#bb6

"Happiest at Home." -> I will cry in 3...2...1—

brock boeser, acrylic on 100x70cm canvas 🫍

glitter after the break

the people’s princess

marco rossi’s game-winning goal with ten seconds left in OT

“Your love is scaring me,

No one has ever cared for me as much,

As you do, ooh,

Yeah, I need you here.”

Summary: After going to your hook-up’s place to retrieve something that you forgot, you find him injured, and subsequently find yourself wondering if it’s something more.

Word Count: 3.8k

Pairing: injured,soft!Brock Boeser x guarded!fem reader

Warnings: Injury, alludes to sex, slightly steamy scenes not anything too over the top.

Notes: I enjoyed writing this so much I love my brockstar (please come back to Vancouver I miss you) and this is a new style of writing i've been playing with.

Italics represent flashbacks.

prince charming of hockey 🫡

***

You weren’t planning on this, but today, you were going to your hook-up’s place. After work, before going out with your friends. And it wasn’t even to hook up.

As forgetful as you were, you made sure to always triple-check in situations like these that you didn’t leave anything behind – confronting someone you sometimes have sex with in a casual demeanor gave you the ick.

Maybe you didn’t check enough, because you left your favourite going-out top at his apartment.

Knock, knock, knock.

Nothing.

You knock again, but nothing, no noise, no anything. You pull your phone out of your back pocket, re-read your texts with him to ensure you had the right time, and glance at the apartment number multiple times to ensure you were at the right place.

You were. So why wasn’t he opening the door?

Grabbing the handle, you jiggle it expecting it to be locked, but the door creaks open. You glance around to make sure nobody else is in the hall, and you eventually decide to just let yourself in.

Two large dogs immediately run to your feet, letting out a few stray barks and you crouch down to pet them for a few seconds (how could you not?) before shushing them and standing back up. Closing the door behind you, you wearily look around, making sure this isn’t some stupid prank before calling out for him.

“Brock?” You shout, keeping your feet planted at the entryway, not wanting to intrude.

Suddenly, you hear a thud from down the hall, and a voice that hadn’t made itself known before. “Who is that?” Brock yells, his voice muffled from the closed door you assume he’s behind.

“It’s me,” you reply, a bit louder. “I texted you about coming by.”

There’s a brief silence, and then the sound of his voice. “Right… I, uh, I’m in a bit of a situation right now,” He calls back.

Your heart skips a beat, feeling a mix of concern and curiosity. You know his schedule, although you haven’t seen each other in over a week, and today’s one of his off days, but you don’t know what the hell hockey players do on their days off, and what could be going on right now. "What kind of situation?" you call out, trying to keep your voice steady.

There’s another pause before Brock responds, “Just… just come down the hall. I’m in the bathroom. The ensuite.”

You take a deep breath and start walking down the hallway, the dogs trailing behind you. His bedroom door is open, and you look at the mess of clothes among other things strewn across the floor as you approach the door you know very well as his ensuite. You press your ear to the door before you open it, and you hear a familiar noise… is that running water?

Of course. Of course he’d try to do this, this is what all of them do. You sigh, rubbing your temples while remaining outside of the door, “Are you trying to get me in the shower with you?” You say, quieter this time because of the lesser distance, although your tone is annoyed.

Brock doesn’t reply for a bit, but eventually you hear a deep sigh from behind the door. “No, it’s not like that. I swear. Just come in.”

Rolling your eyes, you push the door open slightly, peeking in. Brock is indeed in the bathroom, even in the shower, but not in the way you expected. He’s lying on the floor of the bathtub, opposite the faucet, the curtain half-closed so you can only see the top half of his body, and it doesn’t look… great. His hair, usually blond but brown from the water, is clung to his forehead as the water pats down on him, his face twisted in pain and his left hand gripping the side of the tub.

Your stomach tightens at the sight of him. This is definitely not what you expected when you decided to retrieve your top.

“Brock, what the hell?” You exclaim, pushing the door open fully and stepping into the bathroom. The dogs follow you, but you shoo them out and close the door halfway.

His eyes flicker open, and he gives you a pained smile. “I… I slipped,” he manages to say through gritted teeth.

Raising an eyebrow, you doubt that he just randomly… slipped, and fell without being able to get back up being in as good shape as he is. You take a step closer, peeking to the right of the curtain to discover his right foot is cast up to his mid-calf.

