#cb98 fluff

“You watch this?” You ask, swearing that you’ve never noticed that baseball is this important to him.

“Baseball is great.”

“Since when?” You question him, your smile wide. Since you’ve known him Connor’s life has heavily revolved around one sport. Hockey.

“Since always.” He gestures toward the field. “There’s strategies, superstition, stats. And even weird little rituals like goalies have. It’s basically summer hockey.”

You laugh and lean back in your seat, the summer air still warm even as the sun starts sinking lower over the stadium. “That might be the most Connor answer ever.” You say.

He grins, his hand resting on your knee, thumb rubbing circles on the side of it. The whole night feels easy from the second you get there. The ballpark is packed and loud, full of music between innings and the smell of concession foods. But you couldn’t ask for a more relaxing time. Time away from hockey arenas, away from shootouts and stress.

Connor keeps his hat low at first, but it only works for so long. A few people recognize him in passing, then a few more, and by the time the game starts he’s already taken pictures with two kids, signed a phone case, and gotten chirped by a guy in a baseball jersey for playing for the wrong sport. It has never bothered you when Connor gets recognized, you only smile, and immediately offer to take a picture for them.

“You’re too recognizable for your own good,” you tell him as he drops into the seat beside you. He takes off his hat, flipping it to wear it backwards since the ‘incognito plan’ didn’t work.

“You say that every time we go anywhere.” He says, bumping his knee against yours.

“Because every time we go anywhere, people look at you like they’ve seen a celebrity.” You joke, bumping your knee right back into his. But Connor turns his head, a smug smile pulling at his mouth.

“I am sitting next to the prettiest girl in the stadium. Maybe they’re looking at you.”

“That was very smooth.” You say after staring at him for a few seconds. “But I don’t think it’s me these people are asking to sign things.”

“I’m not sure what that’s about. If I saw you walking around in public looking the way you do, I’d fall on my knees and beg you to take a picture with me.”

You laugh at him, rolling your eyes and shaking your head, but you’re smiling too much to make the eye roll convincing.

—

The game starts, and almost immediately you realize he wasn’t kidding, Connor knows everything. He explains things under his breath in that low, easy voice of his, pointing things out before they happen like he’s got a crystal ball in his head.

“That guy’s stealing if he gets a chance,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on first base.

You look over just in time to see the player do exactly that.

“Okay, wait.” You say, your mouth dropping open.

“What?” Connor asks, as if he doesn’t already know, and he smiles into his beer.

“How did you know that?”

“He was leaning.”

“That means nothing to me.” You say, sinking down a bit in your seat so you could lean closer into him. “But I’ll make you a bet. You predict the next throw, and I’ll chug this beer.” You say, sloshing the drink around in the can.

“Easy.” He says, and you bask in the confidence that radiates off of him. “Curveball.” He says, seconds before the pitcher throws.

You watch, you listen, and sure enough, Connor is right. You turn your head slowly to your boyfriend, mouth open wide in shock.

“How the hell-“ you start to say, but he only looks at you with a cocky shrug.

“Start chugging, baby.”

And you, not one to ever leave something unfinished, down an entire beer.

—

Connor disappears during the third inning and comes back balancing two cold beers, hot dogs, and peanuts on one of those cardboard trays.

He sits down, not one thing slipping or spilling as he does. You’re truly in awe of him as he hands over a new beer, replacing the one you chugged, the can freezing, condensation already dripping over his fingers and now yours.

“For you,” he says.

“Thank you.” You say, taking it from him with a smile.

“Also for you.” He says, handing you a hot dog with all the toppings you love. How attentive he is never fails to blow you away.

“You got me everything.” You say, looking a little shocked at the spread in front of you both.

“Yeah. That’s usually how dates work.”

“I know how dates work.” You exclaim, his sass making you smile.

He grins against the opening of the can, and you settle in again after that, sharing food, passing the peanuts back and forth, talking quietly through innings and pitch changes. Connor explains why the manager’s decision to pull a player stupid. You tell him he sounds judgmental, but he responds quickly with, “that’s because they’re doing it wrong.”

By the seventh inning the sun is gone, the stadium lights bright overhead, and the whole place has that kind of electric energy sports game seem to have at night. The fans are louder now, a little looser too, and every big hit gets a bigger reaction than the one before. Connor’s sitting close enough that your thighs press together. Every now and then his hand drifts back to your knee without thought, like touching you is second nature.

“Watch this guy.” He says, leaning over and pointing.

“The batter?” You question, immediately following his finger to see what he’s pointing at.

“The pitcher.”

“Why?” You ask, squinting down at the mound.

“He spits before he walks someone.”

“You are making that up.” You turn to him slowly.

“I’m not, want to bet another beer on it?” Connor chides, his cheeks shaking slightly with laughter.

“Oh no. If we do you’ll be carrying me out to the car.” You joke, but Connor only looks at you, like what you just said was no problem to him. “You are not carrying me to the car.” You say, pointing your finger at him.

“I would.” He says casually, eyes sparkling as he lifts his drink up for another sip.

“No way he-“ but you stop mid sentence, watching in awe as the pitcher spits, then throws a ball, walking the batter. You whip around so fast you nearly spill your drink. “Okay, what the hell?”

“I told you.” Connor says as he laughs, shoulders shaking.

“You should be, like, deeply more annoying about this. Like this is a skill, more than a skill. I don’t even know what to call this but it’s freaking me out.” You say.

“I’m actually showing incredible restraint.”

You stare at him for a second, then lean in and kiss his cheek just because he’s smiling like that, and Connor goes a little softer around the eyes when you pull back.

