds yours in a comforting reassurance. “i hate to think you’ve spent a week changing where you sit or taking different routes, worrying every time you see me because you think i’m gonna make things weird.” he gives a tiny shake of his head. “i’m not.”

you look down at your hands.

“i haven’t told anybody,” he continues. “and i’m not going to. not my teammates. not my friends. definitely not brad. it’s nobody else’s business but ours, and if you don’t want anyone knowing, then that’s where it stays.”

ours.

it sounds weird coming from him and doesn’t something weird to your limbs.

“you don’t have to explain yourself to me, and you don’t have to spend every day trying to make sure we never end up in the same room,” his voice is warm now, almost comforting. “i’d rather you just be yourself . . ” he’s closer now, standing directly in front of you, your knees almost touch him. “i’d much rather get the version of you that argues with me that i’m not 6’1 in skates and tells me i’m annoying.”

you laugh a little, looking away from his blue eyes. “you are not 6’1 in skates.”

“‘course i am,” he inches closer, face full of fake arrogance although his voice is soft and teasing. it eases your nerves, loosens you a little.

“i . .” you laugh at yourself without any humour in it. “you’re right. i’m sorry, i’m just . . i’m a mess at the minute.” you place your head in your hands.

you don’t know why you assume will to be cruel like that. you know he’s not. maybe it’s a you thing: you have a hard time learning not every guy is brad. it’s instinct to assume they’re all the same.

will doesn’t hesitate to peel your hands from your face, standing almost between your legs if they had been spread apart a little more. “you’re not a mess, y/n.” his hand’s nonchalantly relax on your thighs, your bare thighs because it’s approaching 10PM and you’re dressed for bed in a plain oversized t-shirt while 90% of campus is at that 80s themed party tonight.

your gaze drops to his hands, how they blanket your thighs, the way fingers stretch farther than they seemed capable of around them. when you finally drag your eyes back to his face, he’s already looking at you.

“nobody knows. nobody will know,” his voice is low, like it’s meant only for you.

his hands shift again, slower this time, thumbs brushing absentmindedly against your skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “just you and me . . .”

you don’t mean to do it, you try to fight it - but you look anyway - you look at his mouth while he’s talking. pink lips moving, voice smooth like honey, soft in a way that doesn’t match how close he is standing. the sound settles under your skin, soft and slow, it warms every part of you until it feels like you’re physically melting.

your shoulders drop first, tension bleeding out of you in a way that makes you blink like you’ve just woken up.

it’s like the space between you starts shrinking on its own. “will,” you mutter, eyes dropping. “we—you’re too close.”

he huffs a quiet laugh at that. “too close?” his brow twitches, “after a week of not seeing me?”

you give him a look despite his teasing, but you still don’t move.

his lips tug in response, fingers sliding to the crease between your legs and torso, fingers curling around the back until he’s pulling you towards him. your breath catches before you can stop it, your eyes dropping eye-level with his neck. the smell of his aftershave hits you next, clean and sharp, drawing you closer to him.

“you’re telling me to move . . ” he murmurs, “but you keep coming closer.”

“’m not.”

“no?” his nose brushes yours, feather-light, enough to make your heart jump; your eyes close.

you don’t know what he’s saying anymore, your thoughts feel like they’ve been wrapped in cotton and you’re waiting for him to kiss you.

his nose grazes yours again as he leans in, slow enough to give you every chance to pull away, and when you don’t – he finally kisses you.

again.

the kiss is slow. unhurried, like neither of you has anywhere else to be.

somewhere between his hand finding your waist and your fingers curling instinctively into the front of his t-shirt, the noise you’ve been carrying around all week melts into silence, every anxious thought that had been ricocheting around moments ago simply fades.

will’s lips are soft. they’re gentle on yours. it’s so sweet it makes your ears ring.

when he pulls away, your eyes stay closed and you don’t dare move.

he kisses you again.

it deepens this time, his lips parting more gradually until his tongue slides against yours, warm and wet and tasting faintly of something minty. your arms come up to his neck in a mind of their own, tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. you can feel the smirk in his kiss.

he doesn’t let you breathe. it’s a kiss you’ve never experienced before; it sends tingles down your spine and makes your toes curl. you chase more.

will makes a breathy sound, lips pushing harder against yours as his hands tighten around your waist. he pulls your lower half closer to the edge of the machine until your knees bracket his hips and you grab his arm consciously. “will,” you hum breathlessly, his lips brushing yours. “we can’t—”

he cuts you off again, messily slotting his lips against yours.

the alarm bells in your mind silence with the the feel of his hands travelling back to your legs, caressing the top of your thighs, his thumb smoothing the inside of it. it makes your breath stutter; your brain short-circuit and thoughts turn to mush.

“will,” you say again between kisses, eyes closing with every stroke of his tongue massaging yours. it distracts you from the hand slowly making its way between your legs. “mmph—”

the sudden contact of will’s middle finger pressing against your clothed slit sends a jolt through your body; a high-pitched gasp past your lips. he continues to kiss you as you pull away, barely regaining consciousness as your hand snatches a hold of his wrist, stopping his hand from moving another inch. “will, will, will—” you whisper, trying to get him to stop.

he does. the second you whisper, he eases back, breaking the kiss gently between you. his eyes stay closed for a moment longer, forehead hovering yours, his lips glisten with saliva. his breathing is still uneven, his shoulders moving with each intake.

he doesn’t rush. he just lets you go, his nose brushing your cheek as if he’s giving himself a second before reality catches up.

“will . . .” your voice comes out embarrassingly small. you swallow. “i-i can’t.”

this time, he nods. slowly. like he’d already known that was coming.

it makes your chest hurt.

your eyes dart to the door, your heartbeat suddenly loud again.

you look back at him, eyes softening at the devastating sight: blond curls messily spread across his forehead, cheeks flushed pink from your intense makeout. “i’m sorry,” you blurt, gently easing his hand from your waist. he lets you. “i just—we shouldn’t’ve . . i shouldn’t have—”

he gives another small nod and takes half a step back. “i get it,” he says like he’s trying to spare you the conversation. “it’s cool.”

“no—” you trap him between your legs before he can step away anymore. “please wait.”

“it’s fine, y/n.” he unhooks your ankles over him.

“no will, wait, please,” you hop off the washing machine, ignoring the terrible ache down below as you try to get him to look at you. “it’s not you—”

“i know.”

“no but—”

he tries not to sigh. “y/n–”

“please don’t be weird with me.”

he pauses. he looks at you properly, confusion swirling in his eyes. “i won’t . . ?”

“don’t be mad.”

he looks back at you, brows knitting together. “i’m not.”

dismissive. matter-of-fact.

your chest only tightens. “no, but you are,” you insist quietly. “i can tell.”

“i’m not mad at you,” he establishes, furrowing his brows at the accusation.

“promise?”

he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, keeping his gaze on you. “yeah.”

you search his face for something, anything, that tells you he’s telling the truth. “i’m not going to avoid you,” the words spill out too fast, “not this time. i swear.”

his expression softens, eyes drifting to the floor, “you don’t have to promise me anything.”

“no but i do, i—” you don’t even know what to say. “can we just be the same? like, before?” your eyes are pleading as you look up to him. “i don’t want you to—” ditch me? leave me alone? ignore me? “i dunno, i’m — just—don’t change anything. we’re good.” you nod, smoothing the bottom of your shirt. “we’re good. you don’t need to—to disappear on me or—”

“disappear on you?” will perks an eyebrow at that, offended. “that’s you who does that.”

“i know, i know, i’m sorry. i won’t this time, i promise.” you cringe, cheeks flaming. “i’ll literally save you a seat on monday, i— we’re cool. we’re cool. this never happened.”

will raises his head in acknowledgment.

alright.

cool.

he nods. “yeah.”

it isn’t cold. it isn’t angry. if anything, that’s what makes your heart clench. he isn’t going to fight you on it or ask why, he isn’t going to make you feel worse than you already do.

he just accepts your response. “see you around.”

you take a step closer as he makes it to the door, basket scooped in his hand. “will—” you open your mouth, but nothing comes - because what are you even supposed to say?

you settle with a weak ‘i’m sorry’ and he gives another nod. “i know.”

and then he’s gone.

the second the door shuts, your chest caves. you drag a hand over your face.

idiot.

this never happened? why would you say that? that wasn’t what you meant. you feel even worse as you did before, and this time, you promised you wouldn’t avoid him.

-

the party buzzes around you.

people shout over the music, bottles clink somewhere in the kitchen, someone you’ve never met is laughing hard enough to fold in half. it’s chill for a saturday night. you stay tucked into brad’s side most of the night, fingers hooked loosely through his arm. you laugh when everyone else laughs, nod along to conversations you haven’t really heard.

you’re already moving when brad asks for you to get something for him.

you try to have a good time, you’ve had two seltzers to help you, but there’s a strange emptiness following you around all evening.

like something’s missing.

you don’t realize how often your eyes drift across the room until you catch yourself doing it again.

“babe, can you grab me another beer?”

“’course.” you grin, brushing a quick kiss against his cheek before disappearing into the kitchen.

it’s automatic, all of it - the way you lean against him when he pulls you in, play with the hair at the back of his neck while he’s talking to his friends - you’re attentive. sweet.

maybe a little too hard.

you weave through the crowd, muttering quiet apologies as shoulders knock yours from every direction. “sorry.”

“it’s fine.”

you step aside to let them through.

that’s when you see him.

will.

your heart stumbles so hard it almost feels painful.

he’s sunk into the corner of the sofa, one arm stretched lazily along the back of it. a girl sits tucked into his side, laughing at something he’s just said. another sits to his left, their knees touching.

your eyes stay fixed on them, unable to look away despite every part of you screaming to.

he says something that makes the one of the right laugh, and her fingers curl around the front of his t-shirt, collecting a firm grip – and your feet stop.

you watch him nod, lips pulled to the side in that smirk he does and you catch the way his eyes dip to her mouth.

your eyes could slice him.

don’t.

before your brain can make sense of what you’re looking at, will leans in, all confidence. she meets him halfway.

then it happens.

they kiss.

your brows raise and your mouth falls open before your brain has fully registered what’s going on.

he kisses her.

not accidentally.

not drunkenly.

deliberately.

for a second, all you can hear is the rush of blood flooding your head.

your entire body goes hot.

you watch like a complete weirdo, watching the way he slips his tongue in, the way his head moves to meets hers, the way his eyes remain closed and his hand rests on her leg.

something ugly flares inside you violently.

your whole body racks.

“babe?”

brad’s voice reaches you from somewhere behind.

you don’t answer.

you’re still staring.

still hoping, stupidly, that he’ll pull away.

“babe?”

you flinch at a hand brushing your elbow, so hard it almost startles you.

“what?” you bite.

brad blinks. “i just asked if you got my drink . .“

“well, i’m getting it, aren’t i?!”

his eyebrows raise, taken back by the tone. “alright . . .”

honestly, brad is at a loss these days. when he’s being an ass, you act a psycho, when he’s on his best behaviour and treating you good, you act a psycho.

“god!” you scoff, wrenching open the fridge harder than necessary.

“what’s wrong with you?”

“nothing.”

“doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“BRAD!” you shout this time, slamming the door closed with a flare in your eyes. “STOP talking to me.”

a couple of heads turn and brad raises his hands immediately. the look in your eyes is new.

