#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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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

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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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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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.”

TAGLIST: @cheerymints @lynsdigitaljournal @behindthescreenobsessed @lemsies25 @definitelynotdomanique @lcvlyhughesy @sh1ft1ng1234 @willsmiths2 @mintbrini98 @kazansky-slxt @siennaluvshcky @val413 @wherethezoes-at @macka @nkewstkn @carlottawllms @blankenbirks @probably--possessed @celebrinigf @postgamevibes @icetimedreamer @alexxavicry @sohhh09 @thejordiverse @misslivinglegend @goaldengay @umm-ok-fine @idkwhatthisis2009 @miyasfatass

It was friday afternoon, just after 6pm, and San Jose traffic was living up to its reputation. Macklin drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of his newly insured car.

He’d only had his license for a few weeks, and he was still getting used to the way other cars moved around him.

You sat ahead of him, tapping your nails against the wheel. The line of vehicles in front had finally started creeping forward again, so you eased off the brake and rolled slowly.

Just as your car started rolling, the car ahead of you slammed on their brakes without a warning. At the sudden stop, you were about to reach for your hazard light button, ready to warn whoever was behind you that everything was stopping again.

Instead, you were met with a jolt that came hard from behind, snapping your head forward. Your heart shot into your throat as your car lurched a second time, shoved forward another few feet.

“Shit, shit, shit-” you whispered, hands shaking as you put the car in park.

Macklin’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t even had time to hit the brakes properly. One second the car in front of him was moving, the next it wasn’t, and now his hood was kissing the bumper of a silver sedan that definitely hadn’t been that close a moment ago.

His brand new license felt like it was burning a hole in his wallet. He ran a hand through his hair, muttering a string of curses under his breath.

Macklin let out another deep sigh. The traffic around you was already honking and creeping forward again. He finally lifted his head and saw the car emergency lights flashing steadily. At least the driver wasn’t speeding off.

Macklin unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out into the cool evening air. Please don’t be some angry Karen who’s gonna call the cops and make this a whole thing, he prayed silently, looking every bit the nervous he felt like.

You pushed open your door at the same time. A wave of relief hit you when you saw him with wide, apologetic eyes instead of a furious middle aged driver. Thank God.

“I’m so sorry,” Macklin said immediately, voice earnest as he walked toward you. “Are you okay? I didn’t even have time to-”

“No, no, it’s honestly my fault,” you cut in quickly, cheeks already burning. “I should’ve turned my hazards on faster. The cars in front just stopped out of nowhere and I-”

“It’s okay,” he reassured. “Let’s just check the damage?”

You both moved to the space between your vehicles. The back of your car had a noticeable dent and a cracked taillight, while his front bumper had only a scuff and a small buckle. It looked worse on your end.

“Shit,” Macklin muttered. “I’m really sorry. I just got my license like.. a month ago? Maybe a little more. I’m still figuring this whole driving thing out and I swear I was paying attention but then everything just stopped and-” He was rambling now, a light stutter slipping in as nerves took over. “I didn’t mean to- God, this is bad.”

You let out a nervous laugh, crossing your arms. Your pulse was still racing, but something about his genuine panic made you feel less alone in the mess. “It’s okay, seriously. I’m fine. No one’s hurt, that’s what matters. Maybe we can handle this without calling the police? The traffic’s already a nightmare, and if we’re both okay..”

Macklin straightened up fast, relief flooding his expression. “Yeah. Yeah, that works for me. I don’t want to make this any bigger than it has to be.” He pulled out his phone, cheeks tinged pink. “I’m Macklin, by the way. We should probably exchange numbers for insurance and.. everything.”

You smiled despite everything, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Nice to meet you, Macklin. Even under these circumstances. I’m Y/n.” You recited your number as he typed it in, watching his fingers fumble a little on the screen. He sent you a quick text so you’d have his too.

On that same day, Macklin made sure to text you.

Macklin Hey 10:06pm

Macklin It’s Macklin from the crash earlier 10:06pm

Macklin Just wanted to check if you’re really okay? 10:07pm

You were sprawled on your couch when your phone buzzed. A small smile tugged at your lips as you read it.

You I’m fine, thanks 10:08pm

You How about you? 10:08pm

Macklin I’m good 10:08pm

Macklin Listen, I feel bad about your car.. let me pay for the repairs or take it to a shop 10:09pm

Macklin I know a guy who does good work and just want to make it right 10:09pm

To his word, Macklin took your car to get it repaired the following week. He insisted on handling everything as in he wanted to pay for all of it, refusing to let you pull out your wallet.

“Macklin, no,” you said standing in the parking lot, arms crossed. “It wasn’t just your fault.”

