#bs45

You groan out loud, pointer finger clicking through all the channels. It’s late, and you’re laying on the couch with your boyfriend, his arm slung around your shoulders, as you both fight the temptation of sleep. It’s that point of the night where you’re both tired, but too tired to deal with getting up from the couch to sleep in the proper place.

“Nothing on…” you whine out, and he quietly agrees with a hum.

“Do you want to know what I’m thinking about right now?” You mute the television, dropping the remote somewhere beside you.

You see his side profile and the long brown eyelashes blinking up at the screen that wash the soft curves of his face in white blue light.

“What?” Even though he’s more alert, his voice is still groggy. Bad for you, your traitorous mind associates this tone of voice with…other things that happen late at night. Your legs tremble slightly despite yourself.

You can feel Beckett shift next to you.

“When you got bitched on the ice the other day.”

He pulls his arm from around you away to help him sit up straighter. He says nothing for a second, disbelieving, and then recovers: “I did not get ‘bitched’” . He’s watching your face now, notices the small upturn of your mouth, and relaxes his body a bit. You were joking, well, sort of.

“That’s what it looked like to me,” you counter, turning back to the screen where you have no idea what’s on but you pretend you know what it is.

“He came up from behind. It wasn’t fair.” His jaw ticks. That tells you he’s still thinking about it days later.

Beckett, in his young and naive brain, high sticked an opposing player when he knew he wasn’t going to get there soon enough. The play would have kept going — the refs didn’t want to call it — but another player charged into Beckett. He had tried to turn around in time, to take him face on, but he was shoved close to the collarbone instead, where chain met skin, and was the first to go down in the scrum. The referees had interjected before the opposing player jumped him, and in the moment, your heart pounded loud in your chest, cemented to your seat in the stands.

You saw it reposted on social media the next day, how fans clipped him skating away from the incident, his helmet off and sporting the sweaty brown hair that fell over his eyes as he was fighting a blur of red anger, trying to be the bigger person. You thought about the fight for other reasons than he did, obviously.

You liked to make fun of him, to say stupid things, only to see his cheeks flush and his attention turn fully to you. Where he tries to explain something logically while you just get louder and act dumb and it usually all ends with him giving up, and you victorious. Usually.

He didn’t want to give up tonight.

You shrugged at his excuse. “Sounds like something someone who lost would say.”

“Baby,” his voice levels, deep and scratchy and making it hard for you to look away from his pink lips, “the guy was fucking small. It was the only way he could get me.” He’s looking deep in your eyes to see if that mischievous glint would give way. Weren’t you falling asleep on his arm five minutes ago?

“So you’re saying I could, technically, lay into you like that? You’re that weak?” You straddle his hips, just hovering over them, laughing before he even responds.

“You don’t want to start this,” he warns. You bring your balled fists out in front of you, pretending to square him up. He brings his own hands up to encircle your wrists in them. It’s a gentle hold, just holding you in place, but he’s warm, and he thumbs over the inside of your wrists. You try to ignore it.

“I could easily take you.” You have the most evil smile on your face, contrary to your red cheeks, and it’s the most obvious bluff of your life, and he knows it too. He scoffs at your words. He had you underneath him this time last night, writhing and gasping as he held your legs up to push deeper, pressing kisses to skin, ‘you like this? this is what you need, hmm? my cock filling you up?’.

“Really?” He asks, grinning now that you try to wiggle your arms out of his grasp. He won’t budge.

“Not fair!” You squeal. He looks down your body. The blankets discarded on the ground somewhere. Your top is all wrinkled and your nipples show through the thin cotton. You’re exposed from your belly button to the low waistband of your shorts. It’s like the fabric is begging him to pull them off your hips.

“You wouldn’t even be able to get up if i checked you across the boards.” You say, stilling on his lap. You try to force a serious, tight lipped expression, but there’s laughter building in your chest. He can’t stop looking up at you in that patronizing way. Slow blinks. It makes your skin prickle. You’ve totally been derailed from your mission.

“Yeah?” Silently asking if you really want to take it this far.

You nod, oblivious, and before you can register it he’s grabbing your hips and laying you flat down on the couch. He’s between your legs, eyes staying on yours as he nudges his fingers underneath your waistband and pulls them and your panties off in one slide.

“Beck…” You complain, voice breaking in the middle. It wasn’t a very convincing complaint. His fingers are red hot and bruising on your outer thighs. Claiming. You try to shift your hips, to wriggle out of the overwhelming feeling of the world pushing you from all sides, the crushing feeling of his touch expelling the air in your lungs. He merely holds you closer, breath tingling your lower stomach as he achingly presses his lips on your skin. His large hands now hold steady on your hips, pushing you down into the couch. He’s trying to make a point.

“God…” you falter when his head dips down and licks a strip of skin on your inner thigh, “…you fall for it so easily.”

“Don’t say stupid things,” he says, now captivated by the wetness visible on you.

“Or what? You’re going to fuck me?” Your head tilts back onto the cushion. You almost laugh at your own words. He doesn’t respond, but abruptly latches his tongue onto your clit without warning. You gasp, legs instinctively shutting around his ears. He pulls off, shakes his head and uses his forearms to push your bent legs as far apart as he could. You’re spread wide open for him.

“Don’t move.” You nod at the command despite your better judgment. When the light from the tv flashes onto his face in waves, you notice his dilated pupils, and those searching eyes that for a split second, try to detect discomfort on your face. You’re throbbing, desperate for stimulation. You were used to him being gentle at giving head, starting at a slow pace, partly because he was inexperienced and partly because he didn’t want to hurt you. But he’s a lot better now, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want him to be more confident in himself, take you and do whatever he wanted without your instruction.

He slaps your pussy softly. You bite your lip. Head thrown back again cause if you saw his cheek resting on your inner thigh, breath heavy, bottom lip pushed up where you need him the most for one more second you’d jut up into him. You’d lose all your sanity and start crying.

He’s on you again, not teasing anymore, just keeping his flat tongue on your clit, lapping the bud and squeezing the tops of your thighs as he holds you in place for him. He’s not giving you a break, a lapse in intensity or a moment to feel one agonizing stroke before he’s doing it again. You’d try to buck up into his mouth, but the way he’s pinned your legs makes it impossible. You’re gripping one hand on the top of the couch, the other runs through his soft hair. Apparently ‘don’t move’ didn’t apply to that, because he doesn’t stop. Instead he groans lightly into your clit when the pads of your fingers push into his scalp.

He comes up for air with a loud pop. You see the glossy arousal on his chin and covering his stained lips as if you’d kissed him very hard and for very long. You whimper at the cool feeling of the air in the room. He gripped you harder, as if you’d had forgotten about what lead you here. He was indulging in the fact that really, you couldn’t resist him. How easy it was for his hands to throw you around and bend you and mold you just right. Not just for his pleasure, but yours too.

In fact, you couldn’t even manage complete thoughts right now. The constant blur of strong hands and rough calloused skin and lean muscle that forced your eyes to roll back made it pretty hard.

“Better to not fight me on this, right?” You always thought his voice would get easier to deal with. You thought it wouldn’t affect you as much as it did in the beginnings of your relationship. You were so wrong. Every inflection stung, like the way he’d purposely lower his voice when he adds those one worded questions to the end of a statement, pleading you to respond. He loves forcing words out of you, even if they’re gibberish, because he wants to hear how much he affects you. A form of indirect praise that he selfishly wanted all the time.

