ave

You’re reaching for your coffee when you hear someone say your name. It sounds brief and confused— like whoever is calling is definitely not sure if it’s you.

You still grab the plastic cup that’s cold around your hands, along with the other accompanying drink that is warm. You turn with a gentle smile, something that is so integrated into your routine, that you suddenly can’t help the way surprise falls across your features.

Just early this week you had flown in to your hometown from the Bay Area because you were granted a little time off from work. You decided to visit your family while you could since you and your other half would be splitting ways because of schedules. But last second he told you he wanted to spend time with you and your family. He said the boys golfing trip could wait.

It helped that he was on a break from his job. It also helped that he was a professional athlete because he won your dad over real quick. You laugh anytime you think about it— the concept of being a female in a sports marketing position and dating one of the players. More importantly, the special guy that got you hooked. Will and his friend Macklin were and still are the most vibrant pair on the ice and that lured you into the hockey world.

And now he’s not just a player. He’s your favorite guy. Your best friend. And you’re pretty damn convinced he’s your soulmate because every part of you compliments him and vise versa. Your favorite thing to say about him— he’s no longer your boyfriend because the fat rock on your hand says otherwise. He’s also happens to be your fiancé.

When you laid in your childhood bed last night with him, you whispered and giggled like little kids. And that’s what you love about him. He’s never unintentionally serious, which has always calmed your slight anxiety. He’s always there right when you need him and he’s soft and willing.

But that was late, so then you were thoroughly tired and in need of caffeine. It was a late June morning where the hours seemed to bleed into the afternoon.

You never had any enemies or people that scarred you from your hometown. But if there were two people you wouldn’t speak fondly of, it would be the two right in front of you.

They were waiting to order just as you were grabbing your drinks. Two people from your past you never thought you’d have to see again. But you’re looking straight at them.

You almost can’t believe they are still together as a couple. It’s been at least four years since you’ve seen them in person and not just through a phone screen on the latest social media post. You actually unfollowed both of them because you didn’t need the negativity they constantly brought upon you.

Your old best friend and her boyfriend— because you were looking for rings on her hand, none of which she had on— were two rather significant people in your life at one point. She was your best friend, just two years older than you, but still the person you thought was going to be your ride or die. You were always told your maturity spoke volumes, maybe that’s why you always hung around people that were older.

Then came him. You’d had crushes before. He was really just a phase of forced proximity and lots of time spent together. You liked talking to him about sports, which kickstarted the inspiration to go into sport franchising. The two of you happened to liked to joke about hockey, where he just made fun of you for picking the sharks as a team to support because “the players were hot”. He wasn’t wrong, but it piqued your interest more that they were such a young, developing team.

Regardless, you most definitely told your best friend— because she’s your best friend, duh, and she also didn’t have any significant ties to him because he was your age.

So to say you lost your fucking shit when you found out they were dating is understatement. She broke her promise to you and the unwritten rules of girl code. And on top of everything, when you called her out (respectfully) on her bullshit, she got defensive. Because she knows she did wrong. After all, you were the last person in your friend group to find out about them because she purposefully hid that from you.

You lost interest in both of them fast, not wanting to deal with the drama. But the facts stung. You lost the boy you had a crush on and your best friend in the same day. They played you out to be the bad guy. But, as you phased out of those friendships, you realized that the maturity aspect was never there for them. With the way they both acted, they deserved each other.

But you are long removed from all of this. You never stewed on it long because you were always destined for something bigger than your hometown. For people bigger than your hometown. At the moment, you’re looking at the guy you once liked and thanking yourself for knowing you could do better. Because goddamn did he just get uglier with age.

He’s the one that said your name in a questionable manner, so when you turn around, surprise falls upon both of them as well.

You force a tight smile and greet them both, turning the cups in your hands because one is getting cold and the other hot. In doing that, your ring catches the light and you watch her eyes instantly drop to your hand.

“Oh?” She asks with feigned excitement, as if the last time you talked to her wasn’t like four years ago, “I see that rock! Congrats.” She smiled warmly, but it tricked over you uncomfortably. He just stands there with a blank expression, probably because you look a little different than what you had the last time he saw you. You were undeniably pretty and that was a fact that crossed his brain unfortunately.

“Yeah,” you say softly, “how about you guys? How are you?” You ask, breaching the unavoidable small talk.

“Oh we’re great—“ she said, then started rambling about things you frankly did not care about.

You feel Wills presence radiating behind you as he gently puts his arm around your shoulders, taking the hot drink from your hand. He murmurs a soft “thank you” into your ear before glancing at the two in front of you. God are you glad you ended up with the hot hockey player. Because the look on her face says it all. And the look on his? He looks like he’s going to shit bricks because he knows who Will is. He used to make fun of the fact that you thought Will was cute. It’s crazy how that felt like a lifetime ago.

