#allaboutmacklin

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.

he shouldn’t have said her name MC71

summary: macklin never fought in hockey games. ever. but when an opposing teammate says something about his girlfriend, oh it’s on.

requests: closed

masterlist

Macklin Celebrini could take hits.

He could take cheap shots, elbows to the ribs, slashes behind the referee’s back, and chirps so creative they could’ve won comedy awards.

But there was one thing—one single line—that no one, absolutely no one, was allowed to cross.

And tonight, someone crossed it.

—

Pre-Game Tension

The arena in Vancouver was electric. Rivalry game. Sold-out crowd. Everyone buzzing with that sharp, buzzing tension that came when the Sharks visited.

The locker room felt tight, heavy. You could practically taste adrenaline in the air.

Macklin sat on the bench tying his skates, trying to focus on his breathing. Normally he was calm before games. Focused. Smooth.

But not tonight.

Not when he knew Y/N was in the stands for the first time in weeks. She was sitting third row, behind the bench, wearing his jersey—number on her back, his name stretched across her shoulders.

Every time he thought about it, his chest warmed.

And every time he thought about the guy on the opposing team—Trevor Hale—his jaw tightened.

Hale had been running his mouth all season. Trash talk was normal. Every player did it. But Hale had gotten personal. Way too personal.

Especially after he found out Macklin had a girlfriend.

“Hey Celebrini,” Hale had smirked last game, “did your girl ever get tired of waiting for you to grow up? She looks like she needs a real man.”

Macklin hadn’t reacted then. He’d skated away, jaw locked so hard his teeth hurt.

But tonight—Hale was already looking for him.

And Macklin could feel it coming.

Coach tapped him on the shoulder. “You ready, Cele?”

“Always,” Macklin said, but his voice came out lower than usual.

Focused. Sharp. Dangerous.

—

In the Stands

Y/N had never been nervous watching Macklin play before. She’d seen him take hits. She’d seen him get shoved into boards, get slashed, get knocked down. He always bounced right back up.

But tonight… something felt different.

She watched him during warmups—how stiff he was, how he kept glancing toward the other team, not even trying to hide it.

Something was off.

“You nervous?” the fan beside her asked with a grin.

She forced a smile. “Just… want him to stay safe.”

The man nodded. “It’s gonna be a nasty game. Everyone can feel it.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

She wished she could shake the feeling that something bad was about to happen.

—

The First Period — The Warning Signs

The puck dropped. Instantly, bodies collided.

Not even ten seconds in, Hale lined Macklin up for a hit. Macklin braced—absorbed it—didn’t fall.

Hale smirked, tapping the top of Macklin’s stick with his own.

“How’s the girlfriend?” he taunted casually. “Saw her little picture on Instagram. Cute.”

Macklin didn’t respond. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t even flinch outwardly.

Inside, though, something cracked.

Shift after shift, Hale targeted him. Slashes. Late hits. Elbows.

The refs warned him twice.

He didn’t care.

End of the first period, Macklin skated back to the bench breathing sharp and controlled.

Coach noticed instantly. “You okay, Cele?”

“I’m fine.”

He wasn’t.

He was one insult away from losing it.

And Hale knew it.

—

Second Period — The Line Crossed

Eight minutes in, Macklin carried the puck through the neutral zone. His focus was razor-sharp. His skates carved effortlessly into the ice as he wove past defenders—

And then Hale slammed into him. Late. Hard. Illegal.

Macklin hit the boards, shoulder first, grunting.

Whistle.

Fans booed.

The play stopped.

And that’s when Hale leaned down next to his ear and whispered the words that snapped something inside Macklin completely:

“Maybe I’ll take your girl out after the game. She looks lonely when you’re on the road. Bet she needs someone who can actually satisfy her.”

Macklin stopped breathing.

He stood up slowly.

Hale was smirking.

And the next thing Hale saw was Macklin’s gloves hitting the ice.

—

The Fight

Gasps erupted through the crowd. The arena went silent except for the sharp clattering of equipment as both players threw down.

Macklin didn’t even hesitate—he grabbed Hale by the collar of his jersey and yanked him forward.

“You don’t talk about her,” Macklin snarled, voice raw.

Hale chuckled, “What, did I hit a nerve, pretty boy?”

Macklin’s fist collided with Hale’s jaw so fast the cameras barely caught it.

The crowd ROARED.

Hale stumbled back, shocked.

Then swung.

Punch met punch. Helmets shook. Blood splattered across the ice. Hale landed a hit to Macklin’s cheekbone, but Macklin didn’t even feel it.

He wasn’t fighting for pride.

He was fighting because no one disrespected Y/N like that. Ever.

“You keep her name out of your mouth!” Macklin shouted, slamming Hale down onto the ice.

The refs dove in.

The bench was on its feet—some cheering, some yelling for Macklin to stop, some stunned speechless.

Y/N’s hands flew to her mouth.

Oh god.

Her stomach dropped as she watched the refs drag Macklin off Hale, who was bleeding from the lip and glaring like he regretted everything.

Macklin didn’t look at the crowd.

