summary: will smith is getting tired of the teams constant teasing about his love life, so, he starts a fake relationship with the athletic therapist intern, Elizabeth Brooke. the only problem? she has no clue she had been roped in to dating him.
masterlist
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Elizabeth Brooke loved her job.
Even on the days when the locker room smelled like sweat and sports drink, and she had to politely dodge flying tape balls and chirps from players who still hadn't fully grasped what "I'm working" meant.
Still, working as an athletic therapy intern with the San Jose Sharks for the second season in a row was a dream. She was gaining hands-on experience, earning school credit, and learning from some of the best in the league.
And most of the guys were great—loud, chaotic, but respectful. She was "Ellie" to everyone, or sometimes "Brooke," and every now and then "kiddo" when they felt particularly big-brotherly.
She mostly kept her head down, made her friends at the university nearby, and avoided any unnecessary attention at work.
Which is why she completely missed that she'd been fake-dating Will Smith without knowing it.
—
"Bro, just admit you're lonely," Macklin teased from across the locker room, taping his stick lazily. "You've been here three months and haven't gone on a single date."
Will rolled his eyes, lacing up his skates. "I'm not lonely."
"Then who's the mystery girl you're always texting?" someone else chimed in. "Or are you just playing Candy Crush?"
Will, flustered and unbothered at the same time, shrugged. "I'm uh- dating someone."
That shut them up for half a second.
Mack squinted. "You're what now?"
"Dating someone," Will repeated casually, hoping it would blow over.
It didn't.
"No way," Mack said, grinning like a shark (the metaphorical kind). "Who?"
Will panicked.
"She, uh... " he said, thinking fast. "Dark hair, brown eyes, quiet. Like—super sweet. You probably don't know her."
He thought that would be vague enough.
Unfortunately, it wasn't.
Mack's eyes lit up. "Noooo. You're dating Ellie?"
Will froze. "...What?"
"You literally just described her. Brown eyes? Quiet? You mean Elizabeth Brooke?"
"I—" Will started, but Mack cut him off.
"No way. She's way too nice to date you. That's, like, morally illegal."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Will asked, offended on behalf of himself and his imaginary girlfriend.
Right on cue, Ellie walked past the locker room, clipboard in hand, her soft smile aimed at the group like it always was—polite, sweet, almost shy. She gave a small wave.
The guys waved back.
"Dude, she's, like, adorable," one of them said. "You are not dating her."
Will, now far too committed to back out, stood up with unnecessary confidence. "Bet?"
Before anyone could respond, he jogged after her.
Ellie didn't flinch when he matched her pace down the hallway. She glanced up and smiled, recognizing him instantly.
"Hey," she said. "Need something?"
Will casually slung an arm over her shoulder. "Just walking my favourite AT to work."
She laughed, confused but not uncomfortable. "That right?"
It wasn't totally weird. The guys teased her like this all the time. She was the "little sister" of the staff, the one they all claimed to protect while also making fun of her coffee order and stealing her snacks.
So she didn't think much of it when Will walked her all the way to the recovery room, arm still resting lazily around her shoulder, chatting like they did this every day.
When they reached the door, he dropped his arm and flashed her a grin. "Catch you later, Brookie."
And with that, he turned on his heel and walked straight back toward the locker room.
Back at her station, Allan, one of the athletic therapists, raised a brow as she passed.
"What was that about?"
Ellie blinked. "What?"
"With Will."
"Oh. I dunno. He's just being nice?"
Allan gave her a look but didn't press it.
Ellie shrugged it off and returned to the charts, not knowing that Will had just created a very real problem for himself.
Because now, officially, everyone on the team thought Elizabeth Brooke was his girl.
And she had no clue about it.
⸻
Will should've let it die.
He should've said he was kidding, or made up a name, or pulled a full "you wouldn't know her, she goes to another team."
Instead, he watched Ellie from far away, calm and clueless, and turned back to the guys like he hadn't just made the worst spontaneous decision of his rookie season.
Mack raised an eyebrow. "So, she's your girlfriend."
Will crossed his arms. "Yep."
"She doesn't act like your girlfriend."
"She's private."
"She didn't even blink when you walked up to her outta nowhere and slung your arm around her like you were in a movie."
Will shrugged. "That's just how we are."
The guys all gave him the same look: We do not believe you, rookie.
"Alright," Mack said, grinning like this was the best entertainment he'd had all month. "Guess we'll keep an eye out. See how you two lovebirds act around each other."
Will blinked. "Why?"
"Just curious," Mack said. "Always fun to watch young love bloom."
Will gritted his teeth. He was so screwed.
Over the next week, things got... complicated.
He started getting asked way too many questions.
"Did you and Ellie meet here or before camp?"
"Does she like sushi or burgers better?"
"Wait, so are you guys, like, exclusive-exclusive?"
And worst of all: "When's she coming to dinner with the team?"
Will dodged. He weaved. He deflected with the skill of a man who had watched every season of Survivor and thought he could make it on the island.
But then there was Ellie—existing peacefully in her little bubble, smiling at him in the hallways, complimenting him on his stickhandling during practice, handing him water bottles like she wasn't accidentally the co-star in his elaborate charade.
She was the worst fake girlfriend.
Not because she was bad at it. She was great at it actually.
But because she didn't know she was one.
—
"You've been acting weird," she said one afternoon, handing him a compression wrap.
Will choked. "Weird? Me? I'm literally the least weird person in this room."
"There's only two of us."
"Exactly."
She narrowed her eyes, amused. "You're deflecting."
He fumbled. "I'm mysterious."
"You're twitchy."
"Hey, how's school going?!"
Ellie blinked at the hard subject change but let it slide, going off about her upcoming exams and a group project she was 99% sure would be the death of her.
Will nodded, listening but also sweating internally because why was she so nice? And why did pretending to date her feel so weirdly natural?
He needed a plan.
He needed to keep the lie alive long enough for the team to drop it—and definitely without Ellie figuring it out.
Which would be easy.
Right?
Right.
⸻
Will knew the guys were watching.
It started subtly—Macklin Celebrini lingering a bit too long by the gym entrance, pretending to scroll through his phone. Then William Eklund conveniently choosing the treadmill with the perfect vantage point of the therapy room. Even Tyler Toffoli, usually indifferent to locker room gossip, seemed to find reasons to be nearby whenever Ellie was around.
The pressure was mounting. Every time Will caught one of them glancing over, he felt the need to up his game.
During a routine stretching session, Ellie was demonstrating a new technique. Will leaned in closer than necessary, nodding intently, his arm casually brushing against hers. He could almost feel Macklin's gaze burning into his back.
"You're really getting the hang of this," Ellie said, her voice warm and encouraging.
Will smiled, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder. "Well, I have a great teacher."
Ellie laughed softly, a sound that always managed to ease his nerves. She was so genuine, so effortlessly kind, and completely unaware of the silent battle Will was waging.
As the days went on, Will found himself seeking her out more frequently. Not just to keep up appearances, but because, truthfully, he enjoyed her company. They'd share lunch breaks, discussing everything from her university classes to his rookie experiences. He'd offer to help her carry equipment, their fingers brushing occasionally, sending unexpected jolts up his arm.
One afternoon, as they were organizing therapy bands, Ellie tilted her head, studying him with those deep brown eyes.
"I've noticed you've been around more lately," she said, a hint of curiosity in her tone.
Will's mind raced. He couldn't exactly tell her the truth—that he'd accidentally started a rumor about them dating and was now trapped in his own web of lies.
He flashed his most disarming smile. "Just love seeing my favorite girl!"
Ellie chuckled, a light blush coloring her cheeks. "You're such a goof, Will."
She returned to her task, leaving Will both relieved and increasingly aware of the warmth spreading in his chest whenever he was around her.
After a week of subtle surveillance, Macklin decided it was time to confront the situation head-on.
During a lull between practice drills, he approached Ellie, who was organizing medical supplies on the sidelines.
"Hey, Ellie," Macklin began, his tone casual but his eyes sharp with curiosity.
She looked up, offering her usual friendly smile. "Hey, Macklin. What's up?"
He leaned against the table, arms crossed. "So, the team's got a reservation this weekend at that new steakhouse downtown. Are you and Will coming together?"
Ellie's brow furrowed slightly, clearly puzzled. "Will and I? Together?"
Macklin nodded, watching her closely.
She hesitated, searching for the right words. "Oh, um, Will and I haven't really discussed plans yet. But if he's going, I'm sure we'll figure something out."
Macklin studied her for a moment longer before offering a satisfied nod. "Alright, just checking. See you there."
As he walked away, Ellie shook her head slightly, muttering to herself, "That was odd."
Unbeknownst to her, Will had been within earshot, heart pounding as he listened to the exchange. Ellie's innocent response had, miraculously, managed to maintain the facade without her even realizing it.
He exhaled a silent sigh of relief, mentally thanking Ellie for being her sweet, oblivious self. For now, his secret was safe.
⸻
"Hey," Ellie said casually, poking her head into the workout room where Will was finishing post-practice stretches. "Macklin said you and I were going to that steakhouse dinner together?"
Will's entire body froze mid-stretch like he'd been caught committing tax fraud.
"Uh—what?" he asked, voice suspiciously high-pitched.
Ellie raised a brow, laughing a little. "You good? You look like I asked you to do my calculus homework."
Will scrambled for a response. "Uhhh... I mean, yeah, yeah. We're going together. I—I think I said that because we live close to each other? So like... rideshare logic?"
Ellie blinked. Then smiled. "Oh! Yeah, I guess that makes sense."
Will let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Crisis averted.
"So," she added, tilting her head, "what time are you picking me up?"
Will's brain short-circuited again, but he somehow managed a grin. "Seven work?"
"Perfect!" she chirped, then turned to leave with a little wave.
He collapsed back onto the mat, hands over his face. "I am in so deep," he muttered to himself.
That Night – 7:25 PM
The Sharks were already seated inside the sleek, dimly lit steakhouse, tucked into a long table with just enough elbow room for their egos. Players and WAGs alike had shown out—suits, dresses, full glam. The waiters were clearly a little overwhelmed by the sheer size of the reservation.
Macklin Celebrini sat at the far end, nursing a soda and keeping a suspicious eye on the entrance. William Eklund beside him leaned back just far enough to peek into the lobby. They were both very ready to witness Will Smith's downfall.
Then the front doors opened.
And there they were.
Will, in a crisp navy button-up, hair actually brushed for once. And Ellie, in a soft yellow dress that made her look like literal sunshine, paired with wedges and a tiny purse. Her hair was pulled half-up, and she looked so perfect it physically pained Will.
What really caught the boys' attention, though, was the parking lot performance.
From their seats, they had the perfect view of Will jogging around to open the car door for her. They watched as she stepped out, a little hesitant in her wedges, arms wrapped tightly around herself against the San Jose chill.
Then—the move.
Will noticed instantly, rubbing the back of his neck before casually slinging an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side as they walked.
They couldn't hear what he said—but her head tilted up, cheeks pink, and she let out a giggle so soft and pretty it made half the table blink in unison.
Inside, Will leaned in. "Sorry, I'd give you my jacket if I had one, but I don't think the restaurant would be thrilled if I showed up shirtless. So... this'll have to do."
When they finally made it to the table, the group greeted them with a flurry of side-eyes and smirks.
Will, clueless, helped Ellie into her chair and pulled his in beside her like it was no big deal. Ellie greeted everyone like she always did—smiling, polite, a little shy.
Most of the guys exchanged a glance like, Oh. This is real.
Except Macklin, who squinted across the table like a man on a mission.
And Eklund, who whispered, "They're either dating or he's really good at improv."
"Something's off," Macklin muttered.
Will clinked water glasses with Ellie like he hadn't been spiraling all week and very much was about to choke on his Caesar salad.
He shot a glance at her, still laughing at something Toffoli had said, and smiled despite himself.
Fake girlfriend? Maybe.
Unintentional real feelings? ...Yeah, possibly.
But for tonight?
He'd take the win.
⸻
Will was going to combust.
He'd made it thirty minutes into the dinner without incident, which was practically an Olympic-level achievement considering Macklin and Eklund were sitting directly across from him, analyzing his every breath like it was game tape.
Ellie, for her part, was just being... Ellie. Sunshine in a yellow dress, sipping water with two lemon slices like always, laughing at all the right moments, completely unaware that she was currently the centerpiece of Will's accidental soap opera.
She hadn't noticed the extra chair pulled just a little closer to his. Or the way he'd kept an arm draped over the back of hers like it was no big deal. Or the way he kept glancing at her like she was a live wire and he had no business being this close to it.
And then—it happened.
In the middle of the meal, with conversation buzzing and forks clinking against plates, Ellie reached over without looking and gently wiped a smudge of sauce from the corner of Will's mouth with her thumb.
Just. Like. That.
