#belli5

If there was one thing in the world that Macklin hated, it was the way you always called him cute.

Well, hate was a strong word.

Macklin didn’t absolutely hate it when you called him cute. There were times it felt nice, like when you’d scroll through old baby photos his mom had texted you, and you’d coo, “Look at baby Mack, so cute!” He’d duck his head, cheeks burning, but the shyness came with warmth because it was harmless.

Back then, he was still figuring out how to fill out his frame, still the kid everyone babied a little. But now it kind of felt annoying.

He was 19, standing 6’0, carrying 190 pounds of solid muscle that came from endless hours in the weight room and on the ice. He’d bulked up noticeably since his rookie year; broader shoulders, thicker legs, the kind of build that let him drive the net without getting shoved off.

In the 25-26 season, he was already at 29 goals and 54 assists, a Sharks team that finally looked like it had a future because of him. Alternate captain some nights.

He wasn’t a puppy anymore. He was a man who could bench his own bodyweight, who absorbed hits from guys twice his age and still finished checks. He wanted you to see that, and to treat him like the big guy he actually was.

But instead, you kept saying cute.

And the worst part? You said it about everything small and sweet. A puppy trotting by on the sidewalk during your daily walks together? “Aww, so cute!” A kid in a tiny Sharks hat waving at him after a game? “Look how cute that little guy is!” It wasn’t jealousy exactly, he wasn’t competing with dogs or toddlers but it lumped him in with them.

Another worst thing was that you weren’t even dating. If you had been boyfriend, girlfriend, something with labels and night kisses and mornings tangled in sheets; maybe the “cute” thing wouldn’t have landed like a slap every time.

Maybe he could’ve laughed it off, tugged you closer by the waist, murmured something cocky like, “Yeah? Wait ’til you see what else I can do that’s cute,” before proving exactly how not-cute he could be. In that version of things, “cute” would’ve been foreplay, a tease, a private joke between two people who already knew the heat underneath.

But you weren’t dating. You were just you and him: best friends, the girl who’d been there since forever. The one he could show up to unannounced, bruised and moody, and you’d still open the door without hesitation. The one he thought about way too much when the lights were off and the condo was quiet.

Macklin didn’t remember exactly when the feelings had started. Maybe they’d been there all along. Maybe they’d crept in slow when you laughed too hard at his dumb jokes, every time you patched him up after a fight. Either way, he’d been too stupid to name it until it was too loud to ignore.

In your perspective, it was totally harmless. Calling Macklin cute had always felt like the most natural thing in the world, the same as breathing. You never once thought it could hurt him. You’d noticed the way he sometimes turned his face away when the word slipped out, cheeks going pink, jaw tightening just a bit.

But you’d chalked it up to shyness. Macklin was shy in the sweetest ways, when you complimented his new haircut, when you hugged him too long after games, when you caught him staring at you across the room like he’d forgotten how words worked. That flush, that quick duck of his head made your chest ache in the best way. You loved seeing him like that.

You really did think he was cute. Not in a diminutive way, not like you were patting him on the head and calling it a day. Cute in the way his whole face lit up when he scored and he’d do that little fist pump shrug combo like he was surprised he’d done it again. Cute in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, cute in the way he’d sprawl on your couch looking exhausted and impossibly beautiful all at once.

Anytime a new picture of him popped up, you’d stop scrolling and zoom in. His smile, all teeth and triumph, cheeks flushed from adrenaline. Every single one made you melt a little more. There wasn’t a person on the planet who could unravel you like he did. Not with grand gestures, just by being Macklin, by existing in the same space as you, close enough to touch, far enough that you ached with it.

To no one’s surprise, you traveled to Italy with Macklin for the Olympics. He’d known Italy was one of the countries you’d always wanted to visit since high school.

When he made the Team Canada roster, he didn’t hesitate. “Come with us,” he’d said casually. “My family’s going. You can crash in the hotel, I want you there.” His parents had loved the idea; his mom had already booked your room before you could protest.

Tonight was one of those casual evenings. Canada had practice earlier for tomorrow’s quarterfinal; his family had retreated to their rooms after dinner. It was around 7pm, the city lights twinkling outside your window.

You and Macklin were side by side on your hotel bed, backs against the headboard, legs stretched out. He was in gray sweats, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. You had yours open to Pinterest, hunting for new nail inspo for when you got home.

The feed loaded slowly on hotel wifi. Then a photo popped up on your home page: Macklin during warmups, red jersey hugging his shoulders, helmet tilted just so, stick gripped tight. The angle caught the focused set of his jaw, the faint flush on his cheeks from the cold rink, eyes sharp under the visor but with that tiny smile tugging at his mouth.

You gasped out loud. Macklin’s head snapped toward you. “What? Show me.”

“Oh my gosh,” you breathed, already zooming in. “This is the cutest pic I’ve ever seen.”

He leaned over, expecting maybe a photo of kittens or one of those viral baby animal reels you sent him constantly. “Lemme see-”

You turned the screen toward him fully. His eyes landed on the photo of himself, in full Olympic gear, looking every bit the focused sniper who’d been tearing up the tournament. He stared at the screen, then immediately looked back down at his own phone, jaw clenching.

You didn’t notice anything at first. “Mack, that’s such an adorable face expression. Look at your little smile. Like you’re plotting to score the next one.”

He didn’t respond right away, he kept scrolling, thumb moving too fast. “No, it’s not. It’s just another random picture they took of me..”

You nudged his shoulder lightly. “Nooo, it’s my new favorite picture. I’m putting it on one of my home screen widgets.”

“Y/n.” His voice came out low, he didn’t snap; he’d never snap at you but he was annoyed. “Can you just stop?”

You blinked, lowering the phone. “Stop what?”

“Calling it cute. Calling me cute.” He set his phone face down on the bed, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not adorable. It’s just me doing my job.”

“But it is adorable,” you insisted, softer now, confused. “The way your cheeks are pink from the cold, that tiny grin, you look happy. I love it.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders tense. “That’s the problem. You love the happy, focused puppy version. Not..” He gestured vaguely at himself. “Not anything else.”

“Mack,” you started gently, “I didn’t mean-”

“I know you didn’t.” He cut you off. “But it’s every time like I’m still the kid you met years ago.” He finally looked at you. “I’m not and I don’t want to be that to you.”

Macklin didn’t know what he expected when he said that out loud but he’d carried the words around for so long, that saying them now felt inevitable. He wanted you and maybe this hotel room in Milan, was finally the right time.

You stared at him, eyes wide. “Okay.”

He exhaled, shoulders dropping. You paused, shifting so your knee brushed his. “Then what do you want to be?”

Macklin shrugged, gaze dropping to the space between you. He couldn’t look at you right now. “I don’t know.”

“Tell me, Mack.” Your voice was gentle, coaxing. You reached out, fingers brushing along his jaw lightly.

He shook his head once, catching your wrist in his hand to pull it away before the touch unraveled him completely. His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist. “This is gonna sound stupid, but.. I just want you to think I’m good looking. Not just cute.” He swallowed. “It makes me think you don’t want me the way I want you. And yeah, maybe I’m being an idiot right now, confessing like this in the middle of the freaking Olympics, but-”

“Mack!”

He stopped rambling, eyes snapping up to yours. “Do you really think I don’t find you attractive?”

He shrugged again. “I don’t know. You never say it like that.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Just because I haven’t exactly said the words doesn’t mean I don’t think it.” You moved closer, turning so you were facing each other fully on the bed. You lifted your free hand, fingers gentle under his chin, tilting his face up until he had no choice but to meet your eyes. “If anything, you’re the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen.”

The compliment landed softly, his cheeks flushed deeper, pink creeping up from his neck but this time it wasn’t embarrassment.

You smiled and started to lean in.

He met you halfway and your mouths brushed together. He deepened the kiss as his hand found the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair; yours slid to his shoulder, gripping the soft fabric of his long sleeve. You sucked lightly on his bottom lip, and he made a quiet sound in the back of his throat that sent heat curling through you both.

When you pulled back, both of you were smiling, stupid and breathless and a little dazed.

Macklin’s voice came out rough. “That.. that was nice to hear from you.” He swallowed, thumb brushing your cheek. “I think the same about you.”

You laughed softly, the sound muffled against his skin as you pressed another quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Took you long enough to say it.”

“Me?” He huffed, but there was no bite in it. “You’re the one who kept calling me something like it was a personality trait.”

“Maybe it is,” you teased, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “But handsome fits better.”

Macklin leaned back against the headboard, pulling you with him so your shoulders pressed together. You both settled in, he took your right hand in his, lacing your fingers without thinking, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles.

You reached for your phone with your free hand, still open to that photo of him, “You know,” you said, tilting the screen toward him again, “I really might make this my Instagram profile picture.”

He huffed a laugh, glancing at it, then at you. “Yeah, sure. Maybe once we make it official to the public.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh?” You say as you leaned your head on his shoulder.

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When you first laid your eyes on the blond, your heart forgot how to beat for a second. It was during the slumber party challenge, the girls and the boys were all piled onto the massive white sheeted bed that had quickly turned into a colorful mess of the girls trying to find their partner with paint.

All of the girls quickly learned that there clearly had been someone else kissing the guys, because no girls from the villa had the red paint.

And of course, Ariana announced that there was bombshells who kissed the guys while the girls blindfolded tried to find their connection. All the girls whined, until Ariana spoke up. “And girls, I know I forget a lot but this time I didn’t forget about you. Please welcome Caleb!”

You couldn’t see clearly from the start, but soon you saw a figure walking down the stairs. It was a tall, blond guy, all easy confidence and a genuine smile.

He was easily one of the best looking guys you’d ever seen in person. He had sunkissed skin, sharp jaw, and warm eyes that scanned the group. You couldn’t blame Melanie for jumping up and down on the bed, squealing with pure excitement as the sheets twisted under the movement. The girls were losing it, and really so were you on the inside.

Caleb laughed a little at the over the top welcome. When it was his turn to speak, he stepped forward and said where he was from, the southern drawl rolling out so naturally it hit you right in the chest. Yeah.. you loved yourself a cowboy.

Something about the way he carried himself, made your stomach do backflips in a way you hadn’t expected on day whatever this was.

You tried to play it cool, sitting there in your white lingerie, but your eyes kept drifting back to him as he made his way around the bed, greeting each girl with a make out. When he got closer to you, your heart picked up. You hoped he’d notice you the most out of everyone. Of course, not in a desperate way, but there was something about him that felt different from everyone else.

Maybe it was the way he looked like a guy who might actually mean what he said. Or just him being very cutesy. Or maybe both. Either way, you wanted to find out whatever it was.

Somehow, your wish came true. The chemistry between you and Caleb was even better than you’d hoped for. From the first day, he matched your energy in a way that felt natural, rather than forced.

But of course, nothing in the villa stayed simple for long. Kenzie had the same type, apparently, and zero shame about going after what she wanted. You tried not to feel greedy but it stung. She already had Corbin, like wasn’t that enough? You’d pulled the girls for a chat the day after Sol, Jen, and Caleb entered, telling them straight up that you wanted to see where things could go with him.