“okay.”

guilt pricks at you for all of half a second when you hand him the can, because when you look up again—they’re still there.

heat surges through you all over again. you don’t even recognize the feeling.

“babe, chill out, alright? what happened?” brad’s voice is soft for once as he stands in front of you, blocking the view. he tries to be gentle. he says he’s been working on himself and you’ve noticed it.

you rip his hand from your side and storm off back to your spot, your whole body almost shaking with emotions you didn’t even know you possessed.

-

monday comes around when you’ve still got that furrow in your brow. the lecture theatre is already half full by the time you arrive, coffee in one hand, headphones still around your neck.

you scan the rows automatically whilst walking up the steps – and there he is.

will.

in your seat.

well, not your seat. your row.

he’s saved the chair beside him with his backpack, spotting you almost immediately. he lifts it onto his lap without a second thought.

“morning sunshine.” he says.

like friday never happened.

like saturday didn’t exist.

like two girls hadn’t practically climbed into his lap before midnight.

your jaw tightens.

“. . hi.”

you slide into the chair without looking at him.

the silence stretches. he doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“good weekend?”

is that a joke?

you just nod, keeping your head to the front. will lifts his in acknowledgment, sensing you’re not in a chatty mood.

“brad got asked to skate with us tomorrow,” he says after a while, looking over at you after he finishes taking notes off the slide.

that grabs your attention. you look up, barely meeting his eyes for a second, trying to sound interested. “he did?”

“yeah. jake’s got mono, leno’s concussed . . asked if he’d come by the rink tomorrow afternoon.”

you hum, typing on your laptop.

conversation = over.

he studies you for a second as you avoid his gaze, then shakes his head so subtly, you don’t see it.

something’s up.

you type while will scribbles notes. every now and then he fidgets in his seat, his elbow brushes yours, he stretches dramatically or readjusts his hat on his head and it slowly chips at your patience.

“will, quit smacking your gum.”

“will, your volume.”

“will,” you nudge his arm off your side of the desk. “your elbow.”

you try not to sound so quick with it, but you swear, he must be doing it on purpose. you’re laser-focused on the screen at the front of the room while he texts from next to you, and you can’t take it.

“oh my god, smitty! can you breathe through your nose?” your head cranks to him, unable to concentrate on anything other than the sound of his breathing next to you.

will pauses, mouth still open, glancing at you.

he shuts his mouth, not tearing his eyes from you.

ok.

five minutes later, after trying to be as mute as possible, he yawns.

you don’t even look up. “will.”

“huh?”

“why are you being so loud.”

he freezes. “ . . what?”

“seriously.” you grit your teeth.

will’s brows furrow. your attitude is clear as day to him now. “i . . yawned.”

“yeah. out loud. for everyone to hear.”

“i wasn’t aware there was another method?” he responds sarcastically, squinting his eyes at you.

“come up with one.”

his brow twitches. so that’s the mood you’re in today? he looks around theatrically. “anybody know how to yawn quietly?”

a couple of students glance over before returning to their conversations. will looks back at you. “you are in a mood.”

“i’m not.”

“could’ve fooled me,” he tilts his head, making your stomach flip. “seriously . .” he turns back to fix his notes, “tell brad to step his game up or something.”

you shoot him a look. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he shrugs. “i don’t know. dude’s clearly slacking if this is what i’m dealing with on a monday morning.”

your jaw falls. “he’s not slacking in anything.”

“pfft. ok.”

“hey!” you snap, “what are you getting at?”

“nothing.”

“no say it.”

“i said nothing.”

“you’re implying something.”

“you’re hearing things,” he smiles at himself, tongue poking his cheek. it’s cute seeing you mad. it’s actually cute seeing you mad at him.

you don’t find it funny.

instead, you thump his arm with your fist.

“OW!”

“you’re an asshole.”

“that’s assault.”

“good.”

he rubs his bicep dramatically but smiles. “jesus.”

the professor begins wrapping up the lecture, peers already exiting the room while others are still packing their bag. you’re halfway through closing a document to get out of here when—

clap!

your laptop snaps shut, and you jump.

will’s already standing, one hand still resting on the top of it. “tell your boyfriend he owes the rest of us an apology,” he says, swinging his bag over his shoulder, and your brows furrow. “ . . he’s gotta be doing something wrong if this is the mood he’s sending you into class with.”

there he is again. picking at your relationship. acting like he knows everything.

you snatch your laptop back. “get off his back.”

will’s lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “you should try getting off mine.” he bargains, inching close to your face.

you open your mouth, but end up looking like a goldfish because you open and close your mouth ‘cause nothing comes out. too distracted by him getting too close in your face, the dimple on his cheek, how pink his lips are. he walks off, unbeknownst to the heat clawing at your body.

-

you spend the rest of the week going about your day as normal. you go to class, you go to practice, you’ve even been to the rink, watching brad who’s been filling in for defence. it’s surprisingly easy tuning out the annoying sound that is will.

or at least you pretend it is.

in group discussions, you pretend to write something super important in your notebook when he gives his input. you don’t look at him when he talks. if someone asks the group a question, you answer them all but him. you leave your earphones in through every lecture you share, even when nothing’s playing anymore. at the rink, you don’t even turn your head when he flies past on the ice a dozen times, barely allowing yourself to clap twice when he makes a good play because everyone around you does.

the anger starts to dull around the edges by midweek, as if being away from him has allowed you to cool down and realize it’s not that deep. that you’re overreacting and his little remarks are nothing out the ordinary from him. you almost ask him for his notes on a slide that went by too fast — almost.

until a girl in the row in front turns around and asks for a pencil.

will passes her one before you even comprehend what she says, and you watch the way they interact: the way she smiles up at him, how she says his name when she thanks him, the way he winks back in response.

suddenly, you’re staring at his side profile and you’re replaying the image of him slipping his tongue in some girl’s mouth.

“FUCK!” you unexpectedly say out loud, palms smacking your forehead.

people turn and look at you concerned, including will, who’s is more confused, but assumes, like everyone else, that it’s an answer you’ve answered incorrectly on your sheet as you look down at it.

it’s not. you’re just going insane. you swear. you swear, you’re going insane.

friday rolls around when you find yourself at the rink, running a little behind to meet brad after he pitched dinner and a movie at his place after you were both finished with practice. you texted him you’d be there in ten and he never answered, so made your way in to the arena anyway, only to be met with the sound of a single set of skates still cutting through the ice.

i already know who this is, you think to yourself, strutting over to the ledge.

will sees you when you come in, still shooting pucks in the net despite practice ending 10 minutes ago. he’s always the last off the ice. always putting in an extra shift.

he goes back to firing shot after shot, aiming for a different angle in the net until the person on the zamboni will have to force him off the ice. he doesn’t acknowledge you. you don’t acknowledge him.

you set your bag up on the ledge to dig through the clutter for your phone; a mess of makeup products, your sweaty uniform, a bra, loose change, hair clips, pom-pom strands and water bottles - it makes it harder then necessary.

by the time you pull it out, you don’t waste time in checking if brad got your message and call him instead - trying to block out the crack of each shot that echoes around the rink. “hello?”

“hey. what’s up?”

“where are you, i just got here. i’m standing in the box?” you glance around, trying to see if you can catch sight of him lingering in the tunnel.

“babe, i left like 5 minutes ago. i was gonna hang at jordan’s ‘til you were done practice?”

“i told you i finished the same time as you?”

crack.

your eyes follow the trail of the puck hitting the boards.

“i though you finished at 5:30? and by the time you get showered ‘n shit i was just gonna wait for you to call me . .”

“i finish at 5:00 and that’s including getting showered ‘n stuff.” you glance to the side in disbelief.

“oh.”

“oh?” you repeat. “will i meet you at your place or not?”

“look, just come to jordan’s. i’ll text you the address. i’ve already had a beer so you’ll have to come grab me anyway.”

“okay,” you huff, lowering your phone. “bye.”

“bye.”

you throw your phone in your bag, shoving the other things you had to take out back in when your favourite lipstick hits the ice with a ‘clack’ as it falls from the ledge and begins rolling further out.

past the blue line, past the face-off dot, until it finally comes to a stop almost dead centre of the rink.

you eyes immediately jump to will, the only one on the ice, who was watching it as well.

he’s smacking his gum (as always), and shrugs a shoulder while looking at you. “i’m not getting it.”

the bluntness makes you straighten.

you blink.

“you act like i don’t exist so,” he pulls a face like it’s something out of his control, turning back to his setup. “come get it yourself.” another crack of the boards deafens your ears.

you look back to the lipstick in the middle of the rink, then to the type of shoes on your feet.

ordinary sneakers. barely a grip on them with how long you’ve had them.

can you even walk on ice with regular shoes on?

you look at will to see if he’s being serious, but he’s too busy on stick work, not even sparing you a second glance.

you swallow nervously.

is he really gonna make you grab it yourself?

you contemplate how badly you really need it, considering you haven’t skated on the ice since you were 10 and at that, had a penguin skating aid to lean on.

you then consider the fact the zamboni will probably crush a perfectly good $25 lipstick into little tiny pieces if you do.

you also then consider the worst case scenario: what if it shoots out a tiny piece at somebody? and causes a total freak accident where blood is on your hands because you couldn’t be bothered to pick up after yourself? that gets you moving.

you set your bag down and tuck your hair back so it doesn’t block your view. you mutter something under your breath and step carefully through the open gate, goosebumps running along your legs.

the second the rubber mat disappears beneath your white nikes, your confidence goes with it.

your foot slides at least a foot.

you immediately grab the boards.

you hear him snort.

you ignore it.

with one hand clamped to the top of the boards, you shuffle forward awkwardly, feet barely leaving the ice.

god, how are you making it to the centre?

you make it a whole three steps before one foot shoots slightly ahead of the other when will sends another puck against the boards, making you jump and lose footing. “whoa!—” you catch yourself at the last second.

you quickly realize how terrifying and dangerous it is be on the ice during a game.

the boards rattle with you.

you continue inching forward, tiny steps at a time, looking no-where but the golden-like rectangle. it’s so slippy. the shooting has stopped so you assume will is watching you. you don’t wanna know how stupid you must look tight now.

stiff. jumpy. covered in goosebumps.

it’s so cold, your arms and legs suffering the most as they remain bare from the worn BC t-shirt and shorts you first got years ago. you’re convinced the shivering isn’t helping with your balance.

will watches, leaning lazily on his stick before setting it against the boards beside his helmet. then, with a couple of effortless strides, he’s gliding towards you, almost racing you without looking like he’s trying.

you refuse to look at him.

your eyes stay fixed on the lipstick.

just a little bit more . . .

you crouch carefully, every muscle in your body tensing as your fingertips hover inches away – when a pair of skates come into view and give a soft tap of the golden case, sending the thing gliding further on down to the right, a few more feet across the ice.

you freeze, mouth dropping as you look up to see will already drifting backwards.

“ . . . ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!”

“oh.” he looks theatrically around the empty rink. “you can see me?”

you stand in such a rush, stumbling, forgetting where you when his arm out stretches to catch you - and you hold on, closing the distance between you in two careful, clumsy steps, grabbing a fistful of the arms of his jersey. “you’re an asshole!”

“damn, i didn’t think you’d know it was me,” he continues with the joke, staring down at your face, “forgot my invisible cloak.”

“i’ve seen you all week, i’ve just been purposely ignoring you!” you snap, feeling smaller than usual as he towers inches above you in his skates.

