“Did you sleep good?” He questions again, and even though you cannot fully make out each of his features you can feel his gaze on you.

“I thought you just told me to go back to sleep.” You joke, rubbing your nose into his skin before kissing it lightly.

“That was before I remembered how much you like how I sound in the mornings.” He quips back, going to reach under your shirt, which was an old shirt of his, rubbing his thumb on the dip in your back.

You pick your head up off his warm skin, resting your chin on his peck as you look at him. Easier to see now since your eyes had adjusted to the dark.

“How much time do you have?” You whisper, your finger tracing shapes on his bare chest.

Connor didn’t give you a verbal response, but instead flips you over so you were pressed into the mattress as he looms over you. His gold chain hanging down from his neck, swinging slightly with the motion.

“I’ve got plenty of time.”

—

Connor in fact, did not have plenty of time.

He was almost late if he was being completely honest. But he wouldn’t tell you that. It was hard enough leaving the bedroom knowing you were still in bed. Hard enough leaving with the image of your body covered only by his sheet. So on the speedy ride over he tried to shake those thoughts clear, not needing to crash because he was thinking about you.

But, unsurprising to him, he couldn’t shake the thoughts. He wore a smile as he hurried into the building, giving a quick hello to the people he passed on the way. He always smiled when he was thinking about you, but this morning he seemed to glow.

“Bedsy!” He hears Kaiser yell to him. “Cutting it a little close aren’t we?” He jokes, finishing lacing up his skates.

“Yeah, yeah.” Connor laughs, waving him off as he was the last person to get changed before heading out to the ice.

—

Practice seemed long today. Maybe that’s because he was preoccupied still. Even hours later Connor couldn’t get you out of his head. Again, not that you ever left, but he couldn’t get the images out of how you looked, how you felt.

Fuck. I need to get home.

He thinks to himself as his teammates make their way back into the locker room. All of them joking and pushing each other around. Connor did love all the guys, but he couldn’t find an ounce of care in this current moment.

As he made his way back to his space, he pulled off his shirt, and the laughter and voices to his left seemed to die down. Not that he was really paying any attention to them anyways. But then he hears it.

“Bedsy, what the fuck man.”

That caught his attention, and as he looks towards his captain and teammates he now notices the complete silence in the locker room. Something that is so unheard of that it makes him worried.

“What?” He asks, continuing to take off his hockey gear.

“Did you win the fight at least?” Vlasic asks, laughing as he sits down on the bench.

Okay, now Connor is confused. But every set of eyes burn into him, and he starts to feel uncomfortable at the gazes of his entire team.

“What are you talking about?” He asks, stopping what he was doing.

“Uh, don’t tell me you don’t feel that.” Vlasic says, smirking so wide that Connor was starting to get annoyed.

“What fight? What am I missing?” He asks the masses.

“Your back dude, looks like someone clawed you up pretty good.” Frank says, trying not to laugh at the situation.

As soon as Frank said it, Connor knew exactly what everyone was staring at. Of course he did. And as the locker room broke out into laughter, Connor couldn’t find even an ounce of embarrassment in his bones. As he looks in the mirror he sees them for the first time. And Jesus, it does look like he went toe to toe in a fight. Your long fingernails dug into his skin, leaving a trail all the way from his hips to his shoulders. Along some parts of the lines he could see some bruises starting to form.

But as he continues to looks in the mirror, he has only one thought cross his mind. He wants to wear these marks forever.

“Sorry that I’ve got a woman that loves me.” Connor jokes, knowing you’ll keel over from horror when he tells you about this.

The chirping is consistent until Connor slides his hat on and makes his way towards the exit. The guys making kissing noises and saluting as he walks by.

“No one mention this to her next time you see her, yeah?” Connor says, pointing to the guys as he opens the door. “I know you all love her but she’s going to want to crawl in a hole after this.”

All the guys nod and laugh, agreeing to not chirp you about the animalistic scratches you left on your boyfriend.

“Have a good night Bedsy!”

“Tell lovely Y/N we say hello!”

“Can I be the godfather?”

Where all things Connor heard as he left, shaking his head he got into his car, starting it up and making his way back to you.