“I think I need a little more for all my knowledge,” he says.

“You got a kiss.”

“On the cheek.” He deadpans.

“Be grateful, Bedard.”

—

By the end of the inning, more people around you have definitely started noticing who he is. It happens in waves, a glance, a double take, a whisper. Connor however, stays completely calm about it.

“You’ve been made.” You say, leaning closer.

“Made?” He questions, and you nod explaining.

“Spotted. Identified.” You whisper, a smirk on your lips.

“That’s devastating.” He says, arm slipping back around your chair.

“Yes, because you seem devastated.”

“I’m holding it together for you.” He says as you snort into your beer, but then music starts blasting through the stadium, and the giant screen lights up with people in the crowd.

You barely think anything of it at first because it’s all normal. A family dancing, the two little kids lighting up at seeing themselves, a guy chugging the last of his drink to a round of applause.

Then the screen flashes pink, and in huge lettering KISS CAM flashes.

You look up at the jumbotron at the exact same time Connor does. “Oh, that’s dangerous,” you say as Connor laughs softly beside you, already leaning back in his seat clearly entertained. The camera moves through the crowd, a couple in matching jerseys kiss dramatically, another pair gets shy and the whole stadium boos until they finally kiss.

But the screen moves again, and then suddenly it’s you. Your section erupts before your brain even catches up, but there you are on the massive screen, beer still in one hand, staring up with a surprised smile.

Then the graphic changes, not just hearts now. A bright banner pops up underneath the two of you with his name in giant letters:

CONNOR BEDARD - CHICAGO BLACKHAWKS

The crowd absolutely loses it.

“Oh my god,” you laugh, because it’s impossible not to at that point.

Connor looks up, sees his name plastered across the jumbotron, and shakes his head in disbelief. “That’s insane.”

People around you are already cheering, a couple of them standing now, pointing at the screen like that helps. Someone behind you yells, “BEDSY!” like Connor doesn’t know it’s him.

Connor turns to you, still smiling, no hesitation at all, one hand sliding around your jaw. There’s no awkwardness, no long pause. Just the bright stadium lights, the roar of the crowd, and his eyes flicking to your mouth before he kisses you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and you kiss him back immediately.

The crowd gets even louder. His hand stays warm against your cheek, your cold beer pressing awkwardly against your leg because you forgot you were still holding it, and the whole moment feels less embarrassing than it should. When you finally pull back, both of you are laughing.

Connor’s forehead taps yours for half a second.

“Wasn’t expecting that.” He says, pupils a little wider as he looks into your eyes. You laugh and shove lightly at his chest while the screen finally moves on to the next couple.

The people around you are still cheering as Connor picks his beer back up and takes a sip like nothing happened, though the smile tugging at his mouth gives him away completely.

“You loved that,” you tell him.

“A little.” Connor answers with a glance sideways at you.

“A little?”

“Okay, a lot.” He shrugs, still fighting a grin.

“I knew it. I knew all this private shy guy shit was fake.” You say, even though you know it’s not, and normally Connor is pretty reserved in public.

“You kissed me back really fast.”

“You kissed me first really fast!” You exclaim, but he cuts you off, planting a quick soft kiss to your mouth once again.

—

As the game comes to an end and you both make your way back to his car, which he does kind of help you walk to after a few too many beers. Connor opens the car door for you, one hand braced on the top of it. Then he leans down and kisses you once, quick and sweet, before closing the door behind you.

By the time you get home, shoes are kicked off by the door and both of you are sprawled on the couch, the game highlights replaying on TV while your phones buzz nonstop on the coffee table.

“This is going to be bad.” He says, knowing the team is probably blowing him up.

“This is going to be excellent,” you correct him as he opens social media and immediately starts laughing hard enough that he has to lean into the couch cushion.

“What?” you ask, already grabbing your own phone, but watching his.

Connor angles his screen toward you, and the tweets did not disappoint.

Connor Bedard came to that game with a hot dog, a beer, and a dream

the baseball team won but honestly so did Connor Bedard

anyone else notice Connor Bedard locking in like he got sent over the boards for a shift???

“That’s my favorite.” Connor says, pointing at that one immediately.

“You did lock in.” You say, and your eyes move back to his screen as he keeps scrolling.

whoever ran kiss cam tonight deserves employee of the month and possibly a raise

By now you’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts, and Connor throws his phone down with a laugh and a sigh. One more post pops up on your feed, and this one makes you laugh so suddenly you actually snort.

Connor Bedard saw his name on the screen and said, understood coach

Connor goes still for half a second, then laughs so hard he folds forward into you. “Okay,” he says between laughs. “Okay, that one’s good.”

He drops your phone onto the couch cushion, still grinning, and looks at you with that fond expression he gets when he’s happy and not bothering to hide it.

“You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “I really did have a great night.”

The joking drains right out of you, warmth filling you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushes once over your hip. “Baseball, beers, kiss cam, you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffed a laugh. “Bullshit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get on the bed, baby,” he murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The 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.

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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.

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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.

Summers were no longer your favorite season. When you were younger, it meant the absence of school, playing outside till the street lamps turned on, having slumber parties with your friends on weeknights. Now it meant your boyfriend's yearly trip back to his hometown of Vancouver, where he trained for the offseason. 

When you and Connor had begun dating, it was during his rookie year with the Blackhawks. You were in your freshman year at DePaul University when you stumbled into him–literally–while out for a morning jog. The rest was history. The first time he flew back to Vancouver for the offseason, you waved goodbye at the airport, doing your best to keep the tears at bay. At least, until he had rounded a corner and disappeared from sight. Then, you let them slip silently down your cheeks, because he was going to be gone for three and a half months before returning for training camps in September. 