“for no other reason than . . ?”

“for no other reason being you’re insufferable company and nothing but a pain in my ass.”

he rocks gently on his skates, taken aback but still finding it amusing. he loves when you swear. it’s surprisingly out of character. “gee . .” he tilts his head slightly, eyebrow twitching up, “guess brad’s still being a pussy and not eating yours.”

your face falls.

almost horror-like, as if you can’t believe he just said that.

you can’t believe he just said that.

your mouth hangs open.

nothing.

not a single comeback.

you just stare at him, heat rushing up your neck so fast it burns your cheeks. for once, your brain doesn’t have anything clever to throw back. just stunned, offended silence.

“you—” is all you manage, breathless with disbelief.

it isn’t even anger at first, it’s pure, stunned embarrassment.

you shove against his chest on instinct, creating space between you like distance might somehow undo what he’d just said. you can’t even bring yourself to meet his eyes. you just push him away, allowing him grin to himself while you twist on your heel to fetch your lipstick and go.

you make it just three steps in when your foot slips sideways and a squeak leaves you. “WHEUP!—”

your knees slam into the ice.

hard.

a cold thump echoes across the rink before your palms slap down after them, and the pain is immediate.

hot.

your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. you stay frozen on all fours, forehead bowed, your palms stinging against the freezing ice as your knees throb beneath you.

it hurts so bad.

the scrape of skate blades reaches you seconds later. “shit, hey—” a gloved hand appears in front of you. you bat it away without thinking. you can’t even tell him to leave you alone, a lump lodged too tightly in your throat.

he’s surprised. “y/n,” he says, his voice different. the teasing is totally gone.

instead, you turn your face away from him, swallowing hard, refusing to let him see the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes - whether from the pain or the embarrassment, you don’t know. you force yourself forward, practically crawling the first couple of feet before grabbing onto the boards with both hands. every movement sends another throb to your knees.

will watches, heart racing, the guilt pulling him down. he wants to throw himself down on the ice and break every one of his teeth if it would make you feel any better.

he stays where he is when you push through the gate without another glance, limping while picking up your bag.

he stands in the silence on his own, his eyes drifting to the abandoned gold tube sitting alone in the middle of the ice. he spots the little dots of blood from where you’ve cut your hands.

he throws his head back, sighing loudly.

why did he do that?

-

by saturday night, you’re exhausted. it’s ridiculous: the weekend’s barely started. your knees are still bruised, ugly shades of purple blooming beneath the skin. every time you kneel or bend them too far, they remind you exactly how hard you hit the ice.

you cried in the car. not because of will, because they hurt fucking bad – because the second the adrenaline wore off, every movement stung like a motherfucker. only for 2 minutes, because you had to go collect brad, and brad hated crying, or he hated dealing with it, rather.

date night hadn’t lasted long anyway. the first time you’d shifted in your place, you’d sucked in a sharp breath.

‘what’s wrong?’ he’d asked, giving you a weird look.

‘it’s nothing, just . . my knees’ you rolled your pyjamas up to show the violent bruising already coating them. brad’s brows furrowed. ‘what’d you do?’

that made you pause, because you didn’t know what to say. the instant will comes to mind, your immediate reaction is to deflect and deny when brad brings him up. ‘i don’t know.’

you knew it was the wrong answer the second you’d said it.

‘you don’t know?’ he repeated, staring at you.

‘well i . . i fell, what’d you think i did?” you chuckled nervously, settling on the lie you did it at practice. however, brad’s face hardens at your remark, and you don’t realize the damage you’re doing right now.

he squints his eyes. ‘you tell me — what were you doing?’

you can guess how it ended.

now, you’re catching up on laundry, again, because there’s a party and you offered to do katie’s now that she’s back at her boyfriend’s place. as always, it’s empty. chill vibes. you have one earphone in, listening to your 80s playlist you always play, thinking about the little bit of work you could catch up on when you get back.

you finish sorting another pile before setting your next basket down next you, opening the door to switch them out.

when you finish emptying the machine, you reach for the next basket - only to find the little glimmer of gold sitting on top.

your hand pauses.

your lipstick.

from the rink.

you stare at it for a second before turning around, met with will standing opposite side of the room at a machine.

he stands with his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants, his laundry basket next to him.

and all you can think is why — why does the sight of him tug at your heart?

you look back down at the lipstick.

it’s spotless, the scuffs are gone, there’s not a fingerprint on the metallic surface. he’s taken the time to make sure it wasn’t ruined before giving it back.

will’s loading up a machine when you look back at him, pressing buttons effortlessly before he turns around to lean against it, crossing his legs, his eyes focused on his phone.

you let out a quiet breath, turning back to your laundry.

you can’t seem to stay mad at him. you’re not mad at all when you block out saturday altogether, not when you know will is completely clueless to the situation - rightfully confused because he did, in fact, do nothing wrong.

you don’t even know what he did wrong. you just didn’t like seeing him with another girl, which is so strange to admit to yourself because you have a boyfriend . . . you like to think it’s because by seeing someone else look that excited to kiss someone made something uncomfortable shift in your own chest.

maybe it forced you to notice something your relationship had been missing for a while. that easy pull towards someone, that excitement, that thrill.

god, you don’t know. you still don’t know. it makes your head hurt when you think about it for too long. you just know it made you uncomfortable and you have to assume it’s somewhat an indication that your relationship is lacking in something. you want to feel what that girl felt. experience what she felt.

but you do know how she felt, you just don’t know what to do with the fact that it wasn’t with brad.

one thing is for certain is that it’s something for you to work on, not will. you’re mature enough to accept he did nothing wrong and he doesn’t deserve your cold shoulder while you try to figure out how to fix yourself.

you’re the fucked up one, not him.

will’s been nothing but sweet to you.

respectful.

familiar.

even though he had his tongue in another girl’s mouth.

FUCK!

why the fuck are you keep coming back to that, y/n?!

will glances up as you close your eyes and clench your jaw - and he immediately feels like he’s right back to square one.

stop thinking about it y/n. stop it. just focus on . . . laundry. you were doing laundry.

you steal a glance at him while picking up a shirt to fold, scanning him head to toe as if he’s gonna look any different from yesterday. he stays distracted on his phone, head dipped down. the only thing moving is his thumb, his fingers adjusting their grip every now and then around the phone. you swallow.

he’s so big.

tall! you mean tall. he’s still so tall even without skates.

he shifts, one leg holding most of him while the other relaxes, and you quickly look down, hoping you haven’t been caught studying him after ignoring him a whole week. he keeps one hand tucked under his armpit, the sleeves of his hoodie contracting against his forarms.

you divert your focus back to your dirty and clean clothes, the hum of the dryers being the only sound in the room. your music isn’t playing anymore, your earphones abandoned at the side.

he still hasn’t said anything.

ignore him. just ignore him, y/n, he literally can’t say anything without offending y—

“are you ignoring me now?”

the words leave before you can stop them . . and you can only own them once they leave, standing with a hand on your hip as your face frowns.

why did you just do that??

will looks at you confused, even glances around to see if you’re talking to anybody else.

“—‘cause i’m supposed to be ignoring you,” you continue, not knowing what you’re doing.

the fuck?

“i . . isn’t that what you want . . ?” will looks at you confused, tilting his head.

“i never said that?” you look at him like he’s not making any sense.

“oh, no i just . . assumed when you said . . i was insufferable company and you’d been purposefully ignoring me all week, that . . you wanted me to fuck off.”

oh yeah, you did say that.

still, it’s too late to back down now. “no . . ?”

will stares at you, mouth open, breathing without another thought in his head before shaking it off and turning his attention back to his phone.

you slouch, dropping your stance and backtrack. “ok ok, i’m sorry. i’m sorry, just — forget that. i’m sorry. i’m being annoying and . . gaslighting you to be honest. i don’t know what i’m saying.”

will slides his phone into his pocket then, giving you his full attention. “that’s the problem. if you don’t know, how am i supposed to know?” his tone pinches at your heart, because it’s gentle as always, despite your sense of frustration. “i’m doing what you asked, i gave you space and tried to keep things normal, and you . . wanted to rip my head off ‘cause i breathed too loud?”

“oh but will you always breathe loud! you’re a mouth breather,” your palm hits the washing machine like that’s an unfair reason to be mad.

he gives you a flat look.

you slump. “sorry.”

you do feel guilty, because he’s so right. the whole week, every stupid joke, every sarcastic comment, he’d been trying to get you back to normal – and you’d punished him for it.

“the rink yesterday, it was just me and you - i was messing with you ‘cause,” he shrugs awkwardly, “i don’t know. i thought it’d get you talking to me again.” then he pulls a face. “clearly misjudged that one.”

your eyes fall to the floor. “no, will—”

“—then you hit the ice and i can’t stop thinking about it. i felt like it was my fault. i shouldn’t have kicked it away again, i was just playing around, but . . i felt like an asshole after. it looked real sore. it looks real sore” his eyes dart to your purple knees.

“it is, but it wasn’t your fault,” you shake your head, “i probably would have fell anyway. i was storming off and forgot i wasn’t on normal ground.”

“did you cry?”

the equation surprised you. you debate telling him, your face straight. “yes . . . but because it hurt, not ‘cause of you . . ”

that still makes will’s stomach sick with guilt. he lets out a soft sigh. “look y/n—”

no, no what happened to gorgeous?

“—i don’t know what i did to make you mad, if i crossed a line, just tell me—”

“—you didn’t.”

“—ok but are you saying that because it’s true?” he looks back up at you. “or are you just saying it because you don’t want me to feel bad?”

“no! no i promise.”

“so why? why the bad attitude? why have you spent the whole week mad at me? are you mad at everybody?”

to be honest, yeah — you have been mad at everybody, and it’s all because of him.

but there’s no way in hell you’re telling him that.

‘i saw you kissing another girl and it ruined my weekend. more than it did when i caught my boyfriend staring at our waitresses ass on my birthday.’

you’d rather launch yourself into traffic.

“i . . i don’t know,” you rub your arm. you’re not used to this amount of communication. you’re also not used to having to think like this. usually sorry’s enough and you deal with whatever consequences that follow after.

will deserves more than that. “i guess i’m mad . . at myself. maybe. i don’t know. i just don’t like . . how i can’t think straight anymore. my head is so messed up. i don’t even know anymore. i don’t know. i don’t know what i’m doing.” your head falls into your hands with stress.

will’s expression softens almost immediately. he lets out a slow breath through his nose. “hey.”

you look up.

“i don’t want that.”

you frown.

“whatever’s going on in your head,” he gestures vaguely towards you. “i don’t want you feeling like you’ve got to force yourself into anything because of me.”

your chest tightens.

“if you’re fighting yourself over this . . . that’s not something i want to add to.”

“i’m not—”

he sighs, eyes stuck on you. “y/n, listen - there’s no hard feelings. if things were simple . . you’d probably know what you wanted. i’m not saying that to make you choose, don’t take it that way,” he holds his hands up, “i just . . i think you are happy in you’re relationship and i need to stop trying to get your attention, because it’s my interference that’s messing with your head.”

your heart sinks.

what?

“if me doing that means you spend the next week feeling guilty . . or confused . . or taking it out on yourself . . ” he shakes his head, “. . i don’t want that.”

your face falls.

oh no.

he notices your expression and immediately backtracks. “that’s not me trying to make this a thing,” he says quickly. “honestly. i’m just saying . . . maybe the best thing i can do is stop,” he gives another small shrug, his face offering a small, playful smile. “i’ll cool it with the jokes. stop trying to steal your attention. give you space, divert my attention on someone else.”