Because now you’re standing with him by your side, the girl that once cried because she thought she was so unworthy of love. That thought no matter what she did, and no matter how she treated others, she was never going to be pretty enough to be the girl that was wanted. You had lots of personality, sure. But to fragile teenage boys? They’re just looking for a pretty face and a nice body.

You told yourself your person would be out there. You had no idea it would be Will. But he’s never treated you less than, or made you feel less than. He can never describe his pull to you, other than the fact that you’re his planet and he’s your moon. He’s always there, naturally gravitated towards you, in his own orbit. His love runs deeper than what he shows, though he is extremely good at pulling off the ‘private relationship’ while still showering you with more love than you could ever want or need. His acute detail to you constantly blows your mind, like his ability to remember the smallest, most intricate facts about you, or his stunning ability to perfectly read your body language. He’s everything you could have ever wanted and more. So when he rather unexpectedly dropped to his knees, you knew there wasn’t a chance you were turning him down. You expected the ring a little more down the road, but if he was ready to commit to you, you were all in for him as well.

Will put a soft hand on your back, in the middle specifically and gently rubbed his thumb back and forth. He was just checking on you, making sure you wanted to be having this conversation. He noticed when someone had said your name, ears picking up curiously. And when he read the shock on your face and the small shift in your posture, he’d gotten out of his seat to come to you. It’s habit, or instinct, or just the way he is for you.

The boy you once liked looked at you a little incredulously because he knew damn well who Will is. And you friend? Probably wishing she had dumped her loser boyfriend years ago. It hurts to see people prosper, especially if you’re the one that put them down in the first place. But you’re no stranger to their behavior, so when the wash up offers his hand to Will that the stupidest, cocky grin and says “huge fan, you had a great season,” you nearly roll your eyes.

Will shakes his hand and uncomfortably smiles. Your friend starts to frown before she realizes she’s making a face.

“Thanks man,” your fiancé looks to you, “we better get going?” He asks, hand now running the base of your spine. You smile at both of them, wish them the best, then turn on your heels. As you leave, Will doesn’t need to ask you anything, he just already understands. You remember briefly telling him about those two because dating for you was rather sparse. Will was your first significant relationship, so he frequently questioned why you shied away from him when all he wanted was to love on you.

You turn the keys of the ignition in your old car and look over at him in the passenger seat. He’s looking back at you like you just made his day for existing. He’s warm, happy, soon-to-be-caffeinated, and so full of love that he doesn’t know what to do with it. When he’s in season, you are his constant support system, but when he’s out of season and he can finally just relax? When he can finally just be with you all the time and not have to worry about a morning skate dragging him out of bed, or a game that forces him in a different country? You’re thankful for these moments, simply alone with him. And when you smile back at him, he softens with a drink of his coffee.

His face instantly sours.

“This tastes like shit.”

You smack him playfully, “that’s your fault! Why would you get a black coffee?!”

“Because I wanted to seem tough.”

“And now you’re sad you don’t have an iced caramel latte?”

You look at each other and laugh. You gently lean over the console and he meets you halfway, peppering a small kiss to your lips. “You can have some of mine,” you whispered softly as he kisses you again.

“Thanks baby.” He murmured back, letting you assume your position to drive to your childhood home. You’ve long forgotten the weird interaction you had just ten minutes ago. And as much as you’re glad to have Will, he’s even happier to brag that he is all yours.

Will Smith has been the center of your world for longer than you can remember. You know sometime when you were two or three your parents had met his and sparked a life long friendship. You never remember meeting Will, or even his sister, who quickly became one of your close friends, you just know that they’ve been permanent staples in your life.

And as you’ve grown up, that friendly feeling bled into something a little more without even realizing. He’s always there, always nice, and always very attractive.

When you were old enough to label him as a crush, you pushed it as deep as you could. No one would let you live down that you liked him— not friends, not family, no one. You kept your feelings to yourself, but as a teenager, that logic only lasts so long.

Because at your age, it’s all gossip and urges and learning— and you’re telling everyone that you’re never interested in anyone. You don’t have time. No one struck your fancy. But people get suspicious fast.

And then you feel like you’re fifty steps behind everyone. Not that you’ve needed the validation of others to make you feel complete because that’s something you’ve never been insecure about. It just stings that all your friends have boyfriends. They go on dates, lose their virginities at prom, and say they’re going to last forever. They usually don’t and that’s where you’re somewhat grateful you never let up on your ‘I don’t like anyone’ act.

But the summer before you turn eighteen, a lot of things change before you can stop them. You hadn’t seen as much of Will because he’d spent his first year at BC, but he was home for most holidays and his friendship was always easy to pause and resume surprisingly. He’s always easy going and he’s still the presence you seek out at any gathering. But then he’s home for the summer, all smiles and muscles you swear he didn’t have before. He’s seemed to develop this confidence— even though he’s always been a little cocky— this is like nothing you’ve never seen. He’s quiet but radiating this energy that feels infectious.