Not a second of hesitation. Like it was the most casual thing in the world.
Will practically short-circuited.
"Uhh—" he choked, blinking rapidly as she returned to her conversation with Henry Thrun like nothing had happened.
His eyes darted across the table. Macklin was staring at him with a raised brow and suspiciously slow sip of water. Eklund looked like he was watching an interrogation scene from a crime show.
Will swallowed. Kept his cool. Pretended he didn't just die a little inside.
Ellie leaned toward him a moment later, brushing her arm against his, and without thinking, Will rested his arm casually along the back of her chair again. This time, it wasn't even a strategic move—it was grounding. He needed it to survive.
Then Cat Toffoli, looking stunning as always in some sleek blazer-dress situation, smiled from a few seats down.
"Aww," she said sweetly, "you guys are so cute."
Both Will and Ellie froze.
Will felt his entire soul detach from his body.
Ellie blinked. "Oh... um. Thanks!"
And then—nothing. She just turned back to her food like someone hadn't just complimented her on her nonexistent relationship.
Will internally screamed.
Macklin's head tilted, slow and thoughtful like he was watching live footage of a wildlife documentary.
Eklund narrowed his eyes. "She's either the best actress I've ever seen... or she really doesn't know."
Will met their stares across the table and smiled tightly. He was losing control fast.
But then Ellie glanced up at him, catching his eye, and smiled that sweet little smile that always made his stomach twist.
And Will realized something terrifying.
He didn't want to stop pretending anymore.
⸻
After the dinner, Will dropped Ellie off at her place with a grin that he swore didn't tremble. She thanked him like she always did—sweet, soft, a little shy—and then gave a small wave as she walked through her front door.
He waited until the door shut behind her before fully exhaling, like he'd been holding his breath all night before walking back to his car.
Then he slumped back into the driver's seat of his car and let the silence wrap around him like a weighted blanket of doom.
What the hell am I doing?
This wasn't supposed to be a thing. It was supposed to be a fake relationship to get the guys off his back. A little white lie to preserve the dignity of a guy who definitely wasn't secretly terrified of girls.
Because Will Smith might've looked like he had it all together—confident, flirty, always saying the right thing. But deep down?
He was a mess.
The reason he'd never had a girlfriend? He was shy. So painfully shy when it came to feelings that he once ghosted a girl for trying to hold his hand on a Ferris wheel.
But with Ellie?
It was different. Too easy. She was sunshine in human form. The kind of girl who made everything brighter just by walking into the room. She laughed with her whole chest, leaned into people when she talked, and made everyone feel like the most important person in the world—even when she was just handing them a water bottle.
Will groaned, dragging his hands through his hair.
He was in trouble.
He didn't know when it happened. Maybe it was when she giggled at his dumb joke during warmups. Or when she'd wiped barbecue sauce off his face at the steakhouse like it was nothing.
Or maybe it was the way she looked at him sometimes. Like really looked at him. Her eyes soft, a little curious, like she was trying to figure him out.
He thumped his forehead gently against the steering wheel.
Honk.
A loud beep pierced the night, his horn setting off a chain reaction of startled honks from neighboring cars.
"Great," he muttered, covering his face. "Just great."
He was spiraling.
Actually, genuinely spiraling.
Hands in his hair, stomach in knots, brain screaming you are fake dating the girl you like and she doesn't even know!
Then—
Buzz.
His phone lit up in the cup holder.
Ellie: You okay?
Will blinked. Turned slowly.
She was standing at her front door again, wrapped in a blanket, phone in one hand, amusement written all over her face. She waved once, eyebrow raised.
He groaned, letting his head drop back on the seat.
She saw the whole thing.
Of course she did.
And of course, she probably thought nothing of it. Just Will being a goof. Her friend. Her coworker.
Not the idiot who was definitely falling for her one fake moment at a time.
Will texted back.
Will: All good. Just fighting for my life.
Her laugh echoed in his head even through the screen.
Yup.
He was in deep.
And this?
This was going to be a problem.
⸻
Practice had wrapped, and most of the guys had cleared out, but Ellie was still in the hallway reorganizing a few treatment plans when Macklin Celebrini and William Eklund casually strolled over—just a little too casual.
"Hey, Brooke," Mack said, leaning on the wall next to her.
Ellie glanced up with a smile. "Hey guys. You need something?"
"Nope," Eklund said quickly. "Just hanging out. Long day, huh?"
"Always is," Ellie hummed, flipping a page on her clipboard. "Will was limping again. I told him to stretch more but he's stubborn."
Eklund exchanged a loaded look with Macklin, but kept his tone neutral. "Yeah? You two carpool today?"
"Mhmm," Ellie nodded without looking up. "We usually do after morning skates. I hate driving and he lets me control the aux."
Mack grinned. "What's your go-to playlist?"
"Oh, I've got a rotation. Depends on the vibe. But I always throw in a couple songs Will secretly likes but pretends to hate. He groans every time but doesn't skip them."
Eklund raised a brow. "What, like guilty pleasure music?"
"Exactly," she said, finally glancing up with a sweet, knowing smile. "He has a weird soft spot for Taylor Swift. But I won't tell anyone that."
Mack bit back a grin. "His favorite song?"
Ellie paused. "Okay, this is gonna sound fake, but he loves 'Wildest Dreams.' Like... screams the bridge in the car."
Eklund blinked. "Seriously?"
She giggled. "Dead serious. It's actually kind of impressive."
The two Sharks exchanged a look. This was going sideways.
Mack tried a new angle. "So, like... if Will gets hangry, what's the move?"
"Easy. Chicken tenders and a nap," she said, not missing a beat. "And keep conversation to a minimum until he's eaten. He's dramatic about it."
"I know," Ellie said brightly. "He's kind of a walking tantrum when he's hungry."
The boys were stumped. These were real answers. Couple-level answers.
And yet... Ellie seemed so chill about it. Not gushing. Not flustered. Just... Ellie.
"You ever get in fights with him?" Mack asked carefully.
Ellie scrunched her nose. "Not really. I mean, he gets pouty when I beat him at Mario Kart, but that's on him. I warned him I was good."
"So... no drama?" Eklund asked.
She smiled. "We're pretty easy together, honestly. It's fun."
It was fun.
Too fun.
Macklin and Eklund watched her walk off a minute later, still humming as she disappeared down the hallway.
"...Dude," Eklund said finally. "I think they're actually dating."
"No way," Mack whispered. "Will's been acting like a man on the edge for weeks."
"I don't know, man. She knows his favorite comfort food and his guilty pleasure song."
"She also just called him a tantrum in the body of a hockey player."
"...Fair."
Later that afternoon, the boys watched from afar as Ellie received a bouquet of flowers.
She smiled down at the card with that glowing, delighted look only she could pull off, and Will was standing right next to her.
Mack jabbed Eklund in the ribs. "He got her flowers."
"I'm seeing it," Eklund muttered. "This is insane."
(They did not know the flowers were from Ellie's parents congratulating her on finishing finals.)
Then there was the car ride home. Again.
Then the lunch they ate together in the corner of the lounge, shoulders bumping as they laughed at something on Will's phone.
Then the hallway.
They found them—alone, mid-conversation, completely unaware of their silent audience. Will was leaned against the wall, looking down at her with that look—the kind of look that belonged in a Nicholas Sparks movie.
Ellie was smiling up at him, cheeks pink, hands lightly clasped in front of her. Will leaned in slightly, said something that made her duck her head with a giggle. She bumped his arm, he nudged her back.
No one else was around.
No audience. No act.
And yet... it felt like something real.
The silence between Macklin and Eklund stretched.
Then—
"Okay," Macklin admitted. "Maybe we were wrong."
Eklund sighed. "Or Will's playing the longest con of all time and she's just the best partner in crime?"
They both kept watching.
And somehow, they weren't even mad about it.
They were just... curious.
And very invested.
—
Ellie rarely traveled with the team. She was usually tied up with classes back at the university, so most of the road trips came and went without her presence.
But this time?
Spring break aligned perfectly. No labs, no lectures. Just a brief window of time and an open seat on the team flight. So Ellie packed her essentials and joined the Sharks for their road trip to Colorado.
Will didn't hesitate to claim the seat next to her. Of course he didn't.
The moment they boarded the plane, he threw his backpack in the overhead bin, turned to her with a grin, and said, "Window or aisle, your call."
Ellie laughed softly. "Window. I like the clouds."
Macklin Celebrini and William Eklund were seated directly in front of them.
And they were ready.
Armed with subtle glances and perfectly angled earbuds that weren't even playing music, they listened in shamelessly—because this whole thing? This mystery situationship between Will and Ellie had become their full-time investigation.
And the second the plane started to taxi, the cuteness hit the fan.
"Do you have my headphones in your bag?" Ellie asked, nudging Will's knee with hers.
Will reached down, unzipped a pouch, and handed them to her without a word.
Macklin blinked.
Then Ellie leaned back, brows knitting. "Wait—did you remember to turn the oven off before we left?"
Will groaned dramatically. "You were supposed to check it after I made that frozen pizza."
She gasped. "You left it on?!"
He smirked. "Relax. I turned it off. I just wanted to see you panic."
"Rude," she muttered, smacking his arm.
Eklund tilted his head. "Are they married?"
Then Will added, "Don't forget to call your mom when we land."
"Oh yeah, speaking of parents," Ellie said, suddenly brightening, "how did your dad like that movie I recommended?"
Will grinned. "He loved it. Said he wants to rewatch it with you over FaceTime because he has questions and thinks you're smarter than me."
Ellie beamed, flattered. "He has great taste."
In front of them, Macklin was having a quiet meltdown.
"They're so real," he whispered.
"They're either actually dating," Eklund whispered back, "or we're living in a simulation and none of this is real."
Eventually, the conversation quieted. Will pulled out his laptop, propped it between them, and opened their current binge show—something light and funny that they both always watched together but swore they weren't watching without each other.
They didn't say much after that. Just quiet laughs, small comments, Ellie leaning a little closer as she got comfortable.
Then silence.
Macklin turned around to say something dumb—probably a chirp about their show—and stopped mid-breath.
He nudged Eklund urgently.
They both turned slowly.
And what they saw nearly sent them into cardiac arrest.
Will had shifted into the corner of the seat by the window, legs stretched out across the row. One arm was draped lazily but securely around Ellie, who was curled against him, practically on top of him, her head tucked into his chest, his hand resting on her arm.
Her arm was wrapped around his waist.
The laptop was dark. The episode long finished.
They were both fast asleep.
Macklin sat back in stunned silence.
Eklund stared blankly ahead.
"Okay," Mack finally whispered. "I think they might actually be in love."
"Yeah," Eklund agreed quietly. "We've lost."
And for once... neither of them minded.
⸻
It had been a smooth road trip. No injuries, no drama, just a few wins and a lot of good vibes.
Until Ellie got pulled aside in the hallway by Coach.
Not Will. Not one of the guys. Coach.
Coach gave her a polite nod, crossing his arms. "I've been informed that you're dating Will."
Ellie blinked. "I'm sorry... what?"
"I don't have an issue with it," he added quickly, "you're both adults. Just make sure you keep things professional when you're in the building."
Ellie just stared at him. Brain buffering. "Wait. Dating?"
He raised an eyebrow. "That's what I heard."
"Who told you that?"
"I think it started with Celebrini."
Of course it did.
Ellie nodded slowly, like maybe if she gave herself enough time, the moment would start to make sense. It didn't. She walked away in a daze, grabbing her stuff and heading out to where Will was already waiting in the car to drive her home.
When she got in, Will gave her the usual lazy smile. "Hey. Ready?"
She buckled her seatbelt slowly. "Are we dating?"
The car jerked slightly as Will's foot nearly missed the gas.
"I—what?"
"Coach said we're dating," she said calmly, like she wasn't possibly re-evaluating every moment of her life. "And Mack apparently told him?"
Will froze. Completely.
"Oh my god," he whispered.
Ellie stared. "Are we?"
Silence.
Then—
"I didn't mean for it to go this far!" Will blurted, hands flying off the wheel at a stoplight. "I swear! The guys kept teasing me about being single and I panicked, and I just... said I had a girlfriend! And then they wanted to know who, and I kinda... randomly described you. Because I had a crush on you, like, a huge one, and you were literally right there and—"
Ellie stared, eyes wide.
"—and it made sense because you're always nice to me and everyone adores you, and I thought it would die after a week, but then they didn't believe me so I had to prove it, and you just—kept being you, and I couldn't stop it."
Will looked like he was fighting for air.
"And then I didn't tell you, and it just got worse, and I didn't want you to hate me for lying, and I really didn't mean to fake-date you, it's just now it's not fake because I have very real, very tragic, very permanent feelings for you, and I know I ruined everything and you probably want to punch me in the face but—"
"Will," she said softly, her cheeks fully flushed.