“no,” it comes out far too quickly, your face falling completely as you shake your head. “no, no, no,” you slip off the machine.

will watches you, face pulling in confusion as you approach him. “i have to—”

“no! no i—” you rush to him, hands instinctively grabbing his forearms as you almost collide. “i want your attention. i want you to annoy me, i—” your hands are on his face before you can even think, pulling him down to you. the kiss cuts him off completely.

you don’t even know what you’re doing.

all you know is that he’s saying the complete wrong thing and you don’t even want him to leave you be.

you don’t want that.

your lips collide forcefully, enough that will can sense your desperation.

you kiss him slow, lips lingering before taking a short second to part, just to breathe, before kissing him again.

hungrier.

will reciprocates this time, kissing you back. he takes a second to switch his hat backward, before his hands carefully place themselves on your waist and dips his head to meet you. you hum, melting against him.

he’s warm and soft and just as you remember him.

you kiss him harder, longer, like you can’t get enough, and quickly quicken the pace. you open your mouth, missing his tongue, missing him being up all close on you. tingles dance down your spine when you feel it, butterflies shooting around your stomach. “don’t ignore me,” you plea breathlessly, speaking between kisses, “don’t stop with your jokes . . and your teasing . . and–“ kiss “–your annoying breathing.”

a laugh escapes him, swallowed immediately by another kiss. “no?” -kiss- “you don’t want that?”

“no,” you kiss him back, needing him to stop talking.

“why’s that?” he pulls away to look at you, smirk taking up his whole face. when you try to kiss him again, he pulls back

“because m—” you inch closer again, watching him look at you with amusemen, “my days would be boring without you,” you confess, trying to pull his neck back down to you.

will’s brow twitches cockily.

not that you can see, you’re too busy focused on his lips.

your whole body feels electric. that weird, foreign feeling back in your belly as you hands gravitate shyly down his torso, resting there, unable to look him in the eye.

“y’want me to keep annoying you?”

you nod.

“want me to keep calling you gorgeous?”

you look up at him at that, and nod again.

he perks a brow. “you think you’re gorgeous?”

you tighten your grip on the back of his neck and pull him back into another kiss before he can tease you again. “shut up will.”

will smiles, satisfied, and gives you what you want. he kisses you good, real good, so good you forget all about that disgusting, green jealousy that’s been following you about you all week.

his lips are soft but his hands are rough - dropping to your hips with a firm grip, he pulls you against him in a way that makes your nerves explode and brain short circuit.

“will,” you half-gasp when he instinctively picks you up, setting you down on a different machine. he steps in between your legs, your hands on his shoulders as your eyes widen as he settles in front of you. the pulse in your neck sky-rockets from the closeness, from the familiarity or his hands.

his eyes look dark, pupils blew out, but the familiar softness of blue still remains there comfortingly.

you smile into another kiss, melting against him as his tongue slowly crashing against yours. you don’t realize his hands brushing your legs, your knees that are battered - you don’t even flinch, that’s how gentle he is.

he places them flat on your thighs, large, paw-like palms soothing you with warmth and familiarity as they move up and down. your mind is already hazy when you move closer to him, inching forward in a rocking-like motion which brings will to a pause. his eyes look up from you legs, blue orbs boring into yours as his voices lowers.

“i need you to make a deal with me.”

“what is it?” you hook your arms around his neck, keeping him close.

“i need you to promise me you’re not going to go weird on me again,” his eyes scan your face, distracting you from his fingers slipping between your thighs.

“i—i won’t,” you stutter.

“y’promise?” his finger brushes your front again, making you jolt. “you promise me this is what you want?”

your mouth slowly falls open as will slowly begins to stroke you through your panties, his gaze locked on you.

you forget what he’s asking. “m—will.”

“tell me,” he looks down at you, standing tall and full of confidence. entire frame blocking you from anyone who could walk in.

“—i promise . . i promise this is what i want,” you moan embarrassingly, head dropping in shame.

fuck! what are you doing right now?

his fingers move slowly, feeling your hot slick begin to pool through the material, “want me to keep goin’?”

you bite your lip to conceal your noises, nodding frantically. “mhm.”

he pushes your knees further apart, spreading them while slowly lifting his hand to slide under the waistband on your underwear. when his hand comes into contact with your bare cunt, you flinch, legs closing from the touch, your eyes shooting to him for comfort.

he’s not looking at you though, soley focused on his hand buried in your shorts.

his middle finger slides through your folds, soaked immediately, your arousal no longer a secret. a sharp gasp escapes you, your mouth hanging open. he watches your face carefully while sliding his finger in, watching the way your lips part and your eyes blink in poor consciousness as you stretch around his finger.

fuck, feels so good already.

“oh my god,” you whine, legs trying to close. “will—”

“—shh,” he leans in and kisses you again, wasting no time in sliding a second finger, using his other hand to keep your legs open.

you moan loudly against his mouth, brows pinched together with unfamiliar pleasure while your focus slips. “hmmm—fuck.”

“this what you wanted?” he grins, pumping his digits into you at a steady pace. “this what you needed all week, gorgeous?”

you’re already clenching your thighs, trying to push them together again. “uh-uh—huh.”

he grins at your lack of speech, kissing your lips, endeared. “—and you’re not gonna ignore me after this, right?” his fingers work faster in you, moving them in coordination with how your body responds.

the moans and whimpers don’t stop flying from your lips.

“m—mhm!”

“tell me. tell me you’re not gonna ignore me.” he tries to hold your eyes.

“i—i—will!”

“you will?” he fakes concern, stopping his movements.

“NO! no i won’t! i’m not! please! please i’m not going to!” you cry, grabbing his wrist. “please! don’t stop.”

will’s smirk grows as he continues.

he watches you, the way your head tips back on the machine, the way your mouth hangs open the majority of the time. it’s like you don’t even know where you are right now, the idea of someone being able to walk in not even a concept in your mind.

you’re completely surrendered to him.

just him and his fingers shoved knuckle deep in you. “FUCK!”

you cry out, ears burning with the noise of your juices slicking.

your stomach clenches, your legs flinching as you feel an unfamiliar build grow more and more by the second. it scares you. “will, will, will—” you squeak, feeling his fingers curl at a particular spot that makes you feel like you need to pee. “will stop, stop—”

“what’s wrong, baby?” he breathes, trying to hide his confusion, the nickname going straight to your core. he knows your close - he can feel you clenching around him, it almost hurts. “you gonna cum for me?”

your eyes practically roll to the back of your head at his words, struggling to stay open with each dazed blink. “i—i-”

“it’s ok babe, just let go. that’s what i want you to do,” his voice is soft and gentle, contradicting the violation his hand is doing to your pussy.

he has you melted down to nothing.

your face pulls together as your whole body racks, your hand clutching his wrist for stability as you breathe frantically. “can’t i—i need, you need—”

“—you can, gorgeous. cum for me. cum right now,” his fingers speed up inside you, pumping frantically, squelching deafeningly. little weird stars dot your vision as your eyes lock on each other’s. those sweet, dark and dangerous baby blues.

the moment will’s thumb presses against your nerves, you’re a goner. your jaw goes slack, your eyes flutter and your legs thrash trying to pull away. a wet, gushing, drip-like sound rings in your ears as you cum. “WILL!” you sob, nails digging into his skin. will’s fingers don’t falter, not even as he drops his gaze to see the water-like liquid squirt out of you, dripping onto washing machine, splashing onto the floor.

“holy fuck.” he breathes, neck craning to the ground as you cry out. you try to cover your mouth with your arm, embarrassed by the noise leaving you.

your eyes find his, immediately giving you away.

he sees it - the surprise. the nerves.

the quiet panic of not understanding your own body. your own heart.

but he doesn’t laugh. doesn’t point it out.

doesn’t make you feel exposed.

instead, a gentle smile tugs at his lips, so warm it quiets every anxious thought in your head.

he grins at you like you just hung a medal around his neck. “good job, gorgeous.” he praises.

you can only look at him, face blooming, contorted as your body slowly finishes riding out it’s orgasm on his hand.

will’s fingers slow, remaining inside you.

your chest rises and falls as you look at will with an intensity he’s never seen before.

you refuse to look anywhere else but him.

for a moment, neither of you say anything.

it’s fine.

you’re just staring at each other, heavy breathing filling the silence.

partly because both of you can’t believe what just happened.

“i didn’t — done that before.”

will’s face falls into a soft amusement, his lips tugging at the sides. “you what?”

“i mean!—” you facepalm a second, eyes closing as you try to think of what you’re trying to say. “. . i’ve never done that before. i don’t even—was—was ‘at supposed to happen?” you gulp.

anxiety immediately begins to set in.

oh god, did you just pee?!

will’s chuckle drowns out any second-guessing as he inches close enough that your noses touch, his voice smooth like honey. “that’s the hottest thing that could have happened . . .” his hair tickles you, “can’t teach that.”

your face burns, chest still rising as you refuse to meet his gaze.

will slowly retreats his hand, apologising when he notices the furrow in your brows at the discomfort and emptiness. “sorry gorgeous.”

you wipe your sweaty palms on your thighs that even feel sensitive while your eyes find the door, a weird sinking filling your chest.

that was a really stupid thing to do.

you don’t regret it.

you look back to will, waiting for him to make a move while you wait for the embarrassment to rush in any second now. it always does.

instead, he holds out both his hands for you to take.

still catching your breath, you take them.

he smiles, steadying you as you slide carefully off the washing machine. your legs wobble, but his grip tightens instinctively around your hands.

your legs are like jelly.

once you’re steady, he lets go, but he stays where he is, in front of you, watching you tuck your hair behind your ear.

his eyes dart across your face, the soft glow to it whether from him or the heat of the small room. “you okay?” he tucks a strand you missed.

you nod, too embarrassed to speak. hardly able to look at him.

he senses it. “i hope you meant what you said.”

you freeze, head snapping to him. “what did i say?”

will lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his had with a little smile. “about you wanting me to keep annoying you . . paying you attention . .” he teases.

you give his shoulder a playful shove. he barely moves. “ok.”

“your days would be boring without me—”

“—ok will!” another pathetic shove, still feeling loose on your feet.

“alright, alright.” he’s laughing now, catching your wrist before you can push him again. “just making sure you remembered.”

“i do,” you say, pulling away. “and . . i meant it.”

he smiles. “good. i meant what i said too.”

“about what?”

“about how you better not be a weirdo and start hiding on me again,” he sways on his feet, hands shoved in his pockets. “i don’t want you feeling like you ever need to avoid me . .” your eyes soften, “. . or worry i’m gonna tell anyone. this stays between us. whatever it is we do . .”

your shoulders loosen without meaning to.

the knot that’s been sitting in your chest since the kiss finally begins to ease.

he notices the perk up. you smile. “okay . . cool.”

“cool.” he smiles back.

before either of you can say anything else, before you can stand any longer just looking at each other, the laundry room door swings open. “YO! will!”

it’s one of the guys from the hockey team.

he walks in carrying an overflowing basket, not a shirt on, a towel around his neck.

will steps back so naturally you’d almost think nothing had happened. “what’s up?”

“you here?” he nods towards the empty machine.

