#allaboutmacklin

i’m so sorry i haven’t posted!! i’ve been super duper busy with school and ive had a bunch of homework thats been backed up but im going to start posting more!!

More Than The Game WE72

summary: after a tough loss, william admits to his girlfriend that he hates when she sees him do bad in his games because he doesn’t want to let her down, but all his girlfriend tell him is how she didn’t fall for him because of his success

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Fans filled every seat, jerseys everywhere, the bright lights reflecting off the ice while the crowd buzzed with excitement. The scoreboard hung above center ice, counting down the last minutes of the game.

On the bench, William Eklund barely heard any of it.

His helmet was still on, but his head was down, elbows resting on his knees. His chest rose and fell quickly from the last shift he’d taken.

The game wasn’t going well.

Not for him.

Not for the team.

But mostly… not for him.

Another missed opportunity.

Another turnover.

Another moment where he knew he could’ve done better.

The buzzer finally sounded through the arena.

Game over.

The loss felt heavy.

William stood slowly with the rest of his teammates and skated toward the locker room, the noise of the crowd fading behind him.

But one thought stayed stuck in his head.

She watched that.

Across the arena, she stood near the railing with the rest of the fans slowly filing out.

She hadn’t moved since the buzzer.

Her eyes stayed on the ice where William had just walked off.

She knew that look on his face.

The one where he didn’t smile.

The one where he barely spoke.

The one where he blamed himself for everything.

Her stomach twisted slightly.

Because she knew what tonight was going to be like.

—

Nearly thirty minutes later, the locker room had emptied.

Teammates had gone home. Equipment managers finished cleaning up.

But William still sat at his stall.

His jersey hung half off his shoulder pads, and his hair was damp from the shower he took earlier.

He stared at the floor.

His phone buzzed once in his bag.

He already knew who it was.

Her.

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

—

Outside the arena, she sat on a bench near the players’ exit, pulling her jacket tighter around herself.

The night air was cold, but she barely noticed.

She checked her phone again.

No reply.

She sighed softly.

“Of course,” she muttered.

He always did this when things went wrong.

He shut down.

—

Inside, William finally grabbed his phone.

Three messages.

From her.

my beautiful girl 💗: Are you okay?

my beautiful girl 💗: I’m outside if you want company.

my beautiful girl 💗: You don’t have to talk. I can just sit with you.

William stared at the screen for a long moment.

His chest tightened slightly.

He typed a response.

Then erased it.

Then typed again.

Finally, he just wrote:

my baby 💕💕: You should go home.

Her phone buzzed immediately.

She read the message and frowned.

She typed back.

my beautiful girl 💗: No.

William’s reply came a minute later.

my baby 💕💕: It’s late.

She answered instantly.

my beautiful girl 💗: Still no.

—

Ten minutes later, the arena door finally opened.

William stepped outside.

His hoodie was pulled over his head, hands shoved into the pockets like he was trying to disappear.

She stood up when she saw him.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

The quiet night wrapped around them.

William avoided her eyes.

“You didn’t have to stay,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“It’s cold.”

“I noticed.”

He sighed.

“You should’ve gone home.”

She tilted her head.

“And leave you here alone when you’re clearly miserable?”

He looked down at the pavement.

“I’m fine.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.”

William rubbed the back of his neck.

“Tonight just sucked.”

She nodded.

“Yeah.”

That surprised him.

He looked up.

“You’re not going to tell me it was a great game?”

“Nope.”

“You’re not going to say I played amazing?”

“Nope.”

He blinked.

“Well… that’s harsh.”

She shrugged.

“You had a rough night.”

Then she stepped closer.

“But that’s not the part that matters.”

William frowned slightly.

“What do you mean?”

She crossed her arms lightly.

“The part that matters is that you’re acting like the world ended.”

He scoffed.

“I cost the team chances tonight.”

“It’s one game.”

“It’s more than one.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration creeping into his voice.

“I keep messing things up.”

Klaire watched him carefully.

The way his shoulders were tense.

The way he wouldn’t look directly at her.

She’d seen this before.

And she hated it.

“Will,” she said gently.

He stayed silent.

“You know you don’t have to be perfect, right?”

He laughed softly.

“That’s funny.”

“I’m serious.”

He shook his head.

“I’m supposed to help the team win.”

“And you do.”

“Not tonight.”

The silence between them stretched.

Cars passed in the distance.

Finally William spoke again, quieter this time.

“I hate when you watch games like that.”

She blinked.

“Why?”

“Because you see everything.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

He hesitated.

Then admitted softly,

“You see me fail.”

Her heart dropped slightly.

She stepped closer.

“William…”

But he continued.

“I know everyone expects me to bounce back.”

“Fans, coaches, teammates.”

He finally looked at her.

“But when you watch… it feels worse.”

She frowned.

“Why?”

His voice dropped almost to a whisper.

“Because you’re the one person I don’t want to disappoint.”

Klaire stared at him for a second.

Then she did something that surprised him.

She laughed.

Not a mean laugh.

Just a small, soft one.

William blinked.

“What?”

“You think you disappointed me?”

“Well… yeah.”

She shook her head slowly.

“You’re ridiculous.”

William looked confused.

“I played terribly.”

She stepped right in front of him.

“William Eklund,” she said, using his full name dramatically.

“Yes?”

“I didn’t fall in love with you because you score goals.”

He blinked again.

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

She poked his chest lightly.

“I fell in love with the guy who trips over his own skates during practice sometimes.”

He sighed.

“That happened one time.”

“It happened three.”

He tried not to smile.

But failed slightly.

“And the guy who gets overly excited about late-night food after games,” she continued.

“And the guy who sends me random pictures of dogs he sees on the street.”

“That dog was cute.”

“Exactly.”

She softened her voice.

“That’s the guy I love.”

William looked down again.

“But hockey is my whole life.”

“I know.”

“And if I mess that up…”

“You’re not messing it up.”

“What if I do?”

She paused for a moment.

Then said quietly,

“Then we deal with it.”

He looked at her again.

“We?”

“Yeah.”

“You’d stick around even if I started playing terribly?”

She rolled her eyes.

“You’re acting like you forgot how to skate.”

He chuckled slightly.

“That would be impressive.”

“I’d pay to see that.”

For the first time that night, the tension in his shoulders eased a little.

She noticed immediately.

“There it is,” she said.

“What?”

“You smiling.”

He shook his head.

“Barely.”

“Still counts.”

They stood in the quiet parking lot for another moment.

Then she nudged his arm.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“Food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You always say that.”

“I mean it this time.”

She grabbed his hand anyway.

“Too bad.”

William sighed dramatically but followed her toward her car.