“Yes, yes,” you repeat hurriedly, chest heaving, “keep going.”

He uses two fingers to spread you open, face pulled back enough to see it all. Your arm falls over your eyes, and because he’s not holding onto you so tight, you grind onto him when his tongue prods your entrance.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize before he can even say anything. He’s drawn back, scanning your body again. “Good,” he mutters, more to himself, and drags two fingers over your folds and watches your eyes flutter. He tries again, opening you up to force his tongue in your heat. You manage to stay still, nose and brows scrunching up as you feel his tongue explore you. But it’s not enough, and he knows that. Sometimes it feels like he’ll bring you to the edge, tongue coming out to press down on the sensitive bud with more of your juices. His saliva is all mixing and making terrible, god-awful noises that make your thighs twitch and toes dig into the cushions. But then he’ll stop, still applying pressure, looking up at you with those baby blue eyes with a mix of reverence and cockiness. I made you this way. You’re mine and making sweet noises because you fall apart on my mouth so easily.

“Beck, please…” You lament as he draws a particularly long moan out of you when he decides to keep going at the unrelenting pace he had at the start. He only goes harder, not letting you breathe or even think about the mounting pressure before it washes over you so fast you sob, tears wetting your eyelashes.

He doesn’t stop either, he just holds you through it, tongue compounding the pleasure and it feels like the peak of your climax just keeps rising. You don’t see anything for a long while, but you feel every touch, every twitch, and every sound he makes against you. His deep groans of contentment make you clench and clench until there is nothing else your body can give. You fall hard, gasping and whining his name while he doesn’t let go of you. He knows if he does you’ll cry out, so he comes up and leaves soothing caresses on your sides.

“Was that too intense?” He wipes his chin with the back of his hand.

You shake your head.

It was. A bit. You’re lying.

“Don’t kiss me though, please,” you manage to get out. Even with your eyes closed, you can tell he’s beaming, eyes crinkling in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. He attacks your neck with cum covered lips, and you yelp, trying to bat him away with shaky hands.

"wait," you say under your breath, leaning forward slightly.

your friend notices. "what?"

"that guy," you murmur, nodding subtly. "the one in the black shirt. that's sam dickinson."

your friend squints. "who?"

"hockey," you say, a little more certain now. "i've seen the clips of him."

you don't say the rest out loud -- that recognition alone makes your attention sharpen, and makes the group feel less like random strangers and more like something slightly notable. because if sam dickinson is here, then the others probably aren't just random either, right?

your eyes drift again and land on him this time. the one standing just slightly to the side, laughing at something one of his friends says as they wait in line. straight dark hair, an easy posture, with a stillness that doesn't quite fit him. you don't recognise him which somehow makes it worse.

"okay," your friend says slowly, following your gaze. "who are you looking at?"

you hesitate. "i don't know."

that earns you a look. "you don't know, but you're staring like that?"

"i'm not staring," you say immediately, which is objectively a lie.

your other friend leans in, grinning. "you're absolutely staring."

you glance away too fast, back down at your drink, suddenly very interested in the conversation happening near you. "i think he plays hockey too."

"everyone plays hockey here," your friend says dismissively.

"no, like... higher level," you insist, quieter now. "he's with sam dickinson. so he's probably-"

"a hockey guy," your friend finished. "got it. and?"

"and i don't know if i should-" you stop yourself, because saying go over there out loud makes it feel real.

your friends exchange a look. one that says we are about to ruin your life in the most supportive way.

"you're going to go say hi," one of them decides.

you blink. "oh i am absolutely not."

"yes, you are," the other agrees.

"they're in line," you protest weakly. "it would be weird."

"it would be bold," you friend corrects."

you stare at them. "those are the same thing,"

"no," they say in unison.

and then one of them nudges your shoulder. "worst case scenario, you walk away. best case scenario, you stop staring at a stranger."

you groan quietly, dropping your forehead to your hand. "i hate you both."

"no you don't," your friend says cheerfully. "go on, now."

the line is still moving slowly. you can feel your pulse doing something annoying and reaching your throat as you glance up again. he's closer now, close enough that you can see the way he listens when his friend talks.

you stand up before you can talk yourself out of it and your friends immediately sit up straighter, wanting to catch every moment of the interaction.

"oh my god," one whispers. "she's doing it."

"i'm going to die," you mutter to yourself.

you walk toward the counter area, but not directly at him. at least not yet. you pretend to check the menu board like you suddenly care about pastries. you give yourself three seconds before you go talk to him... then five... then you catch yourself stalling.

he glances sideways briefly, just a flick of attention but it lands on you anyway. you look away too fast, immediately questioning every life choice you've ever made and how it's led up to this moment.

his friend says something, and he laughs. then he shifts slightly, and now he's closer to your line of sight again. you inhale, taking a deep breath and step forward, no backing out now.

"hi," you say.

it comes out steadier than you feel.

he turns toward you fully now, a little surprised but not in a bad way, just curious.

"hey," he replies.

up close, it's worse. not because he's intimidating, but because your brain is suddenly aware of how normal and real he looks. how he's not just a concept in your brain.

you gesture vaguely immediately regretting having hands. "sorry, this is kind of random, but i- uh- i think i recognise your friend? sam dickinson?"

he glances over his shoulder briefly, then back at you. "yeah, that's sam."

"right," you say, nodding too much. "i thought so ."

a beat of silence follows. he's watching you now, clearly trying to place why you've approached him. you push through it before your courage evaporates.

"and i'm sorry if this is weird," you add quickly, "but i just wanted to say hi. i don't actually know if you're... like... a hockey player or anything. i just thought you looked familiar and my friends convinced me to come over."

that earns you a small smile from him.

"oh yeah?" he says, amused. "your friends convinced you?"

you glance back once, only to see them both giving you aggressive thumbs-ups from the table.

you wince.

"unfortunately, yes," you admit.

he laughs properly at that this time, and it's softer than you expected.

"i'm beckett," he says after a second.

you nod, giving him your name as well.

he shifts his weight slightly, hands relaxed at his sides. "so you came over to say hi because you thought i looked familiar?"

"kind of," you say. then, more honestly, "mostly because i was going to spend the rest of the afternoon wondering if i should've."

that gets another, better, smile.

"fair enough." he says.

behind him, his friend in line calls something out -- his name, maybe, or a joke you don't catch -- and beckett glances back briefly, then returns his attention to you like it's the more interesting option. that does something mildly catastrophic to your brain.

you clear your throat.

"look," you say, before you can overthink it into silence. "this is going to sound very forward, but i'm already here, so i'm just going to say it."

his eyebrows lift slightly. "okay."

you take a breath.

"can i have your number?"

silence. it's not a heavy silence, just out of surprise.

then his mouth twitches, like he's trying not to smile too much too quickly.

"yeah?" he says.

you immediately want to die. "if that's weird, i can just-"

"it's not weird," he cuts in, still smiling now. "just wasn't expecting it."

"same," you mutter.

he pulls his phone out, unlocking it, then holding it out for you. "here."

you take it, fingers brushing hid for a second longer than necessary, and type in your number with hands that suddenly feel like they belong to someone else. when you hand it back, he looks at it for a second before nodding.

"got it," he says.

you exhale like you've been holding in your breath since you stood up.

"cool," you say, immediately regretting how that sounds.

he just smiles again, softer this time.

"cool," he echoes.

behind you, one of your friends makes a small cheer of celebration that you refuse to acknowledge. you step back, suddenly unsure what the protocol is for ending a conversation like this without tripping over your own feet.