The next day, you decided not to wait. You spotted Caleb by the firepit talking to Sincere and walked over. “Hey, do you wanna go for a chat?”

He smiled warmly and nodded. “Lead the way.”

Once you were settled on the cozy couch of soulties, you swung your legs over his lap, getting comfortable. “So how do you feel about yesterday?” you asked, studying his face.

Caleb let out a small laugh, his hand resting on your knee. “I can’t lie I was a bit nervous walking into the villa.”

“Yeah?” You smiled, feeling your cheeks warm. “I was kind of nervous when you came in too.”

“Really?” His eyebrows lifted, his proud little smirk appearing. “I’m lowkey feeling kinda proud right now that I made you nervous.”

You laughed. “Who caught your eye first?”

“Should I be honest?”

“Obviously.”

“Probably you.” he said sincerely.

You covered your mouth for a second. “Shut up.” You played around “Are you saying that just now because I asked? You might be going around telling all the girls that.”

Caleb laughed, shaking his head as he squeezed your leg gently. “No, I promise. It’s not like that.”

A comfortable silence settled for a few seconds. You bit your lip, the question bothering you, “So.. how’d you feel about our kiss?”

He pretended to think hard. “I don’t know.. maybe I need a reminder?”

You couldn’t help but smile as you leaned in, your hand brushing his chest. The kiss was soft and sweet and exploring, exactly like how you’d felt when you two kissed for the first time. When you started to pull away, he chased it with two small kisses, both of you breaking into wide, ear to ear grins.

Two days later, everything changed for the better. America had voted, and somehow they saw exactly what you saw; the spark between you and Caleb. When your name was called with his at the recoupling, a wave of relief washed over you. He walked over to you with a genuine smile, and he pulled you into a warm hug.

He looked genuinely happy, his bright smile lighting up his whole face as he whispered in your ear, asking if you were okay. You were happy too, happier than you’d been since stepping foot in the villa.

That first night coupled up, you chose your cutest set of pajamas, soft pink shorts and a matching top that made you feel pretty. Caleb was already under the covers when you climbed in beside him. Without a word, he opened his arms, and you curled right into him, resting your head on his chest. His heartbeat was steady under your cheek, and his arms wrapped around you protectively, one hand gently rubbing your back.

“Goodnight.” He murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

You smiled against his skin. “Night, Caleb.”

It was simple, but it was everything. You were exactly where you wanted to be.

The entire week that followed felt like a dream. You and Caleb spent every free moment getting to know each other deeper than you expected was possible in the villa. It was crazy how quickly it happened, but you two already felt like you’d known each other for way longer than a week and a half.

Caleb hated feeling a certain type of way when he saw you with someone else. He hated the tight twist in his chest every time another guy pulled you for a chat. He hated watching from across the villa as someone else got to sit with you on the daybeds, making you laugh, trying to build something.

And don’t even get him started on the challenges, moments when a guy chose to kiss you out of all the girls. Seeing another man’s lips on yours, even if it was “just a challenge” made something ugly flare up inside him.

He knew he shouldn’t feel that type of way. This was love island after all; kisses, chats, and tests were part of the deal. You two had only been coupled up a short while, and he trusted the connection you were building. You were sweet, genuine, and the way you looked at him after every conversation made him feel like the luckiest guy in the villa.

But it wasn’t every day that his woman got kissed by other men.

Caleb brushed the feeling aside, forcing himself to stay cool and confident. He didn’t want to come off insecure or controlling because that wasn’t him. He’d seen enough guys in the villa spiral and ruin good things by acting on every jealous impulse.

So he smiled through it, focusing instead on the moments that mattered: waking up with you on his chest, talks where you both opened up, and the way your hand always found his when you walked through the villa.

He knew the guys from the villa well enough by now or at least he hoped he did. Most of them respected the couples and would tell him straight if they were actually feeling you. But every time one of the others stayed a little too long in conversation with you, Caleb found himself watching, jaw tight until you came back to him with a bright smile that melted everything else away.

It especially didn’t help when a new bombshell came in and made it crystal clear he had come straight for you.

The Islanders had gotten ready for the kissing booth challenge. The rules were simple: first the boys would be blindfolded with noise cancelling headphones while the girls went down the line kissing them. The boys would rate each kiss out of ten, and the top girl would win bragging rights. Then the roles would reverse.

You were almost one of the last girls standing in line when the boys’ turn to kiss came around. Caleb moved down the row, and when he finally reached you, he made it obvious it was him. He started with a kiss on your neck, trailing upward until his lips captured yours. His hand gently held the back of your neck, pulling you closer. You melted into it instantly, the familiar tenderness making your knees feel weak.

Caleb had already kissed most of the girls by that point, and he was over it. He’d had enough of the random lips and at this point, he only wanted to kiss you.

You obviously knew your man’s lips. Even blindfolded, you could tell it was him the second he touched you. When it was time for the girls to give their ratings, you waited until your turn and smiled.“I mean, I think I already know who that was,” you said confidently, “and if I could, I’d give him a twelve out of ten. But since that’s probably not allowed, I’ll just settle for a ten.”

Caleb, laughed shyly but there was clear pride on his face too, he was proud that his girl could recognize him so easily among everyone else.

Bryce was the last guy to go down the line, because all of the other guys had already had their turns. But it obviously wouldn’t be love island if a bombshell didn’t come in during a challenge. Caleb saw the guy walking from the entrance, tall, complete opposite of him and the guy stopped Bryce from doing his part. “Don’t mind if I do?”

The girls were still blindfolded and wearing the headphones, completely oblivious to the new guy walking in.

“How was that kiss?” Zach asked, standing by the board with the marker ready as the girls told about their thoughts.

When it came to your turn, you shrugged with a small laugh. “I don’t know.. it wasn’t bad, but it definitely wasn’t my man.”

When you were finally able to take your blindfold off, you saw the bombshell standing in front of you all, the girls with their mouths open. You glanced over at Caleb, before the girls were ushered toward the firepit with the new arrival. His name was Aidan, he was tall, darkhaired, and confident as he introduced himself.

The guys peeled off to the daybeds for their usual debrief. “Dude!” Zach spoke up first, “Bryce didn’t even get to kiss the girls.” Bryce nodded, chuckling. “Yeah, they were definitely excited to see the new guy.”

Sincere leaned back and pointed toward the firepit, nudging Caleb with his elbow. “There goes your girl.” You and the new guy, Aidan, made your way together towards the kitchen.

Caleb watched you sitting with Aidan, the new bombshell leaning in as you two talked. The jealousy flared hotter, but he decided not to say anything. “Do you think she pulled him or he pulled her?” Zach asked.

Caleb shrugged, eyes still locked on the kitchen area where you and Aidan had moved to continue chatting at the counter. “I dunno, but either way I’m cooked. If she pulled him, then she’s got some slight interest. If he pulled her, then he’s clearly going for her hard since she’s the first one he’s talking to.”

The guys murmured in agreement, but Zach tried to offer some comfort. “I mean, you know her. I don’t think it’ll be that easy for her to turn her head.”

Caleb nodded slowly, appreciating the words even if they didn’t fully help him. After a few minutes, he stood up and stretched, acting casual. “Dude?” Kc laughed, “are you going to the kitchen because they’re there?”

Caleb let out a short laugh, not even bothering to deny it. “Yeah.”

Later that night, after the long day and villa chatter had finally died down, everyone got ready for bed. You changed into your comfy sleepwear and padded over to the shared bedroom, a small smile tugging at your lips when you spotted Caleb already under the covers waiting for you, one arm behind his head.

You wasted no time wrapping yourself around him, legs tangled with his and your head resting on his chest. Even after the time you’d spent together, you were still excited every night to share a bed with him. There was something so comforting about his warmth and the rhythm of his heartbeat.

You two chatted softly like you always did before bed, like little observations about the other islanders, funny moments, and plans for the next day. Eventually, Caleb’s voice grew a little more serious. “So.. what did you two talk about?” he asked, referring to Aidan.

You tilted your head up to look at him. “Oh, nothing much. He just asked how I feel being in a couple with you, if we’re closed off, and stuff like that.”

Caleb’s hand paused on your back. “What’d you say?”

You smiled gently, tracing lazy circles on his chest. “I told him we’re not closed off yet, but I feel really great with you. That I’m not really waiting for anyone else to come in, and just excited to see where things go with you.”

The relief on Caleb’s face was immediate. His shoulders relaxed, and he pulled you a little closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Hearing you be so honest and hearing you affirm your connection out loud, settled something in him. Hopefully Aidan would take the hint and try to get to know someone else more romantically instead of focusing on you.

When the lights finally turned off, you lifted your head from his chest and nestled your face into the crook of his neck. You pressed a soft kiss there, then sucked lightly, obviously not enough to leave a mark, just enough to feel the warmth of his skin. You soothed the spot with your tongue before trailing up to capture his lips in a kiss.

It was sweet and comforting, the kind of kiss that said everything words couldn’t in the dark. You stayed like that for a while, exchanging soft kisses until the tiredness started to win. With a contented sigh, you pulled back slightly, smiling against his mouth. “Night, baby.” you whispered.

“Night, baby.” Caleb murmured back, his arms tightening around you protectively.

The next morning, you sat on the poufs with Trinity and Kayda, sipping coffee and enjoying the sunshine. The guys were working out nearby, muscles flexing as you three enjoyed the show.

That’s when Aidan walked over. You expected him to pull one of the other girls, but he stopped right in front of you. “Hey, you wanna go for a chat?”

You couldn’t exactly say no without seeming rude, so you agreed with a polite smile. “Sure.” He suggested the speakeasy and you nodded, following him inside but making sure to leave the door open. You settled onto the couch, keeping things light and friendly.

He started with somewhat easy questions, like where you’re from, what you do outside the villa. The conversation flowed nicely for about ten minutes. It was harmless, even kind of nice..

Until it wasn’t.

“So, did you enjoy our kiss yesterday?” Aidan asked, leaning in a bit.

The question instantly brought you back to how things started with Caleb and you had zero interest in going there with Aidan. “It was cool.” you laughed lightly, shrugging it off. “I don’t really have any complaints.”

“That’s great” he said with a smile. “How about we try again?”

You stared at him for a second, caught off guard. “Uhh, I don’t know.. I don’t think it’s going to be that easy.”

Aidan laughed, playing off the embarrassment. “Maybe another day?”

You gave a small, noncommittal smile. “We’ll see.”

After your chat with Aidan, you found Caleb in the kitchen talking to Sincere. You walked up behind him and slipped your hand around his waist, leaning into his side. “Hey, can I steal him for a bit?”

Sincere waved you off. “Go ahead. He’s all yours.”

You led Caleb up to soulties, the cozy spot feeling like the perfect place to talk. The second you sat down, you turned to him. “Aidan pulled me again.”

You could tell Caleb was getting annoyed, but he was clearly trying not to show it too much. “Did he?”

