#bs45 x reader

yourfriend3 working baddieeeee

⤷ yourusername you know it 😉

yourfriend4 leave your boyfriend date me 😘

⤷ yourusername i can be convinced 😜

yourfriend5 are those jeans for me??

⤷ yourusername of course baby 😘

⤷ beckettsennecke_ 🤨 🤨 🤨

⤷ yourfriend5 sorry sennecke we're running away together

🔒 yourusername posted to their story

liked by samdickinson4, beckettsennecke_, and 27 others

A VIDEO POSTED ON YOUR TIKTOK

[start video]

L/N: “Hello everyone I’m Y/N L/N, a student with the Dodge Film School at Chapman and a media intern with the Anaheim Ducks, but you can call me Shotzy! I’ll be giving you a day in the life of a full time college student and what I do on a game day!

There are a few clips of your day: the sun over the film school building, the bustle of Old Towne Orange during the mid-day, and the crowd at the Honda Center during the game. Overlayed is “Day in My Life” in typewriter font with the sound of typing in the background.

L/N: “I start my day with a 9 am Spanish class to fulfill my last few required GenEds, but not before I have breakfast and my homemade iced chai. Then I meet up with friends at the library and go over notes for our Audio Techniques class, while also reading through emails from my supervisor with the Ducks to know what equipment I have to bring.”

A montage of you making breakfast, walking to class, taking notes, and scrolling through email fills the screen as you speak.

L/N: “Then we set off to our 11:30 am Audio Techniques class. My friend doesn’t like the class so it’s a struggle to get them in the building, but alas 12:45 hits and we’re out and heading to get lunch in Old Towne Orange. A splurge for the week since I know that today is gonna be a long one for me.”

You show clips of your friend dragging their feet on the ground as you walk to class, and their boredom during class. You transition to the walk to Old Towne Orange, and do an aesthetic video of your lunch.

L/N: “After lunch I say goodbye to my friend and head off to my 2:30 Intro to Television Production Lab and Lecture and final class of the day. It was a lecture day in class so I didn’t have to worry too much about getting everything right, and I may or may not have started planning my media questions for the game later today.”

You have sped up videos of you taking notes and responding to emails in your class.

L/N: “At 4 pm it’s time to head to the Honda Center for the game. I head back to my apartment to change into more work-appropriate clothing, pack my camera bag, and grab my dinner on the way out. The drive is pretty quick and once I get to the arena I give my questions to my supervisor, who gives me a ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ on which ones will pull the most engagement. Then I eat a quick dinner and help the videographer set up walk-in videos. Once the first player arrives it’s officially go time.”

You have some fun transition edits of you changing your school day outfit into your work attire, and then footage of you driving. There are clips of the media team waving at your camera, and you setting up your filming setup. The video turns into a selfie video of you.

L/N: “The first Duck has just walked into the arena so I’ll see how much content I can get while I’m working. They have me running around like a worker bee normally so I’ll let future me continue talking.”

There’s a few clips of players being filmed walking in, and waving at your camera. The real audio comes back when you get a video of Lukas Dostal walking past your camera.

DOSTAL: “This is for TikTok?”

L/N: “Yeah mine. Say hi to my followers.”

DOSTAL: “Hello!”

A few more players pass, some smiling or acknowledging your own camera, and others walking past which you slow down to make look like model shots. Beckett passes your video and you stop the slow-mo glamor shots and bring the real audio in.

SENNECKE: “They’re letting you film your own TikTok’s while on the clock?”

L/N: “Yes, now smile and look pretty Sennecke my fans will love this.”

SENNECKE: “What fans, Shotzy?”

L/N: “All 10 of them.”

SENNECKE: “Well two of those have to be your parents so that’s biased already.”

L/N: “No bigger fans than your parents.”

The clip transitions to a few shots of the crowd, the applause and cheering audible. There’s a montage of you taking videos of the Ducks entrance onto the ice.