"—and I'm freaking out, and I think I need to call my sister or move to another country or maybe both—"
"Will."
He whipped his head toward her, wide-eyed. "Please say something. Oh my god, did I just mess this all up? I'm so stupid. This is so bad—"
She cut him off.
With a kiss.
Will froze for a second—completely stunned—but then he melted into it, arms loosening, hand finding hers between the seats. Her lips were warm and soft and it was better than every fantasy he'd ever had.
One hand found her jaw, the other tangled in her sleeve, and she melted into him, laughing softly against his lips as they pulled apart.
"I would've said yes," she said breathlessly, cheeks pink, eyes bright. "You know. If you had just asked me out like a normal person."
Will was dazed. "You... you would've?"
She giggled. "Will, I've always thought you were cute. You just never asked."
"I literally faked a relationship because I didn't think you'd say yes."
"And you thought I was the oblivious one," she teased.
Will groaned and dropped his forehead to the steering wheel.
Honk.
She snorted as he flailed. "You've got to stop doing that."
"I can't think straight when you're here," he mumbled into the wheel. "Oh my god, I'm in love with you."
"I'm starting to notice."
—
Unbeknownst to them, across the parking lot, Macklin Celebrini sat in his car, slurping a smoothie and watching the scene unfold through his windshield.
He hadn't heard the words.
But he didn't need to.
He saw the kiss.
He saw the smile on Will's face after.
He saw Ellie laughing, looking at Will like he was the sunshine for once.
Macklin nodded to himself.
"Alright. It's real."
Then he picked up his phone.
Macklin: ur not gonna believe this but it's actually real. like, REALLY real. they kissed. in the parking lot. right now.
Eklund: send pics
Macklin: dude i'm not a creep
Eklund: that's news to me
—
Will was freaking out.
He was pacing the sidewalk in front of her house, pulling at the collar of his sweater, double-checking the dinner reservation under "Smith, party of two," and obsessively checking his hair in his phone camera.
Then, like any reasonable man in distress, he called his sister.
"Grace. SOS."
She picked up on the first ring. "Please tell me you didn't forget deodorant."
"I brought flowers," he said instead, holding the bouquet in one hand like it might suddenly explode. "Is that too much? Is it weird? We've basically been 'dating' for like, two months. This is somehow more stressful."
"It's not too much," Grace said, laughing. "It's perfect. You're nervous because it's real now."
Will groaned. "Yeah, well, real makes me want to throw up."
"Then it's working."
—
Ellie opened her door in a soft sage green sundress and her favorite pair of heeled sandals, hair curled loosely and cheeks already blushing before she even saw him.
Then she did see him—leaning against his car, freshly showered, holding a bouquet of daisies.
Her stomach flipped.
"Oh," she said quietly, smiling like the sun. "You brought me flowers?"
Will froze for half a second, then handed them over with an awkward little shrug. "Thought you deserved some. You've been dating me for months without actually being asked out."
She laughed, soft and sweet. "I didn't mind."
"Well," he said, his voice low and suddenly serious, "I do."
And just like that, Ellie was nervous too.
—
They went to a cozy, hip little restaurant downtown—intimate lighting, trendy cocktails, tiny candles on every table. Definitely a date-night spot. Will held every door open, let her choose the booth, and complimented her three times before they even ordered drinks.
Conversation flowed like it always did—easy, natural, full of low laughter and little looks that lasted longer than they used to. They didn't check their phones. They didn't rush. They stayed long after the plates were cleared, just sipping and talking, the city glowing outside the window behind them.
It was perfect.
Then—
"Oh my god," Ellie whispered suddenly, leaning across the table. "Don't look now, but I swear that's Cat Toffoli."
Will turned immediately.
"Will!" she hissed, laughing.
Sure enough, Cat and Tyler were strolling past their table on their way out. Cat caught sight of them first and lit up like a Christmas tree.
"Ellie! Will! Look at you two!"
Will stood up and gave Tyler a side hug while Ellie leaned in for a hug from Cat.
"You guys look adorable," she whispered into Ellie's ear before pulling away with a knowing grin.
Tyler clapped Will on the shoulder. "Try the tiramisu. Trust me. Split it."
Then they disappeared into the night, leaving Will and Ellie smiling stupidly across the table.
"Tiramisu?" Ellie asked.
Will flagged down their server.
—
Will had barely made it to his stall before Tyler Toffoli, who conveniently sat between Will and Macklin, turned to him with a smirk.
"So?" Tyler asked, casually taping his stick. "How was the tiramisu?"
Will grinned, tugging off his sweatshirt. "Delicious. You were right."
Macklin's head snapped around. "What tiramisu? What restaurant? You went out without me?"
Will shrugged like it was no big deal. "I took Ellie out. Like on a date."
Tyler chimed in, totally unbothered. "Saw them at this cute downtown spot with Cat. They looked so cute all dressed up. I had to say something."
Macklin stared at Will. "You really took her on a date?"
Will smirked, still high off last night. "Yup. Proper one. Flowers and everything."
Mack slumped against his stall, looking betrayed. "Unbelievable."
"You'll get over it," Will said, tugging on his jersey.
But the whole time, he was smiling to himself.
Because this time?
It wasn't fake.
⸻
A year and a half into dating, and Will and Ellie were still the couple that made people's teeth hurt.
They were that couple—matching hoodies, forehead kisses at the rink, inside jokes that made no sense, and a suspiciously high number of shared playlists. Will still lit up every time she walked into a room. Ellie still blushed when he kissed her cheek, even if it happened thirty times a day.
Tonight, most of the Sharks were crammed into Mario Ferraro's house for a lowkey night of pizza, video games, and yelling at the TV.
Ellie and Will? They were in the kitchen.
Bickering.
Loudly.
"I told you not to watch it without me," Ellie huffed, hands on her hips, wearing one of Will's hoodies and looking so betrayed. "That was our show."
Will, leaning dramatically against the fridge, groaned. "It was one episode! One! I was on the road and bored!"
"It was our show, Will! That's basically emotional cheating!"
"You were asleep by nine that night!"
"I was exhausted because someone dragged me to an early morning skate!"
"You insisted on making pancakes afterward!"
"I thought it would be romantic!" she gasped, hand flying to her chest.
Will raised an eyebrow. "So this isn't romantic?"
They glared. It was heated. Petty. A little ridiculous.
And then—
"You never would've done that while you were dating me without my knowledge!"
Silence.
Utter. Silence.
The living room went quiet. Like dead silent. No chewing. No breathing.
Ellie froze, eyes wide. "Oh... shoot."
Will turned bright red. Like stop-sign red.
She winced. "I wasn't supposed to say that, was I?"
He lunged toward her instantly, wrapping her in a suffocating bear hug, smothering her against his chest. "You're so dead. You're so dead."
From the other room came a chorus of gasps and groans.
And then—two familiar heads slowly peeked around the kitchen corner.
Macklin Celebrini, smugger than ever.
William Eklund, arms crossed and grinning like a cat who finally caught the canary.
"So," Mack said slowly. "It was fake?"
Will groaned into Ellie's shoulder.
Ellie peeked around him, cheeks pink but grinning. "For a good 3 months, yeah. I was as clueless as you guys."
Eklund pointed at Will. "We knew something was off. The way it came out of nowhere? The way Will was acting? Come on."
Will let his forehead fall dramatically onto Ellie's shoulder. "I hate everything."
"You faked a relationship," Mack said, "and then fell in love for real? That's some Hallmark-level stuff."
"I panicked!" Will shouted into the void. "And then she was just... her. And I couldn't not like her! Have you met her?"
"She's literally the nicest person alive," Eklund agreed, nodding solemnly. "Honestly, we're impressed."
From the couch, Cat Toffoli yelled, "Called it!"
Tyler shouted, "It all makes sense now!"
And from then on, no matter what Will did, the boys never let him forget it.
Anytime Ellie walked into the locker room?
"Careful, boys. Will might be fake-dating her again."
Every anniversary?
"Happy Fakeiversary!"
" Did you count all the months you were fake dating? Or only the months you were actually dating."
Every time he so much as looked at her with heart eyes?
"Wow. That fake girlfriend really got to you, huh?"
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summary: when the hughes brothers ask matt boldy to watch over their "little sister" while she is away for college, things take a turn when he ends up falling for her
authors note: this was the VERY first piece i ever ever wrote! sorry if its all over the place! its like half edited!
masterlist
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Fate, in all her quiet mischief, had chosen a very specific day to intertwine the lives of the Stella and Hughes families—the day the Stellas bought the lakeside cottage right next to the Hughes’. From that moment on, it was as if the two families had always existed side by side. It didn’t take long for the connection to deepen. With Dominic Stella rotating through assistant coaching jobs across the WHL and Monica Stella proudly carrying her legacy as a former assistant coach for Boston College Women’s Soccer, it was clear: sports ran in their veins like oxygen. Passion bled from both lineages.
The two couples became fast friends, the kind of friends who blurred the lines between family and neighbors. Dinners turned into sleepovers, tournaments into family vacations, and somewhere in between, Maisy Stella became the honorary fourth Hughes sibling—no questions asked.
The Stellas had two kids. Their eldest, Darien, carried the weight of an older brother’s love with an iron grip. Eight years separated him from Maisy, but the bond between them was ironclad. Darien was fiercely protective, to the point where it became his second nature. Watching Maisy grow up was like watching a star he couldn’t hold onto, not forever. He always knew the day would come when he couldn’t be there to watch over her—and it terrified him.
But then came the Hughes boys.
When Darien saw the way Quinn, Jack, and Luke looked at Maisy—as if she were made of glass and sunlight all at once—he felt something settle in his chest. Relief. They were captivated, just like him. Maybe it was the way she skipped through life with careless joy, giggling at nothing, dancing with everything. Maisy had always been a walking burst of light, the kind of girl who didn’t just walk into a room—she changed it. And now Darien wasn’t the only one who saw it.
Maisy had been just eight when she first met the Hughes boys, gravitating immediately toward the youngest—Luke—who was barely a year younger. From the start, they were inseparable. While the older boys busied themselves with teasing and pestering Darien about girls and parties, Luke and Maisy would retreat into their own little world—curled up in the backyard on picnic blankets, whispering to each other under the stars. Their laughter would drift through the night like music, private and sacred.
Then came hockey.
It was everything to the boys. Quinn, Jack, Luke, and Darien all breathed the sport, their lives defined by frozen rinks and worn-in sticks. Everyone tried to pull Maisy in, but she had her own rhythm. Soccer claimed her heart, much to Monica’s quiet delight. Still, Maisy was always in the stands—cheering, screaming, supporting her boys. And in return, they sat under the sweltering sun watching her dominate the pitch, proud as ever.
But time, as it always does, moved forward.
Darien was eventually offered a contract to play pro in Europe—a dream, a risk, a leap. He was torn. He could’ve taken the safe path and gone to the University of Michigan, stayed close, kept watching over Maisy. But deep down, he knew he couldn’t hold her hand forever. And so, he chose the unknown.
That night, after the news broke, Darien and Quinn sat around the firepit behind the cottage. Flames crackled low, shadows dancing across their faces. Quinn noticed the way Darien stared into the embers, jaw tight, eyes distant.
“You’ve been quiet, man,” Quinn said gently, nudging him with an elbow. “What’s going on up there?”
Darien exhaled a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for years. He rubbed his face with his rough, hockey-worn hands. “I’m just… worried. About her.” He shook his head, voice thick. “When I’m gone, who’s gonna look out for her?”
He should’ve been ecstatic—Europe, pro hockey, a dream within reach. But all he could think about was leaving his baby sister behind in a world that didn’t always play fair.
Quinn didn’t need an explanation. He understood. As much as he teased Jack and Luke, as much as they bickered and bantered, he would burn the world down for them. He knew that same protective ache—the one that settled deep in the chest and never quite went away. He had grown to love Maisy too. She wasn’t just Darien’s sister anymore. She was family.
And in that moment, something shifted in Quinn. A vow, quiet and unspoken, rose within him.
He met Darien’s eyes—serious, steady, unwavering.
“I’ve got her.”
Three words. That was all it took.
But in those three words, Darien heard everything he needed to. Loyalty. Brotherhood. Promise.
And for the first time since he made the decision to leave, Darien felt like maybe—just maybe—it would be okay.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Quinn was the first to invite a friend to the cottage for the summer. He was fifteen when he brought Josh Norris along to spend a few weeks lakeside with the Stellas and the Hugheses—a quiet introduction that would become a core memory for Maisy Stella.
The moment Maisy laid eyes on Josh, she was convinced she was in love. She was only eleven, but it didn’t matter. Her heart raced every time he looked her way, and her cheeks flushed a shade of pink the Hughes boys quickly learned to tease her about mercilessly. Jack called her "Mrs. Norris" for a week straight, and Luke couldn’t stop snickering whenever Josh so much as said hello to her.