“Yeah” you said, sighing. “And he wanted to kiss me.”

“What?” Caleb’s eyes widened, surprise flashing across his face. He was expecting anything but this, because yesterday you made it clear that you weren’t going to be that easy.

“Yeah. I obviously told him no, but he asked if maybe another day and I just said ‘we’ll see’ because I didn’t know what else to say.”

Caleb nodded slowly, processing everything. “You handled it well. But I don’t like that he keeps going for you when he knows we’re coupled up.”

Before you could dive deeper, you heard the islanders yelling from downstairs. Trinity’s voice carried up clearly. “I got a text!”

You and Caleb immediately got up and leaned over the railing. Trinity read it out loud: “Islanders, the hideaway is open tonight. Please vote for the couple you want to send in.”

Your eyes met Caleb’s at the same time. A big smile broke across both your faces. Trinity looked straight up at you. “Bitch, you gotta go!” she yelled, grinning.

The rest of the islanders cheered and hyped you two up with no hesitation. You and Caleb broke into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around you securely. “I guess we’re going to the hideaway,” you said, laughing softly against his chest.

The girls immediately started running up the stairs to help you get ready. Caleb got the hint and gave your butt a gentle, playful pat as you pulled away. “Can’t wait to see you downstairs.”

In the dressing room, the girls were hyping you up like it was a wedding. They helped you pick out the perfect set, and you ended up choosing a white lingerie that made you feel sexy. You layered a silky dark blue nightgown over it, the fabric soft and flowing beautifully against your skin.

Before you and Caleb went into the hideaway, the islanders made a song for you two, with plenty of cheeky lyrics.

When you entered the hideaway, the space felt like pure luxury compared to the main villa. It was big and romantic, and the first thing you both noticed was the inviting hot tub bubbling away in the corner. You walked over to the sign next to it and read it out loud.

“Stay wild..” You turned to Caleb. “Oh, we’re definitely staying wild tonight. I can promise you that.”

Caleb chuckled, pulling you close before you both explored further. You wandered into the bedroom area and stopped in your tracks. “Holy shit, Caleb.. that’s all for us?” The massive bed looked incredibly comfortable, complete with plush pillows and soft lighting. It felt like a whole different world.

Caleb’s eyes scanned the room and landed on a big mirror on the wall. “Y/n, look what I found.” he said, pointing with a smirk. The mirror had text that read: Pull here for a good time.

“Pull it!” you told him, curious.

He reached out and tugged on the handle. The mirror swung open to reveal a little compartment filled with handcuffs, a belt, game cards, and a few other things clearly meant for a very good time. You laughed and pulled out the belt, playfully snapping it in the air toward him.

“It don’t hurt..” Caleb raised an eyebrow. “Keep doing it.”

After spending some time relaxing in the hot tub, you both dried off and made your way toward the bed. Caleb lay back against the pillows, looking ridiculously attractive. You straddled his lap, pulling the covers up over your shoulders as you settled on top of him.

“Ughh..” you groaned. “Can we please just get the lights off now?” you complained. “Because I’m holding myself back from jumping your bones right now.”

Caleb let out a deep laugh, his hands resting on your thighs. “That right?”

Before he could even reach for the switch, the main lights dimmed and turned off automatically, leaving only the soft LED lights glowing around the room. You both paused, surprised, then broke into laughter again.

“Guess the hideaway heard you.” Caleb said, grinning up at you, his hands sliding up your sides.

You leaned down until your lips met his, your bodies pressed chest to chest. The kiss started slow, but heat quickly took over and it didn’t take long for Caleb’s hands to slide down and find your ass, squeezing with both hands. The firm grip pulled a soft moan from your throat, and he took the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth.

Before you knew it, Caleb flipped you both over with ease so he was hovering above you. He continued kissing you hungrily, occasionally breaking away to trail his lips down your neck, sucking lightly on your skin before finding his way back to your mouth.

His hand moved from your waist to your thigh, smoothing over the soft skin there before sliding higher. He played with the waistband of your panties, teasing you until you were aching for more.

“Please, Caleb..” you pleaded.

He didn’t tease you for long. Caleb slipped his hand into your panties, sliding his fingers over your slick folds. The sensation earned a louder moan from you.

He quickly pulled his hand out just long enough to tug your panties down your legs, leaving you more open for him. Bringing his two middle fingers to his mouth, he spit on them before returning to your core.

He entered you slowly with one finger, then added a second when you gasped saying “I want more.”

The stretch and rhythm of his fingers pulled another moan from your lips. Your head fell back against the pillow, mouth open as his fingers worked you perfectly.

As much as he wanted to kiss you and swallow every sound, he also loved seeing you with your head thrown back, back arching off the bed. It was a sight he couldn’t get enough of.

While your back arched, he took the opportunity to reach behind you and unclasp your bra. It took a little struggle with one hand, but he eventually got it open and tossed it aside.

He leaned down, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking and teasing with his tongue while his fingers kept their pace. The multitasking was impressive, you’d give him that.

“Hm” he hummed against your skin, getting your attention. “I bet he wishes he got you like this. Think that?”

From your point of view, Caleb was still a little jealous about Aidan, but it didn’t bother you. You silently thanked everyone who had voted for you two to get this time alone in the hideaway so he could get his jealousy out.

Caleb kept working you, curling his fingers just right until your thighs started to tremble.

He rode out your high with you, whispering praises against your neck as you came undone beneath him. When your body finally relaxed, he slowly pulled his fingers out and brought them up to his lips, tasting you with a satisfied groan.

“Fuck, you taste good, baby.” he complimented.

After Caleb let you catch your breath, he leaned back down to kiss you hard, his tongue sliding against yours with renewed hunger.

He pulled the sheets up over both of you, creating a private cocoon that blocked out the rest of the world. It felt incredibly intimate with just the two of you tangled together under the soft fabric.

“Can you handle more, baby?” he asked sweetly.

You nodded immediately, absolutely not wasting this rare chance at alone time with him in this villa. “Yes.. please.”

Under the covers, you gladly helped him take off his boxers, both of you giggling as the fabric got tangled for a second. Once he was free, Caleb’s hands gripped your waist tightly as he positioned himself between your thighs.

He pushed in slowly, giving you time to adjust to his size. The stretch was perfect, and a moan escaped your lips. At least you were now promised, or at least really hoping, to have a sexy boyfriend after this villa and a fire dick every night once you got out.

When you finally gave him the sign to move, Caleb didn’t hold back. His thrusts came harder, and deeper, the bed creaked rhythmically beneath you, and you were so thankful the hideaway was soundproof enough that no one else in the villa could hear you two.

The wet slaps of skin on skin filled the small space under the sheets, mixing with your shared heavy breathing.

“Think he could fuck you like this?” Caleb growled against your ear, his hand sliding up your thigh and spreading you wider for him.

“Fuck..” you moaned, nails digging into his back hard enough to leave marks that would definitely show tomorrow. “No.. only you, Caleb.”

It seemed to spur him on even more. With a sound in his throat, he flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up so your ass was raised while your chest pressed into the mattress.

He took you from behind, sinking back into you in one smooth thrust. His hand fisted gently in your hair, obviously he wasn’t trying to be rough, but just to tilt your head back so he could kiss you sloppily while still pounding into you.

The new angle was incredible, he was hitting that perfect spot with every thrust, making your eyes roll back. Your moans were muffled by the pillow and the heavy sheets, but Caleb seemed to love every single sound you made.

He reached around with one hand, finding your clit and rubbing it in tight, expert circles. The dual sensation pushed you right toward the edge again while he chased his own release, hips snapping against you relentlessly.

You came harder this time, clenching around him and shaking as pleasure crashed through you. Caleb followed right after, groaning your name. At the last second, he managed to pull out, stroking himself a few times before finishing across your lower back in hot pulses.

He collapsed on top of you, both of you panting heavily under the messy sheets. Your bodies were slick with sweat, hearts still racing from the intensity of it all.

After a moment, Caleb rolled off you with a satisfied groan but immediately pulled you into his chest, wrapping his strong arms around your body. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his thumb stroking soothing circles on your back.

“I wasn’t too rough, was I?” he asked quietly, genuine concern in his voice as he checked on you.

You smiled against his skin, still catching your breath. “No.. it was perfect.”

He hummed happily, hugging you a little tighter. You yawned, the exhaustion finally hitting you hard after the long day and the passionate night. Caleb chuckled softly, recognizing the sign immediately.

“Get some sleep, baby.” he whispered, kissing the top of your head again. “We can talk about everything tomorrow.”

You nodded sleepily, already drifting off in his warm embrace.

If you knew one person who hated pda in front of others, it was your boyfriend, Will.

At home it was one story. The second the front door clicked shut behind you, he’d be on you; arms wrapping around your waist from behind, chin hooking over your shoulder while you tried to kick off your shoes, lips brushing the side of your neck like he couldn’t wait another second.

He’d pull you down onto the couch with him, long legs tangling with yours, hands sliding under your hoodie to rest warm against your stomach, fingers tracing lazy circles until you laughed and squirmed.

He’d kiss you slow and deep like he was making up for every minute you’d spent apart, murmuring against your mouth how much he’d missed you, how pretty you looked even in sweatpants and his hoodie that swallowed you whole.

He’d cuddle into your side during movie nights, head on your chest, one hand always finding yours to lace your fingers together, thumb rubbing over your knuckles. Sometimes he’d just hold you from behind while you cooked, swaying slightly like it was a slow dance, pressing soft kisses along your shoulder blade whenever you reached for something on the counter.

He hated the thought of having his hands off you.

But the moment you stepped outside; it was a completely different story.

In public, Will kept it subtle. Always touching, but never made it obvious. A hand resting low on your back as you walked through a crowded bar. Fingers brushing yours when he passed you a drink. His knee pressed lightly against yours under the table at dinner with teammates.

He’d drape an arm across the back of your chair, thumb occasionally grazing your shoulder, but nothing that screamed couple in the way other couples did: sloppy kisses, loud declarations, hands everywhere like they were staking claim in neon.

And you were fine with it. You’d been together a little over a year now, long enough that you’d learned his rhythm. You weren’t big on pda either, you didn’t need to prove anything to anyone. The way he looked at you when no one else was watching, the way his eyes softened the second you walked into a room, the things he’d whisper to you when it was just the two of you was enough.

He wasn’t embarrassed of you. If anything, he loved showing you off in his own way. He’d introduce you to new people with his arm casually looped around your shoulders, proud smile tugging at his lips every time someone complimented how good you looked together.

He’d text you links to articles or tiktoks with captions like “Us” and half of them were disgustingly couple-y. He just didn’t want other people seeing the parts of him that belonged only to you. The greedy way he held you at home, the way he’d bury his face in your neck and breathe you in like you were oxygen.

Tonight you and Will went out with a few of his teammates to the bar a couple blocks from the rink that had become your unofficial spot. It wasn’t anything fancy, just something you all learned to enjoy going to. You’d dressed like you always did for a place like this: nothing too revealing, nothing too casual.