L/N: “Back with voiceover Shotzy, I usually do videography during the games, I work with the head videographer and we get action shots and quality game footage to post on the socials. We get the footage from the game, between periods of fan contests and overall morale at the game. Luckily the boys got us a win so we can grab footage for the post game celly.”

You show video of the crowd, and you with your camera during the game before ending the section with the team hug that happened at the end of the game.

L/N: “While the players are in media, I send over the last bits of footage to the editing and socials team so they can get it up quickly for the fans, like you, to watch. Then I pack up my stuff and head out of the arena for the night. I’ll be back for the next game day in two days, before the head off on a roadie and I have to stay here for college.”

There’s clips of you sending over footage on your laptop, then packing up your stuff and heading to your car. You use the videos you have of your driving home to transition you back to your apartment.

L/N: “Final stretch of the day. I get back to my apartment and change into comfy clothes, before settling down to work on some homework. It’s already pretty late so I won’t end up doing too much. My boyfriend came over and ended up heading to bed before I did so I did not film the rest of my getting unready. He sleeps like the dead so I could have but I was getting lazy.”

You set up your camera in the kitchen and it has timelapsed footage of you working on your laptop at the counter. A figure wearing a hoodie and sweatpants passes behind you a few times but his face is out of view of the camera.

L/N: “Anyways thank you so much for following along with my day as a full time student and part time intern! I’ll see you next time!”

The last shot is of you powering off your laptop and then flicking off the lights in the kitchen so the whole phone screen goes dark.

[end video]

COMMENTS ON THE TIKTOK

user1

This is the kinda content I want to see!

5h Reply

View 6 replies ⌄

user2

I love this behind the scenes content! Plz do more!

5h Reply

View 8 replies v

user3

umm did y’all see the way Beckett was looking at her 👀👀

4h Reply

⤷ user4

I did….would it be bad to say I ship????

4h Reply

⤷ user3

No I agree, they’d be really cute together

3h Reply

⤷ user5

Guys she literally has a boyfriend so let’s maybe not

2h Reply

View 3 comments ⌄

🔒yourusername

ain’t shit • doja cat

liked by yourfriend5, samdickinson4, and 219 others

yourusername boyfriend appreciation post

view all 23 comments

beckettsennecke_ boyfriend appreciation my ass

⤷ yourusername I appreciate you very much baby

⤷ beckettsennecke_ then where are my good photos?

⤷ yourusername 😶😶😶

yourfriend1 MOG ON HIM QUEEN

yourfriend2 don’t ruin your feed

⤷ yourusername dw i put the cutesy pics first 🥰

yourfriend3 YOU LOOK GORGEOUS…and he’s there too!

⤷ beckettsennecke_ do any of your friends like me?

⤷ yourusername of course!

⤷ beckettsennecke_ doesn’t feel like it

⤷ yourfriend4 don’t even worry Beckett we like you plenty

⤷ beckettsennecke_ I feel threatened rn

⤷ yourfriend5 good ☺️

Then it’s the social media team jumping up from out of nowhere talking about content they needed. It wasn’t in his schedule but he doesn’t want to be rude to the interns, so he goes along with it.

Then, when he finally thinks he’s free, his agent turns the corner, talking about “squashing” little inconsistencies in his contract that they’ve been putting off, and Beckett is about to completely evade, to flat out decline them — he’s already late, but he can still salvage something — before they’re forcing him into a room with a whole bunch of representatives and attorneys and he is stuck in a chair behind a long desk.

he texts you, just so you know he hasn’t died or been in a car crash or god knows the other things you’d let your mind conjure up.

when he leaves the room, turns his phone on, he finds no messages or missed calls, and that’s when he knows he’s fucked.

Stepping through the front door, the apartment is silent except for the small sound of your feet in another room. He announces himself, says your name, but you don’t respond. He sees you when he walks down the hallway, hair all nice and pretty, bare faced, donning pajamas instead of the dress you were so excited about wearing. You’re manically cleaning the kitchen, not once looking up when he drops his bags at their usual place.