“You’re very bossy.”

“Someone has to be.”

He glanced at her.

“Thanks for waiting for me.”

She squeezed his hand gently.

“Always.”

—

Halfway to the car, William stopped walking.

She turned around.

“What?”

He hesitated.

Then pulled her into a quick hug.

It caught her off guard.

But she hugged him back instantly.

His voice was quiet near her shoulder.

“I really thought you’d be disappointed tonight.”

She pulled back slightly and looked up at him.

“William.”

“Yeah?”

“You could lose every game for the rest of the season.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That’s dramatic.”

“Let me finish.” She smiled softly.

“You’d still be the same person I love.”

The words hung in the cold air between them.

William’s chest felt lighter somehow.

Not fixed.

But lighter.

He opened the car door for her.

“Alright,” he said.

“Alright what?”

“I’ll get food.”

She grinned.

“I knew it.”

“But if it’s bad food…”

“You’ll survive.”

He chuckled.

—

As they drove away from the arena, the bright lights disappeared behind them.

Tomorrow there would be another practice.

Another game.

Another chance.

And maybe another bad night.

But tonight…

William Eklund wasn’t alone.

And somehow, that made everything feel a little less heavy.

Between the glass and the ice WS2

summary: will had always known about his girlfriend’s crush on milo, but when he saw them talking at one of the home games he couldn’t help but get jealous from afar

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The rink was already alive long before the puck ever dropped.

Skates carved sharp lines into fresh ice during warm-ups, the low rumble of the crowd echoing through the arena as music thumped from the speakers. Will Smith skated one smooth lap around the offensive zone, stick loose in his hands, eyes forward, posture calm. Anyone watching him would’ve seen confidence—focus, even.

No one would’ve guessed his chest felt tight.

He slowed near the bench and casually scanned the stands, pretending he was just taking in the atmosphere. He wasn’t.

He found her almost instantly.

Y/N sat a few rows up from the glass, bundled in one of his team’s hoodies, her hair pulled back, face bright with excitement. She was leaning toward the guy next to her, laughing at something he said.

That guy was Milo Manheim.

Will’s jaw tightened for half a second before he caught himself.

Milo Manheim—actor, all-around charismatic celebrity, and unfortunately, very much Y/N’s well-known celebrity crush. She’d admitted it early in their relationship, laughing and swearing it didn’t mean anything. Will had believed her. Mostly.

And now Milo was here. At his game.

Will turned away before anyone could notice the flicker in his expression.

“Smitty!” one of his teammates called. “You good?”

Will nodded immediately. “Yeah. Locked in.”

And he was—at least, he would be. He had a game to play.

—

From the stands, Y/N could barely sit still.

She loved watching Will play—really loved it. The way he moved on the ice, the focus in his eyes, the quiet intensity that snapped into something electric once the puck dropped. She cheered louder for him than anyone else on the roster.

But tonight was different.

She stole a glance at Milo beside her and tried not to laugh at how unreal the whole situation felt.

“Still can’t believe you’re here,” she said.

Milo grinned, resting his elbows on his knees. “Hey, you said your boyfriend was playing tonight. I’ve never been to a hockey game. Figured it was time.”

Y/N hesitated. “You’re not… like, bored already?”

“Are you kidding?” Milo gestured toward the ice. “This is intense. And your boyfriend? He looks terrifying in a cool way.”

Y/N smiled, warmth spreading in her chest.

She didn’t miss the way Will avoided looking at the stands during warm-ups, though.

—

The game started fast.

Will hit the ice like he’d flipped a switch—aggressive forecheck, sharp passes, smart positioning. He played hard, clean, and disciplined, channeling every ounce of energy into the game. The crowd roared when he set up the first goal with a perfect assist.

From the stands, Milo stood up. “Okay, that was sick.”

Y/N laughed and clapped. “I know, right?”

Down on the ice, Will heard the roar but didn’t look up. He couldn’t.

Every time he did, he knew he’d see them together—laughing, leaning in, sharing the moment. He told himself it didn’t matter. He trusted Y/N. Milo was just a guy. A famous guy. A charming, tall, confident guy with an easy smile and—

Focus.

The opposing team scored late in the first period, snapping Will out of his thoughts. He shook it off, skated back to the bench, and listened as the coach barked adjustments.

Between periods, Will sat quietly, towel around his neck, staring at the floor.

“Dude,” his teammate nudged him, “you’re playing great. What’s up?”

Will forced a shrug. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

His teammate smirked. “About the actor in the stands?”

Will shot him a look. “You noticed?”

“Everyone noticed.”

Will exhaled through his nose. “I’m fine.”

And technically, that wasn’t a lie. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t going to cause a scene. He wasn’t going to let jealousy ruin his game.

He just wasn’t thrilled either.

—

By the third period, the game was tied.

The energy in the rink was electric—every hit louder, every shot sharper. Will felt alive out there, adrenaline burning away the edges of his unease. When he scored the go-ahead goal with six minutes left, the crowd exploded.

Y/N screamed his name.

Milo cheered just as loudly.

When Will glanced up this time, he saw it—Y/N on her feet, eyes bright, hands cupped around her mouth as she yelled for him. Milo stood beside her, clapping, smiling, clearly impressed.

Something in Will’s chest eased.

Maybe this wasn’t what he thought it was.

The final horn sounded minutes later. They won.

Will skated off the ice, heart pounding, grin breaking through before he could stop it.

—

After the game, Will peeled off his gear in record time.

“You got visitors,” the equipment manager said.

Will swallowed. “Yeah?”

Y/N appeared in the doorway a second later, practically glowing. “You were amazing.”

Will smiled, genuine this time. “Thanks.”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I hope you’re not mad.”

He shook his head immediately. “I’m not.”

That was true. Mostly.

“And,” she added carefully, “Milo wanted to meet you. If that’s okay.”

Will paused.

Every instinct screamed no, but he ignored it.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s fine.”

Milo stepped in, hands raised slightly in mock surrender. “Hey, man. Just wanted to say—you’re unreal out there.”

Will studied him for a moment. Milo wasn’t smug. He wasn’t arrogant. If anything, he looked… genuinely excited.

“Thanks,” Will said. “Appreciate you coming out.”

Milo grinned. “I’m officially a hockey fan now.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Milo glanced between them and laughed softly. “Okay, real talk—I know this might be awkward.”

Will crossed his arms, waiting.

“I’ve heard about myself being a ‘celebrity crush,’” Milo continued, making air quotes. “But I want you to know, I’m not here to mess with anything. She talks about you like you hung the moon.”

Y/N shot Milo a look. “Milo.”