"so," you say, grasping for normalcy, "i should probably-"

"yeah," he agrees gently, still smiling. "beach?"

you blink. "yeah."

he nods once, like that makes sense. "have a good day," he says.

"you too," you manage.

and then you walk back to your table on legs that feel mildly unreliable. your friends immediately erupt in whispers the second you sit down. you don't say anything for a moment, just glancing back once more.

he's still there in line, phone in hand now, glancing at the screen briefly before looking up again -- just for a second. and when he does, he catches your eye. he smiles once more, knowing this is just the beginning of something he already assumes will continue.

your phone buzzes after turning away from him, with a message appearing on screen.

i was hoping you'd come up to me ever since i walked in

The Anaheim Ducks management was gathered around a table, the air thick with tension. The season had been rough, with the Ducks battling for seventh in the Pacific Division against the Sharks, of all teams. Glares were passed around (unlike a puck in the duck’s red zone) from Henry Samueli, the all-powerful owner, to Pat Verbeek, the general manager on thin ice, to Greg Cronin, the head coach who’d been the fan’s least favorite, to Merit Tully, the head of marketing who may be aging out of touch, to Samantha Glantz, the overworked publicist.

“I don’t mean to sugarcoat, but our numbers are dismal,” Samueli began.

“It’s okay, Henry, you can say it.” Verbeek said, “This team is a dumpster fire.”

“The numbers are abysmal. Ticket sales are down 35% from last season, merch is gathering dust, and social media engagement is a joke. We need to connect with gen z, yesterday,” Tully added.

“Our fanbase hates us,” Glantz said.

“We can tell,” Cronin replied sharply.

“Well, we already know we aren’t making the playoffs. signed golf clubs, anyone?” Samueli joked.

“We shouldn’t remind the fans that the guys spend more time on the green than the ice,” Verbeek retorted.

Samueli sighed. "I get it. We’re irrelevant. It doesn’t matter how talented our rookies are if no one’s watching. But gimmicks aren’t going to fix this. What do you have, Merit?”

Merit opened up his iPad with all his notes. “Other teams have made attempts to escape being bad and boring. The Sharks are capitalizing on Celebrini and Smith. Doesn’t matter how bad they lose, their rookies have friendship bracelets.”

“Our rookies aren’t friends,” Verbeek said.

“Chicago has Bedard,” he continued.

“We have Carlsson,” Glantz said.

“And Gauthier,” Samueli said.

“What if we convinced Disney to make a Mighty Ducks reboot with Zegras as Bombay?” Cronin suggested.

“They took the series from the 2010’s off of Disney+ because no one was watching it. They aren’t going to make a movie for a failing franchise,” Tully said.

“What have non-hockey teams done?” Glantz asked, fiddling with her pen.

“Well, it wasn’t on purpose, but viewership for the NFL as a whole increased when Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce began dating,” he said.

“You think any of the guys would want to date a pop star?” Cronin asked.

“Maybe for extra ice time.”

“Merit, I'm not giving a guy more ice time for prancing around with some singer!”

“Ok, hear me out. Everyone loves Beckett. We saw how he trended on every social media platform after the draft. He’s got fan girls everywhere. We call him down from Oshawa for the rest of the season, and in exchange for playing in the big league, he has to “date” some pop star.”

"A pr stunt? For a 19-year-old kid? This isn’t some reality show, Merit. The boy hasn’t even debuted,” Samueli said.

“Exactly! He’s fresh, he’s talented, and he's perfect to date a rising star, someone with a big following.”

Samantha Glantz tapped her pen against the table thoughtfully. "It’s risky, but it could work. Beckett’s got that wholesome 'Canadian hockey golden boy' thing going on. Pairing him with a wild, glamorous type? Instant contrast. Instant intrigue. Who’s the girl?"

“Samantha, if I may correct you, he’s not a golden boy. I’ve been following him very closely and ever since his breakup late last year, he’s done nothing but follow and unfollow models and… um… amateur film girls.”

“This is who we’re spotlighting?” Cronin asked.

“Wait, wait, wait. If we have him date someone for a long period, then we kill two birds with one stone. He can lose the Playboy persona to focus on one girl, and we get more exposure.”

“Who’s the girl?” Verbeek asked.

“Have you heard of Y/N L/N?”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

“Dead serious.”

“How are we going to negotiate that? She’s leagues above even the biggest names in hockey,” Cronin said.

“Do we even have the money for her?” Glantz asked.

“Guys, guys, calm down. What Y/N does is sing about boys and love and parties. If she gets a “boyfriend”, she gets song material. That’s money for her.”

“Would he even like her?”

“He doesn’t have to. Hust has to pretend. And she’s very pretty, so it’ll be easy.”

Merit typed Y/N’s name into Google and projected his iPad on the screen in the meeting room.

“She’s all bright, happy, and sugar sweet. Perfect for our little Beckett.”

“She’s wearing a tube top.”

“And soon she’ll be wearing orange and white.”

Beckett had received a text from his coach that morning. It was simple. “Don’t come to practice. You have a meeting”.

If only he knew it was with Samueli, Cronin, Verbeek, and everyone else in charge of his pro career.

“Hello, Beckett. take a seat,” Verbeek said, gesturing to the open chair.

“What’s this about?”

“How would you like to join us for the rest of the season?”

“Actually?”

“And a guaranteed roster spot for next year.”

Beckett’s eyes lit up. It was almost too good to be true. “When do I start?”

“So eager, Beckett.” Tully said, “There’s a catch.”

He slumped. “What is it?”

“You need to pretend to date someone.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Y/N L/N.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m here to play hockey, not date some frou frou pop star.”

“We’re giving you the chance to play hockey on a team that matters.”

“You’ll get ice time every game.”

Next thing he knew, he was settling into a small apartment in Irvine with his new roommate, Cutter Gauthier. And he had another meeting today with Katie Slater, Y/N’s agent.

“Mr. Sennecke, thank you for meeting with me.”

“Of course.”

“I just want to give you an overview of what being with Y/N will be like. She’s really a sweet girl.”

“I’m sure.”

“She’s very particular. Her mansion is always set to 68° and if it gets any lower, she freezes. Her virgin daiquiris need to be mixed with exactly 5 strawberries.”

Beckett just nodded. It’s not like he’d ever touch her thermostat.

“She has dinner at Nobu once a week, each Thursday, and brunch there every Tuesday. She goes to Poison Ivy every Saturday night with Sabrina for drinks. Yes, it’s a bar, and she gets Diet Coke with lime. She takes the Bugatti to meals, the Ferrari to go shopping, and the Maserati for everything else.”

“Think she’d let me drive one?”

“Oh, absolutely not. Not even her mother can touch them.”

“Am I supposed to know who her mom is?”

“Carinna L/N. Walked for Versace exclusive in the 90s. And her father is Richard L/N.”

“The Richard L/N?”

“The director, yes.”

“Holy hell.”

“You will need to refrain from cursing around Y/N. She finds it gross.”

“Of course she does.”

“You will have to attend award shows, performances, premieres, and all sorts of events. If she wants flowers, you'd better show up with pink tulips. If she wants a snack after studio time, you need to be there with her favorite granola.”

“Am I her boyfriend or new assistant?”

“Y/N is high maintenance. but this will all be worth it for the team and your career.”

“I’m not getting paid.”

“You could?”

He sat up straight. “How?”