Quinn, though, didn’t take it lightly. He knew she’d grow out of it—everyone had childhood crushes—but she was still his little sister in all the ways that mattered. And Josh? Josh was his best friend. He trusted him. Quinn made it clear, without ever needing to say it out loud, that Maisy was off limits. And Josh wasn’t stupid. He was around the Hughes family enough to know exactly how fiercely protective they were of Maisy. Besides, she was way too young. He would never risk his friendship with Quinn for a fleeting crush that wouldn’t lead anywhere.
Maisy, however, wasn’t exactly subtle. She insisted on sitting behind the bench at every game Josh played in. She'd avoid eye contact at all costs—except when she was very obviously staring—and giggle at things he said even if they weren’t funny. Her crush carried on for months after that summer, lingering like a sweet ache.
So, when Quinn casually told her that Josh would be spending part of the next summer with them again, Maisy panicked.
She called her brother in a spiral, pacing her bedroom and rambling about how she wasn’t ready to spend the summer with "the love of her life." Darien, ever the protective older brother, didn’t hesitate. He launched straight into big brother mode, insisting she was too young for boys, let alone crushes, and then promptly texted Quinn to make sure Josh stayed as far away from Maisy as possible.
Quinn responded with a laugh and a promise. Josh wasn’t that kind of guy. He never had been. Maisy would be fine.
But then came the heartbreak.
One afternoon, after one of Quinn’s games, Maisy saw Josh come out of the rink holding hands with another girl. She froze. It felt like something inside her cracked. She blinked hard, hoping she’d imagined it, but the image was burned into her mind. Her throat tightened. She barely made it out of the arena before the tears came.
She cried into Luke’s hoodie that night, curled into his side on the couch. He held her awkwardly at first, unsure of what to do, but he stayed with her. Quiet, loyal. Eventually, he texted Jack, who ran out to grab snacks, and started setting up a movie night downstairs while Maisy sobbed quietly into the fabric of his sleeve.
Quinn, meanwhile, took the moment to sit beside her. He wasn’t the comforting type—not in the way Luke was—but he knew when to talk. When her tears slowed and her sniffles softened, he handed her a blanket and spoke.
“Boys can be jerks,” he said simply. “Even the good ones. Especially when it comes to feelings.”
She didn’t say anything. Just listened.
“You’ve gotta protect yourself,” he continued. “Because we’re not always going to be around to do it for you. Life’s not fair. People don’t always mean to hurt you, but they will. And I don’t ever want to see you shattered because you gave your heart to someone who didn’t know what to do with it.”
She didn’t fully understand what he meant. Not yet. But the way he said it, the way his voice was softer than usual—like it carried the weight of something he’d lived—made her nod.
Eventually, she’d grow up and remember those words. She’d carry them with her through heartbreaks and hope, through every moment someone made her feel small. She’d learn, piece by piece, what it meant to protect her own heart. But that night, surrounded by her boys, cocooned in blankets and flickering screen light, all she needed was to feel safe again.
And she did.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Jack was the next Hughes brother to bring friends into the fold. After entering the USA NTDP program, he found himself surrounded by a new brotherhood of teammates—guys he clicked with instantly. It didn’t take long before he started dreaming about introducing them to cottage life. But inviting his new friends to the lake meant exposing them to Maisy. And that meant boundaries. Before any handshakes or hellos, Jack made one thing abundantly clear: Maisy Stella was off limits. No flirting, no teasing, no second glances. A code of honor sealed with a promise.
Trevor Zegras, Cole Caulfield, and Alex Turcotte arrived that summer, full of energy and charm. Maisy, now in her early teens, clicked with them instantly. Trevor was loud and hilarious, always up to something mischievous. Cole’s laugh was infectious—he made her feel welcome, like she was part of their world. And Alex had a quiet gentleness that reminded her of Quinn; protective glances, a soft smile when the others were too loud. The first time they met, there was a beat of stunned silence. Maisy’s big blue eyes and soft, airy voice captivated them instantly.
Then came the smacks to the backs of their heads. Jack and Luke, ever the enforcers.
The promise stood: Maisy was off limits.
That year, though full of laughter and warm nights, weighed heavier on Maisy. Darien had been in Sweden for a few years now, and it was starting to ache. They barely spoke—time zones, soccer, school, life. She buried herself in soccer camps, obsessed over perfect grades, did everything she could to distract herself from the growing emptiness.
It all came crashing down during a local game. She saw them first—Quinn, Jack, and Luke—sitting in the stands, proudly wearing those ridiculous homemade shirts from years ago. Maisy’s Cheer Squad. She should’ve laughed. She should’ve smiled. But she didn’t.
Because one chair was still empty.
Darien’s chair.
She played the worst game of her life that night. She fumbled every pass, missed easy shots, lost herself. Afterward, her boys tried everything—ice cream, jokes, comfort. Nothing worked. She just kept whispering, "I miss him. I just want him here." Jack finally broke. He sent Darien a message, telling him to come home. Whatever it took. He had to be here.
That night, Darien booked a one-way ticket.
Summer came like a dream. The sun hung heavy over the lake, Jack’s friends were on their way, and Maisy—Maisy couldn’t stop smiling. Darien was coming home. Everything felt right again.
On their first night back, the two families transformed the Stellas’ backyard into a makeshift movie theater. A white bedsheet was strung between two trees, blankets and pillows covered the lawn, and Grease flickered onto the screen as laughter echoed through the night air. Halfway through, Ellen noticed something.
Luke and Maisy were missing.
Following her gut, she wandered past the patio, past the firepit, and around the yard until she found them. Side by side on a picnic blanket, lying beneath the stars. They didn’t even notice her. Just like always, they were in their own little world. Luke was talking about a girl named Sammy from his class—his eyes shining, cheeks a little pink. Maisy teased him relentlessly, nudging his arm and giggling. They’d been teased for being so close, but it never bothered them. They knew. It was never like that. It was deeper. Safer.
Luke eventually turned the question back to her. Did she like anyone? Maisy blushed, admitting there was a guy named Mark in her English class who made her heart flutter. They laughed about it. She was glowing. Her best friend beside her. Her brother coming home. For the first time in months, everything felt like it was finally falling into place.
A week later, a scream pierced the night.
Ellen and Jim Hughes jolted awake. Red and blue lights bled through their bedroom window. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
They shook Quinn awake and raced next door.
Inside the Stella house, time stopped.
Monica was on the floor, wailing in a way that didn’t sound human. Dominic sat beside her, eyes vacant, tears pouring silently. Two police officers stood nearby, solemn and still. The world felt tilted, like it had slipped out of orbit.
Quinn’s eyes scanned the room.
No sign of Maisy.
He didn’t speak. Just turned and ran. Room to room. Nothing.
Then—outside. The dock.
He spotted a tiny figure, sitting at the edge, feet skimming the lake. Her hair was down, her body hunched. The sky above was still dark, but it didn’t matter. He knew it was her.
He walked slowly, quietly, and sat beside her. Neither of them spoke. The water lapped gently at their feet. His pajama pants soaked through, but he didn’t care.
Then he looked at her.
And his heart broke.
Maisy’s face was pale, her skin blotchy from crying. Her eyes—once the brightest shade of blue—had dulled to a stormy gray. Her lips trembled. Her voice cracked.
"He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone…"
It hit Quinn like a freight train.
Darien.
He was supposed to come home. Tomorrow morning.
Maisy turned to him, eyes hollow, voice barely above a whisper.
"He’s gone, Quinn. Darien’s gone."
And just like that, everything shattered.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Maisy was never the same after that night.
The girl who once radiated light—who made people smile just by walking into a room—disappeared into the shadows. It was as if someone had flipped a switch inside her, extinguishing the sun. The warmth in her laugh, the sparkle in her big blue eyes, the way she used to bounce through life with a soccer ball at her feet and a grin on her face—it was all gone. The Maisy the Hughes boys knew and loved didn’t just fade. She vanished.
In her place stood someone cold, quiet, and unreachable. She spoke in clipped tones. Her smiles were rare and hollow. She shut everyone out—everyone except Quinn, Jack, and Luke. With them, she still allowed flickers of her old self to bleed through, but they were just that: flickers.
After Darien’s funeral, the tension inside the Stella home began to boil. Monica and Dominic’s relationship fractured under the weight of their grief. They fought almost every night, their voices sharp and unrelenting. Maisy couldn’t bear it. Her house no longer felt like home—it felt like a battlefield. So she fled. Night after night, she’d slip away to the Hughes house, curling up on the couch or slipping into the spare room without saying much at all. Ellen and Jim became her refuge, the safe harbor she desperately needed. They held her as she cried, fed her when she didn’t have the energy to eat, and let her grieve at her own pace.
Eventually, Monica and Dominic made a choice. They didn’t want to lose their daughter, not after already losing their son. The pain had cracked them too deeply to ever fully mend, so they separated. Dominic returned to Canada, chasing the familiarity of coaching in a desperate attempt to stay afloat. Monica stayed behind with Maisy, helping her get through the last stretch of high school.
It crushed Maisy to watch her family fall apart, but she understood. Somewhere deep down, she knew they were all just trying to survive. She missed her dad at her soccer games—missed his cheers, his proud grin—but she knew he was still rooting for her, even from miles away.
Once the dust had settled, once the casseroles from neighbors stopped coming and the whispers faded, the Hughes boys found themselves drawn back to the dock. The same one where Quinn had once sat with Maisy as her world collapsed. This time, it was Quinn, Jack, and Luke.
They didn’t speak for a long while. The sun had dipped low, casting golden light across the lake, and the silence between them was heavy—but not empty. It was filled with memories, pain, and quiet resolve.
Quinn’s mind was a storm. His NHL draft was only weeks away. College loomed. Everything in his life was shifting, but none of it mattered more than the promise he made to Darien. A promise forged in grief, sealed by firelight.
He stared out over the water, his voice steady but soft. "We have to be there for her."
Jack and Luke looked over at him.
"She’s going to be hurting for a long time. Maybe forever. I don’t care how hard it gets, or how long it takes—we have to help her find her way back. She needs to know we’re not going anywhere. We don’t let go. Not of her."
Quinn’s throat tightened. He blinked back the sting in his eyes.
Without a word, Jack wrapped an arm around his brothers, pulling them close. Luke leaned in, silent tears slipping down his cheeks.
"She’s gonna be okay," Jack whispered, voice thick with emotion. "We’ve got her."
And in that moment, surrounded by the only constants left in their world, they made a silent pact.
Whatever it took.
They were bringing their sister back home.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Matt had been coming to the Hughes cottage for a few summers now. The place was serene, addictive—every sunset etched into his memory like the lyrics of a favorite song. Each year, the group of boys seemed to grow, their laughs louder, their bond stronger. Eventually, the Hughes cottage couldn’t hold them all. Thankfully, the neighbors—the Stellas—were close friends and happy to open their doors. Their house became a much-needed extension of the Hughes summer crew.
Matt was always intrigued by the Stellas, mostly by the girl who rarely spoke and never smiled. Maisy.
To Matt, Maisy Stella was a mystery. She was nothing like the Hughes boys—her energy cold and quiet, her presence guarded and sharp. Most of the boys steered clear, but Matt watched. Quietly. He saw the way her edges softened around the brothers, how her scowl would melt into something gentler when she looked at Jack, Luke, or Quinn. He noticed how she wore their jerseys to games and only showed up to parties when one of the Hughes boys hosted. She rarely talked to anyone outside of that tight circle, and when she did, her words were clipped, uninterested.
Matt didn’t know much about her, only what Jack occasionally shared: she played soccer, had worn the USA crest more than once, and carried the weight of more than anyone could see. He’d gone to a few of her games, always at Jack’s insistence, wearing those obnoxious pink t-shirts that read Maisy’s Cheer Squad. Trevor brought a cardboard cutout of her face to one match. It made her blush and bury her face in her hoodie, but the boys caught the flicker of a smile she tried to hide.
Lately though, something had changed.
Maisy had been getting rides home from someone else. Jack mentioned a boyfriend—Mark. Some guy from school. Matt didn’t think much of it. Until that night.
Trevor heard about a party across town and insisted it was the perfect way to kick off summer. Maisy initially declined. Parties weren’t really her thing. But Trevor was relentless, and eventually, she caved.
Matt and Cole were the designated drivers. The rest of the group was already tipsy before they even left. It took some effort to pack everyone into the two vehicles, limbs tangled and laughter filling the air. The party was packed—one of the football guys was hosting, and in Michigan, that meant the entire town showed up.
People dispersed quickly once they arrived. Trevor and Cam flirted their way across the backyard, Jack and Turcs disappeared somewhere inside, and Matt ended up by the beer pong table with Beech. An hour or so in, Matt went hunting for a bathroom.