“What?” he shrugged. “It’s true.”

Will felt the last of his tension drain away.

“Yeah?” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Milo nodded. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Will exhaled, then laughed. “Guess I should stop pretending I didn’t notice you in the stands.”

Milo chuckled. “I figured. You played like you had something to prove.”

Will smirked. “Maybe a little.”

They stood there for a moment, then Milo stuck out his hand.

“Friends?”

Will took it. “Friends.”

Y/N smiled so wide it almost hurt.

—

Later that night, the three of them sat at a late-night diner, replaying moments from the game and laughing over fries and milkshakes.

Will watched Milo animatedly describe a near-fight he thought was the coolest thing he’d ever seen, and realized something unexpected.

He wasn’t jealous anymore.

He was glad.

Glad Y/N had people who supported her. Glad Milo was actually a good guy. Glad he hadn’t let insecurity get in the way of something that turned out just fine.

As Y/N leaned against his shoulder, Will smiled to himself.

Sometimes, the real win wasn’t on the scoreboard.

One question, one forever WS2

summary: will smith had loved Y/N to death, so that’s why he finally made the decision to marry her. he had planned it out for weeks since he knew they were going to the beach for vacation and he has all of his family, and hers help him set it up

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Will Smith had played in front of thousands of people, under blinding arena lights, with the roar of a crowd shaking the ice beneath his skates—but nothing made his hands shake the way they did now as he stood barefoot in the sand.

The ocean stretched endlessly in front of him, the waves rolling in slow, patient rhythms, as if they already knew what today meant. The late afternoon sun painted the sky in soft golds and pale blues, and the breeze carried the scent of salt and sunscreen and something else—anticipation.

Behind him, a carefully planned secret was unfolding.

Y/N had always loved the beach. It was the one place where her thoughts quieted, where life slowed just enough to breathe. Will knew that. He knew every small thing about her—the way she collected shells without realizing it, how she always walked too close to the water and soaked the hems of her jeans, how she tilted her face to the sun like she was storing warmth for later.

That was why this had to be perfect.

“Relax,” his older brother murmured behind him, adjusting the wooden arch they’d set up earlier that morning. “You’ve survived overtime playoffs. You can survive this.”

Will exhaled a shaky laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “This feels harder.”

Because this mattered more than any game ever could.

Will hadn’t expected to fall in love the way he did with Y/N.

It didn’t happen in a single cinematic moment. It happened slowly, in quiet ways—in shared coffee runs before early practices, in long phone calls after road games, in the way she listened when he talked about hockey not as a job, but as a pressure, a weight he carried.

She never tried to compete with his career. She didn’t resent it. She simply stood beside him, steady and unwavering.

When he lost a game, she reminded him he was still more than a player. When he won, she celebrated without ever letting it define him.

And somewhere along the way, he realized he couldn’t imagine his life without her in it.

—

Y/N thought this beach trip was simple.

Her family had invited them for a long weekend—nothing unusual. Summers were often spent together like this, a blending of both families that felt effortless. Will’s parents adored her. Her parents trusted him completely. The two families fit together like puzzle pieces no one realized were missing.

What Y/N didn’t know was that both families had been planning this moment for months.

Her mom had helped Will choose the ring, holding it up to the light with tears in her eyes as she whispered, “She’s going to love it.”

His dad had clapped Will on the shoulder afterward, voice thick with pride. “You’re building something real.”

Even her younger cousins were involved, tasked with distracting her long enough to set everything up.

The beach wasn’t just a location. It was a symbol—of summers spent together, of beginnings, of tides that always returned.

—

“Y/N!” her sister called, already jogging down the beach. “Come help me with something!”

Y/N frowned playfully. “Why do I feel like that means I’m doing the work?”

Her sister laughed, linking arms with her anyway. “Because you probably are.”

Will watched from a distance as Y/N was pulled away, her laughter drifting back to him on the breeze. The sound calmed him, just a little.

“Okay,” his mom said softly, placing a reassuring hand on his back. “They’re in position.”

Will nodded, his heart pounding as he glanced down at the small box in his pocket. It felt impossibly heavy.

This was it.

—

When Y/N finally returned to the shoreline, she noticed it immediately.

The arch, woven with soft white fabric and wildflowers. The rose petals scattered across the sand. The familiar faces standing farther back, smiling in ways that suddenly made her chest tighten.

Her steps slowed.

“Will?” she asked quietly.

He turned to face her, the ocean behind him, the sun framing him in light. For a moment, he just looked at her—really looked at her—and every reason he’d fallen in love came rushing back all at once.

“Hey,” he said, voice warm and unsteady.

Her breath caught. “What’s going on?”

Will took a step closer, then another, until they stood just a few feet apart. The waves filled the silence between them.

“I’ve spent most of my life chasing goals,” he began. “Counting wins. Measuring success in seconds and scores.”

Y/N’s eyes never left his.

“But you,” he continued, “you changed how I see everything. You made me want something deeper. Something lasting.”

Behind her, her mother pressed a hand to her mouth. His sister wiped at her eyes.

Will reached for Y/N’s hands, holding them gently. “With you, I feel home. Not just safe—understood.”

Her eyes shimmered.

“I don’t want a future that doesn’t include you,” he said softly. “I don’t want big moments without your laugh, or hard days without your strength.”

Then he dropped to one knee.

The world seemed to stop.

—

Y/N gasped, her free hand flying to her mouth as tears spilled over.

Will opened the box, the ring catching the sunlight, sparkling like it had been made just for this moment.

“Y/N,” he said, steady now despite the way his heart raced, “will you marry me?”

For a split second, she couldn’t speak.

She looked at him—this man who loved her quietly and fiercely, who showed up every day, who stood now with nothing but hope in his eyes.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Then louder, through a laugh and a sob all at once, “Yes. Of course I will.”

Cheers erupted around them. Her family rushed forward. His parents followed, laughter and tears blending together.

Will stood, pulling her into a careful embrace, resting his forehead against hers.

“You’re sure?” he murmured, a smile breaking through.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she replied.

—

The rest of the evening unfolded like a dream.

There were hugs and congratulations, photos taken against the glowing sky, and stories shared as the sun dipped lower. Someone passed around champagne for the adults and sparkling cider for everyone else.

Y/N sat beside Will on a blanket, her hand resting in his, the ring catching her eye every few seconds as if she needed to confirm it was real.

Her dad clinked his bottle against Will’s. “Take care of her.”

Will met his gaze without hesitation. “Always.”

Her mom hugged them both, whispering, “Welcome to the family—officially.”

As the sky turned pink and purple, Will leaned closer to Y/N. “Thank you for saying yes.”