“But I hit you, technically. Let me just-”

After some back and forth, he finally talked you into letting him cover half. You agreed, mostly because his earnest puppy dog eyes made it impossible to keep arguing. The shop fixed everything in a couple of days, and when you picked up your car, it looked better than before the accident.

After that day, neither of you reached out again.

Sometimes you found yourself staring at his contact. He’d been so sweet about the whole thing and undeniably handsome with those bright eyes.

Part of you wondered if the universe had literally pushed you two together. Maybe it was meant to happen?

But then reality came crashing back in. It was a busy friday evening in San Jose. Accidents happen every day, and a cute guy being nice after rear ending you didn’t mean destiny.

A few days later, Macklin was sprawled on the couch in his and Will’s apartment, controller in hand.

“Dude,” Macklin started, pausing the game. “Be honest. Do you think it could mean something that we got into a car crash? Like.. fate or whatever?”

Will let out a loud groan, tossing his head back. “Here you go talking about her again. Bro, you’ve brought her up like five times this week.”

Macklin flushed. “I know, I know. It’s just that she seemed really cool and pretty. And the way we met was kinda wild.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “Nothing’s gonna happen if you don’t text her, man. If you really think it was more than just a car crash, shoot your shot.”

Macklin sighed, sinking deeper into the couch. “I don’t want to seem like a stalker or whatever. I don’t even know if she has a boyfriend. What if she thinks I’m weird for reaching out again?”

“Then you’re never gonna find out if she’s single,” Will said, shaking his head with a laugh. “Besides, women don’t like to chase guys. You hit her car, not the other way around. The ball’s in your court, text her or stop whining about it.”

The next friday, you and a few of your friends decided to go out to a club. Your best friend had just gone through a breakup and begged for a night to forget everything, even if it meant getting absolutely wasted.

You were already a few drinks deep when your friends disappeared toward the bar, promising to be back in two minutes. Left alone at the high top table, you let your gaze drift lazily across the room.

Across the sea of bodies, your eyes locked onto him. He was standing with a group of guys, looking unfairly good in a simple white shirt. For a split second, the loud music faded and it felt like only the two of you existed in the entire club. His eyes widened slightly in recognition.

Shit.

You were tipsy, flushed, and definitely not in the right headspace for this. Panic surged through you, you quickly spun your chair around, turning your back to him, cheeks burning hotter than the alcohol could explain.

A few seconds later, your friends slid back into the seat beside you, oblivious. “We’re back!”

Later that night, your head was spinning. The alcohol buzzed heavily through your veins, and the pulsing lights made everything feel blurry. You pushed through the dense crowd, muttering “excuse me” as you tried to find the bathroom.

Suddenly, you collided straight into a stronger body. Strong hands immediately caught your shoulders to steady you before you could stumble backward.

“Oh.. it’s you,” you said as you looked up, the words slipping out with a hint of disappointment in your tone. Though out of all the people in this crowded club, you were glad it was him.

Macklin’s eyes widened. “It’s me,” he replied. He paused, as his gaze drifted over your face and outfit. “You look.. very pretty.”

The compliment landed softly between you. For a second, you almost smiled. But then the bad feeling came over you again, and remembered that you were trying to find the bathroom.

“Do I?” you mumbled, heart racing too fast. The room felt even warmer now. “I gotta go.”

You slipped out of his hold quickly, brushing past him before he could say anything else. Your legs carried you toward the bathroom line, disappearing into the sea of bodies.

Macklin stood there, staring after you until the crowd swallowed you whole. Did I do something wrong? He replayed the short interaction in his head. Maybe Will was wrong. Maybe you really did think he was some weirdo for even looking at you twice.

You hadn’t seemed interested at all.

After that night out, Macklin convinced himself he had enough. If you weren’t interested, he wasn’t going to keep chasing someone who clearly saw him as nothing more than the guy who rear ended her car. He deleted the unsent message drafts he’d written over the past weeks and tried to push the whole thing out of his head. You were just a cute girl from a weird coincidence and that was it.

A few weeks later, he was at a public gym near his apartment, earbuds in, finishing up a shoulder session when he spotted you.

You were clearly in the middle of leg day. Sweat slicked your skin, and your hair was pulled up messily. You felt sticky, gross, and completely unsexy. The last thing you expected was to run into anyone you knew, let alone him.

As you walked over to refill your water bottle, your eyes landed on Macklin standing a few feet away. He looked ridiculously good in a compression shirt and shorts, even in the middle of a workout. Before you could overthink it, you smiled.

“Hey,” you said, a little breathless but genuine.