Didn’t look at his teammates.

Didn’t look at the refs.

His chest heaved, eyes dark, jaw set like steel.

He looked like a man who would’ve killed if the refs hadn’t intervened.

He looked terrifying.

He looked furious.

He looked—

Hurt.

—

The Penalty Box

The moment the gate slammed behind him in the penalty box, Macklin bent forward, elbows on his knees, breathing hard.

His knuckles were bleeding.

His cheek was swelling.

He didn’t care.

He heard nothing—not the booming announcer, not the ref explaining the penalties, not the roar of the crowd.

The only thing he heard was that voice replaying in his head:

“She looks lonely. Bet she needs someone who can satisfy her.”

He gripped his hair, furious at himself for reacting—furious at Hale for existing—furious at the entire situation.

And then he felt it.

Eyes on him.

He looked up.

Y/N was standing at the glass, palms pressed against it, eyes wide with worry.

Their gazes locked.

Her lips formed the softest, “Are you okay?”

And the anger inside him cracked.

He exhaled. The tension in his shoulders lowered. His hands unclenched.

He nodded, slowly.

She gave him the smallest, gentlest smile.

And that was all he needed.

—

After the Game

The Sharks won.

But when the final buzzer sounded, Macklin didn’t celebrate. He went straight to the locker room, ignoring cameras, reporters, and even teammates who tried to pat him on the back.

He just wanted her.

He needed to see her.

He was still pulling tape off his hands when the door opened.

Y/N slipped inside quietly.

He froze.

She approached him cautiously—like he was a wild animal who hadn’t decided whether to soften or bite.

“Mack,” she whispered.

At the sound of her voice, his entire body uncoiled. He dropped the tape and pulled her into his arms in one sweeping motion, burying his face in her shoulder.

She held him just as tightly.

“I’m okay,” she murmured, hands sliding up his back. “I’m right here.”

He breathed her in like he’d been drowning.

“Did he touch you?” Macklin asked, voice low.

“No,” she said immediately. “Of course not.”

“Did he… say anything to you? Look at you? Come near you?”

“No, Macklin,” she assured, cupping his face. “He didn’t. I promise. I’m fine.”

His jaw flexed. “He talked about you. On the ice. He—he said things he shouldn’t have.”

Her expression darkened. “What did he say?”

Macklin shook his head. “I’m not repeating it.”

She softened. “Then why are you shaking?”

He hadn’t noticed he was.

Y/N gently took his hand—carefully, because his knuckles were bruised and split—and laced her fingers with his.

“You protected me,” she whispered. “That means everything to me. But Macklin… you can’t let someone like him get in your head.”

He looked away, ashamed. “I lost control.”

“You lost control because you care about me.” She stepped closer. “And I love that. But you can’t throw punches every time someone says my name.”

He met her eyes.

“You’re my soft spot,” he said quietly. “Of course I reacted.”

She swallowed. “And you’re mine.”

His breath hitched.

Y/N’s voice softened even more. “Come here.”

He leaned forward—and she kissed him.

Not rushed.

Not hungry.

Soft. Slow. Reassuring.

The kind of kiss that told him he wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t out of control.

He was loved.

She pulled back, brushing his cheek with her thumb.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispered. “Not for the fight—but for caring so deeply.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “I’d fight anyone for you.”

“I know,” she murmured, laughing quietly. “But maybe don’t tell Coach that.”

He smiled—finally.

—

The Final Moment

As they walked out of the locker room together, Macklin laced his fingers with hers again.

“You really okay?” he asked one more time.

Y/N nodded. “As long as you’re next to me.”

They reached the tunnel entrance.

Cameras waited outside.

Reporters murmured.

Lights flashed.

But Macklin looked only at her.

“I didn’t like hearing another man say your name,” he admitted quietly. “Not like that.”

She touched his cheek tenderly. “Then kiss me before we go out.”

He did—soft, slow, protective.

The kind of kiss that said:

You’re mine.

I’m yours.

And I’ll never let anyone disrespect you again.

Then he pulled back, shoulders squared, fire still burning behind his eyes—but gentler now, controlled.

She smiled. “Ready?”

“With you?” he said. “Always.”

And they stepped out together.

where will belongs WS2

summary: after practice, all will wants to do is go home to his girlfriend sand do nothing but be close to her. as he tells her she feels like home they cuddle for the rest of the night.

requests: open

masterlist

The sound of the front door unlocking echoed through the small apartment, and Y/N looked up from the book she had been reading. She had just settled into the couch with a cup of tea, the kind of quiet evening she had been craving, and her heart skipped when she saw Will step inside, his hockey gear still clinging to him like a second skin.

“Hey, you,” she greeted softly, smiling as he dropped his bag by the door and kicked off his skates.

Will’s face lit up when he saw her, a tired grin spreading across his face. “Hey, babe,” he said, his voice still carrying the edge of the day’s practice. “I missed you.”

Y/N set her book aside, patting the space next to her on the couch. “I missed you too. Long day?”

He flopped down next to her, sighing dramatically as he leaned back. “Longest. My legs feel like jelly, my shoulders are screaming, and all I want is… you.”