It scares you a little, the idea that he could’ve changed so much in just a few months. But you’re quickly proven wrong when he seeks you out one late June evening, the sunset painting hazy streaks in your bedroom. You were packing for your family’s vacation, where you were set to leave the following day with Will’s family not far behind. Lake vacations with him were annual, and fun, and a pain in the ass when you had to see him shirtless all of the time.

You sat, folding up oversized shirts for bed or to wear to the boat while he laid on your bed, talking about some crazy stupid class he had to take last semester. But you know secretly he liked it because he’s smiling through all of his words.

You laugh, grateful for him, his presence, his personality, his laugh, his everything.

“Can you do me a favor?” You ask, blinking at him from the floor. He rolls to his side, giving you a curious look that tells you all you need to know. “Will you grab a bottle of sunscreen from the bathroom? If you’re looking at the sink, it’s the third drawer on the right.”

He rolls all the way over, socked feet touching the floor as he walks away. The shirt he had on stretched across his shoulder blades in a way that had you sighing as he left. You hate yourself for this part, where you care and you know he does too, you just fear that he doesn’t feel exactly the same.

You hold up a Boston College shirt and begin to fold it into your luggage. He gave it to you when he committed and told you to represent BC as much as you could. You laughed, but know damn well it’s one of your favorite shirts.

He’s still lingering in your head when he walks back in your room.

“Thank you—“ your words catch in your throat as you stare at him. He’s holding the bottle of sunscreen you asked for, but in the other hand is a dildo.

And suddenly you’re fifty shades of red, cheeks burning as you scramble for an answer. He looking at you, blue eyes confused and amused at the same time. He never flushes, but his whole face up to his ears is crimson.

Do you try to be defensive? Do you play it off like it was from a prank? Do you yell at him for snooping? Or not, because knowing him, your directions probably went in one ear and out the other, which resulted in looking through all the drawers.

You realize you’re taking awhile to speak.

“Do you use this?” He asks, standing in the doorway and holding up the fake dick.

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. You don’t know how to answer him, or if you should at all.

He’s looking between you and the toy in his hand. He’d be completely lying if he said he didn’t think you’ve grown into a beautiful young woman. He can fantasize all he wants about you, but he knew you didn’t feel the same, and even if you did, he didn’t deserve you. You were the image of perfection in his mind, so he kept you close as a friend rather than having none of you at all.

So it didn’t help one bit when you got older, prettier, and funnier. Your excuse was always that you never liked anyone and that was why you never had a boyfriend. He never brought anyone around because he physically couldn’t. Every girl that piqued his interest looked like you or had your humor. But they were never you. If he couldn’t have you, he didn’t want anyone else.

But even being gone for so long, you were always familiar, despite the changes of growing up. You were the one person he always had to fall back on and always be himself. And god, you were beautiful, did he already say that?

He went to dig for sunscreen, but found a little toy instead. The thought of you using this on yourself, all alone because that’s all you’ve ever had, has him trembling with want. He wants to help you. That’s a big reason why he brought it back to your room. He’s more curious now, decided that he’s going to ask. And if you’re absolutely mortified, he’ll vow to never bring this up again.

“Will—“ you start, realizing your voice is breaking. He closes your bedroom door behind him quietly, after all, your parents are set to get home from their last minute grocery run any minute.

“You always complain about your fuck ass friends being stupid with the people they choose. I’m sure I don’t deserve you and I probably never will, but I want to be the person you pick. I want to be your guy. I want to help. If you’ll let me.”

You huff a laugh that has no humor behind it, “what?”

“I want to be your person,” he said a little quieter, “you’ve always been mine.” He says, his eyes completely earnest. “And the thought of you pleasing yourself has me going insane.”

“Will… you’re serious?”

“I’ve been down bad for longer than I can fucking remember,” he holds up the toy, “this is my sign.”

At that you actually laugh. You’re a little more inclined to hear him out because unlike all of your friends, you’ve known Will for years. Will probably knows you a little better than you know yourself. Realistically, he can’t ghost you on vacation next week. So if things get weird, you can talk it through. And he clearly really wants this. You can’t say you don’t want it either.

It’s your Will offering to help get you off.

Were you ever going to say no?

“Okay.”

“Okay? Okay.” He says, laying both the toy and the sunscreen down on your dresser. He grabs your hands to help you off the floor, then pulls you up into his arms. Your arms settle on his waist, looking up at him in disbelief that you’re about to do this, with him, right now.

His hands move to hold your cheeks and suddenly it feels like he’s been knocked in the lungs in the best way possible.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispered and you quickly respond back that you’re looking rough.

“I’m in my pjs and my hair is still wet from the shower.” You murmur and he just smiles, his lips so close you can feel him breathe.

“But it’s you,” he kisses your nose, “you’re sure?”