He repeats your name, softer this time, as he rests his hands over the kitchen island that you’re huddled over, opposite to him. All you do is make a short sound, eyes never meeting his as you pretend to clean the same slab of granite over and over.

“I tried, I really tried,” he goes on. He doesn’t know how to get you to fold. You were so excited about the dinner. It was the first thing on your mind in the morning, and you were buzzing before he left for work (for what was supposed to be a couple hours tops). Even though he woke you up that morning with a gift, with coffee, and with new flowers in the vases of the living room you often leave empty, those things could never measure up to the quality time you were so rarely afforded with him during the season. And he knows that. How irritating that today of all days, that point was struck straight on the head?

“—and then I had to make tiktoks. Then my agent, you know how he is, wouldn’t let me leave over some legal shit and…”

He explains in a way that tries to lighten the mood, with a hopeful tick and a small nervous laugh as you just stay quiet, moving around the kitchen, busying yourself. When he finishes, you mutter, back turned to him, a simple monotone okay, like if you were to say anything else you’d either burst into tears or start yelling at him.

His heart breaks, genuinely shatters.

He walks up behind you, and you don’t budge when he wraps his arms fully around you, or when he rests his chin on your shoulder, so he goes, “im so sorry,” repeatedly into your neck, insistent on making you hear his regret until you were so sick of him you’d have to push him away. “Let me make it up to you.”

You sigh, say his name with this soft annoyed cadence that only he knows is filled with so much dejection.

“I’m serious,” he whispers, nibbling your earlobe while you squirm. “You deserve so much better.” He presses his lips down the side of your neck, his hands pushing underneath your shirt, wrapping them around your waist, holding you flush against the counter. his body weight, in a way, forces your mind to muddle and quiet the painful emotions you’ve been feeling the past couple hours. You did your hair, your makeup, and even got fully dressed, standing in the hallway, hoping to hear his keys turn from the other side of the door.

“I don’t know, Beck…” you lean your head forward, bracing the palm of your hands on the countertop, as his lips cross over the back of your neck. He carefully moves your hair to one side so he has better access.

“Please,” he’s grumbling into your skin, “I need you to forgive me.”

You huff, rolling your eyes on autopilot, pretending like his lips on you had no effect, “might take awhile.”

“I know, I know,” he groans out, pulls off you and you miss it — him — immediately. Even though you were still a bit mad at him, or rather mad at his job, you knew this feeling would subside. Feeling second to everything. He always makes it up to you.

His strong hands turn you around and you don’t miss how his eyes search yours, flicking through every micro expression, trying to get the answers you won’t tell him. His brown hair is a little wild, he has a small sheen of sweat on his temples because he was rushing home, and his brows are permanently downturned in guilt. When you look away, past his shoulder, staring at the wall because his eyes are too intense, he uses his thumb to shift your gaze back to him. Your neck cranes up because of his height.

He doesn’t kiss you on the lips, not yet, though he stares at them for a few seconds and you feel so small. He bends down and lifts you by the back of your legs. You’re limp against him.

“I’m an idiot,” he softly places you on the bed, takes his shirt and pants off as quickly as possible. “Should’ve told them all to fuck off.” He takes his rightful place over your body.

“In those words?” You breathe out. He has your shirt all crumpled up below your chest now, shorts all askew on your hips. He smiles so hard, happy that you still have a sense of humor, that he has not completely ruined the night.

“Yes, exactly in those words.”

You click your tongue at him and don’t give him the satisfaction of smiling back, shaking your head like a disapproving coach instead. He rids you of your clothes. He tries to do it slowly, but you can tell his hands are all jittery and his blinking turns slow. Once your underwear is off, you expect him to turn his attention there, but you see him shift down between your feet. He cradles the heel of one foot, coming down to press his lips to your ankle. You breathe out through your nose as he scatters lazy kisses up your shin, around your knee, to your inner thigh. He looks up to see you transfixed on him. Your elbows are propped up at your sides to see him properly. “You know you matter the most, right? You’re my favorite person, my number one.” He says this in his gravely, stirring voice. You shut your eyes instead of answering, of giving him what he wants so bad — validation, forgiveness, the whispered promise that everything will be okay. It was still too soon to verbally forgive. He was a man after all; you wanted to preserve some fight, but you felt so weak to your own love-clouded brain. It was like your head was all mushed with pink hearts and his voice. It was embarrassing. Your cheeks redden because you already know you’ve forgiven him.