You’d never been in a long distance relationship before, and you had to admit it might have been one of the hardest things you’d ever done. The time differences paired with the thousands of miles between you was enough to make any couple split. But the two of you? You made it work. 

Now, you were on your third summer of long distance with Connor. It sucked.

You hadn’t wanted to ask him that question that was always floating around your mind: what if he trained for the off season in Chicago? You knew he cherished his time at home, seeing childhood friends and old teammates, getting to spend more time with his family. As much as he hated leaving you, he was also excited to move back to Vancouver for a few months. You didn’t want to take that away from him. Besides, you’d done two summers of it already. How hard could a third one be? 

Over the years, you’d only been out to Vancouver twice during the off seasons. Once the first summer, and once the second, both for a week long. It was a beautiful city, you could see why Connor was happy there. And you loved his family too. They were always so welcoming, treating you like one of their own. 

So it wasn’t out of the ordinary to see a text from Maddie pop up on your phone. The two of you were almost always texting back and forth, and you were beyond ecstatic to have found a friend in her. 

What was out of the ordinary, however, was the message itself. 

Maddie: Connor got hurt at practice today. It’s bad.

Within ten minutes, you had bought a ticket for the next flight out to Vancouver and had your suitcase splayed on your bed, shoving in clothing items without bothering to fold them. You had visions of Connor being crushed against the board and falling unconscious, of him being trampled completely by another player, of blood covering the ice. 

Maddie hadn’t responded to any of your frantic texts following hers, asking for details before informing her that you were on your way.

Your heart raced as news of his injury spread across social media. Headlines began popping up one after another, each one more dramatic than the last. Connor still hadn't responded to any of your texts, and every minute that passed tightened the knot in your stomach.

You were in line for security at the airport when he finally responded. 

Connor 🩷: Hi baby Connor 🩷: I’m okay Connor 🩷: Well, not okay okay Connor 🩷: But okay 

You: I’m already at the airport.

Connor 🩷: Wait Connor 🩷: What?

You: Boarding starts in half an hour.

Connor 🩷: Baby Connor 🩷: You didn’t have to do that

You: I’ll see you tonight.

By the time you had landed in Vancouver, the sun had set and it was nearing midnight back in Chicago. You fought a yawn as you pulled your suitcase down from the overhead bin and made your way down the aisle, powering your phone back on as you went. 

You had a stream of texts from your parents, your friends, even some of Connor’s teammates, asking for any updates. 

You hated not knowing what was going on. The weight of the unknown sat on your chest, pressing down until it felt like you couldn’t breathe. 

The entire flight, you hadn’t been able to pay attention to the movie flickering on the screen built into the back of the chair in front of you. You were functioning on autopilot while your brain panicked. 

That was when another text came through, one of your friends forwarding you a video posted on Twitter. You clicked it open, eyes widening as you realized it was footage of Connor’s accident. You worried your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes wide as you watched him go down, landing hard on his shoulder. Your breath hitched. He pushed up almost immediately, abandoning his stick on the ice. Connor was bent over, clutching his left arm as he pushed himself off the ice, and then the video ended. 

You stepped off the plane and onto the jet bridge, shoving your phone into your pocket with nearly shaking hands. 

The memory of him doubled over in pain replayed in your mind over and over again as you made your way out of the airport and to your waiting Uber. 

By the time the Uber turned onto Connor’s street, you felt nauseous, unsure about what you were about to walk into. You didn’t even know if he was home. He could be at some special hospital surrounded by surgeons for all you knew. 

All you knew was that you needed to set your eyes on him.

You couldn’t rest until you saw that he really was okay. 

You murmured a distracted ‘thank you’ to the driver before climbing out, lugging your suitcase behind you as you made your way up the driveway towards that familiar front door.

It opened before you could even raise your fist to knock, Melanie Bedard standing on the other side.

“Hi, honey.” 

Seeing Connor’s mother’s soft smile eased something within you, but it wasn’t quite enough.

“Is he-”

“He’s here, come on in.” 

She brought you into a quick hug, giving you a tight squeeze that you relished as you tried to remind yourself to breathe. 

You walked farther into Connor’s childhood home, eyes scanning for him. 

And then there he was, nestled into the couch, left arm in a tight sling. He looked up immediately, some sort of relief settling in his eyes as he took you in. 

For a moment, the two of you just stared at each other. You felt your stomach settle, the tightness in your chest release, your heart calm as you took him in. 

He was there, in front of you, mostly in one piece. 

“Hi, baby,” he said softly, moving to push himself up off the couch. He’d already pushed the blanket off his lap, like he’d been waiting to hear the front door open.

And, now that you knew he was okay, you felt a new emotion take place. 

“You asshole,” you gritted out, eyes squeezing shut as Connor moved towards you.

Connor faltered, frozen midstep, eyes widening. “Uh, what?” 

“You could have texted me!” You crossed your arms over your chest. “I don’t hear anything from you. Maddie is the one to tell me, which–” you paused, turning your head to look at Connor’s sister who had entered the room, wearing a small smirk. “Thank you by the way.” 

She shrugged, grinning.

You turned back to Connor. “I had no idea what was happening, or how bad it was. You scared me.” 

Connor’s eyes softened. “I didn’t mean to.” And then, “there was so much happening at once, I just couldn’t get to my phone.”

Before you could second-guess yourself, you closed the distance between you. Your arms slipped carefully around his waist, avoiding the sling, and your forehead rested against his uninjured shoulder. The tears you'd somehow managed to hold back all day finally spilled over.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” you mumbled, taking a moment to breathe in his familiar scent. 