“nah, all yours.”

“sweet.” the guy glances between the two of you. “hey.”

“hey,” you answer, hoping your face isn’t still flaming. he bends down, beginning to sort his washing without another thought.

will reaches for his own basket, then looks at yours. “you heading back to your dorm?”

you nod.

“i’ll carry that for you.”

he says it as casually as asking what time it is, already lifting it before you’ve answered.

you can’t help the small smile that escapes. “thanks smitty . . ”

“don’t mention it,” he shoots you a wink. “just focus on getting up those stairs on your own.”

You’re quite neutral about him, all things considered. Sometimes, the mention of him makes your skin crawl, sometimes it makes you flush a little angry, sometimes it makes your stomach feel empty, a scraping inside your abdomen that leaves your throat itchy and mouth dry. It’s always when you don’t want to hear about him. 

Oh, you’ve won your comp? Did you see Sennecke’s win yesterday? Isn’t Sennecke going to that invitational too? Could you introduce me to him?

But sometimes, when you know the mention of his name is coming, your heart quickens abnormally, and sometimes you get a flutter of nerves you can’t explain.

So, that means those feelings cross out like a mathematical equation. Obviously. 

You weren’t close. You speak to him in three-word jabs that he smiles all teeth at. It infuriates you when he doesn’t say anything back out on the sand, and he just looks at you like you’re funny—that’s all you are. 

It was already hard enough getting sponsorships, going pro, and two people from the same area doing it at the same time? Yeah, sometimes you screamed into your pillow. He was stealing your spotlight. Him and that cocky smile and permanent nose sunburn.

—

In the blur of puberty, when surfing got real, that was when you saw him first, brown hair too long and falling in his eyes at some camp with twenty other kids. Then, the good waves were still too big for your body. You wore wetsuits and gloves because the Canadian waters were too cold. He was shorter than you and a little loud, but really you didn’t pay the boys any attention. You loved surfing, and a few boys out in your periphery weren’t going to shake your resolve. 

When all your friends could talk about at sleepovers were the boys at school, all you could think about was when you were going to get down to the beach. Your favorite board lived against your bedroom wall, and at some point, fitting it between your arm and body was the most natural thing ever. 

It was just when you kept seeing him. All the time.

He was on a surf club across town, and you kept seeing him down by the water once you turned 14. He wasn’t ever in your local spot, but sometimes you crossed paths, and it was enough that the mutual stare felt odd. You knew each other through town talk and point totals on websites. You felt it awkward to go up to him, to try and act as if you were supposed to be friends because you were both really good.

He was a hell of a lot less dorky since that camp and a world more charming. Everyone said so. 

You’d see it from a distance, the girls piling around him, how easily he flowed into conversation that had them giggling so loud you heard it over the crashing waves. It made your jaw clench more than anything. It was cringey and gross, and at one point, you swear he saw you roll your eyes at him, but you couldn’t be sure. You were 40 feet away. You thought it was a figment of your imagination, something you made up because you had such a shitty heat. He had smiled, and you couldn’t explain that, so it was much easier to think the whole incident never happened.

Sometimes, you’d let the thought gnaw deep: how he never saw you with anyone other than your friends. It shouldn’t be embarrassing, but he made you feel behind in ways you shouldn’t. He was more charming. He was easy-going. Romantic endeavors were, more or less, a piece of cake for him. It always looked like he had it all figured out.

When the boys started coming through in social media messages and mutual followers once surfing became serious, when you started getting sponsorships, and you had a decent chunk of followers (mostly local but you didn’t complain), you hated it. At 15, half of them were legal adults; the other half were, for lack of a better word, weak surfers that wanted in on you, to claim you because your points kept getting up there and in just a few short years, you’d be in the challengers series.

Beckett, in a way, made everyone else feel boring. It wasn’t a direct thought—you never connected the dots, but the way he spoke, the way he zoned out and got hard on himself after he fucked up, just like you did. How he sat on his board when the sea was placid, the sun illuminating his shoulder blades, the small beauty marks along his spine, it was inevitable. There would be nobody else. 

By eighteen, you hadn’t dated anyone.

So maybe you were a little… romantically stunted. It’s easy to brush off. You’re a professional athlete, and, quite frankly, you have no time to fuck around with situationships like all your friends do. The whole thing sounds terrible, and it seemed like every week they’d come curled up on your couch, crying about a guy that couldn’t care less about them.

You figured Beckett was not so different from those men. Sometimes, you imagined how those poor girls took it when he broke it off with them, or worse, how he ghosted them. You don’t know why you liked to imagine these things. Maybe it brings you a small comfort, trying to convince yourself he’s not a good person. Your ‘crush’ on him was surface-level, and you were trying your very best to convince yourself of that. It didn’t work because you just thought about him more.

—

This comp doesn’t really mean much. It’s just a local mob of clubs, and you’re off to Brazil at the end of the week for a real qualifier that’ll cement your name if you play your cards right.

Beckett is always there before you, even when you try to get there earlier. The day was a go, but you swear he gets there before the judges say the waters are good. He’s like, really obsessed, even though he doesn’t show it much in the way he acts. 

He’s sitting on a rather large rock, his back to you. His board rests beside him. You notice the branding is different—he got a new sponsor or something. It’s gloomy out, the light gray enveloping the sky and making the ocean look a deeper blue than usual. 

He’s still wearing his hoodie. You never really see his hair much dry. He trims it often now; he likes to keep up appearances for his newfound fanbase. The nape of his neck is clean, and the short hairs straight.

Your teammate preemptively giggles as she lays her eyes on him.

“You should’ve come last Friday. He was there and got superrr drunk,” she whispers, even though Beckett wouldn’t be able to hear anyway.

She’s talking about some house party you shrugged your shoulders at. That day, you were sore in all the wrong places. 

“Really? Who’d he take home this time?” It’s just gossip, like, you didn’t care at all. You’re secretly hoping she says he didn’t, that he was too wasted and his friends had to carry him out of there.

“I don’t know. I had never seen her before. She sounded American.”

“Oh,” you let out. You’re still staring at the back of Beckett’s head. He’s fidgeting with his board on his lap, looking out at the break. “He latches onto anything with a pulse,” you add, because your oh sounded too dejected for your liking.

She hums in agreement, and you both shove your flip-flops off, letting the cool sand cushion your feet.

Unfortunately, you have to pass him on your way to your team’s setup farther along the beach. You try to look straight forward, but obviously your friend gives him a warm greeting, and you’re forced to turn your head and give him a pained smile.

“Hi, y/n,” he grins, his hand giving a half-assed wave as his elbows brace his board. “Good luck.” He says this specifically to you, his gaze lingering too long on the oversized shirt covering your two-piece. He runs his hand through his hair. It’s a bit windy, so he’s fixing the strands sticking out.

You know he’s teasing you. He’s smiling too wide. His smile was too big for his face. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”

“I don’t get a ‘good luck’ back?” He asks, and your friend is just standing between you two, a little confused by the odd tension. You grit your teeth.

“I’m not going to fraternize with the enemy.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, all sarcastic. He looks at you dead on, a glimmer in his eyes, “I get it.”

You don’t know why you can’t just be nice to him. 

It was his annoying face. It was how he thought everything was a game. It always felt like he was making fun of you.

Towards the end of the day, when you place fifth—irritatingly so—Beckett catches your eye across the sand, a small, knowing smile hanging there. He was about to start his heat against the other guys, and your stomach lurched knowing he was watching you. 

He was always watching you, but the simple confirmation alone made your skin crawl. 

—

Beckett was between a lot of sports growing up. Surfing was one of the last things he thought about, truthfully. Everyone expected him to play hockey. 

He doesn’t remember exactly how old he was when his dad made this gross joke about picking surfing because the young boy liked scantily clad women. He was probably 10. He heard it behind the corner during some family gathering. He knew it was a joke, but he didn’t like it anyway. It embarrassed him because it was half true. 

He wasn’t ogling adult women just yet. No, he saw you at that camp, all determined, with this really nice shortboard and a million friends. You looked like you knew everything, and he wanted to be like you. Then, you were taller than him, and he felt so small. 

You were the best surfer there. It started this spiral he couldn’t get himself out of. He wanted to be good in case you saw him again. He’d come back, hopefully taller and stronger, and you’d notice him, for real.

It really did not help when his grandma figured out about you. You’d show up in all his competition photos because you’d always place well, so there are dozens of them where your face shows up. It’s almost like he could imagine you both grew up together, friends or something.

There’s one where you’re standing next to each other with flimsy trophies in both your hands in front of the water. He guesses you both won the men’s and women’s sides. It looks like he was thirteen there. His grandmother loves you for some reason. She compiles all these photos and always asks about you when she sees Beckett.

Beckett kind of has to lie and pretend you’re friends. Oh, she’s doing good. She just won xxx competition. And it’s not because you told him but because he was constantly looking at your stats, constantly flicking through your social media. He doesn’t want to think about how much time he spends staring at your profile. It’s entirely too much.

He can tell. She has that look on her face like she approves of you. She’s never even met you.

—

“There’s no way.” You squeak, walking towards the sand one early Thursday morning.

“Surprise?” One of the workers says. She’s grinning, watching your reaction to the undeniable shape of Beckett with his back turned, talking to someone holding a camera. You’ve seen his back so much you’d recognize it anywhere. He’s already in swim trunks and nothing else.

“We’re…this is a group photoshoot?” Your eyes glaze over his bare expanse for too long, glossing over the knobs of his spine.

She nods, holding a stack of papers close to her chest. “It was super last minute but we thought it might be good. You’re both on the same trajectory right now.” You’re hoping she says there are other surfers coming or something, that it’s not a ‘couple’s thing’. “And you’re both hot, so it’s a win.”

You flush, sweat starting to pool at your temples. You want to whine, but you’re freshly eighteen and that’s unbecoming of an adult. You breathe out. It won’t be too bad. All the camera people will be directing you and there will barely be any talking—probably. 

Maybe you should have thought this might happen, having the same swimwear sponsor and all.

As you step out of the privacy tent, suddenly the mess of brown hair is in your personal space. The one piece you’re wearing is the same red color of his shorts.

“Who would’ve thought?” He says, looking down at you. You’re already irritated. 

“Thought what?” You cross your arms.

“We’d look good together.” He grins.

“Jesus Christ. Did you win last weekend or something?” 

He did and now his total points have teetered over yours. Not that it matters because you’re technically split up by sex, but it still hurts your ego.

“Yep.” He emphasizes the p, a popping sound falling from his mouth. You’ve never seen his smile dimples this close before. You scoff.

“How many of your girlfriends were there?” You step by him to start heading over to the photography team.

“Uh, like five. It was hard to keep them separated.” You huff out a short laugh at his answer. Then, there’s a short pause.

“You think of me like that?” He follows you like a puppy. 

“Well, I think the whole surfing community thinks of you like that.” You look over your shoulder and his brows are furrowed, looking at the sand between his feet.

“Ah, you can’t really believe everything, though.”

“Dude, I don’t care. You can do whatever you want.” 

“But I’m not—“

One of the camera people starts talking, and you both fall quiet as you listen. 

It’s, uh, not as easy as you planned.

Beckett finds touching you very easy. He pulls you in once the solo shots are done, after your hair’s all wet and you’re flushed from the shots in the ocean. 