“Yeah.” You respond back, more breath than voice as he brushes a kiss to your lips. Years of waiting and yearning sealed into seconds has your knees weak. But it’s not just a kiss, not when he realizes you’re as into it as he is. He’s kissing you now like he means it, tongue in play. They get messy and needy fast, all yearning gone and all that’s left in its place is foggy lust.

Then he’s handsy and everywhere— tracing your body outside of an old hoodie and small pajama shorts that have little monkeys on them. His lips are on yours, then behind your ear, then down your neck. His right hand slips under your hoodie and travels up the warm, soft skin of your stomach. The only reason you know it’s his right hand is because he has a scar that laces his palm—and though it’s long healed— you still feel its imprint on his skin.

You’re thanking yourself for that shower because you’re freshly shaven for vacation and he keeps muttering that you smell really good. With a shower comes pajamas, which means you have no bra on and he realizes this as his hand travels your sternum. You raise your arms so he can peel it off, then instantly goes back to kissing you. His eyes don’t wander, but they don’t have to because his hands are doing more than enough. He’s palming your chest and feeling your nipples in his palms, hard and eager and in need of attention.

Your stomach is turning with the way he’s touching you, even more at the fact that’s it’s him. And then the first whimper falls from your lips as his hand slips under your shorts and cups you through nothing but cotton. You’re throbbing before you even realize— but he only feels that you’re swollen and wet. He can’t believe he’s lucky enough to feel you like this.

Your back hits your bed as his lips and touch disappears. You open your eyes, gaze meeting his. He’s breathing out of his mouth, chest heaving and staring at you like you’ve hung the moon. He pulls his shirt over his head, then grabs your shorts, pulling everything off your body in one drag.

You’re soaked down your legs and throbbing and you swear you’ve never felt like this. In minutes he has your thighs spread open, fingers slipping in and out of you with embarrassing ease, and his mouth suddenly sucking on your clit like his life depended on it.

You’re whimpering and shaking quickly by all the stimulation. His fingers start to dig into the spongey spot in your stomach that has you going limp and begging for more—

Then the garage door sounds and you know your parents are home. You’re fucked, so you’re trying to push him off, but he’s just going at you harder. His mouth pulls away, replaced by his thumb as he clamps his free hand over your mouth because you’re being noisy.

“You’re right there baby,” he whispers as he comes back down to your cunt that’s aching.

You’re so turned on and so gone all at the same time as he finger fucks you through the hardest orgasm you think you’ve ever had. He notes that right before you cum, the bottom of your thighs line with goosebumps and spread a little bit wider. It’s something he’ll commit to memory for the future.

You’re brushing back blonde curls from his forehead as he pulls his fingers away from you and licks a wet stripe over your sweet, dripping, oversensitive pussy that he’s now deemed all his.

He pulls away completely, kissing you on the lips one more time before tossing your pjs back to you. He slid his shirt back on and looked back to you, completely fucked out and in disbelief that Will Smith— the boy you’ve had your heart set on for longer than you can remember— just ate you out, and did it incredibly well at that.

“I would never just bounce, but I have to.” He whispered, helping you dress since it settled in that you needed to get moving before your parents walked in. “I’ll tell them you’re packing,” he murmured.

He gives you one last look, smiles, kisses your lips, then says, “love you sweet girl. I’ll see you this weekend.”

And then he slips from your room, grabbing his ball cap so he doesn’t have sex hair from where you’ve messed it.

The only thought that radiates in your head is that your best friend— maybe turned something more— just ate you out. Your body finally comes down from the high and the adrenaline and you feel like you can’t wipe your smile. As you hear footsteps up the stairs, you notice the dildo laying on your dresser and move to slide that into a drawer before your mom comes to check on your packing situation.

He didn’t even use the toy— he knew he didn’t need it. That stupid cocky fuck.

What the fuck were you thinking? Why on earth was it a good decision to suck off Mack? The more your brain spins with thoughts, the worse it gets. Your intention was just a little horny motivation, the last thing you wanted was for your heart to get involved. And it’s not his fault, it’s completely yours. You’re the one that initiated. You’re letting the feelings fester.

And realistically, you’re probably the last thing that’s on his mind. At least that’s what you tell yourself. His whole career depends on him to be selfish and prioritize his own health for the best performance.

What the fuck did you get yourself into.

You don’t talk to him. You have every reason and every agency to reach out to him, but you never do.

•••

He’s only thought about you since winning gold. That medal means so much to him, but not everything. There’s a reason he fought out of an Olympic game slump, and though no one knows what change was made, he has a constant reminder of you.

You’ve changed his life and you don’t even know.

He’s confused in his own right.

But he’s confident in one thing, that he’s going to see you tonight, regardless of how the evening goes. It’s his last night in the French Alps, he might as well. He’s going to be transparent because he’d go crazy if he didn’t.