Every door was the wrong one. He tried upstairs, the last hope. Three doors. The first—a linen closet. The second—he flung open and immediately slammed shut. A guy in a Packers jersey and a redhead, tangled on the bed. Gross.
Then something clicked.
That guy. The jersey. The face.
Mark.
He didn’t have time to think before the hallway door opened behind him. He turned to find Maisy standing there, about to reach for the same bedroom door. Her voice was soft.
“Any luck finding the bathroom?”
He froze. Shook his head. Panic blooming in his chest.
Maisy shrugged, hand on the doorknob.
And then the door swung open.
The redhead stumbled out first, giggling, adjusting her skirt, clearly drunk. Maisy tried to move aside—and then bumped into someone.
Mark.
Too busy zipping up his pants to notice her, he brushed past her like she was no one. No pause. No apology.
Matt watched her freeze. Watched the color drain from her face.
She backed into the wall, slowly slid down to the floor. Her arms wrapped around her knees. Her shoulders began to shake.
Then she broke.
The sobs came fast. Hard. Raw. Her face buried in her arms, tears falling like rain. Matt rushed to her side, unsure of what to say, unsure if anything could help. So he did the only thing he could—he wrapped his arms around her and held her. Let her cry until her fists balled in his sweater and her heartbreak soaked into the fabric.
He didn’t move. He let her soak him in sorrow, his arms firm around her like an anchor in a storm. The weight of her pain pressed into his chest, and he accepted it without question, without hesitation. Her sobs slowed to quiet trembles, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Matt wasn’t sure why, but in that moment, he knew she just needed someone to stay. So he did.
Eventually, Trevor stumbled up the stairs, Jack and Alex trailing behind. They stopped cold at the sight.
Jack’s face dropped.
“M? Maisy? What happened?”
No response. Just her small body shaking.
Jack turned to Matt, demanding answers.
Matt said only one word.
"Mark."
A week later, Mark had the audacity to show up at the Stella house. Bags in hand. Smiling. Expecting a summer like nothing had changed.
Luke answered the door.
The second he saw Mark, every muscle in his body tensed. He gritted his teeth and stood tall, blocking the entrance.
Mark frowned. “What’s your problem, man? Let me in.”
“You’re not welcome here,” Luke said, low and cold.
Mark tried to step forward, using his height to intimidate. But Luke didn’t budge.
Inside, Quinn looked up from the couch where he was sitting beside Maisy. Her head was on his shoulder, eyes distant. The commotion drew his attention, and he walked toward the door, voice even.
“You need to leave. She doesn’t want to see you.”
Still, Mark pushed. Claimed he didn’t know what was going on. Said it was all a misunderstanding.
Bullshit.
The boat docked in the distance. Jack was back.
Cole spotted the unfamiliar car in the driveway first.
“That’s Mark’s car,” Jack muttered, fury rising.
He didn’t even wait to tie off the boat properly. He sprinted toward the house, Trevor and Alex on his heels. Bursting through the front door, he saw him.
Quinn grabbed Jack before he could launch himself at Mark. Alex and Trevor pulled him back.
“You absolute piece of shit—how dare you show your face here?!” Jack shouted.
Maisy emerged from the hallway. Her eyes landed on Mark and something inside her hardened.
He lit up. “Baby, tell them to stop! Tell them we’re fine!”
Maisy didn’t blink.
Jack snarled. “Fine? Who the hell was that redhead then? The one you were inside when she walked in?”
Mark stammered. “It was a mistake! She came on to me!”
Maisy stepped forward.
Two hands on his shoulders. Her eyes locked on his.
And then she brought her knee up. Hard.
Mark doubled over in pain, gasping.
Maisy leaned in, grabbed his chin. Whispered just loud enough for him to hear.
“Get out. Before I let Jack finish what I started.”
Then she slapped him—hard—and turned on her heel, disappearing into the house.
The door slammed shut.
And for the rest of the day, she didn’t come out.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
It was hard on Luke and Maisy when Quinn left for Vancouver. They’d always leaned on him—he was their anchor, their voice of reason, the steady older brother who made things feel safe. His absence was like losing a part of their foundation. But they had Jack. And having Jack around made it a little more bearable. He filled the space Quinn left behind in his own chaotic way—louder, messier, but warm and constant.
Now, Jack was getting ready to leave too. His NHL draft was just days away, and all signs pointed toward New Jersey. Maisy was thrilled for him—so proud she could burst. But underneath all that joy sat a quiet ache.
She remembered Quinn’s draft day like it was yesterday. It came just a few months after Darien’s passing, and the weight of his absence was unbearable. Everyone tried their best to smile, to celebrate, but it hung over the day like a shadow. Maisy stuck close to Luke and Ellen, trying to keep it together. She didn’t want to cry—not on Quinn’s big day.
But Quinn had always seen through her.
Just before they went to find their seats, he pulled her aside. She was already crying.
“He’s so proud of you, Quinn,” she whispered, voice cracking.
Quinn blinked, a single tear slipping down his cheek. Maisy reached up, wiped it away, and smiled through her own.
She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight.
When they got home after he was drafted to the Canucks, Quinn and Maisy ended up on the dock—the same place they’d sat the night Darien died. They stayed there for hours, trading stories and memories. They talked about everything—about growing up, about missing him, about the ache that never quite faded. And when the sky turned dark, they tilted their heads back and scanned the stars.
Trying to find the one that belonged to Darien.
Jack’s draft day was different. Louder. Crazier. Cameras swarmed the venue, buzzing like bees, documenting every move of the projected first overall pick. Jack was magnetic—cracking jokes, flashing his trademark grin, soaking up the attention like he was born for it. He posed for pictures, answered questions with charm, and moved through the day with the energy of someone who knew he belonged on that stage. But underneath the confidence, Jack carried something else. Something heavier.
He hadn’t told many people. Just his family. Just Ellen.
When the media crew asked about his suit—a sleek, custom navy piece with a burgundy tie—he chuckled and told them to give him a second. He slowly shrugged off the jacket, folding it over one arm before flipping it inside out. There, stitched behind the left breast pocket, directly over his heart, was a number.
26.
Darien’s number.
Gasps from those watching nearby filled the air. The camera zoomed in. Jack glanced sideways and found Maisy in the crowd. Their eyes locked, and she crumpled. The tears came fast, unrelenting. She buried her face in Jack’s chest when he reached her, wrapping her in the tightest hug.
“You like it?” he asked, voice cracking.
She nodded into his shoulder, unable to speak.
“You think he’d be proud?”
Maisy pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. "More than proud. He’d be bragging about you to every coach in the league."
He let out a shaky breath, one hand cupping the back of her head as he kissed her temple. Jack never said it often, but Maisy was his sister just as much as she was Luke’s and Quinn's. This moment wasn’t just for him—it was for all of them. For Darien.
When his name was finally called, time stood still.
"With the first overall pick in the 2019 NHL Draft, the New Jersey Devils select... Jack Hughes."
Cheers erupted. Flashbulbs burst. Jack made his way to the stage, accepted the jersey with pride, and slipped it on. Before walking off, he paused.
He looked up, his chest rising as he pointed to the sky.
The arena quieted just slightly, long enough for people to understand.
Later, in an interview, Jack explained.
"That was for my brother. My oldest brother, Darien. He didn’t get to be here, but I know he’s watching. I carry him with me every day. Especially today."
After Jack left for Jersey and Quinn returned to Vancouver, the silence hit harder than either of them expected. For the first time, the house felt too big, too still. The echoes of laughter that once bounced through the walls were replaced with long stretches of quiet.
Maisy started sleeping over more, sometimes without saying much at all. They didn’t need words—they just needed each other. Luke would wait for her after practice, drive her home from games, sometimes just to sit in the driveway and talk about nothing. Other nights, they’d sneak into the Hughes living room at 2 a.m. with bowls of cereal, watching reruns of shows they used to love with Jack. It became their thing.
They went on long walks with no destination, talked about the dumbest things, but also about the things that mattered. About Darien. About the way grief sometimes felt like wearing wet clothes—always clinging, always cold.
One night, Maisy had a nightmare. She showed up at Luke’s door crying, and he didn’t hesitate. He pulled her into his arms and held her like Quinn and Jack once did. That night, he promised her again. "I’ve got you, M. Always."
They were just two kids carrying too much, holding each other up the best they could.
Maisy’s final year of high school came with a decision she had been avoiding. Everyone assumed she’d go to Michigan. It made sense—Quinn had gone, Luke would be there soon, and it was home.
But her heart was restless.
She needed change.
She needed to feel alive again.
Boston offered her that.
She kept it quiet at first, afraid of what it might mean—afraid of breaking Luke’s heart. But she knew she had to tell him.
They were lying in the Hughes backyard, heads tilted toward the stars. A comfortable silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Finally, she spoke.
“Luke… I want to go to Boston.”
She said it softly, like it might shatter between them.
Luke didn’t say anything right away. He turned his head to look at her. Her eyes shimmered in the moonlight, and for the first time in years, he saw something there—hope. A sparkle he hadn’t seen since before Darien.
His heart cracked a little. Of course he wanted her at Michigan. He wanted her close, always. But this—this was what she needed.
He nodded.
“I know.”
Maisy blinked. “You do?”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “You’ve been stuck here too long. You need something new. Something just for you.”
She smiled, but it wobbled.
“I’m gonna miss you, Lukey.”
“I’m gonna miss you too, M. But I’m proud of you. So damn proud.”
He reached over, threading their fingers together.
They lay there under the stars, just the two of them, not quite ready to say goodbye—but starting to understand that letting go didn’t mean losing each other.
It just meant growing.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
It was officially move-in day for Maisy.
Her stomach twisted with nerves and anticipation. Boston felt so big, so unfamiliar. The campus buzzed with early arrivals, but it was still quiet compared to what it would be in a few weeks. The air was thick with the weight of change. The women's soccer team was kicking off summer training, which meant Maisy was one of the first to move into her dorm—no crowds, no chaos, just the hollow echo of new beginnings.
Luke came with her, of course. He wouldn’t have let her do this alone.
They carried up her things—box by box, bag by bag. He helped hang her fairy lights exactly the way she liked, folded her clothes with the precision only a younger brother trying to stall time could manage, and arranged her desk with ridiculous attention to detail. They didn’t say much while they worked. They didn’t need to.
It was a bittersweet kind of silence—the kind that settles when you know you're about to turn a page and leave an entire chapter behind.
When the time came to say goodbye, they lingered. Maisy stared at the open door, her arms wrapped tightly around Luke, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder. She didn’t want to let go. Neither did he. This was it. This was the end of what they knew—the late-night drives, the cereal, the dock, the whispered memories. This was the start of something new for her. And for Luke, it was letting go.
“Text me when you wake up,” he whispered.
“You’ll be the first,” she replied, voice cracking.
It was bittersweet.
They both felt it—that push and pull of pride and heartbreak. It was the beginning of something new, something Maisy needed. But it also meant the closing of a chapter they weren’t quite ready to end. One written in backyard stargazing and cereal at 2 a.m., in unsaid words and lifelong promises.
Eventually, reluctantly, she pulled away, telling him he needed to get on the road before the sky turned too dark. He nodded, brushing his sleeve across his eyes before turning to leave. But instead of pressing the elevator button to go down, Luke pressed one for the floor above.
He had one more stop to make.
Matt had only just finished unpacking the last of his things. The walls of his dorm still smelled like fresh paint and cardboard boxes. Alex Newhook, his roommate, was off at the gym, and Matt was enjoying the rare silence. Until a knock echoed through the door.
He didn’t think much of it—maybe Alex forgot his key. But when he swung the door open, he froze.
Luke Hughes.
Standing there, looking exhausted and wrecked in a way that had nothing to do with moving boxes.
"I need you to promise me something," Luke said. No greeting. No small talk. Just a voice weighed down by something far heavier than words.
Matt stepped back and gestured for him to come in. "What’s going on? What do you need?"
Luke looked around the room like he didn’t know how to start, like the words themselves were too big. He rubbed a hand over his face before finally meeting Matt’s eyes.
"I need you to take care of her."
Matt’s brow furrowed. "Maisy?"
Luke nodded. "She’s not just my best friend. She’s my sister. She’s our sister. Me, Jack, Quinn—we’ve spent our whole lives protecting her. Watching over her. And now we can’t be here. None of us. Not like we used to."
He took a breath, the kind you take before saying something sacred.
"We lost someone once. Darien. He was her everything. And after that, we made a promise to look out for her. To never let her feel alone again. And I know you and her haven’t… you don’t know her the way we do. But I’ve seen the way you are, Matt. I’ve seen you at her games. I’ve seen you sit with her when she’s quiet. I’ve seen you notice her when no one else does."
Matt’s throat tightened. He hadn’t known it showed.
Luke took a step closer.