Connor decided he couldn’t wait to tell you, so he pressed the voice button on his car, telling it to call you. You pick up right away, and the sound of your voice soothing him.

“You might want to prepare yourself for the game tomorrow, baby.” Connor says, turning his blinker on, waiting for the light to change.

“What do you mean?” You ask, confusion coating your voice.

“I mean I’ve got some new decorations that the guys saw today. When you see them tomorrow prepare for something to be said.”

“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.” You say, and even though Connor isn’t with you he can tell you’re smiling by how your voice sounds.

“I have some deep claw marks down my back, happen to know anything about those?”

You were silent. Before you let out of biggest ‘oh my god’.

Connor’s laughter booms through your end of the phone, and you just groan.

“Con that’s so embarrassing!” You say, setting your phone down and putting your head in your hands.

“Not sure embarrassing is the right word. I’m actually pretty proud to wear them.”

“CONNOR.” You scold, laughing a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffed a laugh. “Bullshit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get on the bed, baby,” he murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TAGLIST: @cheerymints @lynsdigitaljournal @behindthescreenobsessed @lemsies25 @definitelynotdomanique @lcvlyhughesy @sh1ft1ng1234 @willsmiths2 @mintbrini98 @kazansky-slxt @siennaluvshcky @val413 @wherethezoes-at @macka @nkewstkn @carlottawllms @Blankenbirks @probably--possessed @celebrinigf @postgamevibes @icetimedreamer @alexxavicry @sohhh09 @thejordiverse @misslivinglegend @goaldengay @umm-ok-fine @idkwhatthisis2009 @miyasfatass @0717luv @downtownjulie @feellikeimphoebe

you don't answer.

the apartment is quiet except for the soft rustle of you settling in. mack stands there for a minute, jaw tight, arms crossed. he hates losing arguments, hates feeling misunderstood more.

but what he hates most? the silence.

he lasts about five minutes in the bedroom before he exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair. he replays everything in his head -- your expression, the way your voice wavered at the end. he's good at reading plays developing on the ice, but he'd not always as quick at reading emotions.

still, he tries.

when he walks into the living room, you're already half-asleep, curled up on the couch, blanket barely covering you. you look smaller somehow. not stubborn, not dramatic, just hurt. his chest tightens at the sight of you.

"hey," he says softly, kneeling beside the couch.

you don't move.

he sighs, guilt finally outweighing pride. "i'm sorry, okay? i shouldn't have snapped at you. i just-" he pauses, searching for words like he's searching for an opening. "i don't ever want you thinking hockey matters more than you. it doesn't."

your eyes flutter open, glassy with sleep. "you could've just said that," you mumble.

"i know." he gives you that crooked, sheepish grin -- the one he's caught using all the time when he knows he's messed up. "i'm still working on the whole communication thing."

he gently tugs the blanket higher around your shoulders. "come back to bed?"

you hesitate for a second.

and that's when he does something very earnest, and direct. he rests his forehead against yours lightly. "i don't like sleeping without you," he admits quietly. "it feels wrong."

the sincerity in his voice melts the last of your resistance. for all his competitiveness, for all his intensity, when it comes to you? he chooses you every time.

WILL SMITH

you don't mean to fall asleep. you told yourself you were just going to lie down on the couch for a minute -- just until the sting of the argument fades, just until the tight feeling in your chest loosens. the tv is off, the apartment is too quiet. you hug one of the throw pillows to your chest and stare at nothing.

you hear the bedroom door open down the hall. will doesn't slam doors. he never has, even when he's frustrated, he's always controlled. intense, but controlled.

his footsteps pause when he sees you. he stands there for a moment, arms folded over, replaying the argument in his head. the stubborn back and forth, both of you refusing to give up. will hates unresolved tension. on the ice, problems are solved fast -- once the short shift's over, move on. but this? this lingers.

"c'mon," he says softly, stepping closer. "you're gonna wreck your neck out here."

you stir on the couch, still refusing to wake. his expression shifts completely then -- the frustration from earlier melting away completely. the steady, dependable energy he always carried with himself at the rink slips into place here. he kneels beside the couch and brushes your hair away from your face.