He doesn’t need direction. His arm lazily dangles over your shoulders as you hold a board against your body. The water laps at your feet. You’re sinking ever further into the wet sand. You’re rooted there, trying not to make it obvious that every nerve ending in your body is on fire. 

He made a bad joke about your club teammate that you shouldn’t have laughed at, but you did. All the camera people are bewildered that they don’t have to tell you what to do. They take rapid pictures, capturing whatever weird chemistry sizzles between your bodies.

“Okay, we’re good guys!” One of them says. It’s only midday, but it’s getting too hot. You sigh. You definitely didn’t put enough sunscreen on and your shoulders feel warm to the touch.

“See, it wasn’t that bad,” Beckett says, pulling away from you.

“I guess not.” You roll your eyes. This is the most conversation you’ve ever had with him.

Except you’re not done. Some social media intern swarms both of you, asking to do a small interview for instagram. She pulls out a small hand-held mic. “Just five minutes. I have like one question.”

“Okay, sure!” You respond, though your body is heavy and all the stress of today has finally decided to set in.

It never gets easy having a phone camera pointed directly at your face. Beckett is standing right beside you, and she has to take a step back to get him in frame too.

She asks how it is, competing professionally alongside someone you’ve known forever. Of course. You hesitate. He’s standing right there, curious as to what you have to say.

“It’s, uh, nice seeing a familiar face in other parts of the world, you know? We both want to make our families and community proud, so—yeah, it’s cool.” You try to smile, but it’s awkward. 

Beckett takes the mic from your hands. He smiles wide, looking down to catch your parting lips. “She has a little trouble going against me. Always has.”

“No, I do not—”

“What I mean to say—” he barks out a laugh at your immediate defense, “—we surf better when we’re together. It helps so much to have that support, especially because we’re both in the same, pretty terrifying position right now.”

You can’t tell if that’s a real stat or something. You try to think about it logically. Whenever your local club goes against his, do you really fall under the ‘pressure’? It feels dumb to analyze it. Those local competitions don’t mean as much, and maybe that’s why you’ve never noticed it before—chalking it down to the water, a bad day. Do you really do that? You doubt it. He’s probably making that up for the narrative.

“You guys are close, huh?”

“We kind of have to be,” Beckett responds, before you can adamantly shake your head at the concept. 

“Yeah,” you add weakly. 

“I mean, everyone knows it. You’re both the future of Canadian surfing. How about the Olympics in a few years?”

“Oh, that’s—that’s so far away.”

“We’ll see,” Beckett grins. 

You take a freezing cold shower when you get back home.

—

The photos are posted a week later.

It has like some stupid caption saying made in Canada. Your phone vibrates maybe 100 times once it’s out there, public, for anyone to see. Half of it is your confused friends asking why they didn’t get a warning. The other half is random people gushing about how good you look together. You shut your eyes and throw your phone across the bed. If you didn’t look at it, it didn’t exist.

Your throat felt thick knowing that Beckett was right—you did look like a couple, and now other people thought that too.

—

Hawaii is not fun after breaking up with your boyfriend.

Your short-lived stint of pretending you could be normal was over. You liked him…he was okay and very nice to your family when he met them, but that was it. You barely saw him because of your schedule. You wanted to be the one who broke it off, but he got there first.

You sulked about that. You kind of wanted to be the first in everything.

“Sorry to hear about…whatever his name was. I can’t remember.”

You click your tongue at the mass of gangly limbs before you. You’re both in the hotel lobby, waiting, because apparently your rooms weren’t ready. 

He’s wearing a shirt with loose gray sweats. You rarely see him in normal clothes. His carry-on backpack is slung over his shoulder. 

You’d have been on the same plane if not for the fact that Beckett got here a few days earlier and stayed with friends. You don’t really want to imagine what that entailed.

“You don’t actually care.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” He shrugs. It’s stupid to ask how he knew, because word gets out quickly in the tight-knit communities you’re both a part of. You know it firsthand—all the bad stories you’ve had to hear about him against your will. “Just hope it doesn’t affect your game.”

“It won’t.” 

“That’s great, babe.” 

You stiffen up. Someone’s called Beckett over, some surfer he knew, so he’s gone before you can say anything.

Babe is…a friendly term. Friends call each other babe. It’s different from baby, a lot less weight. It still makes your pulse spike.

You figure out Beckett’s across from your room when you go out to get ice to chew on for your nerves.

“You going out tonight?” He asks, card in his hand, bag still on, as he waits for your response before he enters his room.

“Uhm, probably not. I’m tired.”

“Is it because of him?”

“No! What? I mean, why do you care? You don’t know me, Sennecke.” Plus, it feels like he’s inviting you to wherever he’s going, and that freaks you the fuck out. The comp’s already been pushed back a day, and it starts the day after next, so there’s a lot of reason to explore the beach town…you just don’t know how to lie well enough.

“Okay, last names again. I thought we were progressing.”

You sigh. “Why’d you lie about that thing in the interview?” It’s a very vague thing to say, and it happened a while ago, but Beckett knows what you’re talking about immediately.

“I wasn’t. Your point average is better when I’m not going against you.”

“That’s stupid. We’re together all through the regular season. It just means I perform better on tour than at local competitions that barely mean anything, dumbass.”

He smiles, biting his tongue. “I wonder how many other things we’d do better together—“

“I’m done. Oh my god. Goodbye.” You heat up so fast, turning on the spot to fumble with your key card. You hear him laugh before you close the door with your back. 

—

There’s a knock on your door two hours later.

“Hey, doll face? You there?” You hear his deep voice through the heavy door. You scramble out of bed. 

You swing the door open. “Are you one thousand years old?”

“What? You do have a doll face.”

He’s dressed to go out in this thin white linen shirt and black slacks. 

Your lips form a tight line.

“I’m sorry about that comment earlier, okay? I’m just messing with you. You’re easy to make angry.”

“Okay,” you say, looking down between your socked feet. 

Beckett’s having a really hard time not letting his heart burst out of his chest seeing you in a tank top and sleep shorts.

“You should come. There’s a whole bunch of surfers going out too. It’ll…help you get over him.” He clears his throat.

“I don’t know.”

“Just…” he pulls his phone out of his back pocket, and tells you the restaurant everyone’s apparently going to. “Come if you want.”

“Okay, maybe,” you say. 

“Good.” Beckett seems really pleased. 

—

He’s the first to catch notice of you walking in. His arm is slung around the backside of a booth, eyes glazing over you once, twice, like he can’t believe you took up the offer, then he says, “Hey! You made it.”

He’s fuzzy, maybe two or three drinks in. Empty, wide-rimmed margarita glasses are filling the table. He’s sitting with a group of guys, but there’s just enough room on the edge for you to squeeze in. You feel awkward.

“Yeah, I guess.” 

He pats the leather next to him. You want to high-tail it out of there.

“Sit right here, baby. I’ll order you a drink.”

Is the world tilted off its axis? He’s called you three nicknames in the span of five hours. 

The guys at the table don’t make a fuss about it. They don’t even acknowledge it, like it’s normal.

Somehow, you’ve managed to blurt out the silly details of your break-up to him, all numb now with a couple of drinks in your system. It happened over the phone in an airport, you say, and you had to make him repeat it because you didn’t hear it the first time. Beckett laughs at that.

“He couldn’t even wait until you were back home?”

“Nah, it’s okay though. Like, probably better that I didn’t have to see him again.”

“Right.” Beckett lightly taps your bare knee, and it’s almost accidental until his entire palm wraps around your upper thigh. It feels like he’s claiming you, making sure you’re not going to leave him.

At this point, it’s just the two of you making conversation now.

“I have no idea how he could break up with you.”

“I’m pretty stubborn and…not a great girlfriend.”

“Really?”

“I don’t think—“ your breath hitches as he squeezes your thigh, “—don’t think I should be dating during the season.”

“Oh,” he says, eyes dark, “yeah. I don’t think you should be either.”

You clear your throat. “What time is it?” You scramble around for your phone. Beckett still has his hand on you, watching you. “We should go back.”

As you’re leaving, Beckett’s palm rests on the back of your neck. Heat is pooling so fast in your lower stomach. He’s practically gripping you with one hand, helping you get out of this crowded restaurant. 

The walk back is very, very awkward. The cool rush of air is sobering. Maybe Beckett doesn’t think so, because he’s still talking about your ex.

“You know, dating people who aren’t surfers just doesn’t work.”

“And you know from experience, right?” You smirk, trying to get him to stutter or something, but he never does.

“Yeah. I do.” God, he says it so matter-of-fact.

“What? Are you proposing something right now?” You egg on. 

“Hmm,” he contemplates something in his head. “Don’t know. I think you’re a little emotionally strung out right now.”

“What? No I’m not. I’m perfectly fine.”

“So if I kissed you, you wouldn’t regret it?”

Your breathing stops. You’re on the sidewalk; red and green lights from the traffic stop illuminate his face.

You shut your eyes tight, shaking your head. “I’d regret it just because it was you.” You start walking again, and he has to take a few long strides to get back next to you.

“Oh, come on. You know that’s not true.”

“It is.” You keep your head held high. 

“What’s your issue with me?” He asks as you step into the hotel lobby. The receptionist gives you both a small smile.

“Everything.”

“You’re such a bad liar.”

You scowl at him, pressing the elevator button.

“Why would you let me hold you like that?”

“Uh—uhm, I don’t remember.” It was maybe twenty minutes ago when his hand was dangerously close to the edge of your shorts.

“You can say it, say that you want me. I won’t judge.” 

“I don’t…” In the elevator, the light is brighter, and you can see the hard, tanned skin underneath several buttons he’s undone through the course of the night. His neck is long, and there’s so much room to kiss him there. 

“Fuck you,” you blurt out, and take him by the hand once the elevator dings open.

“Whoa,” he’s startled, but follows you anyway. You fumble again with the card. It beeps red before he takes it in his hand to press down slowly on the pad. You murmur an apology when it works.

You drag him inside. “I just want to see. Want to know if it’s true.”

He looks at you, amused. He knows damn well what you’re talking about, the rumors that he was fucking insane in bed. You’ve heard that since you were seventeen, and now that you’re on edge since your break-up, and he’s this warm, willing body, you have a hard time thinking of anything else.

“What’s true?” He grins, walking forward, closing you in. You stumble back, falling onto the bed. Your forearms keep you up. You try to kick your shoes off. Beckett looks really different, like a whole other person has taken over his body.

You know you’re sober enough that you’ll remember this tomorrow morning. He will too. 

“I’m not saying it.”

“Course you aren’t. Too embarrassed. You just have to promise me one thing.”

“What?” You’re exasperated.

“That you won’t fall in love with me after.”

Too late.

“Yeah, right, idiot.” You start unbuttoning your jean shorts, and Beckett takes over, a chuckle escaping his lips. He flings you toward the head of the bed like it’s nothing. You look at him, wide-eyed. He shucks his shirt off, then dips down onto the mattress. 

You used to read what the comments said about you two. How perfect you slotted in together. This is what the comments had said, and you’d blush looking at the pictures. You swear you looked at them every night. Obviously, one does not do that in a healthy, committed relationship.

There’s a flicker of doubt, as he drags your shorts down, that this will ruin everything. You don’t have it in you to care right now.

He smiles at your underwear. It was white with little red hearts on it. “Shut up.” You groan, bucking your hips up into the air.

“Didn’t say anything, baby.”