"I need to know that if she ever breaks, someone will be there to pick up the pieces. That if she starts to pull away again, someone will remind her she’s not alone. That someone will protect her the way we always have."
It was more than an ask. It was a responsibility forged in love and grief, entrusted to someone they barely knew—but hoped could become her anchor.
A sacred passing of the torch.
Matt nodded slowly, the weight of the moment settling into his chest.
Then, with calm certainty, he met Luke’s gaze.
"I’ve got her."
Luke blinked, his jaw tensing with emotion. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Luke reached out and gripped Matt’s shoulder—a silent thank you, a silent trust.
And then he turned, walking out of the room.
Leaving behind the one person he hoped could become her next safe place.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Maisy was settling into her new situation a lot better than she had expected. In the weeks leading up to her move, she had braced herself for the worst—awkward roommate situations, homesickness that wouldn't let up, or worse, feeling like she didn’t belong. But Boston had surprised her. The campus had a kind of energy that buzzed beneath her skin, and the soccer field felt like a second home the moment her cleats hit the turf.
She was finally starting to feel like herself again. The girls on the soccer team were sharp, funny, and tough as nails, and they welcomed her into their circle without hesitation. There were jokes at water breaks, music blasting in the locker room, and fierce competition that pushed her to her limits. That was what Maisy thrived on. Being pushed. Being seen.
She bonded quickly with her roommate, Addison—Addy—who was easygoing in a way Maisy found comforting. Addy didn’t ask too many questions, but she always knew when Maisy needed to vent or be pulled out of a slump. They shared playlists, swapped clothes, and whispered late into the night like they were kids at summer camp.
Maisy’s confidence on the field grew with every practice. She was earning her place—not just skating by. It was the kind of progress she hadn’t felt in a long time. For the first time since Darien’s death, since the goodbye with Luke, she didn’t feel like she was walking around with a hole in her chest. Here, she had purpose. Structure. A shot at something more.
For a while, things felt... good.
But that high didn’t last forever.
One quiet night, the homesickness crept in like a slow fog—thick and relentless. It wasn’t triggered by anything specific. No sad song on shuffle, no familiar scent wafting through the dorm, no phone call gone unanswered. It just arrived, heavy and unwelcome. She had been sitting by the window in her room, watching the streetlights flicker, when the weight in her chest began to grow.
She missed the comforting chaos of home, the background noise of Jack's obnoxious laughter, Luke’s half-hearted attempts at cooking, the warmth of Quinn’s protective silence. She missed her mom’s voice echoing through the kitchen, and even the quiet grief they still carried together. And more than anything, she missed Darien. That ache never really left—it just faded into the background sometimes, waiting for the silence to settle so it could come clawing back.
She missed Michigan’s grey skies and chilly mornings, the way the air always felt a little damp but familiar. She missed knowing exactly where she was, who she was, and who had her back. Here, everything was new. Everyone was new. And for all the things going right, there was still a void that nothing could quite fill.
She wiped at her eyes quickly, frustrated with herself. She hadn’t even lasted a month. What kind of fresh start was this, if she already wanted to run home?
Addy and a few girls from the team noticed her mood dip. In true college fashion, they decided the cure was a night out. Frat row. Loud music. Cheap drinks. Shiny outfits. Anything to shake the blues.
They dressed her up in the cutest outfit they could throw together—a sparkly silver tank top that caught the light with every movement, a tiny black skirt that flounced with each step, and glittery heels that made her legs look a mile long. Addy curled Maisy's hair into effortless waves and dabbed on just enough highlighter to make her glow like she owned the world. Lip gloss? Check. Perfume? Spritzed generously. They hyped her up like it was game day. Taylor Swift blasted from the Bluetooth speaker while the girls danced around their dorm, snapping selfies and screaming compliments at each other. It was girly pop time, and Maisy, for the first time in days, actually laughed—loud, bright, and free.
By the time they stepped out into the warm Boston night, the group of them looked like they belonged on a magazine cover. Confidence buzzing through their veins, they strutted down frat row like it was their runway. For a little while, Maisy felt like maybe—just maybe—things would be okay.
Matt had made a promise—and he didn’t break promises. Especially not the kind that came with Luke Hughes’ glassy eyes and trembling voice.
So when he saw Maisy at the party, obviously drunk and pressed up against some random frat guy whose hands were way too familiar, something in him snapped. He didn’t think. He just moved.
He slid between them in one quick step and shoved the guy back.
“Bro, do you mind?” the frat boy slurred.
“Yeah, actually. I do. Back off before this becomes a problem.”
Matt was big. Broad. Confident. And pissed. The other guy took one look at him and wisely backed off.
Maisy, on the other hand, was not pleased.
Her jaw dropped. “What the fuck was that?” she yelled, glaring up at him.
“I’m just looking out for you,” Matt said, his voice gentler than his actions. “He was getting handsy and you’re—look, you’re too drunk.”
Maisy’s expression shifted from surprise to fury. “Yeah? Well I don’t need you babysitting me, Matt. So fuck off.”
And with that, she stormed away, leaving Matt standing alone under the flashing lights.
Maisy couldn’t take it anymore.
Everywhere she went—there he was.
Matt Boldy had become a permanent fixture in her orbit. A tall, broad, aggravating presence that hovered just a little too close, a little too often. It was almost like one of the Hughes brothers had hired him to be her full-time chaperone. And honestly? That sounded exactly like something Jack would do.
She thought moving to Boston would be her reset button. Her clean slate. But no, Matt Boldy—of all people—had to be here, too. Or rather, he had already been here. But that didn’t make his constant appearances any less maddening.
He showed up everywhere. At every party, at the gym, in the dining hall, in group hangouts. If she turned a corner, he was probably there. Watching. Hovering.
And not in a creepy way. More like an annoying, I-promised-your-brothers-I’d-keep-you-safe way. But that didn’t make it better. If anything, it made it worse.
The girls on her soccer team started to notice it, too. They teased her relentlessly, whispering that maybe Matt had a crush on her. That maybe he was secretly in love with her. That maybe this was his weird, hockey-boy way of flirting.
They were wrong. Maisy knew it.
This had Hughes written all over it.
What made it worse was that her roommate Addy had started dating his roommate Alex. Which meant that every group lunch, every casual weekend plan, every movie night—Matt was there. Smiling like he didn’t just ruin her night the weekend before. Acting like nothing was wrong. Like he wasn’t the reason guys kept a five-foot radius from her at parties.
Every time she tried to talk to someone—just talk—Matt would appear like some six-foot-two hockey-playing storm cloud. “You’re too drunk.” “That guy’s sketchy.” “You sure you want to be around him?”
It got to the point where people just stopped trying. They knew about Matt. And no one wanted to mess with BC’s golden boy.
She felt cursed. Like she had the cheese touch.
Maisy counted down the days until the hockey season officially started. She prayed he’d get too wrapped up in practices and games to keep breathing down her neck.
But until then, she was stuck with him.
And to make matters worse? He wasn’t even all bad. He was... infuriatingly decent. He was funny in a dry, unexpected way. He showed everyone pictures of his dog back home like a proud parent. He wore the same blue Drew hoodie every other day and somehow made it work. And he really did care about his teammates.
It was enough to make her almost forget how insufferable he was.
Almost.
It all came to a head at a football afterparty.
Maisy was about to make out with Connor—the quarterback, the definition of tall-dark-and-handsome—when Matt appeared, seemingly out of thin air. He grabbed her arm and pulled her away before she even had the chance to lean in.
"Sorry man, not tonight," Matt said coolly to Connor before leading Maisy toward the group of hockey guys on the other side of the house.
Maisy yanked her hand back, face flushed with fury. “What the fuck is your problem, Boldy? You can’t tell me what to do. I don’t care what Jack or Luke told you.”
“Leave me the fuck alone. I’m fine without you. I mean it.”
She turned to walk away, but Matt caught her wrist again and leaned in, his voice low and sharp.
“Really? You’re fine? Going out every weekend, getting wasted, throwing yourself at every guy who looks at you—that’s fine to you?”
The words hit her like a slap.
“You need to wake up, Maisy. Pick yourself up.”
She yanked her arm free and didn’t look back.
Maisy kept her distance after that.
Soccer season was about to begin, and the pressure was on. The home opener against Wisconsin loomed over every practice like a shadow, and Maisy knew this was her moment to prove herself. She wasn’t just fighting for playing time—she was fighting to show everyone, including herself, that she belonged here.
So she buried herself in the grind. Conditioning drills, early morning lifts, tactical sessions. She was the first one on the field and the last one off, her body running on adrenaline, stubbornness, and protein bars. Her cleats barely left the turf as she sprinted, again and again, chasing a version of herself that felt whole.
The loneliness crept in at night, during the quiet moments. Luke had a tournament that overlapped with her first game. Jack and Quinn were buried under their NHL calendars. No one was coming to the opener. No one would be in the stands wearing her number, cheering when her name was called.
The ache of that truth settled in her chest like a rock.
So she ran harder.
It was midafternoon, the sun relentless, when she finally dropped to the grass beside the field. Her shirt clung to her back, her lungs burned, and the world felt like it was spinning slightly off-center. She lay there, face tilted to the sky, trying to slow her breathing and not cry out of pure exhaustion.
Then a shadow fell over her.
She groaned. "Can you actually fuck off for once in your life?" she muttered, eyes still shut.
"Wow... that's harsh! And I thought we had something going at the party the other night."
Her eyes flew open.
Connor.
Maisy jolted upright, flustered. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
Connor laughed, easy and amused, offering her a hand. She hesitated a beat before taking it. Once standing, she brushed grass off her legs, avoiding eye contact as her cheeks flushed.
“No worries, princess. What’s got you out here working like it’s the World Cup?”
Maisy finally looked at him, squinting slightly against the sun. He was even better looking in daylight. His hair curled gently around his ears, a little damp from a workout of his own. His eyes were green and bright, and that smirk of his? Devastating.
She cleared her throat. “We’ve got our home opener coming up. I’m a rookie—I’ve gotta work twice as hard to keep my spot.”
Connor nodded, clearly impressed. “Damn. Respect. You looked locked in out there. Intense.”
She smiled, bashful and surprised by the compliment. “Thanks.”
He glanced toward the gym. “I’ve gotta run—coach is waiting for me. But we should hang out sometime. You know, when you’re not trying to outrun the flash.”
He handed her his phone with Snapchat open, and she typed in her username, trying not to fumble it. Their fingers brushed as she returned the phone, and her stomach flipped—just a little.
Connor started to walk away, then turned back with a grin.
“By the way—you still owe me a kiss, 26!”
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Word spread fast across campus: Maisy Stella and Connor Owens were a thing. It started with a few casual sightings—walking together after classes, sharing smoothies on the quad—but what sealed the gossip was when someone caught her sneaking out of one of the football team’s houses wearing a hoodie far too big to be hers. The dots weren’t hard to connect.
Matt Boldy hated it.
He’d known Connor since freshman year, and if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that Connor Owens was bad news. Charming? Yes. Smooth? Absolutely. But Matt had heard enough from the girls on campus—some of whom were his friends—to know Connor had a pattern. He’d flirt, win them over, keep them just long enough to satisfy his ego, and then leave without warning. Always with a different girl, always with the same outcome.
And now Maisy? Sweet, firecracker Maisy, with her razor-sharp tongue and guarded heart? She didn’t deserve that.
Matt tried to let it go. Tried to keep his distance. But it gnawed at him. So, one afternoon after classes, he caught her just outside the building they both had lectures in.
“Maisy,” he called out, jogging to catch up.
She turned, brows already furrowed.
“I need to talk to you,” he said. "About Connor."
Maisy didn’t even wait for the warning to come out of his mouth. "You’ve got to be kidding me," she snapped, loud enough to draw attention from a few students walking by. "What, are you following me now too? Just like every other second of the day?"
“I’m serious, Maisy. He’s not who you think—”
“Fuck off, Matt!” she yelled. "Seriously. Just leave me the hell alone."
She stormed off before he could say another word.
Matt stood frozen in the hallway, heart pounding—not from fear, but frustration. He hated how she looked at him like he was the bad guy. Like he was trying to ruin something good.
Later that night, guilt ate at him. He couldn't sit with it anymore. He picked up the phone and called Jack.
It backfired.
A few days later, as Matt was leaving the rink, mentally preparing to dive into the mountain of homework waiting for him, he spotted a small blonde figure marching toward him with fury in her steps.
Oh no.
Her eyes were sharp, jaw clenched. She was all stormcloud.
“You're actually so unbelievable,” she seethed.
Matt raised a brow. “People tell me that all the time.”
Smack. Her hand connected with his shoulder, then a shove. It didn’t move him much—she was strong, but he was bigger. Still, the force behind it made a point.
“You told Jack? Are you fucking serious?”