“If you write a song with her.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Your loss.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Not too late to back out.”

“No, I’m doing this.”

“Be back here at four. You’re meeting SoCal’s crown princess.”

He sat on one side of the plush pink loveseat, his feet up on the white table. There were magazines spread across it, next to a vase of pink flowers.

Cronin poked his head in. “Beckett, we’re all going to be next door. the mirror is one way, so we can observe.”

“Got it.”

He was alone for another minute before the door opened again. In stepped the most plastic person he’d ever seen. Her skin was tan and shiny from all her time out in the sun. Her hair flowed out behind her as if there was wind. Her outfit was glossy and pink and shiny and gave Beckett the worst headache. Or maybe that was from her perfume. floral, fruity, sweet, and so potent. And her makeup. She looked like a doll. Her doe eyes were lined with lavender eyeliner, and her eyelids were covered in frosty white eyeshadow. Her lips, shimmery and plump, became a smile when she saw him.

“Beckett!” she squealed, hugging him. He physically recoiled and pushed her away.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t breathe!”

“That nervous?”

He rubbed his face. “They didn’t tell me I’d be dating a girl who bathes in Victoria’s Secret body spray.”

“Excuse you, this is Dior.”

“Whatever! I didn’t ask for this. Just here because they told me to be.”

"Same, actually. So, let’s make this quick. You’re Canadian, right? Big into maple syrup and apologizing, eh?"

"Yeah, and you’re... Malibu Barbie? Big into glitter and using Daddy’s money on Rodeo Drive?"

Y/N’s mouth opened slightly, then snapped shut. She gave a sharp laugh, leaning back again.

"Wow. You’re charming. No wonder they’re making you fake date me. You’d scare off anyone real."

Beckett smirked, the faintest hint of amusement breaking through his annoyed demeanor. "You’re not exactly winning 'Miss Congeniality' over there, either."

“Don’t need to. I’d win any pageant.”

“Because Daddy owns Hollywood and Mommy owns Paris?”

“What do your parents do again?”

Ducks' brass and Slater were grimacing on the other side of the mirror.

"Well, they’ve got chemistry. Nitroglycerin," Slater said.

"They’re going to kill each other," Tully said.

Glantz shrugged. "At least it’s not boring. Viewers love a little tension. It gives the arc somewhere to go."

Back in the room, Y/N poured herself a glass of lemonade, the faint clink of the pitcher breaking the silence.

"Alright, let’s just cut to it. They want us to hold hands, smile for the cameras, and act like we’re crazy about each other. fine. I can do my part. Can you?"

"You make it sound so easy."

"It is. Smile, pose, don’t talk too much. Done."

"Great. Glad you’ve got it all figured out."

Y/N leaned forward, her tone dropping to something more serious. "Look, I don’t like this any more than you do, but I know how to play the game. Do you?"

Beckett stared at her for a moment before answering. "Guess we’ll find out."

Back in the other room, the tension was palpable. Slater leaned against the wall, her sharp eyes fixed on Y/N through the one-way mirror. She and Beckett were still trading barbs, their chemistry more combustible than cute.

Slater sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose before turning to the Ducks’ management team.

"Excuse me for a moment. It seems my client needs a refresher on playing nice."

She strode into the room without knocking, her polished shoes clicking against the tile floor. Y/N’s head snapped up, her perfectly glossed lips forming a dramatic pout.

"What now, Katie? Did I blink wrong?"

Slater placed both hands on the table, leaning down to her level with an expression that was equal parts exasperated and stern.

"Y/N, darling, you’re blowing this."

"I'm not blowing anything! I'm just... establishing boundaries. with mister ice cube over here." she gestured toward Beckett, who rolled his eyes.

"Boundaries? No, what you’re doing is setting the pr campaign on fire before it even starts."

She crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed.

"So what? He’s impossible. Did you hear him? He called me Malibu Barbie!"

“And you asked him if his dad still loved him after he didn’t make Team Canada. It’s a two-way street, Y/N."

Y/N’s jaw dropped, but Slater pressed on before she could interrupt.

"here’s the deal. until you can prove you’re capable of being the sweet, adoring girlfriend this campaign needs, I'm freezing your amex."

The room went silent.

"You’re what?!?" she asked, audibly horrified.

"You heard me. no Bugatti gas, no Erewhon lattes, no impromptu shopping sprees. Not until I see some real effort. This campaign is worth millions, Y/N, and I won’t let you sabotage it."

Y/N shot up from her chair, her rhinestone-encrusted phone clutched tightly in one hand.

"You can’t do that! Daddy gave me that card!"

Slater looked at her with a deadpan expression. "And he gave me explicit instructions to keep you in line. So yes, I can."

Beckett, who had been watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement, let out a low whistle.

“Wow. Didn’t know being a pop star came with training wheels."

Y/N turned to him, her glare icy enough to rival the rink.

"I. Will. Kill. You."

“Ouch, babe.”

She made a strangling motion and scrunched her face.

“Frown lines, Y/N,” Slater reminded. Her face went back to normal. Slater straightened, adjusting her suit jacket.

"You have two options, Y/N. You can either cooperate, smile, and hold Beckett’s hand like he’s your beloved boyfriend. Or you can take the bus next time you want to go to Nobu. Your call."

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, but she slumped back into the loveseat next to Beckett with a dramatic sigh.

"Fine. Whatever. I’ll be a ‘sweet girlfriend,’ but only because I don’t do buses."

Slater gave her a satisfied nod before turning to Beckett.

"And you, rookie. Try not to provoke her into committing actual murder, okay? This only works if you both play nice."

"No promises."

Slater shook her head and walked out of the room, leaving Y/N and Beckett to glare at each other in simmering silence.

Y/N sat on the loveseat's arm, fuming. She glared at the lemonade pitcher, as if it had personally offended her. Beckett, on the other hand, leaned back in his seat, a small smirk playing on his lips as he enjoyed her obvious frustration.

"Freeze my card, will she? Fine. I’ll show her ‘sweet girlfriend.’"

She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor, and Beckett raised an eyebrow.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh, you’ll see."

Before Beckett could react, Y/N sauntered around the table, her pink velour tracksuit glittering under the fluorescent lights. She stopped in front of him, placed her perfectly manicured hands on his shoulders, and leaned down so her face was inches from his.

"Uh... what are you…"

Without warning, Y/N swung one leg over him and settled herself on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck like they were in the middle of a rom-com.

Y/N leaned in closer, her voice sugary sweet. "Isn’t this what they want? Cute couple vibes? Let’s give them a show."

Then she pressed a series of soft, warm kisses to his cheek, each one leaving a faint trace of her glossy lipstick. Beckett stiffened, his hands hovering awkwardly near her sides, unsure of what to do.

“You can touch me. Better get used to it.”

He gingerly touched her waist as she kept subjecting him to cotton candy kisses.

Behind the one-way mirror, Slater and the ducks' management team stared in stunned silence. Tully broke the tension with a delighted laugh.

"Oh, this is gold. They hate each other, but the camera won’t see that. It’ll just look like sparks are flying."

Slater pinched the bridge of her nose again.

"They’re either going to sell this perfectly or kill each other in the process."

Back in the room, Y/N leaned in even closer, whispering just loud enough for Beckett to hear.

"This is what ‘sweet girlfriend’ looks like."

Beckett finally managed to lift her off his lap, placing her next to him on the loveseat with more force than necessary.