She smiled, resting her head against his shoulder. “Thank you for choosing me.”

The ocean continued its endless motion, waves rolling in and out like a promise—steady, patient, and always returning.

And as the night settled around them, surrounded by family, love, and the quiet certainty of forever, Y/N knew one thing for sure:

This was only the beginning.

one shift too late WS2

summary: will smith had a game against the penguins, and when he stepped on the ice, it all went down. and Y/N got a gut feeling that something bad was bound to happen.

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The tank in San Jose was louder than usual that night.

Black, teal, and white blurred together as the Sharks battled the Pittsburgh Penguins, the energy in the arena buzzing with playoff-level intensity even though it was only mid-season. Y/N sat in her usual seat, fingers laced together, eyes never leaving the ice.

Number 2 glided across the rink.

Will Smith.

Her Will.

She’d watched him play hundreds of games before, from junior hockey rinks to his NHL debut with the Sharks, but something about tonight made her chest feel tight. Maybe it was the Penguins’ aggressive forecheck. Maybe it was the way Will kept throwing himself into every play like the score depended on it.

Or maybe it was just one of those instincts you get when you love someone.

“Be careful,” she whispered, even though he couldn’t hear her.

—

Late in the second period, Will hopped over the boards for a defensive shift. The puck dumped into the Sharks’ zone, and he turned quickly, skating back to retrieve it. A Penguins forward closed in fast, angling his body toward the boards.

Y/N barely had time to stand before it happened.

The collision wasn’t dirty—just fast, heavy, and wrong. Will’s shoulder slammed awkwardly as he tried to brace himself, his arm pinned between his body and the boards. The sound of impact echoed through the arena.

Will went down.

Not dramatically. Not flailing.

But he didn’t get up right away.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

The crowd noise softened into a worried murmur as Will stayed on one knee, his glove pressed against his arm. His head dipped, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut for just a second too long.

The trainer was over the boards instantly.

“Will,” Y/N breathed, standing fully now.

She watched him test his arm, lifting it slightly before stopping, a flash of frustration crossing his face. He nodded at the trainer, letting himself be helped to his feet.

When he skated toward the bench, his arm stayed tight against his body.

He didn’t look up at the crowd.

But Y/N felt it anyway.

—

By the time the horn sounded to end the period, Will was already gone—led down the tunnel by medical staff. Y/N didn’t wait for confirmation. She grabbed her jacket and headed straight for the players’ entrance, heart pounding with every step.

She’d learned the routine over the years. Injuries came with the territory. Still, knowing that didn’t make it easier.

A staff member recognized her and nodded, letting her through.

The hallway smelled like ice and rubber and antiseptic.

Will sat on a bench outside the exam room, jersey half-unzipped, helmet resting beside him. His arm was supported carefully, his expression tight but controlled—the same look he always wore when he didn’t want anyone to worry.

Except Y/N wasn’t just anyone.

She slowed her steps, giving him time to notice her.

He looked up.

The tension in his shoulders eased instantly.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She crossed the space between them in seconds. “What happened?”

He gave a small shrug, careful not to move too much. “Upper body. Arm took the worst of it.”

That was all he said.

But she saw it—the frustration, the fear he tried to hide. Hockey was his life. Being forced off the ice hurt almost as much as the injury itself.

She reached for his good hand. “Does it hurt bad?”

He hesitated. Then, honest as always with her, nodded. “Yeah. A bit.”

She squeezed his fingers gently. “You don’t have to be tough with me.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “I know.”

—

The team doctor confirmed what they suspected: an upper body injury, enough to keep Will out for the rest of the game and possibly longer. Nothing catastrophic—but serious enough to require rest, evaluation, and patience.

Patience was not Will Smith’s strongest skill.

As the game ended without him, Y/N stayed by his side in the locker room while the rest of the team filtered in, sweaty and exhausted. A few teammates gave Will nods or quiet words of support.

“Rest up, man.”

“We need you.”

Will nodded back, grateful but restless.

When the room finally cleared, Y/N helped him gather his things, careful not to rush him.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered suddenly.

She looked up. “For what?”

“For scaring you.”

Her eyes softened. “You didn’t. I was already scared.”

That earned a small laugh from him, the sound easing some of the tension in the room.

—

The drive home was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Will rested his head against the window, eyes half-closed, while Y/N kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other lightly on his knee.

“You should’ve seen your face,” he said quietly.

“When?”

“When you came into the tunnel. Looked like you were ready to fight the entire Penguins roster.”

She huffed. “I might’ve.”

He turned his head to look at her, expression soft. “I’m okay.”

She nodded. “I know. I just hate seeing you hurt.”

“I hate sitting out more.”

She smiled sadly. “That too.”

—

The days that followed were slower.

Will wasn’t allowed to practice. No games. No lifting. Just treatment, rest, and frustration. He watched practices from the stands, jaw tight as his teammates skated drills without him.

At home, Y/N became his quiet anchor.

She reminded him to ice his arm. Made sure he ate. Sat beside him during game replays when he couldn’t sleep. She never pushed him to talk—but she was always there when he did.

One night, as the Sharks played another game without him, Will broke the silence.

“I feel useless.”

Y/N turned toward him immediately. “You’re injured, not useless.”

“I’m supposed to be out there.”

“And you will be,” she said firmly. “Just not tonight.”

He sighed, leaning back against the couch. “I hate this part.”

She rested her head on his shoulder—the uninjured one. “I know.”

They watched the rest of the game like that, quiet but connected.

—

Weeks passed.

The arm improved slowly, steadily. Will followed every instruction, even when it drove him crazy. Y/N celebrated every small victory—the first pain-free movement, the first light workout, the day he finally smiled after practice instead of scowling.

The night before his return, he sat on the edge of the bed, taping his stick out of habit.

“You nervous?” she asked.

He glanced up at her. “A little.”

She smiled. “Good. Means you care.”

He reached for her hand. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being here. For not letting me spiral.”

She squeezed his fingers. “That’s what girlfriends do.”

He pulled her into a careful hug. “That’s what you do.”

—

When Will Smith stepped back onto the ice in teal, the crowd erupted.

Y/N stood, clapping harder than anyone, heart full.

He skated confidently, arm strong, eyes focused. When he glanced up toward the stands and found her, he tapped his stick lightly against the ice.

A silent promise.

He was back.

And this time, stronger than before.

smitten FM93

summary: fraser and his beloved girlfriend Y/N went out on a date, and they thought it would be just the 2 of them. but when fraser saw the paparazzi, it all broke loose

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The restaurant had been Y/N’s idea.