And somehow no hockey game had made him as nervous as when he knocked on your hotel door. He’s rolling on his heels, waiting, and hearing nothing but silence on the other side of the door. Hurt fills him first amongst other emotions, his confidence slowly stripping off him like skin when you get a sunburn. He frowns, looking at the door, then to the floor, then begins to turn on his heels.

Then he’s back against the elevator, riding down with some old woman who’s eyeing him with absolutely no shame. It just makes his heart sting in his chest. She gets off a floor early and suddenly he’s alone again.

There’s a chime, his signal to leave as he heads for the opening door, eyes only high enough to see so many feet in front of him.

He notices a pair of white sneakers trimmed in teal and only one person he knows owns shoes like those. His eyes lift the same time yours do and he seriously hates the way his heart feels just at being in the same vicinity as you.

You just left to go get take out. You survived the biting cold, even with three coats on, but a forever chill in your bones. You secured a comfort meal to relieve your mind, and of all the things, of course he had to ruin the peace. Now that he’s in your presence, you can’t say you mind that.

He’s staring at the take out and punching himself for feeling so hurt over nothing. You’re staring at the bouquet of wildflowers in his hands and wondering what on earth he was doing.

“Macklin?” You ask and the full name has him mentally flinching.

The second you smile, soft and small, his confidence comes swimming back into his veins.

“I’d like to talk to you, if you have the time.” He says as you step into the elevator.

“Congrats, by the way. The game was phenomenal, I’m so proud of you.” You say and suddenly he’s looking at you like you hung the moon, with absolutely no shame.

“Thanks,” he answers, his confidence now in full swing, “these reminded me of you.” He says, still holding the bouquet since you have food in your hands.

He follows you to your hotel room as you scan in and welcome him in. You thank yourself for attempting to pack your things so the room wasn’t such a disaster.

You lay the carry out bag down on one of the counters and notice the way he immediately slips off his shoes and hangs up his coat. He knows he’s going to be here for a while.

“Is this about our deal?” You ask, looking at him and he stares back.

“Partially. I do want you to know that I’m not an asshole,” he sighs, suddenly vulnerable, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I felt more than just head that night. And I want to know where you stand.”

Every boyfriend you’ve ever had is looking really shitty in your review mirror. Oh the magnitudes of macklin and how he will forever be a mystery to you. He truly is a sweet, loving, empathetic human and for that you feel soft.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You were trying to seem aloof or unalarmed by his presence. And maybe you hid it well. But you were infinitely grateful that he said something first. That he even felt things in the first place.

“It’s my fault. I’m the one that forced myself on you—“

“You didn’t force yourself on me.” He said with a laugh, and suddenly you’re smiling.

“Mack.” You say, all his attention drawing straight to you, right into your eyes, “I really like you.”

“‘m not used to this,” he murmurs, putting the flowers down, “you’re usually pretty bossy.” He walks straight you, unzippping your coat while kissing your forehead, “but I’m glad because I owe you.”

Your noses brush before your lips do, just gentle, open mouthed kisses at first before he begs for more intensity. And then he is suddenly everywhere, nipping behind your ear and hands unzipping articles. Then he’s laughing into your neck because you’re thoroughly layered.

“‘you make this difficult on purpose?” You shake your head with a laugh.

And somehow between kissing your face and the jackets and sweaters littering the floor, his mannerisms changed. You felt the differences in his confidence from when you first saw him defeated in the elevator. Your heart does funny things when you think you’re the reason he’s exuding confidence again.

He’s using everything about himself to his advantage— his frame traps you between him and the wall, hands wide and traveling the expanse of your hips, inhuman-quick reflexes catching your hands against the wall when you try to touch him.

As soon as you let his lips go, he’s turning you so your back is flesh against his front. His breath is hot on your ear, hands pausing on your jeans.

“Tell me I can.” He whispers, kissing your skin. You murmur something when his fingers dance along your ribs. “Words, baby.”

“Yeah, yes.” You say, any other words dying in your throat as his hands jump back to your jeans, unbuttoning them and sliding his hand in the front.

The only thing between his hands and you is cotton underwear and suddenly you’re throbbing and burning for more of his attention.

Then you blink and your back is on the hotel bed, sheets messed from where you didn’t make them this morning and he’s staring at you, focused and determined. His green eyes are taking in your shape before his lips get to trace the map of his favorite persons body.

The teasing and thigh bites start small, but then he’s dragging off cotton and wondering why he let you walk that one night. If a little teasing and kisses was all it took to get you that swollen and wet, he’d have to do this more often. You’re not ready for the way he uses his fingers, two wrapping inside you, then a third for good measure.

You’re pliant, arching into his tongue that graces your nipples. Everything about him is working in tandem, and it’s working you up. Everything feels hot and heavy, so you barely notice when his mouth travels south. You regain consciousness when you feel his lips close in on your clit.

You whimper louder than you mean, but every bit of stimulation is too much. His fingers and mouth are asking for too much. They’re coaxing out a release that’s hot and deep and—despite your dismay— hadn’t been let out for longer than you can remember.