Macklin’s heart jumped straight into his throat. Seeing your smile hit him harder than he expected, it was like seeing you for the first time all over again. That spark of hope he thought he’d buried came rushing back instantly.

“Hey,” he replied, pulling one earbud out and matching your smile. “How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been good,” you answered sweetly, wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. “Busy with school and this.” You gestured awkwardly to the gym around you. “How about you? Still getting used to the traffic, I hope?”

Macklin chuckled. “Yeah, no more accidents yet. Knock on wood. You look like you’re killing leg day.”

You let out a small laugh, suddenly hyper aware of how sweaty and flushed you were. “Yeah.. I should probably get back to it before I cool down too much. It was nice seeing you though.”

“Yeah, you too,” he said, eyes soft. You gave him one last quick smile before heading back toward the squat rack.

When Macklin came home that night, he barely kicked off his sneakers before calling out, “Will! You home?”

“Yeah, kitchen!” Will shouted back.

Macklin walked in with a massive grin plastered across his face. “Guess who I saw at the gym today?” Macklin said, unable to contain his smile.

Will paused, then let out a knowing sigh. “Let me guess.. Y/n?”

“Yes!” Macklin laughed, leaning against the counter. “Bro, she smiled at me first and everything. We actually talked.”

Will turned around slowly, eyebrows raised in confusion. “Wait, hold up. Didn’t you say that you were done with her? That you were deleting her number and moving on?”

“Yeah, I did,” Macklin admitted. “But this time it’s different. She talked to me first and she seemed happy to see me, not like at the club where she basically ran away.”

Will gave him a deadpan look. “I know exactly how this goes, man.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Nope,” Will cut him off. “I don’t wanna hear Y/n this and Y/n that for the next three hours. I’ve listened to it enough.”

Macklin opened his mouth but Will kept going.

“Look, dude. Either text her and actually ask her out, or stop talking about her. I’m sick of the back and forth. You clearly still like her so do something about it or shut up about it. Those are your only two options.”

It was a lazy saturday night. You had dedicated the entire day to yourself, just pure bed rotting. You stayed under the blankets watching shows, scrolling, and snacking on whatever was within reach.

Before you knew it, the sun had set and it was already pushing 9pm.

Your stomach growled, reminding you that you hadn’t had a proper meal all day. With a tired sigh, you rolled out of bed and slipped slipped on your shoes. It was late so who was going to see you at this hour anyway?

As you pushed the cart down the aisle, you were seriously regretting not just ordering delivery. You stopped in the fruit section, when you heard a familiar voice.

“Y/n?”

You shut your eyes for a second, pushing back mild annoyance at being seen like this, before plastering on a polite smile and turning around. The annoyance instantly melted the second you saw him.

Macklin stood there in a hoodie and sweats, holding a small basket, looking just as surprised as you. “What are you doing here so late?” he asked, a smile tugging at his lips.

“I’m just doing some late night shopping. Figured I need some dinner,” you answered with a small laugh. “What about you?”

“Oh, my friend asked me to grab a few things he forgot. I was already up so here I am.” He shrugged, eyes scanning your face. “You look cozy.”

You glanced down at your pajama, feeling your cheeks heat up. “Sorry for the way I look. I really wasn’t planning on running into anyone at this hour.”

Macklin smiled. “That’s totally fine. I think you still look very beautiful.”

You blinked, caught off guard, and felt yourself blush harder. “Thank you.. that’s sweet.”

He shifted his weight, glancing at your cart before meeting your eyes again. “It’s crazy how we keep running into each other, isn’t it?”

You let out a light laugh. “Yeah, the universe is really committed to this bit.”

Macklin chuckled, then grew a little more serious. “Uhm.. can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you- have a boyfriend? Or no?” The words came out with a noticeable stutter, and it was adorable.

“No,” you replied, smiling. “Why?”

“Oh, good. Good.” He exhaled, visibly relieved. “I was thinking.. maybe we could go on a date sometime? I know a great steak place nearby. I just- I think it’s crazy how we met and keep bumping into each other.”

He kept talking, nerves making him ramble, until he finally caught himself and shut up, cheeks pink.

You leaned against your cart, grinning. “That’d be nice. I’d love to. But I kind of wish you would’ve texted me earlier.”

Macklin lit up. “Really? I thought you’d think I was a weirdo for reaching out again after the crash and everything.”

You laughed softly. “Okay, ‘weirdo’ is a strong word.. but no. I would’ve been happy if you did.”

The two of you started walking together toward the registers, talking easily about everything and nothing. When you finally reached your car, Macklin helped load your bags into the car. “So.. I’ll text you?” he asked, hopeful.