His arm came around you, pulling you closer. You felt him breathe a sigh of relief, and you knew that being together again was easing you as much as it was easing him. 

“Does it hurt?” You asked, pulling back slightly and scrubbing the tears from your cheeks with the back of your hand. 

Your eyes searched his as he shrugged with his good shoulder, ever the picture of nonchalance.

“It’s not too bad,” 

“He’s had enough pain meds to take out a horse,” Maddie quipped, causing you to smile. Connor rolled his eyes, his arm still wrapped around you. 

Your boyfriend leaned in, pressing his lips to your temple in a soft kiss. 

“You didn’t have to, but I’m glad you’re here.” 

You shook your head. “It was better for everyone involved that I see you alive for myself,” you joked. “I was on a bit of a war path.” 

You spent the rest of the night settling in with the Bedards. Tom took your suitcase to Connor’s room before joining the rest of you in the family room. They filled you in on everything—the awkward collision at practice, the emergency room visit, the scans, the surgery he'd need in a few days, and the possibility that he'd miss the start of the season. 

Connor stayed mostly quiet through it all, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb against your shoulder.

With every sentence, you felt yourself relax just a little more. Connor was beside you, his good arm tucked around your shoulders. He was hurt, but he would be okay. He would heal.

While getting ready for bed, Connor appeared behind you in the bathroom, his eyes finding yours in the mirror.

“I love you, you know.” His voice was soft, exhausted from a terribly long day. 

You turned, leaning your back against the counter so that you could look at him properly. 

“I know,” you smiled, and he rolled his eyes. “I love you too.” 

“Thank you for being here.” 

“I’ll always be here.”

Connor sat in his stall, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, and his head heavy in his hands. The locker room is silent other than the faint sounds of gear rustling as his teammates stripped themselves of their damp gear, each one consumed by their thoughts.

The quiet pressed in on him. It wasn’t the kind that brought peace or clarity, it was the kind that echoed and suffocated. Every missed chance, every turnover, every second he’d spent on the ice tonight replayed in brutal clarity behind his closed eyes.

He dragged his hands down his face, exhaling slowly, as if the weight would disappear with his breath. It didn’t.

Blashill had already said his peace with the room. His tone wasn’t biting or enraged, but simply disappointed. It somehow made it worse. The sharpness of anger would’ve been easier to deflect, easier to set aside, but this, this gnawing sense of having let someone down, that was harder to shake.

The angry speeches were a long gone feature of the room. They’d had too many of those already this season. At some point, words just start to feel empty.

Connor stared at the floor between his skates. Ice clung to the blades still, the plastic on the toes dented and scratched. He hadn’t even taken them off yet. He didn’t have the energy to move.

He knew what people would say. Superstars take over. They find a way. Be better.

And he believed it—every word of it. That was the problem.

His jaw tightened as he leaned further forward, his forearms pressing harder into this thighs. He could practically feel the frustration gnawing in his chest. The frustration that everything felt like it came back to him. Because he should’ve done more.

He should’ve passed instead of being selfish and shooting only for it to get blocked. He should’ve back checked harder instead of being lazy and hoping his winger would get there quicker.

A bead of sweat dripped from his hairline down his temple. For a second, he glanced up, his eyes flicking around the room. His teammates moved slowly, exhausted, avoiding eye contact without meaning to. No one wanted to meet anyone else’s gaze right now. Loss had a way of doing that, of isolating everyone even when they were sitting shoulder to shoulder.

Connor swallowed, his throat tight. This wasn’t how it was supposed to feel. They were young, talent bursting from the seams. Montreal had done it. San Jose had found a way to be in the mix. But here he sat, at the end of his third season, feeling stuck in the same situation that he was in his first season.

He finally forced himself to move, hands dropping to his skates. The laces were stiff beneath his fingers, damp and stubborn as he tugged at them. It took longer than usual—everything did tonight. Every motion felt delayed, like his body was working against him just as much as the game had.

Around him, stalls emptied. Guys filtered out in quiet pairs or alone, murmured goodnights barely audible over the hum of the room. Someone tapped his shoulder on the way past—he didn’t even register who it was. He just nodded, automatic, distant.

By the time he got his skates off, the room had thinned out. The silence came back, louder somehow now that it wasn’t shared.

Connor sat back in his stall, staring at the wall. He knew what waited for him back at his apartment. It was a quiet worse than the one he just sat in. Because there would be nothing to interrupt it, no trainers asking Connor if he had anything that needed tending to, no teammates basking in the same frustration. Just him, alone with his thoughts. They’d be louder there. Sharper and meaner. He couldn’t sit in that tonight, he just couldn’t.

Without thinking too much, he grabbed his phone from the shelf above him. His fingers moved automatically on the screen.

He felt stupid, a little bit. Maybe slightly pathetic. Shouldn’t he be able to handle this on his own? Isn’t that part of being a professional hockey player? Being able to shake off the losses and be fine on his own?

But the thought of going back to that apartment and being swallowed whole by everything circling in his head made his chest tighten.

So he opened your contact anyway.

Connor Hey can i come over?

The message whooshed away, and suddenly he was hyper-aware of the quiet again, of his own breathing, of the way his knee bounced faintly where he sat.

It wasn’t even five seconds before his phone buzzed in his hand. Your name lit up the screen.

Y/n Of course. Always.

Something in his chest loosened at that. It was just enough to let him breathe a little deeper. The tight frustration in his chest didn’t disappear, but it eased.