He repeats his actions down your other leg, slow and torturing.

You instinctually spread your legs wider when he gets to your inner middle thigh, grazing his teeth just a second to indent the flesh. “All for me?”

“Don’t be—“ one finger swipes over your folds. His cheek and soft hair brush against your thigh. His eyes lock on your pussy. “—ah, don’t be a smartass. I’m still mad.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” He looks up at you, instantly shifts up, two fingers still a heavy weight on your clit, and kisses you hard on the lips. He smiles into it, “force of habit.”

You groan, arching your back as you open your mouth to let him in. His free hand grazes over your nipple, rubbing until you’re gasping into his mouth to do something, do anything. You’re bucking your hips up into the pads of his fingers. You feel yourself gushing, slick coating him so easily that when he finally does sink two fingers into you, it fits so easily. He shudders above you, looking down to watch a part of him be swallowed up.

“So beautiful. I’m so sorry. You know that right?” He starts babbling, “Will you forgive me?”

“Maybe–“ he curls his fingers forward just right and your legs start tensing, “—maybe. only if you fuck me right now.”

“I will. I promise, baby” he starts pressing kisses down your neck again, hitting your spot once more to hear you whine, and then he’s withdrawing his fingers. He doesn’t waste time in lining himself up. He presses a searing kiss to your lips as he pushes in.

He’s gentle, bracing his forearms by your head, moving slow so he can watch your eyes flutter and drool form at the corners of your mouth. He waits a second longer each time he thrusts than he normally would. He wants to feel your walls slick and warm and enveloping him, to appreciate it more. Usually, he’s rougher, he goes harder, because you like it, but he finds himself liking this drunk state you’ve entranced him in. He likes feeling the moans you gasp into his mouth, the world dissolving around him, the hot press of your hands on his biceps, gripping so hard because you want him as close as possible.

“I’m so close,” you whine into his jaw. He pulls back. You can see his pretty eyelashes and his red cheeks. His breathing is labored, his dilated eyes having trouble focusing on one thing on your face.

“Yeah?” He asks. Before you know it, one of his hands comes up to your face, and his thumb traces your bottom lip, collects the saliva before he dips it between your teeth. You instinctively wrap your lips around him, but you can’t keep eye contact because the pressure in your lower stomach is too much. You can’t stop the noises now. “Need you to come on my cock, please—please.”

He rubs his thumb across your cheek with your spit as you come undone. He snaps his hips harder, fucking you deeper, making you claw at his back. He comes a minute later, with this long trembling breath that has you clenching one last time.

“I forgive you, stupid.” You say as you gather the strength. He’s flopped on top of you. He’s rubbing circular patterns on your hip, not ready to leave your warmth.

He kisses the tip of your nose. “I’m going to call and get a reservation for tomorrow, okay?”

You smile, “that’s good with me.”

—

part two

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

The sheets are tangled around your legs, a familiar mess after another night with Beckett. His breathing has evened out and the rhythmic sound of it is a stark contrast to the frantic pace from moments ago. You turn onto your side, watching the rise and fall of his chest in the dim light.

This is the part you always struggle with, the aftermath. The sex is great, fantastic even, but the silence that follows feels heavier each time. You've been doing this for two months now, a casual arrangement that started with a drunken kiss at a party and evolved into late-night texts and hookups.

"You staying?" he asks, his voice rough with sleep.

"Do you want me to?" you ask, hoping for a certain type of answer.

"Up to you," he mumbles, already half-asleep again.

That's his go-to response when things get even remotely serious. Up to you. Your call. Whatever you want. It's frustrating how he deflects any decision that might imply he actually wants you around for more than sex.