"i don't like fighting with you," he admits quietly, even though you can't hear him. "you know that."

when you shiver slightly, he doesn't hesitate anymore. he slides one arm under your knees, the other around your back, lifting you easily. he's careful with you, like you're something precious he doesn't want to mishandle.

you blink awake halfway down the hall. "will...?"

"yeah," he murmurs. "i've got you."

you bury your face into his shoulder automatically. he sets you down on the bed instead of retreating to his side. he sits beside you, thumb brushing slow circles against your arm.

"we can be mad," he says quietly. "but don't sleep out there."

there's no sense of ego in his voice, just sincerity. he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

"we'll figure out everything in the morning. together."

FRASER MINTEN

the apartment is quiet in that heavy, stubborn way that only happens after an argument. you're curled up on the couch, wrapped in the throw blanket you always steal from his side of the bed. the lights are low, and you'd told yourself you didn't care if he noticed you weren't in bed.

you absolutely care.

the bedroom door opens softly down the hall. you hear his footsteps -- slow, and hesitant. fraser isn't the type to slam doors or raise his voice, even during the argument. he'd just stay frustratingly calm, hands on his hips, jaw tight.

now he stands at the edge of the living room, taking you in.

knowing he was staring at you, you don't turn over to look at him. "i'm fine."

there's a pause. you can practically feel him thinking. he runs a hand through his hair -- he always does that when he's trying to figure out what he needs to do.

"you're not fine," he says quietly. "you're on the couch."

you shrug. "didn't want to bother you."

that makes him sigh in a soft and controlled manner, but still hurt. he walks over and crouches beside the couch so he's eye level with you. his voice loses its edge.

"you don't bother me. ever."

you finally glance at him. his expression isn't angry anymore, it's worried. fraser's steady like that -- he cools down fast, but he hates the distance. he hates feeling like there's a space between you.

"i don't like fighting with you," he admits. "but i like you out here by yourself and uncomfortable even less."

you swallow. "you were mad."

"i was frustrated," he correct gently. "there's a difference."

his hand brushes yours, tentative at first, then firmer when you don't pull away. reassuring in a quiet way that was warm and solid.

"come back to bed," he murmurs. "we can still be annoyed at each other. we just don't have to do it in different rooms."

a tiny smile pulls at your lips despite yourself. "that's your solution?"

"it's a good one," he says, almost defensive, but softer now. "we're a team. teams don't split up over one bad moment."

that does it. you sit up slowly, and he immediately stands, holding the blanket out like it's part of the negotiation. when you step into his space, he wraps his arms around you without hesitation, resting his chin on your head.

"i'm sorry," his whispers.

you nod against his chest.

he presses a small kiss to your hair. "next time, you're not allowed to sleep on the couch otherwise i'll just follow you out here."

CONNOR BEDARD

the argument had been stupid. you both knew it. it started over something small -- him being late again with practice running long, and his phone dying. it built into something bigger. you'd crossed your arms. he'd gone quiet, eyes distant like he was replaying a moment he wished he could redo.

now you're curled up on the couch, blanket half-draped over you. you don't hear him at first. connor moves quietly, almost cautiously. he stands there for a second, just looking at you.

you look uncomfortable. your neck bent at an awkward angle, one hand tucked under your cheek. he exhales through his nose. "really?" he mutters softly to himself.

he disappears down the hall, and for a second you think he's just going to leave you there. he comes back with your favourite hoodie of his, and another blanket. he drapes them over you carefully, trying not to wake you.

you stir anyway.

"go to bed," you mumble, eyes barely open.

he rubs the back of his neck. "i was going to tell you the same thing."

silence lingers. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other -- nervous energy, and a restless movement.

"i hate it when we fight," he says finally, voice quieter than usual. "i'm not...great at it."

you sit up slightly, the blanket falling into your lap. "you kind of shut down."

"yeah." he gives a small, sheepish huff. "i know. i just- when things get heated, i don't wanna say something stupid. so i don't say anything. which is...also stupid."

despite yourself, you almost smile. he closes the space between you, meeting your eyes. there's something earnest about him, something genuine and sincere.

"you sleeping out here isn't fixing anything," he says gently. "if you're mad, be mad at me in our bed. don't freeze yourself out here."

he reaches for your hand, squeezing it. his grip is warm and steady.