“I’m not—“ he presses his thumb into the fat of your inner thigh, forcing your legs wider to accommodate him. “—stop calling me that. I’m not your baby.”

“Sometimes you act like one, don’t you?”

“What the fuck.” You flop your head back onto the pillow. It’s hard to keep eye contact with him. The pale blue was so intimidating. “No.” You grunt.

“Sure,” he agrees half heartedly against your skin, kissing down your inner legs. 

It’s dizzying how no one else has seemingly cared more to please you than Sennecke. You think you might pass out.

With your panties bunched to the side, Beckett presses his tongue against you like his life depends on it. His nose grazes over your clit, and your hand fists in his hair. He liked that because his eyes fluttered closed, soft groans vibrating through your pussy.

And once you’re done keening, broken sobs falling out of your mouth, you force yourself to attack him because he’s not very assertive about this one thing—about making you do anything else. It looks like he’s about to leave, like he’ll just go and jerk off in his own hotel room.

“I have to…” You pant, “…finish what I started.”

“You’re crazy,” he breathes out as you palm him through his slacks. You kiss him hard. You’ve never tasted yourself before. He’s licking your bottom lip, and you shudder, opening your mouth better for him. You’re sitting between his legs, digging the heel of your hand into his filled-out cock.

You whine particularly loud into his mouth, and he’s gone. He cums right in his boxers. He swears, little fuck’s coming out against your cheek.

His eyes are blown out. He can’t believe that happened. 

“Okay, wow.” You fall backwards, too tired. A small simmering heat is building up in your chest knowing you made the notorious fuck boy cum in his pants. 

“Yeah, uhm,” he’s looking down at you, his eyes barely open now, like he’s just remembered he’s tired. “I’ll go.”

“You always cum that fast?”

“Don’t act like you weren’t crying my name five minutes ago.” He wipes his face with the back of his hand. He winces as he stands up, the patch of wetness making it uncomfortable.

You throw a pillow at him. “Fuck, god. Sorry,” he says, the blow hitting him right in the side of the head.

“You’re avoiding the question,” you complain.

“Goodnight.” He says, narrowing his eyes at you. He picks the pillow up and throws it next to your body. Your hair was a mess, chest heaving up and down. 

You groan loudly, twisting in your sheets, mumbling something close to a bye. You shift onto your side, and he sees your shirt riding up your back and your panties that hug your buttcheeks. You hear him snicker before he’s grabbing his things and leaving. 

You don’t sleep for another hour, flipping over tomorrows possibilities in your mind.

—

You wake up with a pounding headache but an even bigger feeling of dread.

It’s noon and everyone else has probably gotten along with their day. You wonder if Beckett is still in bed or if he’s not affected by hangovers like you are. You grimace. He’s probably had a very productive day. 

You drag yourself to your bathroom, trying not to think about last night—you fell so easily, like putty in his hands, and now you know the feeling of his mouth against yours. You know what he sounds like when he’s moaning with want. 

After mulling over 10 options, one including possibly becoming a Buddhist, you decide not to talk to him about it. You weren’t very close anyway, and you could get away with speaking to him in two word sentences just like the last five years.

You’re sure he’s had experience with this kind of thing: having sex with a friend. He probably won’t even mention it either.

—

Beckett knows why you ‘hate’ him. He’s studied enough of your film, watched enough of your mannerisms after a heat, that he could roughly deduce why you gave him the cold shoulder. You hated not constantly being the best.

It’s why he likes you.

On the first day of the competition, he finally finds you there before him. There’s barely anything set up yet, the orange horizon waning into a light blue. You’re all jittery, he can tell. You’re applying too much wax on your board.

“Calm down.” You look up from where you sit in the sand. His damp hair from the shower frames his forehead. He’s looking at you all quizzical, like he’s going to blurt out: “what’s wrong with you?”

“Phft. Thanks. That helps.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah, okay, sure.”

“You’re not this…on edge, usually. Was it…” he lets the silence speak for itself.

“No! No, of course not. I’m not even, like not even—I’m just thinking.”

He hesitates. There’s a fondness in his eyes that you’re not quite used to. It makes your body feel really small. 

Your ex-boyfriend really did look a lot like him. Gosh, do you think he noticed that? When you posted your boyfriend on your story, did he notice the same floppy brown hair, the same lanky, built body? You bite down hard on your lower lip, squinting at Beckett now because the sun has risen higher above the horizon. 

“I’ll see you later?”

You’re forced into an impromptu interview with him at the end of the day, where he lies about how close you are, but then you flush thinking about how it really is true now—the closeness. You avoid him for the rest of the competition. Every time you look at him, your heart blooms too big in your chest. It’s the lush Hawaiian trees, the clear sky, the orange and pink hibiscus flowers that are tricking you, intensifying your feelings.

—

At the airport, Beckett’s sitting right next to you in the terminal, legs spread, phone in hand because it always seems like he’s texting someone. Not that you care.

You decided it would be weird not to sit next to him, but it’s also weird sitting next to him. So no one’s winning here, really. Except if you count Beckett, who won the whole damn thing yesterday. You placed third—which was still really good, but you’re an athlete; you’re jealous. 

“Excuse me?” You feel a tiny poke on your knee, drawing you out of the spiral you’re leading yourself down. 

There’s a girl, no older than eight, standing in front of you. She’s rocking back and forth, clearly nervous. She asks you if you’re really you, eyes blown wide. You notice her mom is a little ways away, smiling at the whole interaction.

“You wanna take a picture together?” You ask. She beams.

“Is that…your boyfriend?” She tries to whisper, but children whisper loud. Beckett’s got his hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh. He’s also a little mortified at the fact that he wasn’t recognized, and it hangs a little quieter on his face, but you know it’s there.

“Uh—no, he’s a surfer too.” She nods her head, mouth formed in an o shape. When she leaves, skipping back to her mom, Beckett turns to you.

“Wow.”

“Does anyone even watch men’s sports anymore?” You chide, grinning so hard.

“I’ll let you have that. Needed to be humbled after my win.”

You groan, slinking back into your chair. You take the small victories where you can.

—

Recently, Beckett’s been spending so much of the winters in tropical climates that Canada is such a shock to come back home to. 

Christmas kind of sucks cause he has no excuse to see you. It’s been two weeks since that night in your hotel room, and every night since then, he’s thought about how he probably ruined everything. You don’t see him as someone serious, someone mature enough to be in a relationship. It doesn’t help that he’s never been in one longer than a couple of months, but that’s your fault, he swears. 

Last night, he dreamt of going to the Olympics with you. He’s torturing himself at this point.

And his grandma won’t stop asking about you.

“Why isn’t she at one of these yet?” It’s Christmas Eve. His entire family is here.

“Grandma, I don’t think she likes me back.” It feels like a confession, because it is. An indirect one, but it still holds all its weight in it. 

“Oh, dear.” She pats him on the cheek. “You have to tell her you like her first.” His cheeks are aflame, feeling like he’s 12 years old again. He has never mentioned his long-standing crush to anyone else. She always knew. It was plain obvious.

—

On Christmas Day, his little cousins wanted to go to the town rink to ice skate. It’s really fucking cold, and if he had it his way, he wouldn’t go at all. 

He thinks he’s dreaming again when he sees the back of you, your hair pulled up in a ponytail, a thick black puffer jacket on, leaning against the side of the rink. 

The white glow of the ice hits your face. You’re watching everyone else, hands folded underneath your chin, elbows resting on the boards. All his little cousins go off to rent skates close by.

“You’re the last person in Canada who doesn’t know how to skate. I’m impressed.”

“Christ! You scared me.” You turn, breath hitched in your throat. There’s only one person whose voice you know sounds like that. “And I do, actually, okay. I just don’t want to twist my ankle.”

“Yeah, sure.” All Beckett has ever seen you in are wetsuits and bikinis. He’s never seen you dressed in mittens and long pants. He’s never seen your nose sniffle from the cold. 

“Some of us have careers to think about.” You scoff, looking at the ice instead of him. The whole place is sickeningly festive. A huge Christmas tree with multi-colored lights rests across the pond. 

Beckett curls his hand around your arm and pulls you away, toward the renting booth.

“Beckett, seriously. I can’t.”

“You have to. What are you going to do, stand there the whole time?”

“Yes.” You let him drag you over there.

Skates are a little hard to put on, especially when it’s been years since you’ve done it. Beckett laces his quickly, and he notices how you’re still tying your first. He doesn’t say anything. He just kneels and does it for you. His eyelashes rest on his rosy cheeks. His eyebrows are knitted in concentration. You flush, bringing your head up because looking at him like this is completely inappropriate. Letting yourself believe this is anything but a power trip for him, seeing you bad at something he’s good at, will send you into psychosis. 

Then you grow hot in your jacket at the realization that this feels more wrong than letting him settle between your legs. Imagining him as your boyfriend is embarrassing and you really need to get a grip.

Of course, he’s vindicated when he sees you shaky on your feet. 

“Shut the fuck up,” you whisper, cause there’s kids everywhere, whizzing past you. His hand rests on your back. He’s sure half his family realizes he’s gone, but they probably saw your face and decided not to interrupt. He doesn’t have the time to mull over how humiliating that is. “Can’t be good at everything like you.”

He thinks that’s supposed to come off as a joke, but he can hear the honesty beneath it. He looks down at you. You’re avoiding his gaze. 

“That’s not true.” 

You stop yourself on the boards, holding onto it, your back pressed against it. “It’s okay. You don’t have to pity me. I don’t like other people being better. I need a therapist or something—”

“I’m terrible at cooking and responding to text messages, and I’m a nervous wreck before every heat—you’re good at that. Always so calm. You’re a better surfer than me, seriously.”

“Beckett—”

“And, I’m really bad at telling you how I feel.”

You cock your head. “What?”

“That I really like you,” the words just tumble out of his mouth, “liked you for a long time. Before the night at the hotel. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I was using you. I wasn’t. I want to be with you.”

“Oh,” you say, because it’s all you can think of. All your thoughts ceased to exist. Your face stings from the cold air. 

“And I know it’s probably bad to date another competitor, but all those other guys out there suck. I’m the only one who knows what you’re going through—”

“Slow down, please.”

“Yeah, sorry,” he says sheepishly. You’re not angry at him, which he thinks is good. You’re analyzing his face. 

“I agree. The whole—I mean, we’re compatible.” You look down at the ice underneath your skates. “But I’m a bad girlfriend.” 

His heart forgets to beat.

“I can be the judge of that.”

You weakly push him in the chest, and he clings hard to the boards, his knuckles going white so he doesn’t drift away. 

When he kisses you, this time your lips are cold and chapped. It feels like he’s kissing you for the first time, and he’s so grateful for that. 

“You’re gonna last a little longer in bed?“

He covers your mouth in horror. His bright blue eyes go wide. “You can’t say that!”

you didn’t even bothering responding to the last text. you had already cast your phone aside, leaping to your feet to go dive into your closet. you shoved clothes around, growing incredibly stressed.

you’d always hated last second plans like this. it threw your whole day out of whack, and often made you upset. a knot formed in your stomach, your throat feeling a bit tight as you dug through shirts, searching for the red sox jersey your uncle had given you years back.

you finally found it, tossing it onto your bed. you found a pair of jean shorts and a white tube top to go underneath it. you got dressed, not having enough time to look at yourself in the mirror very long before you were heading to the bathroom to do your makeup.

you washed your face and did your skincare, trying to ignore the thrum of anxiety building under your skin. your ribs felt too tight suddenly, a frantic sort of energy pressing against them as you rushed to brush bronzer across your cheekbones.

your lip was trembling as you did your lipliner, and your eyes watered while you did your mascara. you knew you needed to calm down, that this was no big deal, that you’d have fun. but as your curled your hair, your brush got stuck and it was your absolute last straw.

you set the curling wand on the sink, stepping back to stare up at the ceiling. your breath came in shaky, shallow pulls. you dabbed at the tears with a piece of toilet paper, sniffling quietly.

you heard muffled voices downstairs, then footsteps on the stairs, and a knock on the bathroom door.