The coil is tightening and the dominos start to cascade.

But Macklins a shit, and the second he feels you closing on his fingers, he pulls away completely. No hands, no mouth, no nothing.

You’re propping up almost immediately, all stimulation gone. Your chest is heaving, purple marks blooming in a trail to your swollen nipples. Your eyes are glassy, hair messy, and every bit of absolutely perfect to him.

“Why— don’t stop, why’d you stop?” You’re whining before you realize how pathetic your tone is and he’s just staring at you a little incredulously.

His hairs also a mess, falling in his green eyes that are blown wide. His cheeks are red, phased with desire and amazement of you.

He parts his lips and that takes too long because you’re laying there half insane. One more touch and you loose everything you’re holding back. One touch.

“I want to be inside you.” He says and it comes out as a realization. He looks down at you, gaping, dripping, begging for something to fill you. And he can’t think of a better way. “Is that okay?”

You’re about to cry. The head has never been that good, and not that you really want to know why he’s so good, but actually being full of him is an entirely different thought that hasn’t breached your mind.

“I can’t.” You whine, falling back on the bed, completely limp. He kisses your hip, moving them to your inner thigh.

“Yes you can,” he murmured, fingers pressing back into you and the sound it makes is absolutely obscene, “you’re taking my fingers so well,” his kisses back up you body, coming up to your lips, “so wet,” kiss, “and perfect,” kiss, “and ready,” kiss, “let me do this for you. Let me please you.”

His eyes are earnest, but desperate. He wants this. You do too. And he still owes you.

“Please, Mack.”

You don’t have to tell him twice. He’s digging in his pants pocket that got thrown to the floor, tearing open a condom. It doesn’t help when the entirety of team Canada’s Olympic village condom supply got dumped at his door before they switched to a hotel just because he lost a bet. The poor guy has a lifetime supply now. And that’s a funny story he can’t wait to tell you when he’s not so taken by horny brain.

He steps out of his boxers and rolls on the rubber, completely aware of the way you’re staring. He grabs a pillow from the head of the bed and forces it under your hips, so when he does press into you, the angle had your breath stuttering in surprise. You feel full and his whole body is exuding heat. It’s hot everywhere, and your throbbing with need still. Even when you’re full of him. He’s inside you, but you’re too far gone to even think about that.

He’s nudging his hips into yours, his body trembling against you. But when he starts to thrust up like he means it, every part of your body is screaming in the best way possible.

“You feel so good,” he whimpered, “I promise I’ll fuck you good.” He whispers, his grip on your body hard and stable to keep you in place. At his words, he feels you flutter around his cock, every bit of aching anticipation.

He thrusts harder and it’s straight into the spongey spot in your stomach. Everything in you tenses, every muscle, heels digging in his back, and toes curling. You’re pulling his hair, and he’s trying to kiss you but you just scream into his open mouth as everything spasms at once.

The way your cunt clenches him in strong, needy pulses has him in love. With a pussy as good and wet and perfect as yours? He’s never thinking about another woman again, he has that decided.

But he’s not done, he fucks you through every wave, hips slowing as the pulses slow. You feel numb, hands dropping from his hair as your body relaxes. He kisses the tears from the corner of your eyes, showering you with affections and praises of how well you did. You can’t think of anything past the fact that he just fucked you incredibly.

He gives you a few minutes to catch your breath. You’re insanely jealous of the fact that he’s a professional athlete. Screw his stupid high aerobic athletic abilities.

“Flip over, baby,” he murmurs, “ass up.”

You do as you’re told, flipping over so you’re still propped up on the pillow, just ‘ass up’ this time. You bury your face into the sheets, eyes closing and solely focusing on sensation.

He fucks you again with just as much energy and purpose. Every touch is love and desperation and disbelief. He can’t believe your laid out so pretty for him. You still haven’t gotten past the first orgasm, touches of sensitivity still gracing every thrust. You’re still leaky and needy and throbbing, maybe worse than the first time. He knows he’s doing a good job when your moans become cries of his name and your legs start to widen a little more.

You squeeze him harder and he’s fully convinced there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. As he pulls out, he licks a stripe up your cunt just to taste everything he’d done to you.

You’re exhausted, practically melting into the bed when he whispers something about a shower. You should shower, especially considering your state of disarray. You stand naked on trembling legs, but the second he sees you, he half carries you into the warm shower.

So he can fuck and be incredibly sweet when he wants to be— especially when he wants to be. Not a part of your body goes without a kiss and the line of a soapy towel. He keeps you close and whispers things to you like he’s afraid the shower water isn’t enough to keep the outside world from listening. And more than half of that time you’re giggling because he’s casually funny, which is even more devastating to your heart.

Or maybe it isn’t. Because he offers his hotel to sleep in and after one look at your bed, you agree with him. You settle in his hotel bed with the take out from earlier— though cold— settled between the two of you.