"i'll try to be better at talking," he adds. "you deserve that."

and the way he looks at you -- focused and determined, like you're the only thing that matters -- you know he means it.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

The first interaction happened by chance. You were standing against the elevator wall, earbuds in, scrolling through emails, when he stepped in, balancing a bag that looked like it could fit a small child.

“Morning,” you said automatically, glancing up.

He nodded briefly, eyes still hidden under the brim of his baseball cap. “Hey.”

The elevator hummed softly. You looked at him again. “You move in recently?”

He looked at you, and for a second you thought he was going to ignore the question. Instead, he gave a small shrug. “A couple months ago.”

“Cool. I’m down the hall,” you said, trying to sound friendly.

“Nice. I’m… yeah, same,” he said. He gave a polite little smile.

The two of you rode the rest of the way in silence, the elevator ticking floor by floor. When the doors opened, he stepped out, muttering a quiet, “See you around,” and disappeared down the hallway, leaving you staring after him for a moment longer than necessary.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

It was a Wednesday evening the next time you saw him. You were coming back to the building from dinner with a friend when you noticed him struggling with a massive duffel and a few bags of groceries.

“Do you need a hand with that?” you asked, tilting your head.

He glanced at you, surprised, then gave a small, tired smile. “Uh… yeah, that would be great.”

You grabbed two of the grocery bags and matched pace with him as he carried the duffel.

“Wow,” you said, trying not to stumble. “How do you…carry all that?”

He laughed softly. “Lots of practice. Not that it’s perfected yet.”

“You’re doing fine,” you said, smiling.

Once you reached his door, you set the bags down.

“Thanks,” he said, adjusting the duffel. “I owe you one.”

You waved it off. “No, I’m just happy to help.”

He grinned faintly. “Well…thank you..”

And just like that, he disappeared inside his apartment, leaving you on your own in the hallway.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

A week later, the roles were reversed. You were juggling a gallon of milk, a bag of vegetables, a loaf of bread, and a couple other bags in the elevator. When the doors opened on your floor, there he was, clearly waiting for the elevator.

“Hey,” he said casually. “Need a hand?”

You blinked. “Oh, no, if you have to go somewhere, don’t worry about it.”

“It’s no worry, I’ve got a minute. Besides, I still owe you one.” He joked

You laughed at that and he grabbed a couple bags from your arms. He carried them for you as you made your way to your door. Once you got it unlocked, you opened it fully and gestured toward the counter.

“Here, set it down,” you said.

He stepped in, carefully placing everything on the kitchen counter.

“Thanks,” you said, smiling. “I would have definitely dropped something if it weren’t for you.”

“Anytime,” he said, his voice steady, the kind of calm that made it easy to talk to him.

Just then, your roommate appeared from her bedroom, scrolling on her phone. She froze mid-step, staring at him.

“Oh my god…” she whispered.

You glanced at her, confused. “What?”

She looked at him, eyes wide. “Connor Bedard?”

He froze for a moment, awkward, almost like he’d been caught sneaking into the building. “Uh… hi,” he said quietly, scratching the back of his head.

You frowned. “Connor…who?”

Alanna turned toward you, grinning uncontrollably. “You don’t know? Connor Bedard! The NHL player! The Blackhawks!”

Your jaw dropped slightly. “Oh…wow. I… I didn’t realize.”

He gave a small, embarrassed smile, looking down at the floor. “Yeah… that’s me.”

You felt a little awkward but tried to stay normal. “Right. Okay. Nice. Well… thanks again for the help with the groceries.”

“Of course,” he said. “Happy to help. Anytime.”

As he left, your roommate rambled on about hockey, stats, and goals, but you found yourself tuning her out and instead thinking about the neighbor you’d been seeing across the hall, who carried giant bags, smiled quietly, and seemed entirely human.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

A few days after the grocery incident, Connor knocked on your door, looking unusually casual in a hoodie and sweatpants, no big bag in sight.

“Hey,” he said, smiling at you. “I was thinking… since you now know who I am, maybe you’d want to…watch a game with me?”