That was the thing about you. It had always been like this. There was never a hesitation or a need for a why. Just an open door or an open ear if he needed to talk. You didn’t make Connor explain himself when he didn’t have the words for it yet, didn’t push when he wasn’t ready to talk, but somehow still understood exactly what he needed anyway.

You’d built this kind of rhythm over time. It wasn’t all at once, but rather a slow accumulation of late-night drives after games when neither of you felt like going home yet. Of texting late into the night when neither of you felt like sleeping. Or even sitting on opposite ends of the couch, watching a random game and not saying anything, but not needing to either. It was you showing up, again and again, without making it a big deal.

And Connor had always told himself that’s all it was. You were his person. His best friend. The one constant that didn’t shift with the standings or his stats or the pressure that came with all of it. It was as simple as that.

But lately, it was anything but simple.

He noticed the way his eyes lingered on you longer than they should, tracing your smile, the curve of your mouth when you laughed, like he couldn’t quite pull himself away. The way his chest tightened at the smallest things you did, how easily you pulled reactions out of him that no one else ever could.

And it wasn’t just that he wanted to be near you anymore.

It was the way his body leaned toward yours without thinking, like it was drawn there. The way his hand hovered sometimes, just barely stopping himself from touching you—your arm, your waist, anything—because he wasn’t sure if crossing that line would ruin everything. The way he caught himself imagining what it would feel like if he didn’t stop.

Your apartment didn’t just feel familiar, it felt like you. Warm, steady, impossible to leave. Like if he stayed long enough, he might forget how to walk out the door at all.

And that scared him more than anything that had happened on the ice tonight. Because hockey he understood. The mistakes, pressure, expectations? Those were things he could work through, fix, control. But this? This was messier and way too important to screw up.

He went through his regular post game motions, showering quickly and helping the equipment staff put away his gear that he spent way too long in. Connor changed back into his gameday suit, shoving his phone and wallet into the pockets as he made his way out of the locker room. The hallway was quieter than normal, everyone already having long vacated the arena. But his mind wasn’t focused on the quiet anymore.

It was already with you. It always was, lately.

Connor doesn’t remember much of the drive over. His body runs on auto-pilot now when he goes to your apartment. He takes the stairs two at a time, like his body knows where it’s going before his brain catches up. By the time he reaches your door, there’s a brief second where he hesitates, his hand hovering and breath catching, before he knocks.

The door opens almost immediately.

And it’s stupid, honestly, how fast everything in him shifts.

You’re standing there in an oversized t-shirt that falls just a little too far down one shoulder and a pair of loose shorts, hair slightly messy like you hadn’t bothered fixing it after a shower or before bed. There’s nothing dressed up about you, nothing intentional.

Yet you look perfect.

His chest softens completely.

“Hey,” you say, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like he didn’t just show up at your door after one of the worst nights he’s had in a while.

Connor swallows, nodding once. “Hey.”

You step aside without another word, letting him in.

And that’s kind of how it goes. There’s no immediate questions or pressure for Connor to explain anything he doesn’t have the energy to put into words yet.

Connor toes his shoes off by the door, barely bothering to push them to the wall before he moves further into the apartment. He doesn’t say anything as he makes his way to the couch, before dropping. Not sitting or carefully positioning himself in the middle of the cushion. Just collapses, his head tipping on the backrest and one arm falling over his eyes like he’s trying to block out the rest of the world.

You close the door quietly behind him, watching him for a moment. Not in a way that makes him feel like you’re observing him, but like you’re taking stock without making it obvious. You think he doesn’t notice but he does.

“You want pizza?” you say finally, breaking the silence.

His arm shifts just enough for him to peek at you, one eye squinting. “What type?”

You hesitate slightly. “Veggie.”

There’s a beat, then he lets out a quiet, breathy scoff, the corner of his mouth twitching for the first time all night. “Of course you ordered veggie.”

You walk over to the kitchen counter where the box is sitting, grabbing it and turning back toward the living room. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Connor finally drops his arm from his face, peeking at you properly now. His hair is a mess from his fingers, eyes tired in a way that makes him look older and younger all at once. He gestures vaguely at the box in your hands.

“I mean that of course you would find a way to make a cheat meal healthy.”

You roll your eyes, setting the box down on the coffee table. “You want some or are you going to keep insulting my pizza preferences?”

Connor huffs something that’s halfway between a laugh and exhaustion, finally sitting up a little more instead of completely melting into your couch.

“I’m not insulting it,” he says, though the way he looks at the box makes it pretty clear he is. “I’m just… surprised you didn’t add, like, roasted pumpkin to it or something.”

You sit down on the couch next to him. “That’s not a real thing people do.”

“It feels like a thing you’d do.”

You kick his shin, grabbing yourself a slice. “You’re unbelievable.”

He watches you for a second longer than necessary before he leans forward, finally giving in and grabbing a slice for himself.

Suddenly, the tv that Connor didn’t even realize was on returned from commercial break. The voice of P.K. Subban echoed through the apartment as the panel began dissecting the Hawks recent loss with words that almost felt cruel. You noticed Connor’s jaw tighten, your hand reaching for the remote and changing the channel before anymore could be said. Some sitcom immediately replaces the commentary, laugh track bubbling up like nothing ever happened.

Connor lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, not looking at the screen anymore.

You shrug like it’s nothing, like you didn’t just save him from spiraling further. “You played the game. You don’t need to relive it on TV after.”

“You watch the game?” he asks after a second, picking at the crust of his slice.

You recline back on the couch, tucking one leg under you. “I always watch.”

His eyes flick toward you, just briefly as he tries to figure out if you said it casually or if it meant something more than that. “You always watch?”