You smiled up at him. “Sure. I’ll be waiting.”

As you drove away, you couldn’t stop smiling. For someone who hoped you wouldn’t see anyone at this hour, you thanked the Lord for having other plans.

TAGLIST: @bouncedatahhh @cheerymints @lynsdigitaljournal @ill-uminati7 @behindthescreenobsessed @lemsies25 @definitelynotdomanique @lcvlyhughesy @sh1ft1ng1234 @willsmiths2 @mintbrini98 @kazansky-slxt @siennaluvshcky @wherethezoes-at @macka @carlottawllms @Blankenbirks @mcelebrini @probably--possessed @celebrinigf @postgamevibes @icetimedreamer @misslivinglegend @alexxavicry @sohhh09 @goaldengay @umm-ok-fine @idkwhatthisis2009 @luckylzclerc @miyasfatass @0717luv @downtownjulie @feellikeimphoebe @lilfreakjez @astrolatrism @asteria33 @cccassiopeia @mrsbedard @Ponyboygirl1234 @vivireichs @itzlexa @hyunjinvoid

You always knew your boyfriend was clingy, but with Macklin, “clingy” didn’t even begin to cover it. He was obsessed in the sweetest, most golden retriever way possible.

The second he walked through the door after a long practice or a road trip, his eyes searched for you like you were the only thing keeping him upright.

Shoes kicked off haphazardly, bag dropped in the hallway, and then he was on you: arms sliding around your waist if you were at the counter, or straight into your lap if you were on the couch.

No words at first, just the quiet press of his body against yours, like he was recharging.

Every night was no different. The Sharks had wrapped up a brutal practice, and you’d been watching from home and saw how the sharks got cooked by the opposite team.

When the door clicked open just after nine, Macklin looked exhausted, shoulders a little slumped. He toed off his sneakers, dropped his keys in the bowl, and made a beeline for the bedroom where you were already curled up under the covers with your phone.

“Hey, baby,” he mumbled, voice soft as he peeled off his hoodie and sweatpants, leaving him in just his boxer briefs.

You set your phone aside and opened your arms without a word. That was all the invitation he needed.

He crawled into bed and immediately draped himself over you, one leg hooking over yours, chest pressed to yours, until he could tuck his face into the curve of your neck.

His hair tickled your jaw as he settled, a deep, contented sigh leaving him that you felt more than heard. Warm breath fanned across your skin and you smiled into the dark as your fingers found their way into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way you knew melted him.

“Rough day?” you whispered.

“Mmm.” It wasn’t even a real word, just a sleepy hum against your throat. His arms tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

Sometimes he’d pepper little kisses along your neck or collarbone, but tonight he just stayed there, nose brushing your pulse point, breathing you in like it was the only thing keeping the exhaustion at bay.

Every so often his breath would hit just the right spot and send a shiver down your spine, a tiny tickle that made you squirm and laugh quietly.

“Stop that,” you murmured, even though you didn’t mean it.

He huffed a tiny laugh, lips curving against your skin. “Not doing anything.”

That was his standard line. He said it every time he instinctively protected you in a crowd, every time his hand found the small of your back at an event like it belonged there.

The ballroom had been packed: sponsors in tailored suits, teammates cleaned up in tuxes.

From the moment you stepped inside, his hand found the small of your back. Palm flat against the fabric, thumb occasionally brushing in slow, absent circles. It was his anchor in the chaos, and yours too.

The crowd surged around you constantly: people weaving through to grab drinks, reporters angling for quotes, kids from the charity running underfoot. Every time someone brushed too close or accidentally jostled you, Macklin’s fingers tightened, just enough to pull you subtly closer to his side, shielding you without making a scene.

Halfway through the night, a particularly enthusiastic donor had backed into you while gesturing wildly, nearly sending your champagne sloshing.

Macklin’s grip had firmed instantly, steadying you before you even stumbled. You’d turned to him with a quiet “Thanks, babe,” smiling up at his profile.

He’d glanced down then, cheeks flushed and given you that shy, lopsided smile. “I didn’t do anything,” he’d murmured.

Even walking down the street, it was always the same with Macklin. You’d be chatting about the most random things: what to add to the grocery list, a ridiculous instagram reel that had you crying with laughter, or debating Thai versus pizza for takeout later and without even glancing down, his hand would find yours.

Fingers sliding between yours, lacing together like it was the most natural thing in the world, muscle memory at its finest.

If you slowed to peer into a shop window, admiring a sweater or some overpriced candles, he stopped instantly, never tugging you along, never complaining.

He’d just shift his weight, standing patiently beside you, thumb tracing idle patterns over your knuckles while you browsed.