Not because it was trendy or hidden or especially “paparazzi-proof”—though Fraser had joked about that when she suggested it—but because it had the best pasta she’d ever had and warm lighting that made everything feel calmer. It was the kind of place where the staff smiled like they actually meant it and the music stayed low enough that conversation mattered more than background noise.

Fraser liked that about it.

He liked a lot of things she picked.

They sat across from each other in a corner booth, Fraser leaning forward with his elbows just barely on the table, listening like whatever she was saying was the most important thing in the room. His hair was still slightly damp from a quick shower after workouts, and he’d traded his team hoodie for a soft sweater she’d bought him months ago because she said it brought out his eyes.

She was right. She usually was.

“Okay, but I’m serious,” Y/N said, laughing softly. “You can’t just forget your phone at home and then act surprised when everyone panics.”

Fraser grinned, that easy, boyish smile that showed up whenever she teased him. “I didn’t forget it. I just… didn’t bring it.”

“That is literally the same thing.”

“Not emotionally,” he said, shrugging. “I was emotionally prepared.”

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah,” he said easily. “But you love me.”

He said it like a fact, not a question. Not cocky—just certain.

Y/N met his eyes, warmth settling in her chest. “Yeah,” she said. “I really do.”

Neither of them noticed the camera across the street. Or the second one. Or the quiet click of shutters catching the way Fraser reached across the table to tuck her hand into his, thumb brushing absentmindedly over her knuckles like it was something he’d done a thousand times before.

Which, in fairness, he had.

The photos would later show Fraser laughing mid-sentence, eyes crinkled, completely unguarded. They’d show Y/N looking at him instead of the camera, chin resting on her palm, expression soft and fond. They’d show him standing to pull her chair out, his hand warm and steady at her back as they left.

They’d show something obvious to everyone who saw them.

Fraser Minten was in love.

—

The photos hit social media before Fraser even woke up the next morning.

By the time he rolled out of bed and checked his phone, his group chat was already exploding.

Teammate #1: Bro 👀

Teammate #2: Is that YOU??

Teammate #3: Pasta night goes crazy

Fraser blinked at the screen, squinting as he opened the link. The headline was harmless enough—something about “young star spotted at dinner with mystery girlfriend”—and the pictures made him pause.

Not because he was worried.

But because, honestly, they were kind of cute.

He smiled to himself before typing back.

Fraser: Yeah that’s us.

Fraser: She looks great, right?

There was a pause. Then the replies flooded in.

By the time he got to practice later that morning, the looks started immediately.

Not bad looks.

Not judgmental ones.

Just knowing ones.

“Wow,” one of the guys said as Fraser walked past the locker room benches. “Didn’t realize we were dating celebrities now.”

Fraser laughed, tossing his bag down. “Relax.”

“Oh, we’re relaxed,” another teammate said. “You’re the one who got caught smiling at pasta like it told you a secret.”

Fraser shook his head, still grinning. “It was a good night.”

“That’s not what we’re asking,” someone else chimed in. “We’re asking if you’re always like that or if that’s new.”

Fraser paused, lacing his skates, thinking about it for half a second.

“I’m always like that,” he said simply. “You just don’t usually see it.”

Practice didn’t let up after that.

Between drills, during water breaks, even while stretching, someone always had something to say.

“So how long you guys been together?”

“Is she mad about the photos?”

“Do we have to start behaving now?”

Fraser answered every question calmly, easily, never once looking annoyed.

“We’ve been together a while.”

“No, she’s okay.”

“No, but you should behave anyway.”

The coaches noticed, too.

When the media portion of practice rolled around, Fraser was already bracing himself. He knew what was coming. He wasn’t nervous—just aware. This was part of it. He’d been prepared for the attention long before it actually showed up.

Still, when the first reporter raised a hand, he knew exactly what they were going to ask.

“So, Fraser,” the reporter said, microphone tilted toward him, “there were some photos circulating last night of you out to dinner. Fans are curious—can you tell us a bit about that?”

Fraser smiled.

Not the polite, practiced smile athletes used when they were dodging a question.

This one was real.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “That was my girlfriend.”

The room hummed with interest.

“And how do you feel about the attention?” another reporter asked. “Does it change anything for you?”

Fraser thought about Y/N—how she’d laughed when she saw the photos that morning, how she’d told him not to worry, how she’d said, ‘If they’re going to see us, at least they saw us happy.’

“No,” he said honestly. “It doesn’t change anything. We’re just… us.”

Someone else leaned forward. “You looked pretty happy in the pictures.”

Fraser’s grin widened before he could stop it.

“I was,” he said. “I usually am when I’m with her.”

That got a few quiet chuckles from the room.

“And what do you like most about her?” a reporter asked, clearly expecting something vague or deflective.

Fraser didn’t hesitate.

“She’s patient,” he said. “She’s supportive. She keeps me grounded. She knows when to push me and when to let me be quiet. She makes normal days feel special.”

He paused, then added, softer, “And she makes really good restaurant suggestions.”

The media laughed, but there was something unmistakably sincere in his tone.

When practice finally wrapped up and the locker room emptied, Fraser pulled his phone from his bag and texted her.

Fraser: So… apparently the world knows about pasta night.

Y/N: Tragic.

Y/N: Do you regret taking me out?

Fraser: Never.

Fraser: I’d do it again tomorrow.

A few seconds passed.

Y/N: You’re really okay with all this?

Fraser: Yeah.

Fraser: Because it’s you.

When he got home later that evening, she was already there, curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, hair still slightly damp from a shower. She looked up when he came in, smiling like she always did when she saw him—like the day had been missing something and he’d just brought it back.

He dropped his keys and crossed the room in three long steps, pulling her into a hug.

“You were very charming today,” she teased into his shoulder.

He laughed softly. “I didn’t even say anything embarrassing.”

“You told the media I’m patient.”

“Well,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes warm and earnest, “you are.”

She smiled, reaching up to brush her thumb along his jaw. “You’re kind of impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning his forehead against hers. “But you love me.”

She laughed quietly, the sound soft and familiar. “Yeah,” she said. “I really do.”

And for Fraser, with cameras flashing outside and questions waiting tomorrow, that was the only thing that really mattered.

between the lines WS2

summary: will had been stealing secret glances at the team manager Y/N, when he didn’t think she was looking. but she saw every single look

requests: open

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The rink always smelled the same at six in the morning—cold metal, sharpened steel, and the faint trace of coffee that clung to the benches from whoever had arrived first. The lights buzzed to life one by one, reflecting off the freshly resurfaced ice like a sheet of glass.

Y/N stood near the boards with a clipboard tucked under her arm, ponytail still damp from the snow outside. Being the team manager meant she was always early. Jerseys had to be laid out, water bottles filled, pucks counted, and attendance marked before the players even stepped onto the ice.