“Can we call this the consolation prize?” You ask mid bite and his eyes drift to you, tired but so happy.

“Consolation?” He frowned, “this makes the medal seem unimportant.”

You frown now, “you don’t mean that.”

“It’s just a medal. I’m happy we won. It’s important… but I think you’re more important than a medal.”

You flush at the way the words seem natural for him. And the way he kisses you soothes you down to your soul. When venturing on this trip, you would have never thought you’d leave with someone you now hold close to your heart, let alone that said person would be Macklin. You’re ready to be back home in San Jose, and even more so with him.

Macklin Celebrini is one of the best players in the league. At just nineteen he was making waves in the hockey world and granted a spot on the Canadian Olympic roster in Milano Cortina. Hard work paid off and success followed him where he walked. He hated the media, and still does. He still can’t go to an interview without looking like he wants to kill himself. He still stumbles over his words occasionally, but with new administration with the sharks, the media became less focused on him. He could just play the game he loved, and through that he gained a quiet confidence.

Years passed faster than he wanted. He still felt the same excitement when he found out he was listed for the 2030 Canadian roster in the French Alps, especially with some of his favorite hockey players. Except now he’s not the rookie. He’s young, only 23, but still extremely wise beyond his hockey years.

Team Canada looked stronger than ever, ready to bite back at the excruciating loss in 2026 against the US. They were every ounce of speed, precision, and high hockey iq. And with the world’s best players landed on one team, they were sure to make some big moves.

So now an hour after the first preliminary matchup of the games, he broods alone in a hotel room wondering how in the absolute fuck they just lost to the French.

It doesn’t put them out of a gold medal, and he knows that. That’s what he needs to tell himself, but it hurts all the same knowing they lost to a sorry ass excuse of a team.

He couldn’t do anything in that game, yet it feels like he didn’t do enough for his team. While he completely understands hockey is rough and competitive and people will target you if you’re good, he didn’t think he was going to get body checked every time he stepped on the ice. His body aches of disappointment and humiliation. It doesn’t make it any better when the media hypes up team Canada just for them to fucking loose, and especially not when the weight of the world is expecting you to perform.

Right after the loss, he had a camera shoved in his face. He was barely even off the ice and was feeling more battered than ever. The last thing he wanted to do was rehash that game and spew a bunch of bullshit to some shitty reporter. And the wound still being fresh made the impending crash out feel that much closer.

“Macklin, what are you taking away from this game going into the rest of the tournament?” The reporter had said, voice scruffy behind a camera. Maybe not fucking suck as much as a did today—

Before he even pieced together what he was going to say that was calm and appropriate, heels clicked from far away as a hand reached out to cover the camera lens. The reporter got increasingly more pissy as she clicked the camera off.

“We’re done here.” You said, voice strong and confident.

“That was live—“

“We’re done. Goodbye.” You stated firmer and he walked off, mumbling something he couldn’t hear.

Macklin stalked off the locker room. And you weren’t offended. You expected that. He needed away from the media.

You were in your senior year when Milano Cortina was blasted everywhere. You loved the sports world. And you happened to really love hockey too. In the years following, you went to university, then claimed a position within the San Jose Sharks media team. You’re working towards head of media, currently being the assistant and loving every second of it. You brought a change the sharks needed. You weren’t just copying the next TikTok trend and forcing the player to do it so they look like they’re held at gunpoint. You forged your own and social media was eating it up, not at the expense of the players wellbeing. They were engaged and actually happy. Your biggest crowd pleaser, yet hardest to capture? Macklin Celebrini. He fucking hated the media, so you never pushed.

After a bad sharks game and swirling rumors you shut everything down fast for his sake and he acknowledged this thoughtfully. He was a little more inclined to participate after that, knowing you wouldn’t intentionally put him in the line light if he didn’t want to be.

You got to travel to the French Alps to get Sharks footage, which was the experience of a lifetime. You got to sight see with other media people and sit in on exclusive presses. But after watching Canada, who you had full confidence was going to take gold this year, loose to the French in a preliminary round, you knew Macklin was going to be off his fucking rocker.

You watched a reporter head his way and immediately shut him down, knowing Mack needed time away from the ice. He looked like he was going to have the biggest crash out of the fucking century.

You edited pictures and sent them to sharks admin for posting, then decided you were going to visit Mack. You knew him well enough to know he was going to coup up in his hotel room.

When Mack got out of the shower, grateful for how he felt after, he took in the bruises gracing his skin. With a gentle breath, he noticed green eyes. It hurts because he cares. He decided he’s only going to let it hurt tonight. After that, he has to lock the fuck in.

He walked out into his room, eyes drawing to the bed. You’re sitting on ruffled sheets, pretty eyes meeting his. He huffs again.