Matt’s smirk dropped. “Maisy—”
“What are you? His little bitch now? Can’t fight your own battles so you have to go crying to him?”
That one landed. Hard.
Matt’s insecurities—about being second best, about living in the shadows of Jack’s spotlight—came rushing to the surface. That comment cut deeper than she knew.
He looked down, voice softer. “He’s not a good guy, Maisy. I just didn’t want you to get hurt. Again.”
That word. Again.
It hit her like a brick wall. Images of Mark, of that awful party, of betrayal and heartbreak—all of it surged back. The flashing red lights. The girl stumbling past her with smeared lipstick. The numbness that sank in when she saw him zipping up his jeans, acting like she didn’t exist. It all played in her head like a cruel movie on repeat. Her eyes welled, and she blinked them away quickly, refusing to let Matt—or anyone—see her fall apart like that again.
She didn’t say another word. She turned on her heel and walked away.
She avoided him after that. Lunch? Taken to go. Group hangs outs? Skipped. She buried herself in practice, in studying, in anything that kept her from seeing Matt’s stupid face.
Things with Connor were... fun. At least on the surface. He said all the right things. Knew how to make her laugh. Had this way of making her feel like the only girl in the world when they were alone. She spent most nights at his place, wrapped in his oversized sweatshirts, believing—desperately hoping—that maybe this time, it would be different.
It was the afternoon of her home opener. The stadium buzzed, and so did she. Her name had cracked the starting lineup. After weeks of pushing herself harder than she ever had before, she had earned it.
And yet... the stands felt too empty.
Her brothers weren’t there. Luke had a tournament. Jack and Quinn were mid-season. It hurt more than she let on.
But Connor said he’d be there. Front row. Loudest in the stands. He’d stayed up with her all week as she spiraled through her anxiety. Reassuring her, rubbing her back, telling her she was amazing.
She clung to that.
When they called her name and number, she ran onto the field, her heart pounding. Her eyes scanned the stands, looking for his signature green eyes and floppy brown hair.
But he wasn’t there.
Instead, she caught a different pair of eyes. Blue. Familiar. Matt.
He was wearing that goddamn pink t-shirt—the one her brothers always wore to her games. Maisy’s Cheer Squad.
The sight of him—so still, so steady—knocked the wind out of her. After everything she had said, every harsh word thrown like knives, after pushing him away over and over again... he still came. He still chose to show up. No expectations, no need for recognition. He just sat there, right in the front row, wearing a ridiculous shirt and clapping like she was the most important thing in the world.
Maisy’s chest ached with the weight of it. That kind of loyalty—it didn’t just appear. It was earned. It was rare.
And as much as she didn’t want to admit it, a part of her had been hoping he’d come. A part of her had been looking for him, maybe even before she looked for Connor. Because somewhere deep down, beneath all her anger and confusion, she knew Matt would never let her down like that. He never had.
Her throat tightened as the guilt sank in deeper. The memory of their fight still fresh—her rage, the slap, the words that cut far too close. The look on his face. She remembered it too clearly now. But he showed up anyway. And for a brief, painful second, it reminded her of another night. Another party. Another boy she trusted.
That night with Mark flashed in her mind like lightning. The red lights, the pounding music, the girl stumbling past her with smudged lipstick, and then him—zipping up his jeans, not even looking at her. Acting like she meant nothing. The way her heart shattered in silence while everyone else kept dancing.
That night had changed her. And maybe, just maybe, Matt knew that.
Maisy blinked the sting from her eyes. She couldn’t fall apart now.
Focus.
She turned back to the field.
Focus.
The game began.
She played like her life depended on it. Her passes were sharp. Her defense impenetrable. And then came the breakaway. One clear path to the net. She darted, weaving through defenders, picked up speed—then the fake step, and the ball soared over the goalie’s reach.
Back of the net.
Her teammates swarmed her. Her first college goal. Her first win. It should’ve been perfect.
She looked to the crowd again. Still no Connor. Just Matt. Still in that ridiculous shirt. Still clapping with that stupid proud smile.
Connor never showed.
And he never texted.
No call. No excuse. Just silence.
Maisy told herself it didn’t matter. That she didn’t care. That maybe he just got busy. But the ache in her chest told the truth.
She scrolled through her phone after the game, trying to distract herself. Messages from Luke, Jack, and Quinn flooded her screen—photos of them in their pink shirts, too. Only this time, they weren’t just the old ones. They’d added something.
#ForDarien26.
She broke.
Maisy called each of them that night, crying, laughing, telling them how much she loved them. They weren’t there, but they made her feel like she wasn’t alone.
Her inbox buzzed. Congrats from Trevor. Cam. Johnny. Even Josh Norris, who she hadn’t talked to in years. It all meant something.
And then there were two texts from Matt.
We’re all proud of you, M. Go kill it out there.
Unbelievable game! So happy for you. Treat yourself tonight. Check under your car :)
She paused. Threw on a hoodie and ran to the parking lot.
There, tucked behind her front tire, was a small bouquet of daisies and a note. Matt’s messy handwriting scrawled across the front.
Inside: a gift card to her favorite ice cream shop, and another note.
You were magic tonight. I hope you know that. –M
Maisy stood there, frozen, heart thudding. Everything was a mess—her feelings, her friendships, her sense of trust—but somehow, standing there with daisies in her hand and the night breeze brushing her cheeks, it didn’t feel so heavy.
Maybe she’d been too harsh. Maybe she didn’t know everything.
And maybe... Matt wasn’t the problem at all.
She slid into her car, starting the engine.
Ice cream sounded really good right now.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
It was finally the weekend, and the soccer team had one thing on their minds: celebration. Their first win under their belts, adrenaline still coursing through their veins, they were ready to let loose. Maisy, still emotionally tangled in the wreckage of the last few weeks, needed a night where she didn’t have to think. About Matt. About Connor. About any of it.
Tonight wasn’t about heartbreak. It was about music, red solo cups, bad decisions, and losing herself in something other than the noise in her head.
The party was everything she needed—loud, sweaty, chaotic. She played drinking games with her teammates, screamed the lyrics to early 2000s throwbacks, and laughed louder than she had in weeks. For a few blissful hours, she forgot how heavy everything felt. Her empty cup in hand, she told Addy she was going to refill and made her way through the crowded living room.
The line at the keg was short, and Maisy let her eyes wander as she waited. She scanned the room lazily, watching the blur of bodies dancing, couples making out in corners, people swaying and spinning and laughing.
She’d spotted Matt earlier in the night. He hadn’t approached her, hadn’t hovered. He’d finally given her the space she’d screamed at him to give her. It should have felt like a victory. It didn’t.
Her turn at the keg came quickly, and once she had her drink, she turned to head back. The room had grown even more packed in her short absence, and every few steps she bumped into someone. And then she collided into a solid chest, beer sloshing everywhere.
“Oh shit, I’m—” she began, but the words froze on her tongue.
Connor.
She took a step back, wide eyes taking in the familiar face she hadn’t seen—or heard from—since the game. And then she saw it: his hand. Interlaced with another girl’s.
Her stomach plummeted.
His smile curled, lazy and cruel. "You got a problem?"
That smirk—it used to make her blush. Now, it twisted her insides. It looked so different tonight. Cold. Detached. Like she had never meant anything to him at all.
It hit her all at once.
The familiar pang of betrayal. The humiliation. The ache. The way her chest tightened so suddenly it felt like she couldn’t breathe. It was Mark all over again—the redhead girl at that party, the flash of guiltless eyes, the hand shoved through her as if she were invisible. The breaking. The erasing.
Maisy pushed past Connor, barely able to see where she was going as her vision blurred with tears. The music and crowd pressed in, making the room feel too loud, too hot, too full. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she shoved through the crowd, desperate for an exit, for air.
And then a hand.
Not rough, not forceful—gentle. Steady.
Matt.
She didn’t even have to look. She knew.
He tilted her face up, his thumb brushing away a tear she hadn’t realized had fallen. She met his eyes—calm, concerned, warm. No pity. No anger. Just him.
“Maisy?” he asked, voice low. Safe.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Matty... I wanna leave.”
That was all he needed.
He led her through the mess of bodies like it was muscle memory. Shielding her with his frame, never letting go of her hand. The second they stepped into the cool night air, Maisy let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. A breeze rolled across her bare shoulders and she shivered.
Matt immediately shrugged off his brown button-up, draping it over her. Then he wrapped his arm around her again, pulling her close as they walked in silence.
About halfway back to campus, Matt gently guided her to a bench on a quiet stretch of sidewalk. The moment she sat, the dam broke. Tears spilled freely, sobs shaking her frame as she buried her face in his chest. He didn’t say a word—just held her. Firm. Solid. There.
Like always.
Why was it always him?
When the sobs turned to quiet sniffles, Maisy finally whispered, “You’re always here. Why?”
Matt shifted. He leaned back just enough to see her face, his hand finding its way to her cheek again.
He looked at her for a long moment. Really looked. At her trembling lip, her tear-rimmed lashes, the vulnerability she tried so hard to bury.
And then he said, simply, “Because I want to be.”
The silence that followed was charged, thick with everything they weren’t saying. Her hand reached up, holding his wrist where it cradled her face. Their eyes locked, and neither one looked away.
Matt’s arm still held her close, his other hand now trailing up to the back of her neck. Their bodies had molded into one another, the bench a shrinking island in an otherwise still world. She could feel his breath. Her hands pressed to his chest, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt.
He dipped his head just slightly, gaze flicking to her lips. Her name slipped from her lips in a whisper. “Matt...”
He looked back at her eyes—something shifting behind his. Something fragile. Longing. And then a car drove past, headlights sweeping over them, breaking whatever spell they were under.
Matt pulled back first.
“I should get you home,” he said quietly.
Maisy nodded. He wrapped an arm around her again, pulling her against his side as they walked the rest of the way. Neither spoke.
But everything had changed.
And Maisy didn’t know what scared her more—how much she wanted to kiss him, or how much it already felt like home.
What the fuck was that.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
The days after the party passed in a haze neither of them could quite shake.
Whatever had happened between them that night—on the bench, under the stars, in the heat of heartbreak—it was real. Tangible. But now it hovered unspoken in the space between them.
Matt couldn’t stop replaying it in his head. The way she looked at him like he was safety. The way she clung to him like he was all that tethered her to the earth. The softness of her whisper, the near-kiss that had nearly destroyed him. And God, the way he had wanted to close that distance.
But he hadn’t. Because he couldn’t.
Maisy Stella was off limits.
Jack and Luke had never said it directly, but they didn’t have to. It was understood. Maisy was their sister in every way that mattered, and Matt couldn’t cross that line—especially not with everything she’d already been through. She had already been broken by boys who only saw the surface, who never stayed. Matt didn’t want to be the next name on that list.
So, he did what he thought was best.
He put distance between them.
He stopped sitting with her and Addy in the dining hall. He walked different routes to class. He kept himself busy with hockey and late-night gym sessions and assignments he suddenly cared way too much about. He avoided eye contact when they passed in hallways. He laughed louder around other people, hoping it would drown out the ache he felt every time he noticed her across a room.
And Maisy noticed.
She noticed the way his eyes wouldn’t meet hers anymore. The way his seat at their usual table remained empty. The way he didn’t hover at parties or shoot her quiet glances when no one was watching. He wasn’t there at all.
And it confused the hell out of her.
What had she done? Had she imagined it all? The way his arms wrapped around her. The way his voice softened only for her. The look in his eyes when she whispered his name. The way he almost kissed her—almost.
Maisy wasn’t stupid. She’d known how guarded he was. But that night? It felt like a breakthrough. And now, it was like he’d slammed a door in her face.
She went quiet.
Not just with Matt—but with everyone.
Practice became routine. She stopped staying after to joke with her teammates. She ghosted Addy’s offers to go out. Her laughter faded, bit by bit, until it was gone entirely. The light Matt had seen in her—so bright the night she scored that goal—had dimmed.
And that didn’t go unnoticed.
“Hey.”
Matt froze when Luke’s name lit up his phone screen.
He answered, trying to keep his voice neutral. “Yo. What’s up?”
“Is something going on with Maisy?”
The question made his heart stutter.
“I mean,” Luke continued, “I dunno, man. She’s just been... off. Like, more than usual. She doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t smile. Even Addy says she’s been weird lately. And I know you’re around her a lot so I figured I’d check in.”
Matt didn’t know what to say.
How do you explain to the kid you promised to protect her that you might be the reason she’s hurting?
How do you admit that you got too close, that you let her in, and now you’re pulling away—not because you don’t care, but because you care too much?
He rubbed a hand over his face, swallowing the guilt that climbed up his throat.
“She’s just been through a lot,” Matt said eventually, voice low. “Maybe she just needs time.”
Luke sighed. “Yeah, maybe.”
But Matt heard the doubt.