"Can I get the sour girlfriend again?”

Y/N just grinned, crossing her legs elegantly as if nothing had happened.

"You’re welcome."

Beckett wiped at his cheek, muttering under his breath. he could still smell her perfume. This was going to be a long six months.

Beckett Sennecke sat on his couch, scrolling through instagram with a resigned expression. He had just gotten off the phone with his agent, who had not even bothered to sugarcoat the demand.

"Follow her. Now. It’s non-negotiable."

So here he was, staring at Y/N L/N’s Instagram page.

He scrolled further, wincing as her feed assaulted his senses with glittery filters, over-saturated colors, and captions filled with emojis.

"How does anyone keep up with this? It’s like... Life in the Dreamhouse if Barbie got to wear thong bikinis."

His thumb hovered over the "follow" button. He hesitated for a moment, then sighed deeply.

"They’re gonna bench me if I don’t."

With one last look of reluctance, he tapped the button. Almost immediately, a notification popped up.

@yournamelastname followed you back.

"I’m in hell."

He tossed his phone onto the couch, running a hand through his hair. As much as he wanted to ignore her, he knew there was no escaping this circus.

Beckett pulled up to Y/N's sprawling Malibu estate in his black Range Rover. He pressed the code into the keypad. He tapped the steering wheel nervously, glancing at his reflection in the rearview mirror. This wasn't exactly his idea of a fun evening.

"Just smile for the cameras. Smile and survive," he muttered to himself.

The front door swung open, and Y/N emerged like she was walking onto a runway. She wore a tiny white sundress, oversized Dior sunglasses perched on her head, and platform flip-flops. Her hair was perfectly tousled, like she'd spent hours making it look effortless.

She strutted down the driveway, her Chanel beach bag slung over one shoulder. Beckett got out of the car, already regretting everything.

"You're late, hockey boy."

He stared at her, deadpan. "I'm right on time."

She waved a perfectly manicured hand dismissively. "Whatever. Let's get this show on the road."

He opened the passenger door for her, and she slid in gracefully, immediately pulling out her phone. As soon as he got back in the driver's seat, she was snapping selfies.

"Smile, babe. This is going on my story."

"Do I have a choice?"

"Nope."

He parked near the beach, and the two of them stepped out. Y/N's sparkly flip-flops crunched against the sand as she led the way toward the shore.

"You know, the beach is such a classic. I approve."

He walked behind her, hands in his pockets. "Wasn't my idea. Your agent said 'romantic vibes.'"

"Well, duh. Paps eat that up. Speaking of which…"

She pointed discreetly toward a group of photographers lingering near a sand dune, their long lenses pointed directly at them.

He groaned. "Great. Just what I needed."

Y/N grabbed his arm, dragging him toward the water. "Relax, Becks. This is what we signed up for. Now, smile like you're madly in love with me."

"That won't be hard."

She ignored his tone and looped her arm through his, pulling him closer as they walked along the shoreline.

"Just follow my lead. Laugh at something. Pretend I said something funny."

"You didn't."

"Doesn't matter. Laugh!"

Beckett forced out a chuckle, and Y/N tilted her head back, laughing dramatically as if he'd just told the funniest joke in the world. The camera flashes intensified.

"See? Easy. Now put your arm around me," she whispered.

He did so reluctantly. "This feels ridiculous."

"That's because it is. But it's also going to make headlines tomorrow."

He glanced down at her, her face glowing in the sunset light, her expression perfectly calculated. She was in her element, while he felt like a fish out of water.

"You really don't hate this, do you?"

"It's a game, Becks. Play it right, and everyone wins," she said, with a shrug.

He sighed, tightening his arm around her as the cameras continued to snap.

"I better be a first liner for this."

The golden light of the setting sun cast long shadows as Beckett and Y/N walked along the shoreline, their every move tracked by the paparazzi. The sound of waves crashing against the sand provided a stark contrast to the tense energy between them.

Y/N stopped suddenly, pulling Beckett to a halt. She turned to face him, placing her hands on his chest in an overly dramatic gesture that was clearly meant for the cameras.

"You're so funny, Becks! Seriously, stop making me laugh so much!"

"I haven't said anything in five minutes," he said, arching a brow.

"Shh, just roll with it. Look deep into my eyes or something."

Beckett sighed and met her gaze, his dark blue eyes locking with her sparkling e/c ones. For a moment, she seemed less like the walking glitter explosion he'd pegged her as and more... real. But the moment passed when she giggled, clearly for show.

"Wow, this is so natural. I feel like I've known you my whole life," he said.

"Good! Now, twirl me."

"T-twirl you?" he asked, bug-eyed.

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, like in those rom-coms. Come on, Becks, keep up!"

Before he could protest, she grabbed his hand and spun herself around, her white sundress flaring out like a perfectly rehearsed dance move. The cameras clicked furiously.

"Unbelievable."

"You're welcome. This is how you sell a love story, rookie."

She finally stopped spinning and stumbled slightly, clutching his arm for balance. He steadied her instinctively, and she flashed a genuine laugh. It wasn't for the cameras this time, just an unguarded moment of amusement.

"Okay, maybe I got a little dizzy."

"That's what happens when you try too hard."

She smacked his arm playfully, and they started walking again. As they got closer to the pier, the paparazzi hung back, satisfied with their shots.

He looked over his shoulder. "Finally, they're giving us a break."

She nudged him with her elbow. "Oh, please. You're having fun."

"If by 'fun,' you mean enduring a circus to sell tickets, sure. I'm having a blast."

Y/N's playful expression softened slightly. She tugged him toward a nearby bench under the pier, where the sound of the waves drowned out everything else.

"Look, I get it. This isn't your thing. It's not really my thing, either," she said, taking a seat.

"You seemed pretty into it back there."

She shrugged, gazing out at the ocean.

"It's a role. One I've been playing my whole life. Smile, pose, be perfect. It's what people expect from me. But that doesn't mean it's me, you know?"

Beckett studied her for a moment, surprised by the honesty in her tone. "So what is you?"

She smiled faintly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "That's a question I'm still figuring out."

For the first time that evening, Beckett felt a flicker of understanding. Maybe they weren't as different as he thought.

The moment was interrupted by the buzzing of her phone. She glanced at the screen and groaned.

She rolled her eyes. "Slater. Probably checking if I've sold the fairy tale yet."

"Come on. Let's give them something to post about."

He extended a hand, surprising her. Y/N took it, letting him pull her to her feet. They walked back toward the car, their banter lighter now, the cameras forgotten for the time being.

For all its awkward beginnings, maybe this fake relationship wouldn't be so bad after all.

Slater rolled over in bed, groaning as her phone buzzed incessantly on the nightstand. With one eye barely open, she grabbed it and squinted at the screen. The headlines were everywhere:

Y/N L/N and Beckett Sennecke: The Hot New Couple Taking SoCal by Storm!

Hockey Meets Hollywood: Are Y/N and Beckett for Real?

Anaheim Ducks Rookie Spotted on Amarillo Beach With "Strawberry Lemonade" Singer Y/N L/N

Social media was ablaze with paparazzi photos from the beach. Y/N's sparkling laughter, Beckett's stiff but somehow endearing posture, the golden hour lighting. It was a PR dream.

Slater let out a long sigh, swiping through the coverage. This was good. No, this was great. But Y/N was a wild card, and Beckett looked about as thrilled as someone being forced to eat kale for the first time.