You raised an eyebrow. “A game… like, of hockey?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning lightly. “I know you don’t watch hockey, and that’s fine. But I can explain it. Like…step by step. If you want. No pressure. Just…you and me.”

You hesitated, trying to picture sitting through a hockey game with a professional player.

“You’re serious?”

“Totally,” he said. “You can leave anytime. Or even just sit quietly and eat snacks. I promise I'll try to make it not boring.”

You laughed lightly, shaking your head. “Okay… sure. I’ll come over. But I get to pick the snacks.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Deal.”

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

Later that day you knocked on his door, and he opened the door immediately, stepping aside to let you in.

“Hey,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

His apartment was surprisingly normal. A few framed jerseys, a neatly arranged shelf of books and board games, and a large TV. His hockey bag was tucked into a corner with a few hockey sticks leaning on the wall next to it.

“Coffee?” he asked, already reaching for mugs.

“Sure,” you said, setting your grocery bag down and taking out the snacks you brought.

Trail mix, some candy, and popcorn. He raised an eyebrow at the assortment.

“Good choices.”

You thanked him and sat on the couch, the game paused for a commercial, as he leaned against the coffee table, remote in hand.

“Okay,” he said, “here’s the deal. I’ll explain what’s going on, and you can ask as many questions as you want at anytime. Got it?”

“Got it,” you replied.

He pointed at the players warming up on the ice. “See those guys? They pass the puck, trying to score. The goalie is obvious… your main obstacle to scoring a goal. Lines are rotations of players that change every few minutes.”

You nodded, trying to absorb it all. “Lines rotate… okay. Got it.”

“Power plays are the fun part,” he said, smiling slightly. “When one team has more players because someone got penalized. That’s usually when the game gets interesting.”

“All right, that sounds cool.” You smirked, glancing at him. “You make it sound way more fun than the commentators do.”

He laughed softly. “They make it sound dramatic. I’m just trying to make it understandable.”

During a commercial, you handed him a cup of popcorn.

“You know,” you said, “it’s weird thinking about you being famous. You seem so normal.”

He grinned, taking a bite. “Yeah. I like knowing you like this. Less pressure.”

“Less pressure for you, sure. But for me, it’s weird. I feel like I should be impressed or… I don’t know. Starstruck or something.”

He shook his head. “Please don’t be. You’ve already been super normal about all of this, which is… rare.”

You smiled at that. As the game went on, he explained little things: why the puck moved the way it did, how players anticipated each other, why a certain play was smart. You asked questions and occasionally made jokes about the commentators, and he laughed at your observations.

After the second period, you stretched your legs, and he got up to refill drinks.

“You know,” you said quietly, “this is actually… fun. I didn’t think I’d say that about hockey.”

He looked at you, a faint smile on his face. “Good. That was the goal. Not to convert you into a fan… just to make it…enjoyable.”

You nodded, feeling a little glow of warmth in the quiet apartment, the city lights faintly glowing outside the window.

When the game ended, you gathered your things to leave.

“Thanks,” you said. “For letting me… sit through all that.”

He shrugged casually, still smiling. “Anytime. You made it fun.”

“Yeah, okay,” you said, laughing lightly. “Next time, I get to pick the game snacks again.”

“Deal,” he said, grinning.

Your heart was pounding as you slipped down the hallway of the Vancouver hotel, hoodie pulled over your head, wearing nothing underneath but tiny sleep shorts and one of you boyfriend's old Blackhawks shirts.

Ten days. Ten entire Days without him. Phone calls and FaceTime didn’t count — you needed him.

He'd been on the road, all over the US and Canada, but you two lived in your shared apartment in Vancouver and it just so happens that was his next stop.

The second you softly knocked on the door open, Connor grabbed you and pulled you inside, locking it behind you with a soft click.

“Finally,” he breathed, backing you against the door and kissing you like a man starved. His hands were everywhere — sliding under the hoodie, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against his bare chest. He was only in a pair of tight black boxers, hair still messy from lying in bed pretending to sleep.

“Missed you so fucking much,” he whispered between deep, desperate kisses. “Every night, I was thinking about you.”

You whimpered into his mouth, fingers threading through his hair. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you either… need you so bad, Connor.”