You shrug, like it’s obvious. “Yeah. Even when you’re not having a good night.”

That lands differently. You can see it in the way his shoulders shift, like something in him wants to respond but doesn’t quite know how to say the words yet. Instead, he just nods once and takes another bite of pizza.

You grab the remote, changing the conversation from Connor’s game. “Let’s watch something,” you say, thumb hovering over the buttons. “Something mindless. No sports commentary allowed.”

You switch channels, stumbling on reruns of Bob’s Burgers. Connor shifts beside you on the couch, finally letting his head fall back fully into the cushions. His posture slowly uncoils in real time, like his body is realizing it doesn’t have to stay braced anymore.

As the episode continued, Connor seemed to sink further into the couch, the weight of the night slowly lifting as the ridiculous plotlines distracted him. One second he’s sitting beside you, the next his shoulder is pressed against yours, his weight subtly tilting until his head finds your shoulder like it belongs there. Like it’s been there before.

“You okay?” you ask softly, eyes still on the screen.

“Yeah,” he says, but it’s quieter than anything he’s said all night. Less like an answer, more like something he’s trying to believe.

Your fingers drift without thinking, finding their way into his hair. It’s still a little damp at the ends, messy from the game. You start to gently card through it, slow and absent-minded.

He exhales slowly, a release of tension he didn’t know he was still holding.

The episode keeps playing, but it fades into background noise. Connor doesn’t move from your shoulder. If anything, he settles in more, like his body has finally stopped arguing with itself about whether it’s safe to relax. Your fingers stay in his hair, slow and unthinking, tracing the same path over and over.

At some point the episode ends.

The screen cuts to the next one starting up automatically, the familiar upbeat intro music spilling into the room. You reach for the remote before it can fully begin and turn the TV off completely.

The silence that follows is softer than before.

Connor shifts slightly at the sound, but he doesn’t sit up. Just lets out a quiet breath, like he was surprised by how loud even that little bit of noise felt after everything else.

You glance down at him. “Hey.”

He hums in response, eyes half-lidded.

“You played well,” you say simply.

That gets him to finally lift his head a little, just enough to look at you properly. There’s skepticism there, automatic and tired. Like he’s already preparing to argue with you.

“No,” you cut in before he can say anything. “Don’t do that thing where you pretend I didn’t just watch you hold your own out there for sixty minutes.”

A faint, almost reluctant smile tugs at his mouth, but it doesn’t quite land. “We lost.”

“So?” you say. “That doesn’t erase what you did in it.”

He looks away then, jaw tightening again—but not in the same way as earlier. This is more internal. Less sharp, more complicated.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just stares at the coffee table like it might have answers.

Then, he says, “Feels like I can’t get anything right lately.”

It’s a quiet statement, not aimed at pulling sympathy, just honest in the way that slips out when someone’s too tired to hold it in anymore.

Your hand pauses for half a second before continuing its rhythm. He swallows, eyes still fixed somewhere in the middle distance. “I keep thinking I’m there. Like I’m finally… figuring it out. And then it just—” He exhales through his nose, frustrated, searching for the word. “It falls apart again.”

You don’t interrupt. Just let him keep going.

“I hate losing,” he admits, more sharply this time, like that part at least is easy. “I hate it. I hate how it sits with me after. Everyone says you’re supposed to just move on, but it doesn’t feel like that. It sticks.”

His jaw tightens slightly. You can feel it where his cheek rests against your shoulder.

“I feel like I’m letting people down,” he adds after a pause. Smaller now. More raw than anything he’s said so far. “Like I’m supposed to be better than this and I’m just… not.”

Your fingers slow in his hair.

“You’re allowed to have bad nights,” you say gently.

Connor lets out a humorless breath. “Not really how it feels.”

You shift slightly, just enough that he has to lift his head a little to look at you. When he does, his eyes are tired in a way that’s deeper than just the game. It’s been sitting there longer.

“You’re not one game,” you say. “Or a stretch of losses. You’re not even just… what people say about you on TV.”

Connor’s eyes flicker at that, something guarded shifting behind them.

You keep going anyway, voice quieter now, steadier. “You’re allowed to be frustrated. You’re allowed to hate losing. That just means you care. But it doesn’t mean you’re failing at who you are.”

His jaw tightens again, but this time it feels less like resistance and more like he’s holding something fragile in place.

You glance down at him, still leaning into your shoulder, still close enough that you can feel every small change in his breathing.

“And for what it’s worth,” you add, a little more honestly than you probably meant to, “I don’t think you’re failing at anything.”

Connor shifts upright, eyes finding yours. The exhaustion is still there, but it’s quieter now—softened into something more open, more vulnerable than he probably means to show. Your hand slips away from his hair, falling back to his lap as you hold his gaze.

“You always do that,” he says quietly.

“Do what?”

“Make things feel… less heavy.”

Your breath catches a little at that, subtle but real. You try to shrug it off, but it doesn’t quite work. “That’s kind of the point.”

He huffs a faint laugh at that, but it fades quickly. His eyes are still on you, searching in a way that makes your chest tighten for reasons you don’t really know if you’re ready to name.

His hand that had been resting on his knee shifted slightly like he’s thinking about moving it closer but stopping himself halfway through the thought. You notice anyway.

“You’re…” he starts, then stops, like he’s second-guessing himself already.

You tilt your head slightly. “I’m what?”

Connor huffs a small breath through his nose, but there’s no humor in it—just nerves, which is new.

“You’re always there,” he says finally, voice quieter now. “Like… it doesn’t matter if I play like shit or if I’m in a mood or whatever—I come here and you’re just…” He gestures vaguely toward you, like he can’t quite find a word that feels big enough. “You don’t make it a thing. You just… take it as it is.”