Will included you in every conversation like he always did. He’d lean in when Macklin was ranting about a bad call from the last game, repeating the punchline so you could laugh too, or he’d nudge you gently and say, “Babe, tell them what you said about that hit exactly.” His voice easy, and his eyes stayed on you longer than usual.

When the bartender came over, Will ordered your usual without asking and then slid it toward you with a small.

A little while later, you moved on the barstool. “I’ll be right back,” you murmured, slipping your hand from his.

Will nodded once, but as you stood, he reached over and tugged your glass closer to his spot, fingers brushing the condensation like he was guarding it. His other hand lingered in the air for half a second where yours had been before dropping back to the bar.

Once you came back from the bathroom after quickly fixing your lip combo in the mirror light, touching up the gloss that had faded from sipping your drink, you found Will still perched on his barstool, facing his teammates.

If you’d gone straight back to your own seat next to him, his broad back would’ve been turned to you the whole time. But the second he caught sight of you weaving through the crowd, his arm reached out without hesitation.

His fingers found yours, locking tight, and he tugged you gently toward him instead of letting you slide back onto your stool. “C’mere,” he murmured.

You let him pull you in, stepping right between his spread thighs until your hips brushed the edge of the stool. Your hands landed on his chest for balance, as he looked up at you.

“Where’d you go?” he asked, even though he knew.

“Bathroom,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “Took longer than I thought, someone was hogging the mirror.”

He hummed, the sound vibrating through his chest, and then he leaned in. The kiss was slow, sweet, nothing rushed or sloppy. Just his lips pressing to yours like it was the most normal thing in the world, his one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck while the other stayed locked with yours at his side.

Your breath caught. Will almost never kissed you in public, not where anyone could see. For a heartbeat you froze, surprised, but then you melted into it, leaning forward until your forehead brushed his when he finally pulled back.

He didn’t say anything about it. Just handed you your unfinished vodka soda with a small, crooked smile.

You turned with him so you were facing the group again, your back settling against his chest. His arm came across your front, forearm resting easy over your collarbone, fingers splayed loose but possessive against your shoulder. His other hand found your waist, every few minutes he’d tug you closer, like he couldn’t quite get enough, even though you were already pressed flush against him.

Macklin raised an eyebrow, smirk tugging at his mouth. “You finally figure out how arms work tonight?”

Will just tightened his hold a little, chin dipping to rest lightly on your shoulder as he shot Macklin a lazy look. “Shut up, Mack,” he said a little amused.

You stayed like that for a while, cocooned against him, his heartbeat steady against your back. His fingers kept moving in small, absent strokes along your waist, thumb brushing the underside of your ribs every now and then.

Eventually your heels started screaming. Standing this long in them, even leaning into him, made your calves burn.

You tilted your head back just enough to murmur against his jaw, “My legs are killing me.”

Will’s arm loosened instantly. “Sit,” he said softly, kissing the shell of your ear before letting you go.

For the rest of the night, Will didn’t let the space between you grow. He kept one hand on you at all times: resting on your thigh when you were back on your stool, thumb drawing slow, mindless patterns over the denim; sliding up to play with the ends of your hair when you laughed at something one of the guys said; brushing your lower back.

Every few minutes he’d press a quick kiss to your temple, or drop his chin to your shoulder just to murmur something dumb and sweet.

You were happy for it. The warmth of his palm against your skin felt like nice in public. The guys ribbed him lightly but Will just shrugged it off with a smile and never pulled away.

By the time you both said goodbyes and stepped out into the cool night air, your cheeks were flushed from the bar’s heat and from the way his hand had stayed tangled with yours the whole walk to the car.

When you got home, the apartment was quiet, you kicked the door shut behind you, already reaching to slip off your heels, but Will beat you to it.

He dropped to one knee right there at the edge of the bed, fingers gentle around your ankle as he lifted your foot and eased the first heel off. Then the second, thumbs pressed into the arch of your foot for a second, massaging away the ache without being asked.

You watched him, heart doing that stupid fluttery thing it always did with him. “What’s gotten into you tonight?” you asked quietly.

He glanced up, brows lifting like he had no idea what you meant. “What? I always do this.” He asked setting your foot down and standing.

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “No, I mean.. being so touchy in front of everyone, kissing me like that. You never do that.”

He paused, then took your hand in both of his. Slowly he brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, eyes never leaving yours. “Can’t a guy show how much he loves his girlfriend?”

You laughed softly. “You never do it like that.”

He tilted his head, mock offended. “What? I always show everyone how much I love you.”

“Yeah,” you said, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw, “but not in a way that makes Macklin tease you for ten straight minutes.”

Will’s expression softened. You pulled him down to you, as he started crawling over you until his weight settled warm and solid, knees sinking into the comforter on either side of your hips.

He braced himself on his forearms so he wasn’t crushing you, but close enough that you could feel every breath he took.

“I love you,” he said simply, as if it was the easiest truth in the world. His forehead rested against yours for a second before he kissed you, the kind of kiss he usually saved for when the door was locked and the lights were off. “I just.. wanted to be close to you tonight. Didn’t want to wait until we got home to touch you the way I always want to.”

His hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “I like when we keep things private. But sometimes..” He exhaled. “Sometimes I look at you laughing with the guys, or just sitting there looking like mine, and I want everyone to know.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down until his chest pressed to yours. “That’s sweet,” you whispered against his mouth. “I liked tonight a lot.”

He smiled and kissed you again. “Me too.”

His hands found yours, fingers lacing tight as he settled more of his weight over you, like he was trying to memorize every inch of how you fit together.

TAGLIST: @alliwritespuck @bouncedatahhh @cheerymints @lynsdigitaljournal @ill-uminati7 @behindthescreenobsessed @lemsies25 @definitelynotdomanique @lcvlyhughesy @sh1ft1ng1234 @willsmiths2 @iknowtonystark @mintbrini98 @kazansky-slxt @siennaluvshcky @val413 @wherethezoes-at @macka @beckieepicaz00 @carlottawllms @blankenbirks @mcelebrini @probably--possessed @celebrinigf @postgamevibes @icetimedreamer @misslivinglegend @alexxavicry @sohhh09

You had tons of reasons you loved your boyfriend, Connor.

He was kind in a quiet way that most people never got to see. He remembered the tiniest things, like foods you absolutely hated or the exact playlist you needed when deadlines were choking you.

He laughed at your stupid memes from TikTok he sometimes never understood and never once made you feel dramatic for crying at dog rescue videos. He was safe and your home.

But God, those biceps.

They weren’t even the main reason but they were absolutely in the top five. Maybe top three on days when he wore short sleeves.

Today was one of those days.

Chicago in early November was pretending it wasn’t about to get brutal, so Connor had thrown on a plain black t shirt that should have been illegal. The cotton clung to his chest and stretched across his shoulders, but the real crime was happening from the deltoid down.

The sleeves ended exactly where the swell of his biceps began, like whoever designed the shirt knew precisely what they were doing to people like you.

The fabric was tight enough that every time he moved you could see the shift of muscle underneath, the way the peak rose when he lifted his arm even a fraction.

You were both in the kitchen of his downtown apartment, supposedly making breakfast. In reality he was flipping pancakes one handed while you sat on the counter beside the stove, legs swinging, shamelessly staring.

“You good over there?” he asked, voice low and amused as he slid another perfect pancake onto the stack. He flexed his right arm a little as he reached for the spatula, the muscle bunching under tan skin.

You giggled. “Define good.”

He laughed under his breath and turned the burner off, then finally faced you fully. Both arms crossed over his chest now, which only made everything worse. The sleeves rode up higher. You were going to die on this counter and it would be entirely his fault.

“Come here,” he said, tilting his head.

You hopped down without hesitation and crossed the three steps between you. The second you were close enough, your hands found their favorite spot: palms sliding over the hard curve of his left bicep, fingers curling as much as they could around it. And they still didn’t meet.

“Morning check in?” he teased, watching your face like he already knew the answer.

“Obviously.” You gave a little squeeze, testing, like this was a serious scientific experiment and not just you being completely gone for your boyfriend’s arms. “I have to document growth, Connor. This is important research.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And?”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. “Definitely bigger.”

It was a lie and you both knew it. They’d been this ridiculous for months now, he had big biceps already three years ago. But the ritual was sacred: you checked and he flexed. You pretended to measure with your hands like a complete gremlin. He asked if you were sure. You said yes and felt heat pool low in your stomach every single time.

He unfolded his arms and suddenly your feet weren’t on the floor anymore. One smooth motion and his hands were under your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing and you were back on the counter, only now he was standing between your knees.

“Show off,” you muttered.

“You started it.” His voice dropped, playful but rough around the edges. “You’re the one who can’t keep her hands to herself before I’ve even had any breakfast.”

You slid your palms up slowly, tracing the line where muscle met shoulder, then back down again. “I have a very serious condition. It’s chronic and incurable, and the only treatment is touching your biceps whenever possible.”

“Whenever possible, huh?” He leaned in. “So if I wore long sleeves today you’d suffer?”

You pulled back just enough to glare at him. “That would be cruel and unusual punishment. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be able to touch them.”

“You know you’re obsessed, right?”

“You knew that when you started dating me.”

The first time you saw girls on TikTok tying delicate satin bows around their boyfriend’s biceps, most guys played along sweetly, flexing just enough to make the bow tight and maybe even break.

You closed the app, looked across the room at Connor, sprawled on the couch and thought: yeah, no. That trend was made for Connor.

Three nights later, you’re both on the living room floor, some random movie playing as background noise. You’d bought a spool of baby pink satin ribbon the day before and planned on how to get him to do this with you.

He was in the middle of talking about what they were doing at practice today, when you crawled over with the ribbon hidden behind your back.

“Babe,” you say, innocently.

Connor stops talking immediately. He knows that tone. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” you lie, then straddle his lap before he can escape. “Hold your arm out.”

He raises one brow but obeys, stretching his right arm across your thighs. The muscle shifts under his skin as he straightens it, already unfairly defined even relaxed.

You loop the ribbon around the thickest part of his bicep, the satin whispering against his skin, and tie it into a perfect bow right on top of the peak.

Connor glances down, lips twitching. “Am I supposed to wear this?”

“Just flex,” you whisper, barely breathing.

He doesn’t even try to play coy. One deliberate curl of his fist and the bicep swells, and the ribbon snaps with a soft pop. The ribbon flutters to the floor like defeated little flag.

Your brain blue screens.

“Oh my gosh,” you blurt, voice cracking somewhere between awe and desperation. “That’s so attractive.” You grab his wrist. “Do it again.”

He laughs. “There’s no ribbon left.”

You’re already scrambling for the spool, cutting another length. “Second attempt.”

Nights when you and Connor were in bed, the rest of the world simply stopped existing.

It didn’t matter that tomorrow he had morning skate at 9am or that your inbox was probably on fire or that the wind off Lake Michigan was rattling the windows like it wanted in.