He walked you backwards toward the big king bed, never breaking the kiss. Clothes came off fast — his hoodie over your head, your shorts shoved down your legs, his boxers kicked somewhere across the room. By the time your back hit the mattress you were both completely naked, skin hot and desperate.

Connor sat against the headboard and pulled you on top of him, hands gripping your ass as you straddled his lap. His cock was hard and leaking against your thigh.

“You’re so wet already,” he groaned, sliding two fingers through your folds. “Fuck, baby… all this for me?”

You nodded frantically, grinding down against his fingers. “Please, Connor. I’ve been empty for days. Need you inside me.”

He didn’t make you wait.

You wrapped your hand around his cock, lined him up, and slowly sank down. The stretch was intense after so long apart. Both of you moaned loudly the second he bottomed out.

“Ahhh— fuck,” you whined, head falling back. “You’re so deep… missed your cock so much.”

Connor’s grip on your hips tightened, a low groan rumbling in his chest. “Shit— you feel too good. Ride me, baby. Please.”

You started moving, rolling your hips in deep, needy circles before bouncing on his cock. It felt incredible. Every drag of his thick length against your walls had you whimpering and moaning without control.

“Mmm— Connor… oh my god— yes—”

“Shhh, baby,” he hissed, eyes fluttering. “You gotta be quiet. The whole team is on this floor.”

You tried. You really did. But it had been too long, and he felt too perfect. Your moans kept getting louder, whinier, more desperate with every bounce.

“Ahh— fuck— Connor, you’re so big— feels so good—”

His hand flew up and clamped firmly over your mouth.

“Quiet,” he growled, voice strained but dominant. “I mean it. Unless you want someone hearing how loud my girlfriend gets when she rides me.”

The muffled sound you made against his palm was pathetic. You kept riding him harder, eyes rolling back as his cock hit that perfect spot over and over.

“Mmmph— mmmph—!” you cried, the sounds vibrating against his hand.

Connor’s head tipped back against the headboard, lips parted. “Fuck… you’re so loud tonight. Can’t even control yourself, huh?”

You shook your head, moaning desperately into his palm while you bounced faster. Spit was starting to coat his fingers. Your pussy was soaking his cock and thighs with every wet slap.

After a minute, Connor pulled his hand away only to shove two fingers deep into your mouth instead.

“Suck,” he ordered, voice rough. “Suck my fingers so you don’t wake up the entire hotel.”

You moaned loudly around his digits, sucking them greedily — tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing, eyes locked on his as you rode him like you were trying to break him. The taste of his skin mixed with the obscene sounds of your pussy taking his cock made everything ten times filthier.

“Goddamn,” Connor groaned, hips thrusting up to meet you. “Look at you… sucking my fingers like a good girl while you fuck yourself on my cock. So fucking pretty.”

“Mmmph— mmph—!” you whimpered around his fingers, sucking harder, drool slipping down his hand and wrist.

Connor’s free hand gripped your ass, helping you bounce faster, deeper. The bed was starting to creak quietly.

“You’re gonna get us caught, baby,” he panted, but he was smirking, clearly loving how desperate you were. “All those pretty noises… can’t stay quiet when you’re this needy for me.”

You nodded frantically, tears of pleasure slipping down your cheeks as you sucked his fingers like it was his cock. The pressure in your belly was building fast and hot.

Connor could feel you tightening around him. “You close? Yeah? Gonna cum all over my cock while you suck my fingers like a little slut?”

You moaned loudly around his fingers, nodding desperately. Your hips started moving faster, almost frantic.

Connor pushed his fingers deeper into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. “Then cum for me, baby. Let me feel it.”

You shattered.

Your cry was loud even muffled by his fingers, body shaking violently as your orgasm crashed through you. Your walls clenched hard around his cock, pulsing again and again. Connor groaned, thrusting up into you through your orgasm, chasing his own.

“Fuck— I’m cumming—Y/N—!”

He pulled his fingers from your mouth and kissed you hard, swallowing both of your moans as he spilled deep inside you, hips stuttering.

You kept grinding slowly on him through the aftershocks, whimpering softly into his mouth until you were both spent and trembling.

Connor pulled back, breathing hard, and brushed your messy hair out of your face. His eyes were soft now, full of affection.