Your chest tightens, just a little.

“That’s kind of what you do for people you care about,” you say, softer now.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I know,” he says. “But you do it differently. It’s… more when it comes from you.”

Your breath catches, just barely. “I don’t say it enough,” he continues, voice low, a little rough around the edges. “But I… I notice it. All of it.”

Something in your chest gives at that. The space between the two of you feels smaller now. Not physically, not actually. But the room around you shrinks so that only see Connor, and he only sees you.

Connor’s gaze drops, just for a second, to your mouth before flicking back up like he didn’t mean to do that. Like it slipped. But that’s all it takes. Your hand moves before your brain fully catches up, fingers brushing lightly against his wrist as you lean in.

When your lips come against his, it’s soft at first, a little careful. Like you’re giving him a second to pull away. He doesn’t.

Connor stills completely when your lips are on his, caught off guard in that split second before it actually registers. You feel the pause, the surprise, before he exhales quietly against you and leans in properly. One hand comes up instinctively to steady against your side.

The kiss deepens just a fraction, still gentle but no longer hesitant. Your fingers curl slightly against his wrist, grounding yourself as much as him. His thumb presses lightly into your side through the fabric of your shirt, absentminded, like he needs something to hold onto.

For a moment, everything heavy just disappears. The game, the noise, the pressure, the weight he walked in with? That all fades into the background, replaced by something quieter, steadier. Something that feels a lot like relief.

You’re the one who pulls back first, but only just. Your lips barely part from his, your breath still caught somewhere between the two of you. His hand is still at your side, your fingers still curled loosely around his wrist, like neither of you has fully decided to let go yet.

Connor doesn’t move right away.

His eyes stay on yours, searching, like he’s trying to make sense of what just happened and whether it was real or something he imagined wanting for too long.

“…we just—” he starts, voice low, a little rough.

“I know,” you say softly.

There’s a small, almost disbelieving huff of air from him, the corner of his mouth twitching like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or panic.

“That wasn’t…” he trails off, shaking his head slightly. “That wasn’t very ‘just friends’ of us.”

Your lips press together, but you can’t stop the small smile that slips through anyway. “No,” you admit quietly. “Probably not.”

Connor pulls back a little further to study your face for another second, like he’s waiting for a sign that you regret it. That you’re going to pull away or brush it off or pretend it didn’t mean anything. You don’t though, and if anything, you lean closer to him.

“You okay?” you ask, softer now. Not about the game this time. Not about anything except this.

His answer comes quicker than before. “Yeah,” he says, and this time he means it. You can hear it in the way his voice steadies. “I just… didn’t think you’d be the one to do that first.”

You let out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and nerves. “Yeah, well… you were taking too long.”

That earns you a real smile. Small, but real. It lingers in his eyes even as his gaze drops again to your mouth. This time, when he looks back up, there’s less hesitation.

“Can I—” he starts, then stops, like he doesn’t quite know how to finish it.

You don’t make him finish his sentence, closing the distance instead. This kiss isn’t as tentative.

Connor meets you halfway this time, like he’s already decided he’s not letting this be a one-off thing. His hand slides more securely against your side, fingers pressing in just slightly as he pulls you a little closer.

The kiss is still soft and careful, but both of you are more certain this time. Your hand shifts from his wrist, sliding up to the back of his neck, fingers brushing lightly against the damp ends of his hair. He exhales against your lips at that, the sound warm and unguarded in a way you’ve never heard from him before.

When you both finally pull back, Connor closes his eyes for just a second. “Okay,” he murmurs after a beat, almost to himself.

You huff a quiet laugh. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, opening his eyes again to look at you. “I think… I think I needed that.”

Your thumb brushes lightly along his jaw, grounding, familiar even in the middle of something new. “Yeah?”

He nods once, his gaze softening as it lingers on you.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “And not just because of the game.”

"Another round of espresso martinis!" Sarah shouts over the music, waving at the bartender.

You're already feeling the pleasant warmth spreading through your veins from the previous three drinks, but you nod enthusiastically anyway. Tonight is about celebration, about your friend finding her perfect match, about letting go of the stress that's been your constant companion since starting your new job six months ago.

Your phone buzzes in your clutch for the third time in ten minutes. When you finally fish it out, Connor's name lights up the screen.

Hey, almost done? Let me know when you need a ride.

You type back with slightly uncoordinated thumbs: Not yet! Having so much fun!

His reply comes almost instantly: Glad to hear it. Don't drink too much. Text when you're ready.

You smile at his concern, but tonight you're not thinking about responsibilities or tomorrow morning. You're thinking about the glitter on your eyelids, the way your friends are laughing, and the freedom of being exactly where you are, doing exactly what you want.

Two more drinks later, the world has taken on that pleasant, slightly fuzzy quality. You're dancing with your friends, arms linked, voices loud and carefree.

"I haven't seen you this relaxed since before you started that job," Sarah observes, squeezing your hand.

You're about to respond when you feel a familiar presence behind you. Turning, you find Connor standing there in his signature black hoodie and jeans, looking completely out of place among the sequins and heels, but somehow exactly right.

"Connor!" You launch yourself at him, and he catches you easily, his arms wrapping securely around your waist.

"Hey, you," he murmurs into your hair, his voice that low rumble that always makes you feel safe. "Having fun?"

"So much fun," you say, perhaps a little too loudly. "Did you know that Sarah is getting married? And that I love espresso martinis? And that you're really handsome?"

He chuckles, the vibration of it against your chest. "I did know that last one, but it's nice to hear it again."