She checked the list again, even though she knew it by heart.

Practice. Tuesday. Full attendance expected.

The door at the far end of the rink swung open, and skates clacked against the concrete.

Will Smith was one of the first players in, like usual.

He carried his stick over his shoulder, hoodie pulled low over his head, earbuds in. He nodded at the assistant coach, tossed his bag down by his stall, and glanced toward the bench.

Toward her.

It was quick—barely a second—but Y/N noticed. She always did.

She looked down at her clipboard immediately, pretending to be absorbed in checking off his name. Her heart did that stupid little jump it had been doing for weeks now, ever since she’d caught him watching her refill water bottles during a scrimmage.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

She was the manager. He was one of the team’s top forwards. There were lines—spoken and unspoken—and she knew them well. She’d drawn them herself.

Still, that didn’t stop her from feeling the weight of his presence whenever he was nearby.

The rest of the team filtered in, the rink slowly filling with noise—laughter, chirping, the slap of tape against sticks. Y/N moved down the bench, placing jerseys neatly at each spot. When she reached Will’s stall, she hesitated for half a second before setting his down.

“Thanks.”

The sound of his voice startled her. She looked up to find him standing there, helmet in hand, brown eyes warmer than she expected.

“No problem,” she said quickly, professional. “Practice starts in five.”

He smiled, just a little. “You always remind us like we don’t know.”

“Someone has to,” she replied, arching an eyebrow.

He laughed softly and pulled his jersey on. As he turned away, she caught him glancing back at her again, like he wanted to say something else but thought better of it.

Practice began with drills—skating laps, passing lines, shots on goal. Y/N took her usual place by the bench, tracking times and making notes for the coaches. She tried to focus, really she did, but her attention kept drifting back to the ice.

Will moved differently than the others. Not louder, not flashier—just precise. Every turn was controlled, every pass intentional. When he skated past the bench, she could feel the rush of cold air, hear his breath through his helmet.

Once, during a break, he skated up to the boards near her.

“Water?” he asked.

She handed him a bottle, their fingers brushing for just a second. It was nothing. Completely accidental.

It felt like everything.

“Good pace today,” she said, because she needed to say something normal.

“Yeah?” He took a drink, eyes still on her. “Maybe we’re just well organized.”

She smiled despite herself. “Flattery won’t get you extra ice time.”

“Worth a shot.”

Their moment was broken by the whistle. Will pushed off, rejoining the drill, but not before flashing her one last grin.

Y/N exhaled slowly, steadying herself.

This was dangerous territory.

After practice, the rink cleared out faster than usual. Players had classes, workouts, lives beyond the ice. Y/N stayed behind, collecting stray tape and towels, double-checking the equipment room.

She didn’t notice Will lingering until she heard footsteps behind her.

“Hey,” he said. “You need help?”

She turned, surprised. “I’ve got it.”

“You always say that.” He gestured to the pile of gear. “Seriously. I’ve got time.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”

They worked in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. It was different off the ice—quieter, more real. Without the helmet and pads, Will seemed less untouchable, more like just another guy trying to figure things out.

“So,” he said eventually, stuffing towels into a bin, “how’d you end up as manager anyway?”

She shrugged. “I love the sport. Couldn’t play anymore, but I still wanted to be around it.”

He nodded. “We’re lucky to have you. Team would fall apart without you.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him. He wasn’t teasing. He meant it.

“Thanks,” she said softly.

Their eyes met, and the air between them shifted—something unspoken but heavy. Will opened his mouth, then closed it again, running a hand through his hair.

“I should probably go,” he said. “Before this gets… weird.”

Y/N laughed nervously. “Yeah. Probably.”

He lingered a moment longer. “See you Thursday?”

“Thursday,” she confirmed.

For the rest of the week, things stayed almost the same. Almost.

They exchanged looks during practice—quick, secret ones that no one else seemed to notice. Will started finding reasons to talk to her: asking about schedules he already knew, offering to carry equipment, making dry comments that only she seemed to hear.

Y/N told herself it was harmless.

Until Thursday night.

The team had an away game, and Y/N rode the bus with them, sitting near the front like always. Halfway through the drive, the bus hit a bump, and her pen rolled down the aisle.

“I got it,” Will said, hopping up before anyone else could.

He handed it back, fingers lingering again.

“Thanks,” she said.

The bus was dim, most of the team half asleep. Will didn’t move right away.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Can I ask you something?”

She swallowed. “Okay.”

“Is this… just in my head?” He gestured vaguely between them. “Or do you feel it too?”

Her heart pounded. This was the moment she’d been both expecting and avoiding.

“I do,” she admitted. “But we have to be careful.”

He nodded immediately. “I know. I don’t want to mess anything up. I just—” He smiled, nervous. “I like you.”

She laughed softly, relief flooding her chest. “I like you too.”

They didn’t touch. Didn’t need to. The understanding was enough.

From then on, it became something quiet and secret.

Late-night texts that stayed just this side of innocent. Sitting closer than necessary during film sessions. Walks after practice that somehow turned into an hour of talking about everything and nothing.

They made rules. No favoritism. No public affection. Hockey always came first.

Their first “date” wasn’t even called that. It was coffee after practice, sitting in the corner of a nearly empty café, laughing too much and lowering their voices whenever someone walked by.

“This feels ridiculous,” Y/N whispered, smiling.

“Yeah,” Will agreed. “But kind of perfect.”

As weeks passed, the team noticed something had changed—not enough to name it, just a sense that things were clicking. Will played with more confidence. Y/N moved with more ease, like she’d finally found her rhythm.

They kept stealing glances across the ice, small smiles meant only for each other.

And for now, that was enough.

Because sometimes, the best stories aren’t the loud ones.

They’re the ones written quietly, between the lines.

let em talk WS2

summary: social media is finally getting to Y/N. they’re hating on her, saying bad things about her, and she can’t do anything but believe them. when will notices he talks to her

requests: open

masterlist

By the time Will Smith finally stepped into the quiet of his apartment, the weight of the day followed him inside like a shadow he couldn’t shake. Practice had run long, the media had lingered longer, and his phone—buzzing nonstop in his pocket—felt heavier than any piece of equipment he’d worn on the ice.

Y/N was already there.

She sat on the couch with her knees pulled in, laptop closed but phone glowing in her hands. The TV was on, muted, some late-night sports recap flashing highlights of Will’s last game. She wasn’t watching it.

Will didn’t need to ask to know what was wrong.

He set his keys down slowly, like any sudden sound might break her further.

“Hey,” he said gently.