“Some privacy, please?” He hisses, although his eyes remain wide as he pulls the curtain a bit further to cover himself.

An incredulous laugh escapes you as you cross your arms. “You’re acting like I’ve never seen your dick before, Brock.”

He groans, his face contorting as he adjusts himself slightly in the tub. "This is different," he mutters, clearly embarrassed. "I can't get up. I need your help."

This is when you notice he has a plaster on his face, on his left cheek, furthering the level of injury he apparently has. “What happened?” You question, crouching down to shut off the water, to which he lets out a relieved sigh.

"I was trying to take a shower," he explains, his voice strained. "Slipped on the soap.”

You squeeze your eyes shut in frustration, and a scowl forms on your face. "You're an idiot sometimes, you know that?" you say, your tone softening, “I mean what’s with your foot and your face? Did you get into a fight or something?”

He shakes his head, motioning for you to get a nearby towel which you do. “Got checked pretty hard a few days ago, game against Jersey. Fractured my foot” He replies, helping you dry off his chest before trying not to lean on you too much as you try to help him out of the tub, “And turns out, Quinn’s brothers play hard, and Jack high-sticked me pretty good.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, brute sport.” You mutter, throwing his arm over your shoulder as you get him out of the tub, and once he’s partly on his feet you lead him to his bed which he immediately collapses onto.

You sit on the edge of the bed beside him, feeling a mix of concern and frustration. Brock’s face is flushed with pain and embarrassment as he winces every time he adjusts his position. Eventually, he turns his head towards you, pouting. “You really are an angel, you know that?”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest. “Don’t push it, Brock. You know why I’m here,” You say, scanning the already messy floor for your shirt which you find quickly and try to pick up without getting up, and as soon as the fabric touches your fingers, you’re transported back.

“That looks so fucking sexy on you,” Brock mumbles between kisses, his hands slipping beneath the shirt he just complimented. His hands squeeze the curve of your waist tightly, which makes you let out a small gasp. “I need you to wear that every fucking time you come see me, okay, baby?”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks, remembering how his hands felt on your skin, the way his voice sounded in your ear. It was a far cry from the current situation, with him laid out in pain and you playing caretaker. Shaking your head, you clear the thoughts and pull the shirt free from the tangle of clothes.

“Got it,” you announce, trying to keep your voice steady.

Brock’s eyes flutter open, and he watches you with concern on his face, “You okay?” He questions.

You force a smile, trying to push the memories aside. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, folding the shirt in your lap, “Anyway, aren’t you supposed to have someone help you shower if you’re like this?”

Brock sighs, shifting slightly on the bed to get more comfortable. "Yeah, I know," he admits, his voice tinged with regret. "I just didn't want to bother anyone. Thought I could manage on my own."

You shake your head, disbelief and frustration mingling within you. "Well, clearly, you can't," you retort, trying to keep your voice gentle despite your annoyance. “How long were you laying there before I showed up?”

Brock looks away, his expression sheepish. "About an hour," he mutters. "I didn’t want to call for help since I knew you’d be coming over and my door was unlocked.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, feeling a mixture of sympathy and annoyance. "You're lucky I came by," you say, standing up and looking around his room, "Do you have any other clothes you want to change into, or is staying in a towel your plan?"

He chuckles weakly, wincing as he tries to sit up. "I think I'd rather get dressed," he replies, nodding towards his dresser. "There should be some sweatpants and a T-shirt in there."

You head to the dresser and rummage through his clothes, finding a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt that looks comfortable. Returning to the bed, you help Brock sit up and carefully hand him the clothes. "Here, let's get you dressed," you say, trying to keep your tone light despite the awkwardness of the situation, and your mind ends up where you were the last time you helped Brock with his clothes as you help him put the t-shirt on.

"You know, you could have just asked for help," you tease, your hands deftly undoing the buttons of his shirt. Brock grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "But where's the fun in that?" he replies, his voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine. You laughed, feeling the heat between you two intensify as his shirt finally came off.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your thoughts as you help Brock into the sweatpants. His skin is warm under your fingers, a stark contrast to your own. You can't help but notice how his muscles tense slightly as you guide the fabric over his legs, careful not to jostle his injured foot.

As you pull the sweatpants up to his hips, Brock's hand grazes yours, and you both freeze for a moment, the tension between you palpable. His touch feels familiar, too familiar, and it sends a jolt of electricity through you.