The second you started walking again, he matched your pace seamlessly, picking up the conversation exactly where you’d left off without missing a beat.

He followed your lead every time, never crowding or hovering, but always close enough that you felt him there.

It wasn’t about control or possession, he just needed that small point of contact, needed to feel you beside him, to know you were real and right there with him.

It was like he was your little puppy, and you didn’t mean that in the way some people threw around “my boyfriend’s such a dog” like an insult.

No, this was different. Macklin was quite literally a golden retriever in human form: all boundless affection, unwavering loyalty, and an endless need to be close to you.

He followed you from room to room without realizing it half the time, lit up the second you walked through the door, and wilted just a little when you had to leave.

He didn’t demand attention in a needy way, he just gravitated toward you, like you were his sun and he was helpless not to orbit.

And usually, his touchiness never went unnoticed by his friends, especially not by Will, who seemed to have made it his personal mission to catalog every single affectionate move Macklin made.

Macklin had zero shame about it. Around his teammates, around the guys, around anyone he’d still reach for you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Fingers sliding between yours the second you were within arm’s reach. Hand settling high on your thigh when you sat crammed on the same side of the booth at dinner.

Arm draped over your shoulders, pulling you into his side while he laughed at something stupid one of the guys said. Will was almost always there for it, because more often than not, when you hung out with “friends,” that friend ended up being Will.

Macklin never complained. In fact, you were pretty sure he preferred it that way: someone he trusted, someone who wouldn’t make it weird, but who also wouldn’t let him off the hook.

The chirps started small. A raised eyebrow when Macklin’s hand found your waist mid conversation. A fake gag when he pressed a quick kiss to your temple while Will was literally standing two feet away telling a story.

One night after grabbing food with just the three of you, Will waited until you’d gone to the bathroom before leaning back in the booth, smirking across the table at Macklin.

“You’re so obsessed with her, dude,” he said, voice dripping with amusement. “I don’t think she’s ever gonna be able to leave the house without you attached to her hip.”

Macklin’s cheeks went pink instantly, the way they always did when he was caught off guard. He scratched the back of his neck, trying to play it cool. “She’s not complaining,” he muttered.

Will barked out a laugh. “Yeah, because she’s whipped too. Doesn’t mean the rest of us aren’t suffering from secondhand clinginess.”

Macklin just rolled his eyes, but the flush stayed high on his face the whole way home.

One day you’d decided to surprise him after practice. The Sharks had an optional skate, but Macklin never skipped, especially not with the season in full swing.

You showed up near the end, leaning against the wall just outside the locker room hallway, scrolling on your phone while you waited for the guys to trickle out.

When Macklin finally appeared, wearing a hoodie and joggers, his whole posture changed the second he spotted you. Shoulders that had been carrying the weight of drills and coaching feedback suddenly relaxed.

His tired smile softened into something only for you. He didn’t even break stride, he just walked straight into you, arms wrapping around your waist, tugging you flush against his chest. You laughed softly as he dropped his chin into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he hadn’t seen you in weeks instead of hours.

“Hi,” you murmured, fingers coming up to thread through the hair at the nape of his neck.

That’s when Will strolled past, gear bag slung over his shoulder, clearly on his way out. He slowed dramatically, eyebrows raised as he took in the scene: Macklin practically wrapped around you in the middle of the hallway, face buried in your neck like he was trying to disappear there.

“You ever gonna let her breathe?” Will called, voice teasing. “Or is this just permanent now?”

Macklin turned slowly to look at his best friend, as if he had distracted your moment. “She breathes just fine.”

His lips curved into a small smile when you laughed quietly.

Will stopped fully now, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, clearly enjoying himself. “Sure, buddy. Whatever you say. Looks real comfortable from over here.”

Macklin finally pulled back just enough to glance at Will, one arm still locked firmly around your waist like letting go wasn’t an option. His cheeks were a little pink again. “You jealous?”

Will snorted. “Nah. Just concerned for her oxygen levels.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m good, Will. Promise.”

Will shook his head, pushing off the wall with a dramatic sigh. “You two are disgusting. Cute, but disgusting.” He pointed at Macklin as he backed toward the exit. “One day she’s gonna need space, man. And you’re gonna lose your mind.”

Macklin just tugged you closer again. “Not happening,” he said simply.

Will threw his hands up in mock surrender and finally walked away, still chuckling.

Even though Macklin was clingy in a way that left you no space to breathe, you loved it more than anything.

His constant touch, his need to be close, it felt like being chosen every day. You wouldn’t trade his golden retriever love for the world. He was home, and you were his.

Always.