None of it reached the little universe you built under his charcoal duvet. Here, time moved in heartbeats and the slow drag of his fingers along your hip.

Connor slept warm like a human furnace designed specifically to ruin you for every other season. On the nights when Chicago tried to freeze your soul, you just burrowed closer and let him thaw you out.

He rolled onto his back first, stretching that ridiculous wingspan until his left arm flopped across your pillow in open invitation. You didn’t even pretend to hesitate.

You scooted in immediately, sliding your head onto the perfect shelf of his bicep, cheek pressed to the hard curve of muscle, nose tucked against the soft skin of his inner arm. The position left your own arm draped over his chest, fingers splayed over the steady thump of his heart.

“Hi,” you whispered into the dark, lips brushing skin.

He hummed, low and sleepy, and flexed once, just enough that the muscle under your cheek turned to stone for a second before relaxing again.

You smiled against him and let your eyes fall shut.

A few minutes later he shifted again, turning toward you, sliding the arm you weren’t using as a pillow underneath your neck so he could spoon you properly.

The movement was smooth, he’d done it a hundred times and still made it feel like choreography made just for you. Now the bicep you’d been lying on became the one wrapped around your shoulders from behind, pulling you tight against his chest.

His other arm, the one that had been across your waist, came up slowly, until his forearm rested on the pillow right in front of your face.

The veins shifted under the skin, faint in the dim light, and you actually sighed. “Happy?” he murmured against the back of your neck, lips brushing your skin.

You answered by pressing a kiss into his forearm, then another and then one more because you could. “My life is officially complete,” you said, voice muffled against him. “I have achieved peak existence. I can die now.”

He laughed quietly. “Wow, you’re so dramatic.”

You traced one finger along the line where muscle met his tricep. “These arms keep me warm, keep me safe, and double as the world’s best pillow.

His hand found yours in the dark, threading your fingers together and pulling your joined hands down to rest over your stomach.

Some nights you talked until you both fell asleep: silly things about the future, about the dog you were definitely getting once his schedule calmed down, about whose turn it was to pick the next vacation.

Tonight neither of you needed words. The quiet was perfect. His breathing evened out behind you, slow and deep, and you matched it without thinking.

You felt the moment he slipped into real sleep, his grip loosened just slightly and the arm across your chest became pure deadweight warmth. You smiled into the dark and let yourself follow him under, cheek still pressed to the steady rise and fall of his bicep, completely surrounded by him.

Grateful didn’t even begin to cover it.

The Sharks had lost to the Oilers 5-3 on Will’s 21st birthday, and the sting of it hung in the hotel room air like smoke that wouldn’t clear. He’d been clear that he didn’t want any parties. “Just come to the game,” he’d texted you a month ago. “That’s all I want.”

You’d never missed his birthday in the six years you’d been best friends, so you didn’t hesitate. You flew with him, sat in the stands wearing his jersey, heart pounding every time he touched the puck.

From the first period, though, you could see the frustration building. In first period they were down 1-3 already, Will hated when things weren’t going his way. He wanted one thing for himself tonight: a birthday gift he could give with his own hands but it never came.

You and Will had agreed to meet in the hotel lobby after the game, away from the rush of media and teammates.

He came through the revolving doors alone. His hood was up, shoulders tight, he spotted you immediately. He crossed the marble floor in quick strides, reached for your hand, and laced your fingers together like the contact was the only thing he needed.

In the elevator, he leaned back against the wall, eyes locked on the glowing floor numbers ticking upward. The silence felt thick, but it wasn’t exactly uncomfortable. You squeezed his hand once, gently.

He didn’t look at you, but his thumb brushed over your knuckles in a small, automatic reply.

The doors slid open on his floor. He tugged you gently forward, swiped the keycard with his free hand, and held the door open for you to step inside first.

For the first few minutes inside the room, you stayed quiet, giving him space. The door clicked shut behind you, sealing out the hallway noise. Will flicked on the bedside lamp, then dropped onto the edge of the bed like his legs had given up. He pulled his phone from his pocket and started scrolling; probably punishing himself with the same clips.

You kicked off your shoes, sat beside him on the mattress, your knee brushing his. He didn’t look up, but he didn’t move away either.

Finally, you couldn’t stand the silence anymore.“You played good tonight,” you said softly. “You were flying out there. Even when it got ugly.”

He huffed a bitter laugh without lifting his eyes from the screen. “Flying right into the boards. Couldn’t buy a goal if my life depended on it.”

“That’s not true.” You turned toward him, resting a hand lightly on his forearm. “You played good, Will. Just because you didn’t score or the team didn’t win doesn’t mean you didn’t play good.”

He finally locked the phone, set it face down on the comforter, and rubbed both hands over his face. “I just wanted to score on my birthday. Even if we lost, even if it was just one.. a goal would’ve been nice. Something to look back on and not feel like the whole night was a waste.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but he kept going, “I just wanted something good tonight. For once.”

“You’ve got me here,” you said. “That’s something good.”

He exhaled, and finally turned his head to look at you. Those blue eyes were tired, but they softened when they met yours. “It is,” he murmured. “But I just wanted one goal for you to see. Something to make you proud, something worth cheering for.”

“Will. You don’t need to prove anything to me. We’ve been friends for years: six years of birthdays, six years of games, six years of me watching you work harder than anyone I know. I’ve seen you score goals, I’ve seen you get knocked down and get right back up. I know how good you are. You don’t have to put one in the net tonight to make me proud of you because I already am.”

Will hearing the words “we’ve been friends for six years” hit him like a slapshot to the chest. Not because you were wrong, but because the reminder felt like a wall he kept slamming into. He knew it was irrational; none of this was your fault. The loss wasn’t on you, the missed chances weren’t on you, the empty net on his birthday wasn’t on you.

And yet every time you said “friends,” it carved a little deeper into the ache he’d been carrying for months.

He wanted to make you proud. Not just as the best friend who showed up when needed and trying to make each other laugh on a bad day, but as something more. He wanted you to look at him the way you looked at guys you dated: guys who never lasted, guys who never stuck around to see how much better he could be if he had a real reason. If that reason was you.

He moved on the bed, pulling his hand from under yours, scrubbing it over his face again like he could wipe the frustration away. “Y/n,” he said, “can we not talk about this friend stuff? At least not on my birthday.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What? What’d I say?”

He let out a frustrated breath through his nose. “Stop playing stupid.”

“I’m not.” Your brows knit together, genuine confusion in your eyes. “I’m really not.”

“You’re always like ‘friends this, friends that.’” He finally met your gaze again. “Do you really think we’re just friends?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Shrugged once, because the question landed heavier than you expected. Of course Will was attractive; his sharp jawline, the smile that lit up in interviews, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.

Thinking of him as more than a friend had never felt strange, it felt kind of possible. Something you’d pictured when you were alone, then pushed away because the friendship was too good to risk.

“Exactly,” he muttered when your shrug was all the answer you gave.

You searched his face, heart suddenly loud in your ears. “Is this what’s also bothering you? Us being friends?”

He faltered, mouth opening and closing like the words were stuck. “It- it’s not bothering me. I just-” He swallowed, looking away for a second before forcing his eyes back to yours. “I just.. fuck.”

You didn’t let the silence stretch. Slowly, you lifted your hand and placed your palm against his cheek, turning his face gently toward you again. “Do you think we’re just friends?” you asked, repeating his own question back to him.

He just shrugged helpless, like the truth was too big to say out loud. Then you started to lean in.

His hand came up fast, cupping the back of your neck like he’d been waiting for permission his whole life. He closed the last inch of space and kissed you fully. His lips moved against yours with urgency that felt like months of restraint finally breaking. You parted for him almost instantly, and he took the invitation, sliding his tongue against yours in a slow sweep that made heat pool low in your stomach.

The way he angled his head, tilting yours just so, made it feel like he’d mapped this moment out in his head a hundred times. His fingers tightened in your hair, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. You kissed him back just as hard, sliding your hand from his cheek to the side of his neck, feeling the rapid pulse there under your thumb.

You didn’t know if it was wrong to want him like this right now, right after the loss, right after the birthday that had gone sideways in every way that mattered.

But the way his mouth had claimed yours, the way his fingers tangled in your hair like he’d been starving for it, made wrong feel impossible. You sure as hell hoped he felt the same wildfire licking up your spine.

His breathing was ragged when you finally broke apart, you let your free hand drift down. He caught it halfway, fingers wrapping around your wrist. He guided your palm to his thigh, pressing it there over the soft gray fabric of his sweatpants. The muscle jumped under your touch. Slowly he slid your hand higher until your fingers brushed the unmistakable hardness straining against the material.

Heat flooded your cheeks, your core, everywhere at once.

You pulled back just enough to look at him and his lips were swollen, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling too fast. “This okay?” you whispered, thumb tracing a slow circle over the ridge of him through the fabric.

Will swallowed hard. His voice came out wrecked. “Yeah. Fuck- yeah. Please.”

That was all you needed. Your fingers slipped under the waistband of his sweatpants, teasing along the elastic, skimming the warm skin of his lower stomach. He hissed softly, hips twitching up into the barely there contact. You kept your eyes on his face as you tugged the waistband lower, until he lifted his hips himself, helping you shove the pants and boxers down to his thighs.

His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. The sight of him like this; leaking, for you, sent a fresh wave of want through your body.

You slid off the bed, dropping to your knees between his spread legs. The carpet was rough against your shins, but you barely noticed. Will stared down at you, lips parted, expression somewhere between awe and disbelief. Like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening, that you were here, on your knees for him after everything tonight.

You wrapped your hand around the base, giving one experimental stroke. He groaned low in his throat, head tipping back for a second before snapping forward again, like he didn’t want to miss a single second of the view.

Leaning in, you let your tongue flick out first, lapping up the bead of pre-cum from the slit. You swirled around the head, teasing the sensitive underside, then took him into your mouth properly. Just the tip at first, sucking lightly, letting your saliva coat him as your hand worked the rest in slow, twisting strokes.

“Fuck,” he breathed, one hand fisting the comforter beside his hip. The other hovered uncertainly near your head, fingers flexing like he was fighting not to grab. “Y/n..”

You hummed around him in encouragement, the vibration making his thighs tense. You sank lower, taking more of him until he hit the back of your throat. Your eyes watered a little, but you relaxed, breathing through your nose, letting him feel the tight heat.

His hand finally moved, cupping the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. Then he pushed, guiding you down further until your nose brushed the soft skin above his base. Your throat clenched reflexively around him, fluttering, and he let out a choked sound that was a moan, and a curse.

“God.. shit, just like that,” he rasped. “You’re so fucking good.”

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder as you pulled back, only to slide down again, setting a rhythm that had his hips stuttering up to meet you. His hand tightened in your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted. Every time you swallowed around him, throat working, he groaned louder, hips jerking.

You brought your free hand up, cupping his balls gently, rolling them in your palm while your mouth worked him over. The combination made his abs clench, breath coming in short, desperate pants.

“Look at me,” he managed after a minute, voice strained.