“honey? will is here. want me to tell him to come in?”

you tried to even your breath out before responding.

“yeah. yeah, that’s fine.”

you managed, praying she hadn’t noticed the way your voice cracked halfway through the sentence. she must not’ve, with how the steps receded back down the hall.

you pulled yourself together, no longer holding back tears, but now just buzzing with a undercurrent of anxious emotion.

“…just in here, sweetheart. sorry for the mess, i wasn’t expecting company.”

“oh, no worries, mrs. y/l/n. you’d hate to see my room.”

“i’m sure i would.”

their polite laughter echoed down the hall, before you heard a new set of steps approaching. a soft knock came, a little higher up on the door than your mother’s.

“y/n? you almost ready?”

you opened the door, holding the curling wand in one hand. you gave a tight smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. once again, you were hoping to avoid detection.

“yeah, almost. sorry.”

he noticed immediately. of course he did. he frowned a little, eyeing you like you might explode.

“…don’t. don’t be sorry, it’s fine. you okay?”

the concern in his voice was too much. you turned away, facing the mirror again as you released one of the last curls. you wound a new section of hair, avoiding his gaze. you could feel him staring at you in the mirror.

“im fine. just stressed. not great with last second stuff.”

silence.

you risked a glance up, finding him indeed looking at you in the reflection. but he was frowning, eyebrows creased with something like guilt.

“m’ sorry. you didn’t have to if you really didn’t want to.”

“no, it’s fine, will. i’m being dramatic. i’ll survive.”

“promise?”

“pinky.”

he seemed only half reassured, but didn’t want to press it. you finished up your hair, shaking them out until they fell in soft waves down your shoulders.

“least your hair looks cool.”

“cool?”

“…yeah.”

“oh, thank god. cool is exactly what i was aiming for.”

you joked, sarcasm dripping from your words as you glanced over at him, a hint of a smile on your lips. his shoulders seemed to relax a fraction when he saw it, a faint grin of his own appearing.

“‘kay, you ready now?”

“yep.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

the drive was fairly uneventful. you were slouched in the passenger seat, your feet up on the dash, his phone in your hand as you scrolled through spotify.

“put your feet down.”

“mmh.. no.”

“so difficult for what..”

“‘cause i can be.”

“spoiled.”

“damn right i am.”

you put on one of his country playlists, the one you guys usually listened to when you were in the car. you turned up the volume a little, leaning your head back as you hummed along under your breath.

“don’t fall asleep, yeah?”

“not planning on it?”

“good, ‘cause i need help with the directions.”

it was a normal thing to say, but for some reason, the way he said it immediately made you suspicious. you’d never been very far with him behind the wheel, really only to each others houses or to go drive around within a five mile radius. you looked over at him, immediately noting how he was leaning forward a little and gripping the steering wheel.

“william.”

“huh?”

“why do you look scared?”

“m’not scared.”

“you look terrified.”

“no i don’t.”

“do to.”

“nuh-uh.”

“don’t gaslight me. anti-feminist. im telling grace.”

“what the fuck??”

you bickered for another fifteen minutes, mostly joking around. until it was time to exit the highway.

“will.”

“what now?”

“your exit.”

you pointed up ahead, to the exit that he was still two lanes away from.

“thanks for the fucking heads up.”

he muttered, obviously sarcastic.

“anytime.”

“smartass.”

“man, shut up and figure out where you’re going.”

“…yes ma’am.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

by the time you got to the parking lot, you couldn’t even count the amount of near-crashes on one hand. or two.

honestly, it was a miracle you made it into the parking space with both hands intact.

“shoot. would you take these? my pockets aren’t big enough.”

you handed him your phone and wallet. he tossed your wallet back into the car before shutting his door, a wordless gesture. you gave him a look.

“really?”

“what?”

“my wallet..?”

“its not like you’re gonna need it?”

“…you’re ridiculous.”

“whatever.”

he shrugged, slipping your phone into his back pocket alongside his own. you fell into step together, keeping close through the bustling boston pre-baseball-game crowd.

the flow of people only got denser closer to fenway park. you kept bumping arms with randoms, kept getting flat tired by the middle aged dude behind you who was ranting to his buddy about the beer prices in the stadium.

the knot in your ribs grew tighter again, your chest feeling too small for your heart and lungs to work properly. your fingers found your necklace, twisting it nervously, your eyes darting around, constantly surveilling the crowd.

will recognized it immediately, his hand automatically finding the small of your back. it made your stomach flip in a more pleasant way, the pressure on your sternum lifting just a little as he tugged you closer.

“you still okay?”

“yeah. just.. lotta people.”

“i know. s’all good. almost there.”

the words, along with the sweep of his thumb over the bare skin above the waistband of your shorts, allowed you to ease enough to focus on walking.

“my mom said she saved good seats.”

“oh, there’s others coming?”

silence. you glanced over, raising an eyebrow, assuming he hadn’t heard you. but he had his nose scrunched like he was wishing you hadn’t asked.

“uhm.. yeah.”

“okay?? who?”

“grace and her friends. and my family.”

he said slowly, thoroughly confusing you.

“oh. okay. why’s that so bad?”

he exhaled, looking both ways before guiding you across the street, his hand never leaving your spine.

“just.. you’ll see. it’ll be fine.”

“that’s so not reassuring at all, will.”

“i know. sorry.”

“sure.”

“don’t freak out about it yet. im serious, it’ll be fine.”

“right, so why are you acting like you’re sending me to the gallows, then?”

“im not.”

“alright, buddy.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

you finally got through security. will had somehow managed to trigger the metal detector, and had gotten pulled aside. it had been a whole thing; you standing there all stressed out, him awkwardly fumbling with the contents of his pockets.

but now you were in the stadium, following the flow of traffic. the scent of roasted almonds and beer floated about, the announcer’s voice booming, the late july sun beating down on your cheeks.

it was thoroughly overwhelming, but will led you through the crowd with a hand on your elbow, finding your way to the seats.

it didn’t take long to realize what he’d been alluding to.

a sea of people, all of whom looked eerily alike to will, filled section 148. he glanced over at you, giving an apologetic wince.

“sorry, i probably should’ve war-“

“oh my gaaaawwwsh! will! she’s so pretty!”

he stopped abruptly at the voice, his cheeks turning red. you didn’t have time to notice, too busy being pulled in for a hug by some random woman you’d never met before.

“hi, aunt mia.”

he said, sounding defeated. she didn’t seem to notice. she was far too occupied with you, holding you by the shoulders as she beamed at you.

you smiled back, awkward and a bit lost.

“hi. im y/n.”

“oh, i know, honey. will’s told us plenty.”

a quiet groan from your right.

“really?”

“absolutely. he didn’t say you were so gorgeous, though!”

your face felt warm. she turned her head, looking over at the group she’d split from.

“sarah! c’mere! come see will’s little girlfriend!”

“auntie.”

“what?”

“not my girlfriend.”

will mumbled, ears bright red. you held back a laugh.

“sure. sarah!”

aunt mia rolled her eyes, brushing him off easily. the woman who must be sarah found her way over, a warm smile on her face.

“oh, wow. she is pretty.”

she gasped a little, standing next to mia. they both were now just looking at you, and suddenly you felt a lot like a painting on display, being reviewed by art snobs.

“i know, right?”

“how’d will manage?”

a squawk came from will, who looked like he couldn’t decide if he was more mortified or offended.

“hey!”

“you shush.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

you didn’t even make it to a seat until the third inning.

you’d been passed around from person to person, enduring the curiosity of the aunties and grandmas, shaking hands clumsily with his uncles and cousins and grandpas.

but finally, he’d grabbed your arm and pulled you away from the fourth aunt you’d met.

“okay, that’s enough.”

“but-“

“no, really, that’s enough.”

he said it a bit more firmly than you’d expected, seeming genuinely annoyed. you shared a glance with the aunt, before giving an apologetic shrug and allowing him to pull you away.

“im really sorry.”

he said gently, looking over at you like he was making sure you were still living and breathing. you just shook your head.

“its okay. they’re nice.”

“more like obnoxious.”

you found your seats, nestled in the corner with the younger cousins. it was simpler there, most of them occupied with chatting with each other already.

“will.”

“what?”

he sighed, clearly irritated. not with you, but it had begun seeping into his tone.

“they just care about you, about what you do in your life.”

“would it hurt for them to, like, not care so much?”

“you’d hate that and we both know it.”

“probably.”

you gave up, sitting back and turning your attention to the field. you were really close, now that you noticed. you stared out at the players, watching them run around and do whatever the hell baseball players do.

“..how’s that not a challenge?”

he mumbled under his breath, leaning forward, brows drawn together.

“a what?”

“a challenge.”

“i heard you. what’s a challenge?”

he looked at you like you’d just asked if the sky was green.

“what’d you just say?”

“are you deaf?”

“are you living under a rock?”

“why should i know what a challenge is?”

“everybody knows that!”

“not me!”

“do you know what an out is?”

your brows pulled together, and you turned away from him, staring defiantly in any direction but his.

“y/n.”

“no.”

he laughed, a fond sound. his arm stretched across the back of your chair, behind your shoulders.

“y/n.”

“i said no.”

“how have you lived seventeen years in boston without learning how baseball works?”

“how have you lived seventeen years on earth without learning how to follow the gps?”

“oh, that was a low blow.”

“sucks to suck, i guess.”

you shrugged, arms crossed.

he gave up after a bit. you tried to watch the game. you really did. but it made no sense at all. you were bored. and the sun was beaming down on your face. and there was no wind. and you were thirsty.

you pushed your sunglasses down onto your face, squinting to try to see anything. the rays of light only dimmed, not disappeared.

“i can’t fucking see.”

“why?”

“too bright. my sunglasses aren’t doing shit.”

he sighed a little, and you felt his arm lift from behind you. he tugged his hat off, running a hand through his hair to fluff it back up where it had been flattened. he handed it to you.

“there.”

“you sure? how’re you gonna see?”

“dunno. i’ll survive. i can understand the scoreboard.”

“okay.. thanks.”

you slipped the baseball cap onto your head, a welcome reprieve from the harsh sun in your eyes. you felt his gaze on you the second the hat touched your head.

“looks good on you.”

“oh, sure it does.”

you laughed, rolling your eyes. but when you glanced over, he just had this slight smile on his lips, an absentminded curve. it was so warm it made your chest feel fuzzy.

“no, really. it does.”

“oh. okay.”

he exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head and turning his attention to the game. his arm slipped behind your shoulders again, brushing against your back this time. only a few minutes later, during a supposedly interesting part, you noticed that he was toying with the ends of your hair idly, his face all scrunched with focus.

“will?”

“hmm?”

“what’re you doin’?”

“hmm?”

“nevermind.”

“mmhm.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

part two soon