The last word was said almost as a whisper, and Y/N felt a flutter in her chest. Will had this way of saying things that made her forget the rest of the world existed.

“Me? What about me?” she teased, nudging him lightly.

“Yeah, you,” he said, leaning closer so that his forehead rested against hers. “I want you, I need you… especially after a day like today.”

Y/N laughed softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his damp forehead. “You’re so clingy after practice,” she said, though her tone was gentle, affectionate.

Will grinned mischievously. “You love it.”

Before she could respond, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. It wasn’t rushed; it was the kind of kiss that said, I’ve been thinking about you all day, and I need this. When he pulled back, he rested his head against her shoulder, sighing contentedly.

“You’re warm,” he murmured, nuzzling into her. “I missed this. I missed… being close to you.”

Y/N laughed again, but it was quiet, filled with affection. “Well, you’re home now. So you can be as clingy as you want.”

Will’s grin widened. “Oh, I intend to.”

He shifted slightly, moving so that he could rest more comfortably on the couch, lying partially across her lap. Y/N’s hands went to his hair almost instinctively, fingers threading through the short strands at the back of his neck. Will let out a soft, pleased hum.

“You always make it better,” he murmured, closing his eyes as she played with his hair. “I don’t know how you do it, but you just… make everything feel okay.”

Y/N smiled down at him, brushing a gentle hand over his cheek. “Maybe I just love you.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice thick with affection. “I love you too.”

The apartment was quiet except for the sound of their soft voices and the occasional clink of her fingers in his hair. Will shifted again, now resting fully against her, his head on her chest and one arm draped lazily over her stomach. She could feel the steady beat of his heart against her own, a comforting rhythm after a long, tiring day.

“You’re heavy,” Y/N said, though her tone was playful rather than complaining.

“I’m your heavy,” Will replied with a grin. “Your cuddle weight.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she said softly, but she tightened her arms around him, pulling him closer. “But I like it.”

Will let out a small, content sigh, his lips brushing against the curve of her neck. “You’re perfect,” he said, his voice muffled against her skin. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d survive,” she said with a laugh, tilting her head so he could kiss her again.

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t be fun,” he countered, his lips finding hers in a slow, lingering kiss that left both of them breathless. “I like having you around. I like… this. Us.”

Y/N smiled against his lips, the warmth of him spreading through her chest. “Me too,” she whispered, and he hummed in agreement.

For a while, they just stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, letting the world outside fade away. Will would occasionally murmur little compliments into her hair, pressing soft kisses to her shoulder, while Y/N ran her hands over his back and through his hair, grounding him after a day of physical exhaustion and mental strain.

At one point, he rolled slightly so that he could lie on his back, pulling her down so that she rested against him. Her head settled against his chest, and he wrapped an arm securely around her, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

“You feel like home,” he said quietly, the sincerity in his voice making Y/N’s chest tighten. “I don’t just mean your apartment… I mean you. You’re my home.”

Her heart swelled, and she pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone. “You’re my home too, Will,” she said. “I’ve never felt… this comfortable with anyone.”

Will let out a pleased hum, tightening his hold on her. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I plan on keeping you like this… close, always.”

They stayed like that for what felt like hours, talking quietly, sharing kisses, and stealing little touches. Will occasionally nudged her playfully, making her laugh, before pressing another soft kiss to her lips, his warmth radiating through her like a blanket.

“You know,” he said at one point, his voice teasing, “I think you missed your calling as a hair stylist. You’ve got magic fingers.”

Y/N laughed, running her fingers through his hair again. “Just for you, Mr. Hockey Star.”

Will let out a satisfied sigh, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I could get used to this,” he murmured. “Coming home to you, being held by you… it’s perfect.”

Y/N smiled, leaning into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. “Perfect isn’t even enough,” she whispered.

Will hummed, nuzzling into her hair, and for a while, there were no words—just the quiet intimacy of two people who belonged together. He shifted slightly, draping his legs over hers in a lazy, comfortable sprawl, his arm still around her waist, holding her close.

“Promise me something?” he said suddenly, his tone serious but soft.

“What?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Promise me we’ll always have this,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the closeness, the kisses, the laughter, the warmth of their shared space. “No matter what… always like this.”

Y/N smiled, brushing a hand over his cheek. “I promise,” she said, and kissed him softly, sealing the promise in the quiet glow of the apartment.

Will let out a happy hum, pressing his forehead against hers. “Good,” he said, grinning. “Because I can’t imagine my life any other way. I want you. All of you. Every day.”

“You have me,” Y/N said, her voice steady but full of love. “All of me. Always.”

And with that, Will leaned in, capturing her lips in another slow, lingering kiss, before settling back into her arms. They stayed that way, tangled together, hearts beating in quiet sync, the rest of the world forgotten. It was just them, the quiet apartment, and the warmth of each other—a perfect, ordinary, magical evening that neither of them wanted to end.

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

requests: open

masterlist

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.

requests: open

masterlist

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.

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.

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.

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

requests: open

masterlist

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.