Your friends are watching with knowing smiles. "We were just about to close out," Sarah says, signaling for the bill.

When the folder arrives, Connor reaches for it before anyone else can.

"What are you doing?" you protest, trying to grab it back. "This is our treat!"

He gently pushes your hand away and opens the folder, his expression unreadable as he scans the itemized list. "I've got it."

"Connor, no! This is probably hundreds of dollars!" You try to take it from him again, but he's already pulling out his wallet.

He hands a credit card to the waitress without looking away from you. "It's covered."

"Let me pay you back," you insist, already calculating how much you owe in your fuzzy head.

He shakes his head, sliding the card back into his wallet after signing. "Not necessary."

As he helps you with your jacket, you turn to him, your brows furrowed in confusion. "Why would you do that? You didn't have to pay for everyone."

He adjusts your collar, his fingers lingering at your neck. "Because," he says, his voice soft but clear, "I haven't seen you let loose like this in a long time."

You blink up at him, the room suddenly feeling quieter despite the pulsing music.

"And," he continues, his thumb stroking your cheek, "I just love you."

The words settle in your chest, warm and real. You're suddenly very aware of the slight sway in your stance, the way your heart is beating a little faster, the way Connor is looking at you like you're the only person in the crowded club.

"I love you too," you whisper, rising on your toes to press a kiss to his lips.

When you pull back, your friends are making exaggerated "aww" sounds, but you barely notice them. All you can see is Connor, his eyes soft with affection.

"Ready to go home?" he asks, his arm wrapping around your waist to steady you.

.ೃ࿔ ⌂*:･,.ೃ࿔ ⌂*:･,.ೃ࿔ ⌂*:･,.ೃ࿔ ⌂*:･,.ೃ࿔ ⌂*:･,.ೃ࿔ ⌂*:･,

After a year of dating, the big day has finally come.

Not getting engaged or moving in together.

Him meeting your entire extended family.

It's the day of the annual L/n Holiday party and you couldn't be more excited.

Connor on the other hand couldn't be more nervous.

"You sure this is alright?", he asks for the millionth time. He's worse than you were on Prom night all those years ago with how many times he's changed his outfit.

"The sweater's nice, Con, please. Don't change again", you beg him.

"You just look really nice...I don't want them to think your boyfriend's a slop. Want them to be impressed", he adds quietly.

Your heart warms. You can't remember the last time he was this nervous.

"Once you start talking sports with my dad and college hockey with my uncles, they'll fall in love with you", you promise.

You finally manage to push him out the door after thirty minutes of dragging his feet over nothing.

A forty minute drive filled with incessant chatter, tapping on the steering wheel, and sweaty palms from Connor later and you get to your parents' house. The real test starts now and the paleness on his face assures you he's aware of it too.

"Okay, so, uh..Don't let my aunt Giselle talk you into the jello shots, they are AWFUL! And once my Uncle Bruce starts talking about the Patriots he won't shut up, so it's best you run away and find me. And..."

He looks into your eyes as if waiting to hear a referee's call on his play, like you're the only person worth listening to right now.

"And, please have fun. I know you're nervous, but everyone's nice. Well, nice enough", you laugh.

He nods, like a warrior ready to go out into combat.

After a single knock on the door, it opens quickly. Your mom's dressed in her usual holiday attire; the awful Buddy the elf sweater you gifted her years ago, Santa Claus leggings, green sandals, and a Rudolph headband.

You have to elbow Connor to stop him from laughing in her face. You also have to inhale deeply to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at your mother's flair for drama.

"Yn, baby! Connor! How have you been?", she asks before grabbing your boyfriend by the elbow and ushering him in.

You barely hear his response to her question before your cousin grabs your arm and starts gossiping.

Family. Gotta love 'em.

After half an hour of your cousin dirtying up the name of every person from your hometown, you decide it's time to escape. Via the bathroom.

When you come out of the bathroom, you stealthily manage to get past the loud, older family members and start looking around for your boyfriend.

You start to get worried when you can't find him. You continue walking into hallways and rooms until you her a high-pitched giggle and a deeper chuckle.

You recognize that chuckle as Connor's immediately.

You peep your head in and the sight before you stops you in your tracks.

Connor has your little cousin in his lap and is actively trying to teach him how to keep the trains on his newly gifted train tracks. Ben, your toddler cousin, has always been way too rambunctious for his own good. But, he's laughing louder than you've ever seen him laugh in Connor's lap.

You take a picture. You're not really sure why you do. But, something in you unfurled seeing your boyfriend being so tender and so utterly himself. You suddenly know with everything in you that you wouldn't mind seeing him like that with your own kid in a few years.

"Yn!", Ben yells out before running into your legs. Without thinking, you hoist him up onto your hip.

Connor's blushing, like he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"How long have you been there?", he asks.

"Long enough. How long have you been in here with Ben?"

With downcast eyes, he says "Long enough to chill out."

You cock your head to the side urging him to continue.

"I was nervous out there and he grabbed my hand and told me to play trains with him. I've been here since...three?"

"That was an hour ago", you reveal to him.

"Oh."

You laugh before you settle Ben down to sit next the two of you on the floor. "You didn't have to entertain him alone, you could've called me ya know", you nudge him.

"The kid saved me, I owed him", he joked.

You quietly laugh in response and lay your head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around you and kisses the crown of your head. You look up at him before saying, "It's nice to see you like that. Soft and tender."

"Yeah?", he quietly confirms.

"Mhhm", you respond.

Here in the controlled chaos of your little cousin's mayhem, you realize just how much you have left to find out about your boyfriend. How much more there is left to love.