She got up, threw on a blazer over her rumpled shirt, and grabbed her keys. It was time to meet with the Ducks' management.

Slater strode into the conference room where Samueli, Verbeek, Cronin, Tully, and Glantz were already seated. A stack of newspapers and tablets lay in the center of the table, all displaying the same images and headlines.

Samueli gestured to the table. "Well, Slater, it looks like your idea worked. The press is eating this up."

"Of course they are. Y/N knows how to sell a story, and Beckett… well, he's got that awkward charm people love."

"Charm? He looks like he'd rather be in a penalty box than on a beach," Cronin muttered.

"That's part of the appeal, Greg. He's the relatable underdog in this equation. Y/N's the larger-than-life pop star, and he's the grounded athlete. It's a perfect contrast," Tully said.

"Social media engagement is through the roof. Our hashtags are trending, and ticket sales are already seeing an uptick. This might actually save us," Glantz added.

"It will save you. But we need to capitalize on this momentum. More dates, more photos, and more social media interaction. Y/N can handle the performance side of things, but Beckett needs coaching."

Cronin raised an eyebrow. "Coaching? For what?"

"For being likable off the ice. Y/N's carrying this dynamic right now, and if Beckett doesn't step up, people will see through it. He needs to loosen up, smile more, maybe even post something about her."

"What's the next step?" Verbeek asked.

"Another public outing. Something casual but intimate. A coffee date, maybe, or a hike. Something that screams 'young love.' And we need Beckett to play along, enthusiastically this time."

"We should also push the narrative on their respective platforms. Have them soft launch, maybe? The fans love that stuff," Tully suggested.

"As long as this doesn't distract him from the game. He's still a rookie, and I need his head in hockey," Cronin said.

"Don't worry, Coach. Y/N's good at getting people's attention, but she's not about to derail his career. If anything, this'll make him more focused, he'll have something to prove."

The room fell quiet for a moment as everyone considered the plan.

Samueli spoke. "Alright, Katie. Let's move forward. Keep us updated on the next steps. And make sure Beckett knows what's at stake here."

"Don't worry. I've got this."

As she left the room, Slater couldn't help but feel a flicker of satisfaction. The plan was falling into place, but keeping both Y/N and Beckett in line was going to be a juggling act. One wrong move, and the whole thing could unravel.

Thursday nights for Beckett meant sitting on his couch after practice, playing Rocket League and eating pizza. Back in Oshawa, it also meant beers with the guys, but he'd had to swap that out when he crossed the border.

You can imagine the disappointment on his face when he got a text from his agent.

"Don't forget - dinner with Y/N at Nobu tonight. Meet her at her house."

So now, he had to skip video games and snacks and put on the stupid Ralph Lauren linen shirt Y/N bought him and some slacks. He pulled a comb through his hair and spritzed some cologne, Dior Sauvage.

Y/N L/N, on the other hand, was already getting ready for her Thursday night out. After a full day at the studio, she was now back in Malibu, her usual routine calling her like clockwork. She slipped into a skin-tight, sparkly black dress that clung to her like it was custom-made for her body (because it was).

She ignored Slater’s texts, grabbing her keys and striding out of her room. The pink Bugatti gleamed under the garage lights as she clicked the unlock button. The car was as ridiculous as it was perfect, and Y/N loved it.

As soon as Beckett's Range Rover pulled into the driveway, Y/N couldn't help but laugh at how out of place it looked next to her car.

She stepped outside, her oversized sunglasses perched on her head, her lips coated with a glossy shade of pink.

She leaned against her car, arms crossed. "Well, well. Look who finally showed up."

Beckett climbed out of the car, adjusting his blazer as he made his way toward her, trying to suppress the urge to look annoyed.

"You know, I'm not exactly the dinner-and-photoshoot type."

"Well, you don't have much choice now, do you?"

"Yeah, thanks, Slater," he said, under his breath.

Y/N slid into the driver's seat of the Bugatti, starting the engine with a rev that felt like it could shake the neighborhood. She motioned for him to get in, and Beckett reluctantly followed, closing the door behind him.

"Alright, hockey boy. Tonight, we're doing Nobu. Hope you can keep up."

The upscale Nobu restaurant in Malibu was buzzing with energy, as it always was this time of night. Celebrities, influencers, and models all lined the terrace, eating sashimi and sushi as paparazzi snapped pictures from across the street. Y/N and Beckett were immediately swarmed by photographers as they stepped out of the Bugatti, and Y/N, naturally, leaned into the spotlight.

"Smile, Becks. You look like you've never seen a camera before."

Beckett stiffened as the flashes went off, biting his lip to suppress the irritation bubbling up inside him. He knew he had to play along, but this was getting ridiculous.

Once inside, they were led to a corner booth by the hostess, the table set with delicate china and crystal glasses. Y/N slipped into the plush seat across from Beckett, immediately pulling out her phone to check the latest updates on her Instagram feed. Beckett sat down, doing his best to appear cool and calm.

Without looking up from her phone, she asked, "So, tell me, Becks. What's the worst part about being a rookie?"

Beckett stared at her, the question catching him off guard. Was this supposed to be part of the show? He ran a hand through his hair, trying to focus on what was in front of him.

"Uh, I guess the media circus. Constantly being in the spotlight. You get used to it, but... it's a lot."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, finally putting her phone down.

"Well, you better get used to it faster. You're stuck with me, hockey boy. Cameras everywhere, at least until we get the next round of headlines."

Beckett was about to respond when a waiter appeared, setting down glasses of water and menus. The moment of tension was broken, but the quiet undercurrent of discomfort between them was palpable.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the menu, staring at it like it was his lifeline. He glanced over at Y/N, who was already looking at him with expectant eyes. He wasn't sure if he could keep up with all of this.

Despite the tension and discomfort that had followed them in from the paparazzi, the dinner itself unfolded much more smoothly than Beckett had expected. The waiter was impeccable, the sushi rolls delicate and fresh, and the conversation was bearable. Y/N had a way of making the most mundane topics sound glamorous, from the latest fashion trends to her next music video. Beckett found himself responding, not out of interest, but out of the need to keep up his end of the "relationship."

Y/N's laughter was light, ringing in the air like chimes. Beckett, for all his awkwardness, couldn't help but notice the ease with which she navigated the social scene. It was as though she was born for this life, posing, smiling, laughing, and the cameras always around.

They'd made it past the pleasantries and were now onto dessert, the waiter placing a delicate platter of mochi and tempura ice cream between them. Y/N picked up a fork and took a bite, her lips curling into a smile.

"You know, this isn't so bad. You're kind of fun when you're not being… awkward."

"I'm not awkward," he chuckled.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her seat. Her eyes gleamed mischievously as she played with her hair.

"You just haven't figured out how to loosen up yet. You're cute, but you're about as stiff as a board."

Beckett felt his cheeks flush. He hadn't signed up for this, but he'd made it this far. He was trapped in a game of appearances and had to finish the dance. Still, Y/N's teasing wasn't making it any easier.

The dinner was winding down, and as the waiter took their empty plates away, a low hum of ambient music filled the space around them. Beckett's leg brushed against Y/N's under the table as she shifted her position, not quite by accident. At first, Beckett barely registered it, then it happened again, a gentle, deliberate nudge against his calf.

"Careful, hockey boy. Don't get too comfortable," she said with a smirk.

Beckett's heart skipped. He wasn't sure if it was her cheeky little smile or the fact that her foot had now moved a little higher on his leg, but the entire situation felt more charged than it had in a while. He glanced down, seeing the toe of her heel rest casually against his calf.