You lifted your eyes as tears clung to your lashes from the depth, and locked gazes with him. The sight of you like that: lips stretched around him, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, seemed to unravel him further. “Fuck, baby,” he whispered, the endearment slipping out like he couldn’t hold it back. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

You didn’t stop. If anything, you took him deeper and faster, letting him fuck shallowly into your mouth while your hand stroked what you couldn’t fit. His thighs trembled under your palms, grip in your hair turning almost painful in the best way.

He was close and you could feel it in the way he throbbed against your tongue, the way his breaths turned ragged and broken.

His hand in your hair tightened one last time, a broken “Y/n-” spilling from his lips before his hips jerked forward. He came hard, pulsing down your throat in thick, hot spurts. You swallowed instinctively, taking everything he gave, throat working around him until he shuddered through the last of it.

He eased back slowly, pulling out just enough so the final ropes landed on your tongue. His eyes locked on yours as he watched you close your lips and swallow, letting him see. A thin trail of saliva and cum dripped from the corner of your mouth, sliding down your chin. He groaned softly at the sight, thumb brushing it away almost tenderly.

You rose on shaky knees and climbed into his lap. His arms wrapped around your waist instantly, pulling you flush against his chest. He kissed you without hesitation, tasting himself on your tongue and not caring one bit. His lips moved slow, savoring, like he was memorizing the feel of you.

When he finally pulled back, he whispered, “That was.. fuck, baby. Amazing.”

You smiled, cheeks warm, and leaned in for another soft kiss. “Good,” you murmured against his mouth. “You deserved it.”

He huffed a laugh, then gently lifted you off his lap. “Stay right there.”

He stood and padded to the bathroom. A moment later he returned with a warm, damp cloth. He cupped your jaw and carefully wiped your chin, your lips, the corners of your mouth gently. Then he cleaned himself quickly before tossing the cloth aside.

You both changed in comfortable silence. He pulled back the covers and tugged you under with him, immediately drawing you into his chest. His arms locked around you, one hand stroking lazy circles on your back. You could feel the smile against your hair.

“I hope you know,” he said quietly, “I really like you. Like, this isn’t just because I wanted that, I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

“It’s okay. I know.” You tilted your head up, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “I really like you too,” you added.

His hold tightened. “When we get back to San Jose, I’m taking you out properly, maybe we could go to that spot by the water you always talk about.”

You smiled into his chest. “I’d like that.”

Your eyes started to drift closed, the exhaustion of the night finally catching up. Then you remembered so you blinked them open again, finding his in the dim lamplight.

“Happy birthday, Will.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound warm and happy. “Thank you. You’re the best gift I could ever ask for.”

You leaned up, meeting him halfway for one last sweet kiss. When you settled back against him, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, sleep came easy. Wrapped in each other’s arms, the sting of the loss felt miles away.

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The total flashed on the receipt and you couldn’t help the tiny, guilty laugh that slipped out as you shoved the glossy pink and black Victoria’s Secret bags into the back seat.

“Would Connor be jumping up and down if he saw the price of everything you bought? Probably not,” you muttered to yourself, sliding behind the wheel. “But would he lose his mind the second you stepped out in any of it? Absolutely.”

He’d promised you could treat yourself after that road trip stretch, said he wanted to spoil you for once, handed over his card without a second thought. And yeah, maybe you’d gone a little feral in the dressing room, but every single matching set, every scrap of lace and satin, had been chosen with him in mind.

You weren’t lying when you said you were “really excited” about the haul. You were genuinely thrilled. But the real thrill was knowing exactly whose eyes would be devouring you in about twenty minutes.

When you walked inside the house, the familiar scent of Connor hit you first. You found him stretched out on your shared bed, in loose gray sweats and a faded tee, propped against the headboard, scrolling lazily through his phone.

He glanced up as the door creaked, a smile spreading across his face. “Hey, you.” His voice was soft.

You crossed the room in a few steps, leaning over to kiss him. When you pulled back, you fished his credit card out of your pocket and pressed it into his palm. “Here. Thanks for the damage.”

He chuckled, flipping the card between his fingers without even glancing at it. “Wanna see what I got?”

His eyes lit up instantly. “Of course. How much did you spend?”

You eased back out of his reach, giving him an innocent little smile as you backed toward the bathroom. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll be right back and show you.”

Connor’s brows lifted, but he didn’t push, he settled deeper into the pillows, watching you disappear.

You changed quickly, heart hammering. The first set was the black one: the fabric felt cool against your skin, every movement making the lace whisper. You took a breath, checked yourself in the mirror and pushed the door open.

Connor had picked his phone back up, thumb scrolling absently, but the second the bathroom light spilled into the bedroom, he dropped it onto the nightstand like it burned him. His eyes locked on you, mouth parting slightly as you stepped fully into view, doing a slow turn so he could see every angle.

“What do you think?” you asked, voice teasing but softer than you meant.

Connor swallowed hard, sitting up straighter. “You look.. fuck. Amazing.” His gaze dragged over you; down the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist. “This is what you bought? All of it?”

You nodded, stepping closer, hips swaying just enough to make the lace shift. “Yeah. Thought you’d like it.”

He exhaled roughly, cheeks flushing deeper. “Like it? Baby, I’m dying here.” His hands flexed on the sheets like he was holding himself back.

“I got more.” You said as you disappeared into the bathroom.

You changed into the red matching set next, the one you’d gravitated toward the second you saw it hanging on the rack. You couldn’t help thinking this might be one of his favorites; red was hawks red, after all, the color he wore almost every game night like armor. The thought made you smile to yourself in the mirror.

You weren’t usually the one to tease Connor, he was the king of subtle, smirking touches and whispers that left you flustered but something in you wanted to tease him in this. Maybe it was the high of spending his money, or the way his eyes darkens when he sees you like this. Either way, you wanted to drag this out just a little.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, Connor was still on the bed, his phone was long gone, abandoned beside him.

You did a slow spin, letting the red catch the bedroom light. The lace hugged every curve, which was perfect.

Connor exhaled sharply and stood, taking a few instinctive steps toward you, taking your wrist gently and pulling you with him towards the bed. “C’mere.”

You sat on one of his legs. His hands found your hips immediately, warm palms sliding up to your waist.

“Jesus, baby,” he murmured. “You’re fucking beautiful. This color looks unreal on you.” His thumbs traced slow circles over the lace. “Like you walked out of my dreams wearing red.”

You laughed softly. “Had a feeling you might like red the most.”

He cupped your cheek, tilting your face to his. “I love it.” He kissed you, as the kiss grew sloppier his lips parted yours gently, tongue slipping in to taste you deeper. You melted into it, fingers threading into his hair, letting him lead until your breath hitched.

When he pulled back, his pupils were blown. He brushed your hair off one shoulder, exposing the curve of your neck, and pressed open mouthed kisses along your skin. You tilted your head, giving him more, shivering as his teeth grazed lightly.

He sucked gently, his intentions clear: he wanted to mark you.

You pulled back just enough, pressing a hand to his chest. “There’s more to show you.”

Connor groaned low in his throat, head dropping forward to rest against your collarbone. “You’re killing me.”

You slid off his lap, standing with a teasing smile. “Patience, Con.”

He flopped back against the pillows, one arm thrown over his eyes.

In the bathroom you changed into the pink set, that had definitely been your favorite the second you saw it in the store. It was a baby pink lace bra, paired with a matching thong that had delicate satin ribbons tying at the hips.

The fabric was buttery against your skin, feminine and flirty. You hoped he liked it too; pink wasn’t Blackhawks colors, but it was unapologetically pretty, and tonight you wanted him to see you like that.

When you stepped out, Connor was once again waiting, propped against the headboard, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

You walked straight to him, climbed onto the bed, and settled into his lap facing him, knees bracketing his hips. The pink lace brushed against his tee as you straddled him fully. “What do you think of this one?” you asked, fingers resting lightly on his shoulders.

Connor’s hands found your thighs first, sliding up until they settled just below your belly button, palms warm and broad against your bare skin. His thumbs started drawing lazy circles over your lower stomach, right above the waistband of the thong, close enough to make heat pool fast between your legs.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, gaze tracing the delicate lace over your breasts, then lower. “Just like the others. Just like you.” His voice dropped. “Pink looks so fucking good on you. Makes me wanna ruin it.”

You shivered at the words, core clenching. His thumbs kept circling, dipping just a fraction lower each time, teasing the edge of your panties without crossing it.

“Did you buy all this on purpose?” he asked, one brow lifting. “Teasing me like this.. knowing I’d lose my mind?”

You bit your lip, rocking your hips once to feel how hard he was beneath the sweats. “Maybe. Maybe not.” A small shrug. “I just wanted new underwear; really nice ones.”

He huffed a laugh. “Bullshit.”

Before he could say more, you leaned in first. Your lips brushed his, tasting the faint mint on his tongue. Then you tilted your head, deepening it slowly, letting your mouth open against his. Your tongues met in a slow slide, wet and warm.

You sucked lightly on his bottom lip, drawing a low groan from him, and as it grew wetter, you felt the ache between your thighs sharpen.

Your hand found his wrist, guiding his palm lower until his fingers brushed the lace covering your core. He didn’t hesitate and cupped you fully through the thin fabric, pressing the heel of his hand right where you needed pressure. You gasped into his mouth, hips rolling instinctively against him.

Connor sat up straighter, no longer propped lazily against the headboard. He moved forward on the bed, one arm wrapping around your lower back to pull you flush against him as he kissed you harder. His tongue stroked yours in slow drags while his hand stayed cupped between your legs, palm grinding the lace, but not how you quite wanted. Yet you still moaned into his mouth, needy and unashamed, hips chasing the pressure.

But he didn’t push the fabric aside, didn’t slide his fingers in. “Please,” you whispered against his lips, voice breaking.

Connor pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, a little mean in the best way. Without a word, he hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you off his lap with easy strength, setting you on the edge of the bed. Then he slid to the floor, kneeling between your spread legs, hands warm on your knees as he pushed them apart.

He kissed the inside of your left thigh with open mouthed, teeth grazing just enough to make you twitch. He worked higher, tongue flicking against sensitive skin, breath hot against you, but he skipped right over your core and moved to the other thigh with the same path.

You whined, fingers twisting in the sheets. “Con..”

“What, baby?” he murmured against your skin, eyes flicking up to watch you squirm.

“I need you,” you breathed, hips lifting uselessly. “Please, Con- I need your mouth.”

He paused, lips brushing the crease of your thigh, looking up at you through his lashes. “Oh, but you didn’t need me that much when you were the one teasing me, did you?” He teased. “Strutting around in all that lace, making me wait.. you seemed pretty in control then.”

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, desperately. “I’m really sorry- just please.”

Connor’s mouth curved into a small, satisfied smile. “That’s my girl.”

He hooked his fingers into the satin ribbons of your thong and tugged. You lifted your hips without being asked, letting him slide the pink lace down your legs and toss it aside. Then he draped your thighs over his broad shoulders, hands gripping your hips to pull you closer to the edge.