“Come on, baby, don't be shy," Brock's voice is a husky whisper, his breath hot against your neck. His hands roam over your body, tracing the curve of your back as he pulls you closer. You feel his lips press against your collarbone, a shiver running down your spine as he kisses a trail up to your ear. "You know you like it when I touch you like this," he murmurs, his voice low and seductive. He takes one of your hands gently, placing it on the crotch of his dress pants, “Show me what you want, angel.”

You quickly pull your hand away, breaking the contact as if it burned you. Brock's eyes meet yours, his expression a mix of pain and something else, something that feels like longing. You force yourself to focus on the task at hand, helping him adjust the sweatpants around his hips before stepping back to give him some space.

"Thanks," he says, his voice soft and genuine. "I appreciate it."

You nod, unable to trust your voice to speak without betraying the turmoil inside you. The memories of your intimate moments with Brock swirl in your mind, making it hard to stay focused on the present.

“Brock,” you whisper, your breath hitching as his fingers trace lazy circles on your inner thigh. “What if someone hears us?” He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Let them,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. “I want them to know you’re mine.”

You swallow hard, the memory of his words lingering in your mind. It was easier back then, when everything was casual and uncomplicated. Now, with him injured and vulnerable, you can't help but feel like you're crossing a line you hadn't anticipated.

"So, uh, how long are you gonna be out of commission?" you ask, trying to steer the conversation to safer territory.

Brock sighs, running a hand through his wet hair. "Doc says a few weeks, maybe longer. Depends on how quickly I heal," he replies, a hint of frustration in his voice. "It's gonna be rough, not being able to play."

“Wear this,” Brock urges, tossing you an extra jersey from his closet. You take a moment to look at the front, the familiar blues and greens and the trademark orca in the dim light, before turning it around and realizing that it has his name and number stitched into it.

“Yeah,” you choke out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ll get through it.” You’re screaming at your inner dialogue to stop making you think of everything you’ve done with this man, but it’s hard when he’s in front of you, looking all soft and vulnerable.

Brock places a firm hand on your forearm, and you meet his gaze to see that his eyebrows are furrowed, a look of concern on his face. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He questions.

You force a smile, hoping it looks convincing enough to ease his concern. "Yeah, I'm fine," you lie, your voice steadier than you feel. "Just a lot on my mind, I guess."

Brock's eyes search yours, as if he's trying to read the thoughts you're desperately trying to hide. He squeezes your arm gently, the warmth of his touch seeping through your skin and into your bones. “Tell me.”

“You look so beautiful wearing my name,” Brock murmurs, his breath warm against your neck as he holds you close. "I don't know what I'd do without you." You laugh, “You’d survive,” you reply, though your heart swells at his words. “But you’d be a mess.”

You glance at Brock, who’s watching you with a mixture of concern and something else you can’t quite place. He’s waiting for you to say something, anything, and you know he deserves an answer. But the words feel stuck in your throat, caught between wanting to tell him everything and nothing at all.

“Brock, I…” you start, but your voice trails off. You look down, trying to find the right words, but all you can think about are the times he made you feel something more than just a casual fling.

“You're the only one I want," Brock whispers, his voice rough with emotion. He cups your face in his hands, not a care for anything else that’s happening as he thrust into you slowly. "I don't care about anyone else, just you." You blink, trying to process his words. "Brock, you can't just say things like that," you reply, your voice shaky. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. "But it's true," he insists, his breath warm against your lips. "I mean it."

You shake your head, trying to clear the fog of memories. “I just came to get my shirt,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t expect… this.”

Brock sighs, his expression softening. “I know,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into my mess.”

You laugh, the sound bitter and sharp. “Your mess?” you repeat, glancing around the room. “Brock, this isn’t just about your injury. This is… it’s more complicated than that.”

“You're always so guarded," Brock murmurs, his fingers tracing the outline of your jaw. You look away, feeling a lump form in your throat. "I'm not," you protest weakly. He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "You are," he insists, his eyes searching yours. "But I get it. I've been hurt before too."

Brock's hand tightens around your forearm, grounding you in the present. You glance down at his grip, then back up at his face. His eyes are searching yours, looking for something, anything, to understand what’s going on in your head.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I’m just… why haven’t you mentioned it? The things you’ve told me when I’ve been here before.”