The pressure from her foot was light but constant, and Beckett wasn't sure if he should pull away or just let it happen. His pulse quickened. What was going on? Why was she doing this? Was this just a part of her usual flirty act, or was there something more to it?

Y/N didn't seem phased. Her eyes were on him, but there was an almost playful glint in them, as if she was testing him.

He glanced up at her uncertainly. "You, uh… you're playing footsie with me?"

She shrugged. "Is that what you call it?"

Beckett felt his face flush even more, and his heart started to race. He was out of his depth here. Was this real? Was she actually flirting with him? Or was this just another stunt, another piece of the PR puzzle?

But then Y/N's foot pressed more firmly against his leg, and the space between them seemed to shrink, the gentle rhythm under the table both playful and intimate. Beckett's hand, still clutching his glass of water, tightened around it instinctively. He was caught between wanting to pull back and not wanting to overthink things.

She leaned forward slightly, whispering just loud enough for him to hear. "So, hockey boy... do you like it when I do that?"

Her words sent a shock through him, and for a moment, Beckett wasn't sure whether to say something, pull away, or play it cool. But as her foot moved again, brushing a little higher against his leg, he felt his breath catch in his throat. This was new. This was dangerous.

"I… I don't know."

Y/N's foot slowly retreated, but not before grazing his calf one last time. She leaned back into her seat with a soft laugh, as if she had made her point.

"You really are adorable when you get flustered, Becks."

Beckett, too embarrassed to say much more, just smiled weakly and tried to focus on the last bits of dessert in front of him. But deep down, the tension between them had shifted, whether it was for the cameras or something else, he wasn't sure. One thing was clear, though, Y/N L/N knew exactly how to make a simple dinner feel like a high-stakes game.

The meal had gone on long enough, and while Beckett had tried to keep his composure, the awkwardness between him and Y/N was palpable. The tension from the footsie under the table still lingered in his mind, and he was eager to escape before anything else could happen.

As they stood up from the table, the familiar buzz of cameras and flashes exploded around them. The paparazzi were waiting just outside, their lenses trained on the door as Beckett and Y/N made their way to the exit.

Y/N, ever the star, strode confidently out of the restaurant, her head high, her smile wide, posing with the practiced ease of someone who had lived in the spotlight all her life. Beckett followed, his hand shoved deep in his pocket, trying not to look as stiff as he felt.

She glanced back at Beckett with a mischievous smile. "Don't look so miserable. We're supposed to look in love, remember?"

He forced a tight smile, though every part of him felt out of place. He hated being in the limelight, and Y/N's constant need to perform for the cameras made him uncomfortable.

As they neared the valet, Y/N suddenly stopped, spinning around to face him. The flashing lights of the paparazzi grew louder, the camera shutters clicking rapidly.

"Kiss me, Beckett. Right now. For the cameras."

Beckett blinked in disbelief. His stomach turned. He had been trying to follow along, trying to play this game for the sake of the team, but this? Kissing her in front of a crowd of strangers, knowing it'd be all over the news? It was too much.

"No," he said, shaking his head, his voice tense.

"What? You're too good for me now?"

"It's not that. It's just… I'm not doing that. Not for them."

Y/N's smile faded, a flicker of annoyance flashing across her face. She crossed her arms, her tone growing sharper.

"This is part of the deal, Beckett. You knew what you were signing up for. You agreed to this whole fake relationship. It's not just about the games and the photoshoots. It's about selling the story, about making it real for the public."

Beckett felt his patience thinning. This wasn't what he'd signed up for, not really. He hated being controlled, hated being told what to do, especially when it came to something as personal as kissing.

He gritted his teeth. "I don't give a damn about the public. I'm not your prop."

Her eyes narrowed, a glint of challenge in them. She stepped forward, closing the space between them, her gaze locked on his.

"If you want your team to be around next season, if you want to keep playing with the big dogs, if you ever want to step foot on that nice Honda Center ice, then read. My. Lips. You are my prop, Beckett. Your team would bend over backwards to make me happy because let's face it, I am more important than you and your shrinky dink hockey team will ever be. And the sooner you realize that, the easier this whole thing will be. But fine, if you won't kiss me, I'll make it happen myself."

Before Beckett could react, Y/N grabbed the collar of his jacket, pulling him toward her. She closed the distance, and her lips crashed into his.

The kiss wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. It was strong, forceful, and completely unexpected. Y/N's lips pressed against his with a boldness that left no room for hesitation. The paparazzi around them went wild, cameras flashing as they captured the unexpected moment.

Beckett, stunned by the suddenness of it, stood frozen for a moment. Then, something inside him snapped. His jaw clenched, and the frustration he had been bottling up all night poured out in that one instant. He didn't care about the cameras anymore.

"For the record, the term is rinky dink. Which we are not," Beckett responded.

With that, his hands moved to her waist as he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss. It was raw, intense, the kind of kiss that didn't feel like it was for anyone but them, despite the hundreds of prying eyes.

For a long moment, time seemed to stop. Beckett's heart raced as he tried to steady himself, his body reacting despite his better judgment. Y/N's hands tangled in his hair, her body pressed against his, and the kiss became more frantic, more desperate, as if it had all been building up to this moment.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless, their faces flushed. The paparazzi were still snapping pictures, but Beckett couldn't bring himself to care.

Y/N, her lips still tingling from the kiss, pulled away first, giving him a knowing look.

"See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Beckett didn't answer. Instead, he just turned and walked toward the Bugatti, his mind reeling from what had just happened. He was beyond irritated, but there was also a spark of something else, something he couldn't quite place.

Y/N followed, still smiling, as if she had won a victory. Beckett didn't even look at her as she climbed into the car beside him, the sound of the paparazzi's cameras still ringing in his ears.

Tonight had gone from awkward to insane. And he had a feeling this was just the beginning.

yournamelastname

Liked by oliviarodrigo, nhl, and 3.1M others

yournamelastname so i may have a little crush 🥰

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username ok soft launch queen

tatemcrae hey bestie fyi it’s not a soft launch if tmz has your relationship timeline

yournamelastname tate you just ruined my whole day

tatemcrae i love you <333

yournamelastname i love you more 🙄

username nooo date me instead

sabrinacarpenter y/n if i’m not maid of honor 😭

beckettsennecke_ dare i say baddie

yournamelastname sorry i don’t date canadians (only tate)

beckettsennecke_ one night please

beckettsennecke_

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beckettsennecke_ off-ice motivation

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username beckett what is this

anaheimducks first lady of anaheim? 👀

yournamelastname 🚩 🚩 🚩

beckettsennecke_ i don’t wanna hear it

cuttergauthier rookie got game 🔥

olenzellweger they grow up so fast

beckettsennecke_ learned from the best

read part 2 here

tags: @summert158 @lekkerfrikandelletje @macklinsgirlfriend @joesnumerouno @heartsforjh @silverxxs-world @macklin-celebrini-71 @violetswritingg @bealn88 @glitteryturtledeer @smiley-roos @linaversion @chloeechlo @celebrinigf @dancerbailey3 @lilfreakjez @wolls-angel60 @hwalllllllelujah

"Beckett please faster" you beg as he slowly thrusts in an out of you.

Beckett takes one of your legs and wraps it around his waist before pushing the other one up and pining it against your chest. He then starts fucking you hard, "Yeah you like that don't you?"