She looked up, trying to smile, and failing halfway through. “Hi.”

That single word told him everything.

Will crossed the room and sat beside her, close but careful, his presence steady rather than overwhelming. He glanced at her phone screen before she turned it face-down on the cushion.

He didn’t need to read it. He already knew.

Social media had been relentless lately.

At first, it had been subtle—side comments, jokes disguised as opinions. Then it became louder. Crueler. People dissecting Y/N’s life as if she were a character instead of a person. Questioning why Will was with her. Accusing her of chasing attention. Blaming her for losses she had nothing to do with.

She’d tried to ignore it.

She’d tried to be strong.

Tonight, it had finally cracked through.

“They hate me,” she said quietly, staring at the floor.

Will exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening—not at her, but at the faceless crowd behind those screens.

“No,” he said. “They don’t know you.”

She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Feels the same.”

Will leaned back, rubbing his hands together the way he did when he was thinking hard. “You know what they hate?”

She looked at him.

“That you don’t fit the story they already made up in their heads.”

Y/N didn’t answer. Her shoulders were tense, like she was bracing for another hit.

He continued anyway.

“They think they own my life because they watch me play hockey twice a week. They think that means they get a vote on who I care about.” He shook his head. “That’s not how it works.”

She finally looked at him then. “It still hurts.”

“I know,” he said softly. “And I’m not gonna pretend it doesn’t.”

Will reached for her phone—not to take it, just to turn it over so the screen faced down, completely dark.

“You remember that song I was playing in the car the other day?” he asked.

She nodded slowly. “The Ty Myers one.”

“Yeah. ‘Let ’Em Talk.’”

A faint smile tugged at her mouth despite herself.

Will smiled too, just a little. “That line stuck with me. Not because it’s easy—but because it’s true.”

He met her eyes, voice steady.

“People are always gonna talk. Especially when they don’t understand something. Especially when they’re bored.”

She swallowed. “I didn’t think I was strong enough to deal with it.”

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” Will said. “That’s my job too.”

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was heavy—but shared.

Y/N leaned back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

Will let out a short laugh. “Neither did I. You think I wanted strangers analyzing my facial expressions after a bad shift?”

That earned him a real smile this time.

“They said I looked ‘emotionally unstable’ last week,” he added. “Because I blinked too much in an interview.”

She shook her head. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Exactly.”

Will leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Look, when I was younger, I thought if I just played better, people would be nicer. Took me way too long to realize—some people don’t want to be nice. They want noise.”

She sat up straighter. “So what do we do?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“We live our lives anyway.”

The next morning, the noise hadn’t stopped.

If anything, it had grown.

A photo of Will and Y/N leaving a restaurant the night before had gone viral overnight. Comment sections were flooded—some supportive, many not. The same tired arguments recycled by different usernames.

Will scrolled through it once. Then locked his phone.

At practice, his teammate nudged him lightly. “You good?”

Will nodded. “Yeah.”

And he was—because he knew exactly where he stood.

After practice, reporters crowded him as usual.

“Will, how do you respond to fans saying your personal life is distracting you from the game?”

He didn’t miss a beat.

“I don’t,” he said calmly. “Because my personal life isn’t up for debate.”

The clip spread fast.

Y/N watched it from the kitchen, hands wrapped around a mug she’d forgotten to drink from. Her chest tightened—not from fear this time, but from something warmer.

—

That night, when Will came home, she met him at the door.

“They’re talking again,” she said.

He smiled, easy and unbothered. “Let ’em.”

She laughed, really laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in days.

“You’re serious,” she said.

“Dead serious.”

He rested his forehead briefly against hers—not dramatic, not performative. Just grounding.

“They don’t get to write our story,” he said. “We do.”

And for the first time since the noise had started, Y/N believed it.

Because the truth was simple.

The loudest voices didn’t know her.

Didn’t know them.

Didn’t matter.

So they let them talk.

a thanksgiving to remember WS2

summary: this was the first year that will had brought someone home for thanksgiving. and his family? they loved Y/N as soon as she stepped into the house. and they LOVED her banana bread.

requests: open

masterlist

Will Smith had always said hockey prepared him for anything—packed arenas, roaring fans, sudden breakaways, even late-night bus rides after tough losses. But as he stood in Y/N’s kitchen holding a bowl of mashed bananas and trying not to sneeze from the flour in the air, he realized there were still a few things the sport hadn’t trained him for.

Such as baking banana bread the morning of his family’s Thanksgiving party.

Y/N leaned over the counter, measuring sugar with the precision of someone who had watched the recipe video three times. “You know,” she said, glancing at Will with a teasing smile, “for someone who claims he ‘totally bakes all the time,’ you’re doing a lot of staring and not a lot of helping.”

“I am helping,” Will protested, gently nudging her shoulder with his. “Moral support is a very underrated form of assistance.”

“Mhm. Sure it is.”

But she was smiling, and he felt it inside his chest like warmth from an oven.

He slid closer behind her and rested a light hand on her waist to peek at the recipe again. “Wait—do we put the chocolate chips in now? Or later?”

“Now,” she said, reaching for the bag. But Will snatched it first, holding it up triumphantly.

“I’ve got this part,” he declared.

She gave him a suspicious look. “Do you?”

“Absolutely.”

He opened the bag and poured the entire thing into the mixing bowl.

“Will!” Y/N burst into laughter. “It said one cup, not the whole bag!”

“Chocolate chip overachiever,” he said proudly.

She shook her head but didn’t take the bowl away. “Well… I mean… your cousins will probably love it.”

“My cousins will love anything with chocolate. You’ve just made me the Thanksgiving hero.”

“You made yourself the Thanksgiving chaos agent,” she corrected playfully.

He grinned and leaned down to kiss her cheek—quick and warm—before mixing the batter. She pretended not to melt, but he saw the tiny smile she tried to hide.

And he loved it.

—

The Smith family home was already buzzing long before they arrived. Cars lined the driveway, music drifted through the open windows, and warm light spilled out onto the porch. Will parked the car, reached over, and squeezed Y/N’s hand gently.

“You ready?” he asked.

She nodded, though her fingers trembled a little around the container of banana bread. “I think so. Are they… nice?”

“Oh, they’re very nice,” Will said. Then paused. “But also loud. And competitive. And my Aunt might ask you seventeen questions before you even take your shoes off.”

Y/N laughed nervously. “Great… totally calming.”

“You’ll be fine,” he promised, sliding an arm around her waist as they walked toward the door. “I’ll be right next to you the whole time.”

And he meant it.

When they stepped inside, they were immediately greeted by a wave of warmth—cinnamon, stuffing, and the unmistakable smell of someone burning sweet potatoes.