Brock's eyes flicker with a mix of emotions - confusion, guilt, and something else you can't quite place. He lets out a slow breath, his grip on your arm loosening. "I didn’t think you’d want to hear it," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I thought it was for the best to keep things… casual."

You scoff, trying to hide the hurt in your eyes. "Casual? You were never really casual with me, Brock. You say all these things when we’re fresh off of sex, but you never say it when it counts.”

“I can't get enough of you," Brock murmurs, his lips trailing down your neck as he pulls you closer. "You're in my head all the time." You shiver at his words, your heart pounding in your chest. "Brock, we agreed to keep things simple," you whisper, trying to remind yourself of the boundaries you'd set. He pulled back slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that took your breath away. "I don't want simple," he says firmly. "I want you."

Brock's eyes flash with regret as he looks away. "I thought that's what you wanted," he says softly. "I didn't want to scare you off by being too… intense."

You shake your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. "Intense?" you repeat, the word tasting strange in your mouth. "Brock, you were more than intense. You made me feel things I didn’t even know I could feel. I can’t be the only one that feels like this, right? I can’t be the only one who wants more, even though I’ve never wanted that with anyone else in a long time.”

Brock's eyes widen, and he reaches out to grab your hand. "You're not," he says quickly, his voice urgent. "You're not the only one, I swear."

You pull your hand away, the sudden intensity of his words catching you off guard. "Then why didn't you say anything?" you ask, your voice rising with frustration. "Why did you let me think this was just a fling?"

Brock's expression softens, and he looks down at his hands. “Because you’re… you,” he admits his voice choking up, “You’re this beautiful, strong, independent woman and, don’t get me wrong, I’ve done pretty well for myself, but I can't help how I feel about you. How I feel all soft and mushy when you look at me like you want me, and trust me, it’s been an honor to make you feel good with no strings, but I want to be that close to you all the time, in all the ways, Y/N. I kept it casual for you, and I was only honest with you in bed because I literally can’t imagine my life without you anymore and it’s fucking terrifying.”

You stand there, stunned, processing Brock's confession. The vulnerability in his eyes, the raw honesty of his words, pierces through your defenses. This isn’t what you expected when you came here to retrieve your shirt.

You eventually look away, your mind racing with conflicting emotions. You want to believe him, want to trust that his feelings are genuine, but the fear of getting hurt again lingers in the back of your mind.

“You deserve better," Brock murmurs, peppering kisses along your face. You look up at him, confusion in your eyes. "What do you mean?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. He sighs, his expression softening. "You deserve someone who can give you everything," he says, his voice filled with determination. "And I want to be that person for you."

“I’m scared,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper as tears well in the corners of your eyes. “I’m scared of getting hurt. Of losing you.”

Brock reaches out, his fingers gently brushing against your cheek, wiping away a stray tear. “Angel, if I could I’d jump up and lift you into my arms right now, but since I can’t, can you please come to me?”

You hesitate for a moment, but the sincerity in Brock's eyes draws you in. Slowly, you swing your legs over his bed, allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Brock's arms wrap around you, pulling you into a gentle embrace despite his injuries. You feel his warmth, his heartbeat against your chest, and it calms you in a way you didn't expect.

“I know it’s scary,” he soothes, running his fingers through your hair, “On everything that I am, I promise I will never hurt you.”

“I don't want you to go," Brock whispers one night, his voice barely audible in the darkness. His arm is draped over your waist, pulling you closer. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. "Stay with me tonight," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. You hesitate, the weight of his words sinking in. "I don't know, Brock," you reply, your voice uncertain. "I don't want things to get complicated." He leans in, his eyes locked on yours. "They're already complicated," he had said softly. "But I don't care. I want you here."

You sit there for a moment, feeling Brock's heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. It's a rhythm you've missed more than you care to admit. Slowly, you pull back just enough to look into his eyes, searching for any hint of deceit or hesitation. But all you find is sincerity and a depth of emotion that takes your breath away.

"Brock," you whisper, your voice trembling, “Can I stay here for a while?”

Brock’s eyes light up with relief, and he pulls you closer, his grip gentle but firm. “Of course you can, angel. Stay as long as you want.”

You sink into his embrace, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. It feels right, being here with him, even if the circumstances are less than ideal. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The dogs, sensing the change in atmosphere, quietly curl up at the foot of the bed.

holy