You decide to stay, telling yourself it's because it's late and you're tired. But as you drift off, you can't shake the feeling that you're just a warm body in his bed, someone convenient and easily replaceable.

The next morning, Beckett is already dressed and checking his phone when you wake up. "Morning," he says without looking up. "There's coffee in the kitchen if you want some."

"Thanks," you reply, sitting up and clutching the sheet to your chest. "Hey, can we talk for a minute?"

He finally looks up, his expression unreadable. "About what?"

"About… us," you say, hating how vulnerable your voice sounds. "I just feel like we never hang out unless it's to hook up. I thought we were friends too, but…"

He shrugs, stuffing his phone in his pocket. "We are friends. We're just busy. You've got classes, I've got hockey."

"It's not just that," you press, feeling a knot tighten in your stomach. "Sometimes it feels like you don't even want to be here after we… you know."

"Of course I want to be here," he says, but his eyes have already drifted to the door. "I just have practice early. Look, can we not do this right now?"

"Do what?" you ask, your frustration mounting. "Have an actual conversation about our relationship?"

"It's not a relationship," he snaps, then immediately seems to regret his harsh tone. "That's not what I meant. I just… I don't do well with this kind of talk."

"I've noticed," you say quietly, pulling the sheet tighter around yourself. "God, Beckett, do you ever talk about anything real?"

He runs a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched. "What do you want from me? I thought we had a good thing going. No strings, no drama."

"No strings, no drama," you repeat with a bitter laugh. "Is that all this is to you? Just a convenient way to get off without any emotional investment?"

"That's not fair," he says. "I care about you. You know I do."

"Do I?" you challenge. "Because you have a funny way of showing it. You leave before I wake up half the time. You never ask about my day unless it leads to sex. You can't even have a simple conversation about what we're doing here."

"Because there's nothing to talk about!" he explodes, his composure finally cracking. "We like each other, we enjoy sleeping together. Why does it need to be more complicated than that?"

"Because I'm starting to feel like I'm losing my friend!" you blurt out, then immediately wish you could take the words back.

The room falls silent, heavy with your admission. Beckett stares at you, his expression a mixture of shock and panic.

"I… I can't do this," he finally says, backing toward the door. "I'm sorry."

And then he's gone, leaving you alone in his bed. The sheets are still warm from his body but his absence is making you feel colder than ever.

You sit there for a long time, staring at the closed door while your heart is pounding in your chest. Part of you wants to call him, to take back your words and pretend everything is fine. But the other part, the stronger part, knows you can't go back to how things were. Not now.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand and you grab it, hoping it's Beckett with an apology or at least an explanation. Instead, it's a text from him that makes your stomach drop.

Beckett: Hey, about earlier… I'm not good with feelings and stuff. Can we just go back to how things were?

You stare at the message, disbelief turning to anger. After everything you said, after pouring your heart out, this is his response? A request to ignore it all and continue as if nothing happened?

You: No. We can't.

Beckett: Why not? We were good together.

You: Sex isn't enough for me anymore. I need more than that.

Beckett: I don't know what you want me to say.

You: I want you to say that you care. That you're willing to at least try and be a decent friend. That I'm not just a convenient warm body to you.

The three dots appear and disappear several times as he types, then deletes, then types again. Finally, a new message comes through.

Beckett: I'm sorry. I can't give you what you want.

Tears well in your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. You knew this was a possibility, but you had foolishly hoped that he might surprise you.

"Baby" Beckett whines.

"Impatient" you mutter.

"You have to many clothes on" Beckett says as he pulls you on top of him.

"Baby can't you just sleep?" You ask

"No I have to be in you" he says.

"Beck" you start.

"I need to feel you around me" He says leaning in and nibbling on your neck, "I can't sleep otherwise."

"Beck" you begin again.

"Pleaseseeee baby" he begs.

"Okay okay" you say stripping your clothes off.

Beckett pulls you back onto his lap the moment your naked, he helps you line up against his cock and sink down slowly.

You both moan as he bottoms out, "Feels so good" Beckett says.