The first lick was slow, flat tongue dragging up your slit, tasting how wet you already were. You gasped, head tipping back. He groaned against you, the vibration making your toes curl, then sealed his lips around your clit and sucked gently. Your hands flew to his hair, holding on as he worked you with precise, devastating flicks of his tongue.

He slid two fingers inside you without warning, curling perfectly against that spot that made your vision blur. He pumped them slow at first, matching the rhythm of his mouth, building you up steadily until your thighs started shaking around his head.

He pulled back and let the cool air hit you, fingers still buried deep but frozen. “You close, baby?”

You whimpered, hips rocking. “Yes- don’t stop-”

He smirked, pressing a soft kiss to your clit. “Then hold it for me just a little longer.” He curled his fingers again, thumb brushing your clit in feather light circles to keep you teetering on the edge, but not enough to push you over.

You sobbed out a frustrated moan, tugging his hair. “Connor, please- I can’t-”

He chuckled against your skin. “You can. You will. Show me how good you can be after all that teasing.”

He dove back in; his tongue faster, fingers thrusting deeper, and finally let you chase the release he’d been denying. The coil snapped hard; you came with a broken cry, thighs clamping around his head, pulsing around his fingers as waves of pleasure crashed through you.

He worked you through it, licking softer, until you were boneless and gasping. Only then did he pull back, lips shiny, eyes gleaming with pride as he kissed the inside of your thigh.

He leaned up slowly, chin glistening with your release, eyes locked on yours like he was memorizing every flushed inch of your face. You were still catching your breath, thighs trembling, when he rose onto his knees between your legs and cupped your jaw, pulling you into a deep, filthy kiss.

You tasted yourself on his tongue and moaned softly into his mouth. His saliva clung to your lips when he finally pulled back, a thin string breaking as he licked his own bottom lip.

“Get on the bed, baby,” he murmured.

You scrambled to obey, heart pounding, knees sinking into the mattress as you positioned yourself in the center. Connor followed, shedding his tee in one impatient tug before shoving his gray sweats and boxers down just enough. His cock sprang free, already leaking at the tip and you reached for him instinctively, helping yank the fabric the rest of the way off his thighs while he kicked them aside.

The second his clothes hit the floor, you surged forward, crashing your mouth against his in a desperate, open mouthed kiss. Tongues tangled, teeth clacked, hands everywhere: yours in his hair, his gripping your hips hard enough to bruise in the morning.

He broke away first, breathing ragged, and grabbed the white pillow from the head of the bed. “Here,” he said softly, sliding it in front of your knees.

He positioned it carefully beneath your lower stomach as you lowered down, hips tilted just right. The soft elevation arched your back perfectly, eased the angle, made everything feel more open. Connor settled behind you, one hand smoothing down your spine in a long, reverent stroke while the other guided himself to your entrance.

He nudged the head through your slick folds once, twice, then pushed in slow.

You both groaned at the stretch. He was thick, filling you inch by inch until his hips met your ass, buried to the hilt. The pillow kept your back from dipping too low, let him slide in deeper without resistance, and you felt every ridge and every pulse.

“Fuck,” he hissed, hands gripping your hips. “So tight.. so fucking perfect.”

He started with slow thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. You pushed back to meet him, whimpering at the fullness.

“That’s it, baby,” he praised. “Look at you, taking me so well.”

You moaned, face pressing into the sheets, fingers curling into the comforter. He picked up the pace gradually, hips snapping harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. One hand slid up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you down while the other wrapped around to find your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your thighs shake.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured, leaning over you so his chest brushed your back, lips grazing your ear. “Ass up, wearing nothing but those little lace pieces I watched you wear.. fuck, I could watch you take my cock all night.”

You gasped his name, pushing back harder, chasing the building pressure. He angled deeper, hitting that spot over and over until stars burst behind your eyes.

“Feel that?” he growled softly. “That’s all you, baby. So wet, so tight around me. You were made for me.”

His thrusts grew more desperate. “God, you look so pretty stretched around me.. my good girl.. taking every inch like you were fucking born for it.”

You clenched around him at the words, and he groaned, pace faltering for a second before he drove in harder.

“Come for me again,” he urged, fingers relentless on your clit. “Let me feel you come on my cock. Show me how much you love it.”

The coil snapped fast and brutal. You cried out, walls fluttering, pulsing around him as pleasure ripped through you in sharp waves. Connor fucked you through it, thrusts turning erratic, chasing his own release.

“Fuck- yes- just like that,” he panted. “Gonna fill you up.. you want that? Want me to come inside you?”

You nodded frantically, voice broken. “Yes- please, Con-”

He buried himself deep one last time, hips stuttering as he came with a guttural groan, spilling hot inside you. His hand stayed on your clit, drawing out the last tremors until you were both shaking.

He stayed there a moment, chest heaving against your back, pressing soft kisses along your shoulder blades before slowly pulling out.

You whimpered at the loss, but he was already gathering you close, turning you gently so you could collapse against his chest.

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If somebody had told you five years ago that you’d be a physiotherapist at the United Center for the Chicago Blackhawks, you would’ve laughed until your sides hurt.

17 year old you, still in high school, still convinced the closest you’d ever get to the nhl was screaming from the nosebleeds, was absolutely certain it was impossible.

But here you were.

A few months shy of twenty three, diploma still crisp in its frame back at your apartment, and somehow you’d landed the gig. Grad school flew by in a blur of anatomy labs, study sessions, and one very persistent internship application that somehow made it past the first round.

Then the interview where you tried not to sound like you were fangirling when they mentioned the players.

Over the few months you’d been at the united center, you’d gotten close to just about everyone who mattered. The coaches who were strict but quick to joke once you proved you could keep a player on the ice. The media girls, who always knew the latest gossip before it hit the group chat.

You absolutely loved your job. You loved the morning skates, the way a player’s shoulders would finally drop after you worked out a knot that had been bugging him for weeks. You loved learning the team’s rhythms: who preferred heat packs, who swore by ice baths, who pretended he didn’t need help until the pain made him limp.

And then there was Connor. Not that you’d meant to get close to him but it just happened. He came to you all the time, not always with an injury; sometimes it was just to drop off some of his snacks or to ask, very seriously, if the new foam roller in the gym was better than the old one.

Then he came to you with discomfort, real or invented, he always found his way to your treatment room. It didn’t matter if another physio was free, or if the place was packed after a hard practice. He’d hover near the door until the other guys cleared out and it was just you.

You’d noticed the pattern early on. The way he would tilt his head toward your table when someone else offered to take him. A “I’ll wait for her” that carried just enough weight to end the discussion. The team didn’t comment because Connor was Connor but you caught the occasional smirk from the older guys.

And you would be lying if you said he wasn’t attractive. If anything, he was the most beautiful man on the team.

He wasn’t attractive in obvious way that other guys his age were. Connor carried himself differently: humble, focused, almost shy off the ice and that only made it worse. He’d sit on your table in compression shorts, thigh flexed just enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him when you palpated the “injury,”.

You knew there was nothing wrong with him. When Connor actually got hurt, he was the worst patient imaginable. He’d downplay it, skate through it, only admit anything when the trainers physically dragged him off the ice. He’d told everyone it was “fine” until he couldn’t weight bear in the locker room.

This past week, Connor had been coming to you every single day. Monday and tuesday, you’d brushed it off as the usual. He’d wander in at afternoon, claim the right hamstring was “still a little tight,” let you palpate it for thirty seconds, then flash a small, crooked smile and leave with a quiet “thanks, doc.”

You figured he was just finding excuses to see you, same as always. The attention was flattering, even if you pretended it didn’t make your pulse kick up a notch.

But then wednesday rolled around. He showed up right after morning skate. “Thigh again,” he said, hopping onto the table without being asked. You pressed your thumbs into the meat of his hamstring, searching for knots, trigger points. Nothing.

The muscle felt warm, strong, perfectly fine. You told him to stretch more, ice after, and sent him on his way.

Thursday was game day. He came in early with the same complaint, same spot on the table.

By friday, you’d had enough. He walked in at around 3pm with the same sheepish smile. You didn’t even let him speak first. “Connor,” you said, crossing your arms. “Sit.”

He did, immediately, legs dangling off the edge of the table.

You stepped closer, “You’ve been in here every day this week with the exact same ‘thigh injury.’ I’ve checked it six ways from Sunday. There’s no swelling, no bruising, no tightness that shouldn’t resolve with basic mobility work. If this keeps up; I’m going to have to tell the coaches. They’ll bench you, get imaging, maybe send you to a specialist. We can’t risk you playing through something that might actually be serious.”

His face changed instantly. The smile vanished and his eyes widened. “No,” he said quickly. “That can’t happen.”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s my job to make sure it doesn’t get worse.”

“I know, I just-” He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “I already missed too many games in december and january. The team was struggling without me, I can’t just sit there again.”

He looked genuinely rattled. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “Can you.. give it a massage or something? I swear it helps when you do it. I can come by tomorrow, and the day after if you need. Just please don’t tell the coaches to bench me.”

Part of you wanted to call bullshit because the rational, professional part screamed red flags. But another part that noticed how he said please, and how he genuinely didn’t want to be benched; wavered.

“Fine,” you said finally. “We’ll try a deeper session today. But if it’s not improving by monday, I’m looping in the head trainer.”

Relief washed over his face so fast it was almost comical. “Okay.”

You turned to the counter, grabbing the arnica cream and a bottle of massage oil. When you faced him again, he’d already tugged his shorts up higher on his thigh, far enough that the hem bunched just under the curve of his quad. A faint line of muscle definition ran along the edge where shorts met skin.

He leaned back on his palms, elbows locked, chest open. The position pulled his hoodie tight across his shoulders. You could feel him watching you as you warmed the oil between your hands.

You stepped between his knees, keeping your eyes on the spot you were about to work. “Lie back a little more if you can. I need better access.”

He leaned back without hesitation, reclining until his weight rested on his forearms. The move made his thigh flex under your fingers. Heat radiated off him immediately, skin fever hot from whatever this was.

You started gliding strokes along the hamstring, thumbs pressing into the belly of the muscle. He let out a quiet breath through his nose. You kept your focus down on the glide of oil over skin.

Your hands moved higher, working the attachment near his glutes. His quad twitched once under your palm. You swallowed. “Tell me if it’s too much pressure.”

“It’s perfect,” he murmured.

After two days of radio silence over the weekend, you thought maybe the threat had finally landed. Scaring him with the bench talk, looping in the head trainer, it seemed to have worked.

But then monday came. The knock came at around 2pm and you sighed, already knowing exactly who it was before the door even opened.

Connor stepped inside and headed straight for the treatment table like it had his name carved into it. He sat in the same spot, legs parted just enough, and looked at you with those big, earnest eyes.

You crossed your arms and leaned against the counter. “Back already?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

You watched him for a few seconds, and then maybe because you were tired of dancing around it, the words just slipped out. “Connor, if you want to see me, you can try other ways rather than making up injuries.”