“Ten days was way too long,” he whispered, kissing your forehead, your nose, your lips. “I’m stealing you every road trip from now on.”

You smiled, still catching your breath, and nuzzled into his neck. “Good. Because I don’t think I can go that long without you again.”

He rolled you both onto your sides, still buried inside you, wrapping you up in his arms. His fingers gently traced your spine as your breathing slowed.

After a few quiet minutes, you felt him twitch inside you again.

Connor let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. “Already?”

You grinned, gently rolling your hips. “Round two?”

He flipped you onto your back, hovering over you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Connor Bedard. He was brought into Northwestern Memorial about fifteen minutes ago. We’re trying to reach his emergency contact.”

There’s a subtle shift in the air around you. Like something small but heavy has been placed on your chest.

“I think you have the wrong number,” you say carefully. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

A pause. Keyboard clicks.

“This is the only number listed. You’re saved under ICE.”

ICE. In Case of Emergency.

Your brain runs through possibilities the way it does when a plan goes wrong. Wrong digit. Old number. Administrative error.

“That’s not possible,” you say. “I’m not— I don’t know him.”

“He was struck by a vehicle in the middle of an intersection,” she continues, gentler now. “He’s stable. Likely a concussion. We just need someone here.”

Struck by a vehicle.

Your hand tightens around the phone.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, because that’s the rational answer. “I can’t help.”

You hang up.

You stand very still in your kitchen.

Then you look at your calendar.

Then at your front door.

You do not do things like this. You do not abandon your afternoon because of clerical errors involving strangers. You do not insert yourself into messy, unpredictable situations.

You grab your coat anyway.

Northwestern Memorial smells like antiseptic and stale coffee and too many emotions packed into fluorescent lighting.

You approach the front desk like you’re checking into a hotel you didn’t book.

“Hi,” you say. “I got a call earlier. About Connor Bedard?”

The nurse looks up, scanning your face.

“You’re the emergency contact?”

You straighten. “Apparently.”

She nods. “He’s still unconscious. Concussion. Some bruising. You can sit with him.”

You don’t correct her. You don’t know why.

Maybe because you already came this far. Maybe because someone should be there.

He looks younger than you expect.

That’s your first coherent thought when you step into the room.

You know the name now, you googled him in the elevator and nearly dropped your phone when you realized exactly who you accidentally became responsible for. A professional hockey player too young for hospital rooms.

He’s pale against the white pillow. There’s a cut at his temple. His mouth is slightly open in sleep, like his body gave up mid-sentence.

You set your bag down quietly.

His clothes are folded in a plastic bin on the chair. Hoodie. Sweatpants. Sneakers unlaced.

You hesitate.

Then you start organizing.

You smooth the hoodie out properly. Refold it neatly. Line up his shoes. Stack everything so it looks intentional instead of abandoned.

It makes you feel less helpless.

His wallet is in a clear belongings bag. You check his ID, because you need to confirm this is real.

Connor Bedard.

It is.

You exhale slowly.

“Okay,” you murmur to him, even though he can’t hear you. “You’re fine. This is fine.”

You call the towing company listed on the police slip in his pocket. You handle it efficiently. You take notes in your phone. You ask practical questions.

You do not think about the fact that you are essentially cosplaying as someone important in his life.

When you sit down beside him, it’s almost evening.

The room is dimmer. Quieter.

You watch the steady rise and fall of his chest.

You don’t mean to stare.

But you do.

You notice the crease between his eyebrows. The way one hand curls slightly against the blanket. The faint flush under his skin where bruises are forming.

You feel… responsible.

Which is insane.

You don’t know him.

Still, you reach out and adjust the blanket where it’s slipped.

An hour later, his fingers twitch.

You sit up immediately.

“Hey,” you say, too quickly. “Hi. You’re okay.”

His face tightens. He makes a small, confused sound. His eyelids flutter open.

His eyes land on you.

They’re clearer than you expect. Sharp. Assessing.

He stares.

You stare back.

There’s a long silence.

Then, hoarsely, “Are you the lady who hit me with your car?”

Your jaw drops. “What? No.”

His brows draw together. He looks around the room, then back at you.

“Then why are you here?”