“What’re you doing here?” He asked, not meanly, just curious. He was wrapped in a towel, bruises batting his chest. One thing you probably wouldn’t admit is your attraction to his physique. Most hockey players are just strong, big guys. They aren’t absolutely ripped, they need cushiony muscle because they are in such a competitive sport. You admire the soft lines of his body and how much hidden strength he carries.

“I’m here to motivate you,” you say, surprising yourself by how confident you sound, “you need to get your ass in gear.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, “are you fucking serious? Did you happen to see me out there?”

You stand and he takes you in. You have on a matching lounge set, different from the suit you had on early that screamed girl boss, but you still had your hair slicked back and makeup intact. You smile at him for the first time that night.

“I did. But I know you’re not a pity case. You don’t take shit from other people. You’re stronger than you think. You just need a little push,” you murmur, “go sit.”

He stares at you, not moving from where he’s standing and you roll your eyes, walking him back until he hits the bed. You climb into his lap, softly cupping his face. Another thing you admire, the way he’s changed over the years. You don’t see his kiddish features anymore, chubby cheeks filling into thin scruff. But you do see green eyes and a new haircut that makes him all that more attractive.

He looks at you like he’s finally not thinking about hockey. You can tell his brain is occupied with other things, which is what he needs.

You peel the towel off his hips, grabbing his cock that’s half hard at just the thought of you. He looks at you like he’s going to worship the ground you walk on just for touching him with a gentleness he’s clearly not used to. You feel his whole body untense, holding you at the hips when he feels your lips under his jaw.

He lets out a breath of a relief as you stroke him slowly, reverent with your touch.

“Thank you,” he breathes, “for earlier.”

With your free hand, you run it through his hair, feeling the full body shiver it produces, “of course. ‘Always got your back.”

Somewhere in between the kisses you leave on his skin and his soft whining, he’s fully hard and throbbing in your hand. You climb off him slowly, leaving kissing down his chest and stomach. He whines louder the further you travel, half in protest. “You don’t have to—“

Words fell short in his chest in disbelief, looking at you kneeled in front of him, eyes up on him and his cock completely down your throat.

Holy fuck.

Your eyelashes bat up at him as you take him a little slower, tongue working in meaningful motions and your hand twisting. Your hands claw at his thighs when you feel one hand on your head. You know subconsciously that he’s pissed your hair is slicked back. He can’t put his fingers in your hair. He doesn’t push, it’s just for stability because he surprised you’re here right now.

He starts shaking, chest heaving and eyes caught between squeezing shut and wanting to watch every part of the scene in front of him. He’s trying to commit it to memory, the way your hand and mouth feels, and the way you look with his cock surrounded by pretty lips. He’s going to get a boner every time he even thinks about you now.

He pushed lightly at your head out of instinct. It’s your sign to pull away. But you don’t, you work your hand harder and bury him down your throat. And with a full whine, his whole body shakes with uncoiling release. You swallow, knowing he needed this. Anger, frustration, disappointment, and humiliation are out of his system.

Now you’re not sure he’s thinking anything as his fucked-out gaze sinks to you. You realize his green eyes are teary and you hope you were okay.

Suddenly, he reaches for your throat and leans to meet you halfway, kissing you with everything he had in him. Your face floods with heat as your brain processes. It’s one of those kisses that say a million words. It’s emotions, ups and downs, and thank yous, and fuck you’re beautiful, and that was the best head of my life rolled into one. You’ll never understand how he always conveys what he feels through his actions. It makes words unnecessary.

He pulls away, kissing your forehead, “C’mere,” he whispers, “let me take care of you.”

You smile at him, standing up. His hands come to your hips, eyes screaming at you to stay and listen. You run your hand through his hair again, the sigh coming from your chest.

“You’re tired. And you need the rest,” you said, watching the pout form on his features. You see that he recognizes the truth in your words. He can feel the droop in his eyes. “I’ll make you a deal… you win gold and I’ll let you hold up your end.”

“Mmkay.” He says, voice gruff, “look forward to it.”

“‘Sounds more like Macklin now.” You say with a smile, slipping out of his hold. He smiles back, but it’s sleepy and it makes your heart beat in special tune.

“Thanks for the motivation.”

“Anytime, Mack.” You say, winking on your way out. His back hits his bed in disbelief because that genuinely was the best head ever. And you return to your hotel room, every piece of you proud you walked away for his sake. He needs the sleep and energy. But god, the second you peeled the towel off? You weren’t denying the drip down your thigh and the throb between your legs. You can fantasize all you want, but thinking about him inside you, stretching, wet, and warm…

Oh my fuck you just sucked off Macklin Celebrini. And you realize this. And then you’re really not stopping the coil in your stomach.

——————

It comes back around to Canada and USA and the maple leaf is hungry for revenge. Ever since your motivational present, Macklin has acted like someone lit a fire under his ass. He put up unreal numbers and was looking unstoppable on his line.

The golden game? He scores the opening goal, two assists, and the golden goal.