His mouth opened, color crept up his neck, pink and guilty. He blinked like a deer caught in headlights. “I’m not- I mean, it really hurts.” The words came out fast and defensive. “You’re just the only one who gets it right.”

You rolled your eyes, but it was playful, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself. “Right.”

You stepped forward, reaching for the massage oil again. Before he could say anything else, you placed the back of your hand against his chest and pushed him back gently. “Lie back properly,” you said. “If you’re going to lie to me, at least do it comfortably.”

He exhaled a shaky laugh, complying without argument. You warmed the oil between your palms, then slid your hands up the back of his thigh, starting low and working higher as the muscle jumped under your touch.

“Higher a bit,” he murmured, almost under his breath.

You paused, thumbs circling just below the glute hamstring tie in. “You know,” you said casually, keeping your tone light, “there might actually be something worth working on up here. Your adductors feel a little overcompensating. Maybe from all the skating, or maybe from.. other reasons.”

He swallowed audibly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You pressed deeper. “Could explain why it keeps ‘coming back.’”

“If I really need more help with the thigh.. maybe you could treat me outside of here?”

Your hands stilled for half a second. “What?”

He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. “Like.. at your place or wherever. Just so it’s not always in the middle of the day with everyone around. I’d still be getting treatment and you’d still be doing your job.”

You pulled your hands back, wiping them on a towel, buying time. “I don’t do private sessions, Connor. That’s not how this works.”

“C’mon,” he said softly, sitting up a little. His voice dropped, almost pleading. “It’s still me getting better, you still fixing what’s wrong. No one has to know it’s not in the training room.”

You looked at him. The flush on his cheeks, the way his fingers flexed against the table, the intensity in his stare. You knew wasn’t just asking for a massage anymore.

Your heart thudded hard once. “We’ll see,” you finally said. “Maybe we can figure something out. But only if you’re actually honest with me next time.”

A small, relieved smile broke across his face. “I will.”

You don’t remember exactly why you said yes when he asked again the next day. Whatever it was, the words “fine, come over after practice tomorrow” slipped out before your brain could veto them.

This wasn’t professional. No licensed physio invited a player to their apartment for a “treatment” when the real diagnosis was obvious: he wanted you, bad, and his only strategy for getting close was inventing aches because he didn’t know how else to talk to a woman.

You knew it and he probably knew you knew it. And yet here you were, changing out of sweats into something cuter just because he was coming over for a “massage.”

Connor, meanwhile, was thrilled. He’d spent the last twenty four hours replaying your “we’ll see”. Yeah, he could have any girl in Chicago throwing herself at him, but none of them were you. None of them patched him up after morning skate, none of them rolled their eyes at his bullshit and still let him stay. Was lying worth it? One hundred percent. He was terrified you’d say no if he just asked you out like a normal person.

When the knock came at 7pm, you opened the door and immediately raised an eyebrow.

Connor stood there in black athletic shorts. “Isn’t it a bit too cold to be wearing shorts outside?” you asked, stepping aside to let him in.

“Nah,” he said, shrugging as he kicked off his sneakers. “I got out of the house straight into the car so there wasn’t much point in changing.”

You closed the door behind him. “Well, no wonder your thighs hurt.”

He laughed under his breath and padded over to your couch like he’d been there a hundred times. He dropped onto the cushions, legs spread comfortably, and looked up at you.

“Aren’t you gonna wear your work clothes?” he teased, eyes flicking over your outfit.

You crossed your arms. “Does it look like I’m at my job?”

“Well..” He tilted his head. “You’re treating me, so you kind of are.”

You stepped closer. “I think you’re in my house, so you better watch your attitude.”

His pupils dilated instantly. If you only knew how much he liked that tone; the bossy edge, the way you took charge without even trying. Some people might call the age gap weird; he called it perfect.

He loved a woman who could handle herself, who could handle him, who didn’t melt just because he played hockey. It turned him on more than he’d ever admit out loud.

You grabbed the arnica cream from your coffee table, your home supplies, nothing fancy and sat down next to him on the couch. “I’m working with what I have. Shorts up.”

He tugged them higher without hesitation, exposing the full length of his thigh. You squirted cream into your palm, warmed it, then started with long, firm strokes.

“Anything hurt?” you asked, keeping your voice even.

“A bit higher,” he murmured.

You shifted your angle, sliding your hands up toward the inner thigh. Your left arm braced on his knee for leverage and then you accidentally touched him. Your forearm brushed against the growing bulge in his shorts.

Your cheeks flamed. Connor was already half hard and your touch sent a fresh wave of heat through him. A soft whimper escaped before he could catch it. Then breathy sighs as your fingers worked higher.

You heard the sound and glanced up. He was staring right at you, lips parted, cheeks flushed, trying to play it cool.

You tried to play it cool too, like the brush of your arm against him was nothing, just an accident in the heat of the moment. But your pulse was hammering, cheeks still burning, and the way his whimpers hung in the air made it impossible to ignore.

You cleared your throat, keeping your hands moving lightly over his thigh. “You okay?” you asked. “Did I push too much there?”

He moved slightly, breath catching. “Yeah,” he rasped. “I’m good.”

You glanced up again, his lips were parted, his chest was rising and falling faster. “Can I kiss you?” he murmured suddenly.

You didn’t know where this surge came from but you liked it. You liked him like this, him eager. Without thinking, you leaned in, closing the space. His lips met yours soft at first. He exhaled against your mouth, one hand coming up to cup your jaw gently.

You pulled back after a moment, both of you breathing hard, eyes locked. But the pull was too strong; you dove back in immediately, your tongues tangling, teeth grazing, his fingers threading into your hair to hold you close. A low groan rumbled from his chest as the kiss deepened, and before you could process it, he grabbed your wrist with his free hand, guiding it up and over to the hard bulge straining against his shorts.

Connor wasn’t thinking straight but if he was already this far, already green lit by the way you kissed him back, what was there to lose? He pressed your palm against him, hips twitching up instinctively.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, but didn’t pull away. Instead, you rubbed your hand over the length of him through the fabric, feeling him throb under your touch. “Jesus, Connor,” you whispered, laughing.

He thrust up into your palm, desperate, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Please,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

Together, you tugged his shorts down past his hips, freeing him completely. His cock sprang up, hard and flushed, pre cum already beading at the tip. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slow, thumb circling the head.

“Was this your plan all along?” you teased, leaning in to nip at his jaw. “Fake a thigh injury just to get me touching you like this?”

He let out a choked laugh, head falling back against the couch. “Maybe,” he admitted, hips bucking into your fist. “Fuck- worth it, though.”

You picked up the pace, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, watching his face contort in pleasure; his brows knit, lips bitten, soft moans spilling out unchecked. His hand covered yours, guiding the rhythm faster and needier. Sweat glistened on his forehead, muscles tensing under your other hand still braced on his thigh.

“Shit, I’m-” He didn’t finish, just groaned deep as he came, spilling hot over your knuckles and his stomach in thick pulses. His body shuddered, breaths coming in ragged gasps.

You slowed your hand, milking the last of it from him, then wiped your fingers on a nearby tissue. He opened his eyes, hazy and satisfied, and immediately pulled you in for another kiss, his tongue lazy against yours.

His hands slid to your waist almost immediately, fingers splaying wide and warm through the thin fabric of your top as he kissed you deeper. He tugged gently, urging you closer, trying to guide you onto his lap.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, lips brushing his. “Connor-”

“Hmm?” He chased your mouth, kissing the corner of it, then your jaw softly.

“I don’t think I can-”

He paused. “But you could give me a handjob?” He teased. “It can’t get any worse than that, right?”

You sat there for a few heartbeats, his hands still on your waist, thumbs stroking slow circles over your hips. He was right; you’d already crossed so many lines tonight, the handjob alone was enough to get you fired if anyone found out. Professionalism was long gone and the truth burned low in your stomach: you wanted him, you wanted to feel him inside you, wanted to chase your own release instead of just giving him his.

If things were going to be awkward at the rink tomorrow, they might as well be worth it.

You exhaled shakily, then swung one leg over his thighs, climbing into his lap. He groaned softly the second your weight settled, hands sliding up your back to pull you flush against him. Your mouths crashed together again, his fingers dug into your sides like he was afraid you’d disappear.

He broke away first, trailing hot, open mouthed kisses down the side of your neck. When he found the spot that made you gasp, he sucked hard, teeth grazing just enough to leave a mark you’d have to hide tomorrow. His hands moved to the button of your pants, popping it open with surprising dexterity.

You stood up fast, shoving your pants and your underwear down in one impatient motion, kicking them aside. Connor watched, eyes raking over you like he couldn’t believe this was happening, cock already hardening again against his stomach.

You straddled him again, knees bracketing his hips, and sank down slowly. The stretch burned in the best way; he was thick, hot, filling you inch by inch until you were seated fully, both of you letting out matching moans.

“Fuck,” he breathed, head tipping back against the couch, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “You feel-”

You rolled your hips experimentally, grinding down once then twice. The friction sent sparks up your spine. “Good?” you finished for him.

“Better than good.” He thrust up to meet you, shallow at first, letting you set the pace. His hands roamed up your sides, under your shirt, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your bra. “What a nice treatment for me, isn’t it?” he murmured, lips curving into a smug little smile against your collarbone.

You laughed sarcastically, moaning at the same time as you lifted and sank again, faster this time. “Well, you’re one lucky player, aren’t you?”

“Luckiest,” he agreed. One hand slid between you, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy. He circled it in time with your movements. “Been thinking about this for months. Every time you touched my thigh in the training room- fuck, I had to think about stats just to keep it together.”

You clenched around him at the confession, riding him harder. “Should’ve just asked me out like a normal person.”

“Would you have said yes?” He nipped at your earlobe, hips snapping up to meet your downward strokes.

“Maybe.” You gasped as he hit that spot inside you. “Probably. Definitely now.”

His laugh was wrecked. “Good to know.” He pulled you down for another messy kiss, swallowing your moans as the rhythm turned frantic; skin slapping, breaths mingling, the couch creaking under you both.

You were close, coiling tight in your core. His thumb pressed harder, relentless, and you shattered with a choked cry, pulsing around him. He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a long, shuddering groan, arms banding tight around your waist like he never wanted to let go.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you panting, his heartbeat thundered under your ear.

After a few minutes of catching your breath, still tangled together on the couch, Connor’s arms loosened just enough for you to sit up a little. His chest rose and fell under you, heartbeat slowly steadying. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering on your cheek.

“You okay?” he asked quietly. “Was that good for you?”

You smiled, still a little dazed, and nodded. “Yeah. Was nice.”

He exhaled, looking almost relieved, then rubbed the back of his neck. “So.. um. There’s this nice steakhouse a couple blocks from my apartment. Would you wanna check it out with me?”

You raised an eyebrow, a soft laugh escaping. “You’re asking me out on a date? That’s so cute, Connor. You could’ve just said that months ago.”

He flushed, ducking his head with a sheepish grin. “Yeah.. I know. I’m an idiot.”

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