You cross your arms instinctively, defensive. “I’m your emergency contact.”

He blinks.

“My what?”

“They called me. You listed my number. ICE.”

“That’s not—” He winces slightly. “That’s not possible.”

“Well, it is,” you say crisply. “And when I told them they had the wrong number, they said I was the only one listed. So.”

“So you came?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I'm painfully aware.”

There’s something almost incredulous in his expression now.

“Then why are you folding my clothes?”

You glance down. You’re still holding his hoodie, smoothing the sleeve without realizing.

Heat creeps up your neck.

“They were wrinkled,” you say, like that explains everything. “And your car was blocking traffic, so I had it towed. It’s at Lakeshore Auto. I didn’t make any medical decisions, don’t worry. I specifically did not authorize anything. I just— took care of a few things.”

He just stares at you.

“You got my car towed?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know me.”

“No.”

A beat.

“Are you always like this?” he asks slowly.

“Like what?”

“Stressed about strangers.”

“I’m not stressed.”

“You look stressed.”

You absolutely are.

Your shoulders are tight. Your jaw is set. You haven’t stopped scanning him for signs of deterioration since he opened his eyes.

“You were unconscious,” you say sharply. “You were alone. Someone had to make you were okay.”

His gaze softens slightly at that.

“I'm okay.”

“How would you know?” you shoot back.

There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes now. Faint. Disbelieving. He studies you like you’re the strange one here.

You suddenly realize you haven’t offered him anything.

“Do you need water?” you ask abruptly. “Or juice? They said you shouldn’t eat heavy food yet but I can ask about crackers.”

Before he can answer, you’re already standing.

“Wait—” he starts.

“I’ll be right back.”

You escape into the hallway because his eyes are doing something to your composure.

At the vending area, you lean against the wall and breathe.

You don’t know this guy.

He is not your responsibility.

And yet.

You grab water anyway.

When you come back, he’s sitting up a little higher.

He looks more awake now.

More real.

You hand him the cup carefully.

“Small sips,” you say automatically.

He obeys, watching you over the rim.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

You hesitate.

Because suddenly, giving him your name feels like crossing a line.

“I should go,” you say instead. “Your real emergency contact is probably on their way.”

His expression shifts — something between confusion and disappointment.

“You’re just leaving?”

“You’re conscious,” you say. “Mission accomplished.”

“That’s not—”

You step back toward the door.

“Your car’s handled,” you add. “Your stuff’s here. I didn’t steal anything.”

“I didn’t think you—”

“You’d be surprised what concussions do to people.”

A tiny, reluctant smile tugs at his mouth.

You falter for half a second.

Then you’re gone.

Connor stares at the closed door long after you leave.

The room feels noticeably emptier.

He looks at the perfectly folded hoodie on the chair.

At the neat stack of his things.

At the towing receipt placed carefully on the table with a time stamp and location.

“Hey,” he says when the nurse steps in later. “The girl who was in here earlier. The one who… organized everything.”

The nurse smiles knowingly.

“She left.”

“Yeah. I know.” He hesitates. “Do you still have the number she was called from?”

A pause.

“We do.”

He updates his emergency contact properly before discharge.

Carefully.

Correctly.

Then he asks for yours.

Your phone rings the next evening.

You stare at it.

You knew this might happen.

You answer.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” he says. His voice is steadier now. Warmer. “It’s Connor. From the hospital.”

“I assumed.”

A soft laugh. Then a beat.

“I fixed my emergency contact,” he says. “So you won’t get any more dramatic calls about me.”

“Good.”

Another pause.

“I was kind of hoping,” he continues, more tentative now, “that I could buy you coffee.”

You don’t answer immediately.

“Why?” you ask.

“Because you showed up for someone you don’t know,” he says simply. “And you took care of things. And I didn’t even get your name.”

Your chest tightens in a way you don’t like.

“It’s weird,” you warn.

“I know.”

“You thought I hit you with my car.”

“Well, I was concussed.”

You almost smile.

There’s a long second where you could say no. Where you could tuck this into the neat box of strange things that happened once and never again.

Instead—

“…Okay,” you say. “Coffee.”

The relief in his exhale is immediate.

“Okay,” he echoes.