“WILL!” someone shouted from the living room.

His younger cousins launched themselves at him like a welcoming committee of chaos. Will barely had time to let go of Y/N before he was pulled into a hug pile, laughing as he tried to keep his balance.

Y/N stood by the doorway clutching the banana bread like a shield until Will managed to untangle himself and return to her side, sliding his arm back around her like it belonged there.

“This is Y/N,” he announced proudly.

A chorus of greetings filled the room.

“Hi, sweetheart!”

“So nice to meet you!”

“You made banana bread? Oh, bless you.”

“You put chocolate chips? Even better!”

Will shot her a tiny, smug look.

She elbowed him.

His aunt swooped in next, just as Will predicted. “So how long have you two been together? Do you like hockey? Are you going to the winter family trip? Do you have siblings? Are you hungry? Did you drive safe? Do you want something to drink?”

Will squeezed Y/N’s hand behind his back as she answered with as much patience as she could muster. He leaned down and whispered, “I warned you,” which made her laugh, easing the tension.

His family was wild, but in the warm, welcoming way that felt like home.

—

At some point, Y/N found herself ushered into the kitchen by Will’s mom, Coleen, who was stirring gravy with the confidence of a seasoned Thanksgiving general.

“So,” she said lightly, “how’s Will doing with all his traveling? I imagine it’s a lot.”

Y/N smiled. “It is, but he makes time. He always checks in, even on road trips.”

“That sounds like him.” she chuckled. “When he was little, he used to call me from sleepovers if he missed home. He likes having his people close.”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm at that—especially because Will had practically attached himself to her the moment they entered the house.

Almost as if summoned by her thoughts, Will returned to the kitchen and slid an arm around her waist from behind.

“There you are,” he said softly. “I was looking for you.”

“Told you,” his mom teased, making Will raise a brow.

“Mom, come on,” he muttered.

Y/N laughed as he guided her toward the living room again, keeping close like it was second nature.

—

Family games at the Smith house were legendary. Will had warned Y/N, but she still wasn’t prepared for the level of intensity his relatives brought to Thanksgiving trivia.

Y/N sat beside Will on the floor, her shoulder pressed against his, his arm loosely draped around her. Every once in a while he’d give her a little squeeze of encouragement, especially when she answered a question right.

When she got one question faster than his cousin tyler, the room erupted—but tyler pointed dramatically at Will.

“Will!” he barked. “You brought a ringer!”

Will lifted his chin proudly. “Obviously.”

Y/N playfully nudged him. “I’m not a ringer. I just knew that one.”

“Uh-huh. Totally innocent,” Will murmured, leaning closer and brushing a soft kiss against her temple. His family erupted in teasing “oooohs,” but he just grinned against her hair.

Y/N hid her face in her hands, laughing, but Will’s fingers brushed gently over her shoulder in a way that said you’re okay.

And she felt it.

—

When dinner was finally ready, the dining room transformed into the heart of the evening. The table was packed—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, rolls, cranberry sauce, and Will’s and Y/N’s banana bread sitting proudly near the center.

Everyone squeezed together, elbows bumping, chairs scraping, kids arguing over who got the biggest roll. Y/N found herself between Will and his youngest cousin, Lily, who immediately started asking if Y/N could braid hair better than Will could.

“Definitely,” Y/N whispered, which made Lily giggle.

Before the meal started, Will rested his hand on the small of Y/N’s back, leaning close.

“This is really nice,” she murmured.

He smiled. “Better now that you’re here.”

She gave him a soft look—warm, grateful, just for him—and he brushed a tiny kiss to her forehead. His dad cleared his throat loudly in mock warning.

Will pulled back, cheeks pink, but still grinning.

During the meal, conversation flowed effortlessly around them. Hockey came up—of course—and Y/N listened as Will’s uncles argued over which of his goals had been the best so far this season.

When she chimed in with her own opinion, the table went silent for a second—then everyone nodded in agreement.

“You picked the right one,” Will whispered, nudging her knee with his under the table.

“You trained me well,” she whispered back.

The banana bread was a massive hit—so much so that Will’s dad tried to steal the remaining slices to hide for later.

“Not a chance,” Will said, shielding the container dramatically. “This is coming home with us.”

Y/N shook her head in amusement as she leaned into his shoulder.

—

Dessert and games followed dinner, and somehow Y/N ended up in a group helping clean the kitchen while Will’s cousins begged him to go outside and shoot a mini hockey puck with them.

Will kept glancing at her as he backed toward the door, clearly torn between joining the game and not wanting to leave her alone.

“Go,” she told him, smiling. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I promise.”

He hesitated a second longer before jogging outside—only to run back inside ten seconds later just to steal a quick kiss from her lips.

His family howled from the yard.

“WILL, GET BACK OUT HERE!”

He grinned at her sheepishly. “Okay, now I’ll go.”

She laughed. “Go!”

But as he left, she felt her heart swell. Even surrounded by the people he loved most, he still looked for her.

—

As the night wound down, the house grew softer—lights dimmer, voices lower, kids drowsy on the sofas. Y/N and Will found a quiet corner of the living room beside the fireplace, sitting close on the carpet as the family talked around them.

Will slid his fingers into hers, absent-mindedly tracing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb.

“You did amazing,” he murmured.

“I survived,” she said jokingly.

“You didn’t just survive. They love you. I can tell.”

Y/N looked around—at his smiling cousins, his mom laughing with an aunt, his dad trying to convince someone that his gravy was superior to Will’s grandmother’s recipe.

“They’re… really great,” she admitted softly. “Loud. But great.”

Will laughed quietly. “They’re a lot. But they’re my lot.”

He leaned his shoulder against hers. “And I’m glad you were here with me.”

She rested her head lightly against him. “Me too.”

A few minutes passed in peaceful silence until his mom walked by and whispered, “Cuties,” which made both of them blush.

—

The drive home was calm—streetlights glowing, soft music playing, Y/N leaning comfortably against her seat with Will holding her hand on the center console.

“That was a good day,” she said gently.

“One of my favorites,” Will replied, glancing at her with a soft smile. “Thanks for coming. And for making banana bread. And for surviving Aunt Patty.”

“I should get a medal for that.”

“You absolutely should.”

He lifted her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles before placing it back on his thigh, fingers intertwined.

Y/N felt warm. Safe. Happy.

“Think your family liked me?” she asked quietly.

Will looked over at her like the answer was the easiest thing in the world.

“They adored you.”

“And you?”

His voice softened. “I adore you too.”

She smiled, leaning her head back as the streetlights passed by slowly.

And Will kept holding her hand all the way home.