You moan at the brutal pace he sets, Beckett watches as your eyes roll back into your head, "There we go that's the spot."

"Fuck Beck" you moan out as he reaches down and starts circling your clit.

"Good girl taking me so well i know you can feel me everywhere" he says before groaning as you clench down on him.

"I'm close" you tell him.

Beckett doesn't slow down if anything he speeds up fucking you at a brutal pace that has you seeing stars and cuming with a loud moan of his name. Beckett works you through your high before stilling inside you and filling you up with a groan.

"You okay baby?" He asks after catching his breath.

"Yeah that was amazing" you reply.

Beckett slowly pulls out you before collapsing beside you and pulling you so your head is on his chest.

"I love you" he says.

"I love you too baby" you reply.

"Leo is coming over for supper" Beckett says after a few minutes of peaceful silence.

"Why did you just now tell me this?" You ask

"I forgot" Beckett says honestly.

You begrudgingly get up so you can go cook for your boyfriend and his teammate.

you'd known leo carlsson since you were a kid. you grew up together over in sweden. when he was drafted to the anaheim ducks and made his move over here, you jumped at the opportunity to explore a new country, and applied for university here.

that means you've been living with him for the past few years. at the beginning of this season, rookie beckett sennecke moved in with you guys. it's a three bedroom apartment, so you had the spare room.

it's been eight months since then. and personal space does not exist in this apartment. the kitchen can barely hold three of you. the couch is even worse but you love it too much to get rid of it. don't even get you started on laundry.

or worst. the thin walls. you've heard way more than you ever wanted to. well, that's actually a lie. you heard just what you wanted. whether it be them on their own or if they brought a girl back with them. and you'll admit, you do get jealous, wishing it was you instead. but it never lasts long because the girls always run for the hills the minute they find out about you.

as mentioned, personal space doesn't exist here. so, it's also not really that odd for beckett to lean on your shoulder, have your legs over his lap. or for leo to randomly pull you down to sit on his lap when you're all on the couch together. and it seems like it's not a competition between the two of them, either.

it's also a pretty common occurrence for them to end up in your bedroom after a game when they get home. you try and do movie nights, especially if it was a rougher game. and they always claim that your bedroom is the warmest, and you have the best blankets, so yeah, you always end up tangled in your sheets.

not in that way. although, you do wish it was that way. you're so deeply attracted to the both of them that it's not even funny anymore. you'd always been too scared to do anything in fear of messing everything up. tonight, though... tonight was different.

it had been your turn to choose the movie. so, you chose 'after.' it's a steamy movie, and even though it's not really that great, there's a lot of sex scenes in it. maybe it'll be enough to drop a hint that you want them.

you're curled up together like you always are. beckett's head is on your shoulder, one arm thrown around your waist. his head is more buried in your neck, breathing you in, than watching the screen.

leo's hand is on your thigh. just placed there. but when a particularly steamy scene came on, your thighs squeezed together. and he felt it, hand now being trapped, basically pressed against your clothed cunt.

'sorry.' you whispered, blushing and swallowing harshly.

beckett felt that where his face was pressed against the column of your throat. he lifted his head for a second, glancing down to where leo had his hand, and where your thighs had clamped around it. oh. becekett leaned back in to your neck, but this time, he placed a small kiss underneath your ear, testing the waters.

they both heard your breath hitch. and leo swears he could feel you start dripping through your old leggings. oh. he shifted his hand, cupping you through them as he reached to pause the movie.

'something you want to tell us?' he asked.

you shook your head 'no', but your blush gave you away.

'you sure?' he asked.

'mhm.' you hummed, but he shifted his hand again, pressing the heel of it into where your clit lies beneath your leggings and your panties. you moaned to yourself, keeping your lips clamped shut.

'oh, baby. why didn't you tell us? could've helped you out a lot sooner.' leo said, kind of condenscendingly.

'didn't want to mess it up.' you admitted, moaning freely now and tilting your head to the side as beckett began to suck at the skin of your neck now and reached to cup your tit at the same time, thumb brushing over your nipple through the fabric of the hoodie you were wearing that he now realized was one of his.

'not gonna mess it up.' leo said, pulling his hand away.

you went to protest, but it got caught in your throat as he pulled your leggings and your panties down in one shot. beckett pulled your hoodie up, wrestling it over your head, cursing when it got caught on your hair for a second.

'oh, baby.' he said when they realized you hadn't been wearing a bra.

but then beckett's gaze landed on your dripping pussy. and he knows that he wants to get his mouth on you. he shifted on your bed, laying down so his head was against one of your pillows.

he held his hands out, gesturing for you to come sit on his face. 'let me make you feel good.' he said.

he didn't have to tell you twice. not when you'd been dreaming about this for so long. you shifted, crawling up the bed and his body so you were straddling his face, knees bracketing either side of his head. he grabbed your thighs, pulling you down onto his mouth, his nose bumping against your clit.

you moaned out, hands flying to his hair, unintentionally pulling his face closer to your core. but he didn't seem to mind. if anything, he dove in further if that was even possible.

you blindly reached back for leo, but he was already there, pushing you forward just a little bit to open your hole up to him as beckett continued making out with your clit.

'you ready?' leo asked, but he didn't even really need to. he could tell.

he guided the tip of his cock to your entrance that was already slick enough from your arousal and from beckett's spit. then he was pushing in in one go. you cried at the sudden feeling of fullness you were experiencing.

leo gave you a second to adjust, beckett still licking at your clit, fingers digging into your thighs as he helped you shift to accommodate leo inside of you.

you tilted your head back onto leo's shoulder, one of his hands coming around your front to fondle with your breasts as he began slow and steady thrusts in and out of you.

every time he pulled back out, beckett's tongue would flick at where leo's cock met your folds, making both you and leo hiss or moan in pleasure and at the feeling of it.

'faster.' you managed to moan out.

both beckett and leo weren't completely sure who you were asking this to, so they both sped up anyways. beckett buried his face even further into your pussy, beginning to lick and suck at you like it was his last meal. leo sped up his thrusts, keeping one hand on your hip and the other pinching at your sensitive nipples.

the triple stimulation; your nipples, your clit, and your g spot, had you seeing stars. you weren't gonna last long. you can already feel your orgasm approaching. part of is probably also due to the fact that you've wanted this for so long and you wanted them so badly. you had been so worked up.

leo felt your walls clench around him, and beckett flet your clit pulse against his tongue when he flattened it, dragging it back and forth across your sensitive bundle of nerves.

you let out what was almost a scream. 'oh, god. oh, fuck. right there. don't stop.' you managed to moan out.

they both sped up their movements again, eager to please you and help you come. your entire body shook, your hands tightening in beckett's hair, pushing him closer, nose digging into you as the waves of your orgasm began to wash over you.

beckett kept licking at you all through it, savouring the taste of you and wanting as much as he could possibly get. leo continued his thrusts, helping you ride it out as his orgasm reached him and he shot his load inside of you.

you collapsed to the side of beckett once leo pulled out, beckett wiping at his lips with the back of his hand as you caught your breath. you hadn't had that good of an orgasm in years.

'that's so much better than my vibrator.' you admitted.

leo and beckett exchanged a look. they're well aware of you having a vibrator. thin walls and all. but hearing you admit it out loud was a completely different thing. especially since they'd heard you through the walls. they'd just been waiting on you to admit it.

leo grinned, already going to look through your nightstand drawers. 'well, you certainly don't need that anymore.'