He hung up the phone and sat there in silence, heart pounding. The truth settled heavy in his chest.
He was the reason she was hurting.
And the worst part?
He missed her too.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
The home opener had finally arrived for the Boston College hockey team, and the energy buzzing through the arena was electric. Matt could practically taste it. This—this was what he lived for. The crowd, the lights, the adrenaline pulsing through his veins. He needed this more than ever. A few hours on the ice, free from the spiraling chaos inside his head.
He hadn’t let himself think too much in the weeks leading up to tonight. Every spare second had gone to hockey or school. He skipped the parties. Avoided the group hangouts. Avoided her. No Maisy.
But tonight, she’d be here.
Addy had told him as much when she mentioned Maisy was tagging along to watch Alex. That knowledge added a twist to his gut he couldn’t quite shake. He tried. God, he tried to shake it off as he laced up his skates and took the ice for warmups. The second his blades hit the rink, he let the noise fade. Let it be background to the rhythm of routine: one lap around the net, a few wrist shots, then into his drills.
Hockey. That was all that mattered.
The game started off rough. The Eagles took time to find their footing, the opposing team coming in hard and physical. But by the end of the first period, they were finding their groove, Matt falling into his flow like muscle memory.
Meanwhile, in the stands, Maisy sat curled into her seat, surrounded by cheers and chants. She’d been to dozens of hockey games before—between her brothers and Jack, she practically grew up in a rink. But this was the first time she was watching Matt.
And somehow... it felt different.
He skated with a purpose, a sort of silent command that left her breathless. Every stride was precise, every move calculated. She could see the fire in his eyes, the way he read the ice like he was born on it. And she couldn’t stop watching him.
Her mind wandered back to her own home opener. To the nerves, the pressure, the overwhelming weight of it all. And Matt had shown up anyway, even when things between them were... complicated. He still cheered for her. Still left her daisies. Still reminded her of the kind of person he really was.
Without giving herself more time to hesitate, she reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure. Then, she typed:
Good luck #12. Cheering for you x – Maisy
It wasn’t much, but it felt like everything.
Back on the ice, Matt didn’t check his phone until after the game, when the Eagles had pulled out a comeback win. He was exhausted and exhilarated, the weight of the game falling off his shoulders as he peeled off his gear and jumped into a quick shower.
When he got back to his locker, towel slung around his neck, he saw her name flash across his screen.
Maisy.
Just her name sent his heart stuttering.
He read the message once. Then again. Then smiled.
Alex, standing beside him, saw the shift and gave him a shove. "Go talk to her, dumbass," he muttered under his breath before disappearing toward the exit.
Maisy was standing off to the side of the family-and-friends section with Addy, chatting and waiting. Her eyes searched the crowd as the players started to filter out. She wasn’t even sure why she’d stayed. Maybe she wanted to see him. Maybe she hoped he’d look at her the way he had on that bench weeks ago.
And then she saw him.
His hair was still damp from the shower, messy and curling around his forehead. The burgundy BC shirt clung to his chest, and the low gym shorts did very little to hide the veins trailing down his arms. She had to look away for a second, her heart pounding embarrassingly hard in her chest.
God, he looked good.
"You played really good tonight," she said when he finally approached, her voice soft.
"Thank you for coming," Matt replied, his voice just as soft. "And for the text. I really appreciated it, M."
Her cheeks warmed. She looked down quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. That nickname.
Addy and Alex swooped in a moment later, full of energy and praise, and within seconds Addy was proposing a celebratory meal.
“Ooh! The four of us should go get food somewhere! To celebrate.”
Maisy and Matt exchanged glances—silent communication still unspoken between them—and they nodded, agreeing to go.
The diner trip was easy. Light. Comfortable in a way that Maisy hadn’t felt in weeks. And from that night on, something between them quietly shifted.
They were civil. The group dynamics returned to normal. They started sitting together again. Supporting each other’s games. He still wore the Maisy’s Cheer Squad shirt. And she still looked for him every time she scored.
Eventually, group hangouts turned into parties again. The four of them became a unit—Matt, Maisy, Addy, and Alex—often moving together through the crowd like their own little orbit.
And somewhere along the way, Maisy started to let her guard down. The anxiety she used to feel around Matt was replaced by a giddy buzz. She found herself laughing more. Touching his arm when she joked. Sitting closer.
They were undefeated beer pong partners—somehow completely in sync. It was stupid how well they worked together. How he always knew where she was. How her eyes always flicked to him first when something funny happened.
Outside of the group, though, they still didn’t hang out one-on-one. Not yet. Not after what happened at the football party. That night still lingered like fog neither of them could clear.
And Maisy? She was spiraling.
She tried to convince herself it was nothing. But her body betrayed her every time he passed her a drink, fingers brushing hers. Or when he’d silently tug off his hoodie and toss it over her shoulders. The small things—the protective hand on her back when they were crossing a crowd, the way he’d pull her away from guys who stared too long—they no longer annoyed her.
They made her blush.
She noticed it in herself too. The way her heart picked up speed when she spotted him in a room. The way her stomach fluttered when their knees touched at a party.
It was undeniable now.
She was falling for Matt Boldy.
And that terrified her.
Because he was Jack’s friend. And despite everything, that meant something.
She couldn’t talk to Luke—not when he’d probably panic, or worse, tease her. Quinn maybe. But Jack? Absolutely not. He’d flip.
So she turned to the only person she trusted enough—Addy.
“I think I’m falling for Matt,” she confessed one night, sitting cross-legged on her bed, fingers nervously twisting the hem of her hoodie.
Addy’s response was instantaneous.
"Oh my GOD. FINALLY!" she squealed, practically jumping on the bed.
Maisy blinked. "Wait—what?"
“You have no idea how many nights me and Alex have talked about this. Like so many. So... did Matt finally get the balls to admit he likes you back?”
Maisy’s jaw dropped.
“He likes me too?”
Addy’s face fell. Panic swept across her expression.
“Oh God... Alex is gonna kill me.”
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Maisy didn’t know what to do after her conversation with Addy. She tried to act normal around Matt, tried to pretend like everything was the same. But it wasn’t. Not even close.
Addy’s words echoed in her head constantly: "He likes you too." They looped again and again, gnawing at her from the inside out. What if Addy was wrong? What if Matt had just been friendly? He was a good guy. He cared about people. Maybe everything he’d done was just part of that. Maybe the flowers, the texts, the soft touches—maybe they were just him being Matt.
And yet, her heart couldn’t help but hope.
She needed to clear her head. So she laced up her cleats, grabbed a ball and her headphones, and headed for the soccer field. Music blasting in her ears, she let the rhythm of her drills drown out the noise inside her head. She ran until her legs ached, until her lungs burned, until her thoughts finally slowed.
The sun was beginning to dip behind the trees, casting long shadows across the field when she felt it—that unmistakable feeling of someone watching her. She paused, chest rising and falling rapidly, and looked up.
There he was.
Matt.
He was sitting in the bleachers, in his BC hockey sweatsuit, damp hair curling slightly from a recent shower. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, a duffle bag at his feet. He looked like he always did after a game: calm, slightly flushed, focused.
Without thinking, Maisy made her way over, climbing the bleachers to stand one row below him. Her hair clung to her neck from the sweat, her cheeks were flushed, and she was panting from the sun and drills. But when she looked at him, all that exhaustion disappeared. Her heart skipped a beat. A jolt of energy surged through her.
“Hi,” they both said at the same time.
They smiled, both laughing softly at the coincidence. Matt ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more—and Maisy could barely breathe. He looked good. Too good. The soft outline of his muscles beneath his shirt, the fading bruises along his jaw from a recent game, the glint in his eyes.
And Matt? He was stunned.
She was radiant. Glowing under the last bits of afternoon light. Freckles dotted her flushed cheeks and nose, and loose strands of hair curled around her face from under her headband. Her ponytail swayed slightly with each movement. No makeup. Just her. And she was perfect.
His chest tightened as he watched her. He remembered why he came here. He had to talk to her. He couldn’t keep pretending nothing happened. Couldn’t keep skating around the truth.
They both opened their mouths again at the same time.
Maisy let out a nervous laugh. “You first.”
Matt took a breath, looking down at his hands for a second. “I know.”
Maisy tilted her head, confused.
He looked back up. “Alex told me.”
Maisy’s heart stopped.
She stood frozen, unsure of what to say, how to move, what this meant.
Matt chuckled nervously, rubbing a hand across his face. “Addy really needs to learn how to keep a secret.”
He stood up slowly, stepping down to her level so they were face to face. His hands came up gently, cradling each side of her face like she was something precious. She didn’t pull away. She couldn’t.
Their eyes locked, and the air around them shifted. The world quieted. Maisy could feel every beat of her heart. Could feel the heat of his hands on her cheeks, the way his thumbs brushed softly over her skin.
He leaned in slowly, brows furrowing slightly like he was asking for permission.
Just then—
Riiiiing...
Maisy jumped slightly at the shrill sound of her alarm blaring in her back pocket. She cursed under her breath and reached back to silence it.
They stayed close, forehead to forehead, neither wanting to pull away just yet.
“I have to go to class,” she whispered.
Matt nodded, not moving.
They stood there for a few more seconds, eyes closed, soaking in the moment. Then, finally, she stepped back.
For the next few days, Maisy felt like she was walking on clouds.
Her mind replayed that moment over and over. The feel of his hands on her face. The almost-kiss. The look in his eyes when he said he knew.
She was falling hard, and fast.
They hadn’t seen each other since. Schedules clashed. Practice, class, team events—but tonight was Friday, and both the soccer and hockey teams had the night off. A party was happening, and their friend group was going out.
Maisy was nervous. This would be her first time seeing Matt since the field.
She dressed in the cutest outfit she could find—one that said casual but I tried. Her hair was loosely curled and tucked behind her ears. Right before leaving, she downed a quick shot of vodka to calm her nerves.
Addy laughed, watching her. “Stop stressing. You look amazing. Matt’s not gonna know what hit him.”
Maisy rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.
They made their way to the boys' dorm. The room was packed. She scanned the crowd, eyes flicking around—and then she saw him.
Matt stood near the back, deep in conversation with Alex. But the moment their eyes met, his lips curled up in a soft smile. His eyes never left hers.
Her stomach flipped.
They didn’t talk before leaving, but on the walk over to the party, she felt a strong arm wrap around her shoulders. He pulled her in close.
“You look really good tonight, M,” he whispered in her ear.
She didn’t respond—just leaned closer into his side, heart racing.
At the party, the group began to scatter. The lights were dim, music loud. Maisy turned to Matt, grabbed his hand, and without a word, pulled him into the closest empty bathroom.
The door clicked shut.
Matt’s face was flushed, a huge smile spreading across his cheeks.
“Tell me you’re sober right now,” he said, voice low.
Maisy nodded. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to forget this.”
He stepped forward, cupping her face again, and kissed her. It was gentle. Urgent. Like he’d been waiting a lifetime.
She clung to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world, fisting the fabric of his shirt in her trembling hands, pulling him so close there wasn’t a breath of space between them. The kiss deepened, slow and desperate, like they were trying to memorize the taste of each other. Emotion poured out in waves—weeks of built-up tension, silent longing, quiet glances and missed chances, all spilling into this one perfect moment. His lips were soft and warm, moving with reverence, like she was something sacred, something he'd been aching to touch for far too long. One of his hands slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, holding her gently but firmly, grounding her as everything else blurred away. She was dizzy, weightless, and entirely his in that moment—and he kissed her like he knew it.
When they finally pulled away, breathless, he rested his forehead against hers.
She reached up and wiped the smudge of lip gloss from his mouth, and he took her hand in his, kissing her palm.
“Matty...” she whispered.
He let out a soft groan, his grip tightening slightly.
“What is this?”
He was quiet for a moment, scanning her face with that intense gaze.
“I want this,” he finally said. “I want you. All of you.”
The party was a blur after that.
Neither one of them said anything to the group. They kept it quiet. Close. Personal.
For now, it was just theirs.
They snuck lunches together. Texted nonstop. Studied side by side, worked out together. He made her laugh. She calmed his nerves. They didn’t need to tell anyone yet. They had time.
A few weeks later, just before a big home game against Wisconsin, Matt invited her over.
She found daisies on his bed, her favorite candy beside them. And beneath it all—a Boston College jersey, perfectly folded, her last name printed across the back: BOLDY, #12.
Her heart swelled.
“Awe, Matty,” she said, turning to him with misty eyes. “Are you asking me to wear your jersey tomorrow?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “And for every game after that.”
She practically tackled him into a hug, pressing a kiss to his lips.
She’d never felt more like his than she did in that moment.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
The crowd was as loud as ever, chants echoing through the packed arena as the student section let their disdain for Wisconsin be known. Booing erupted the moment the visiting team stepped onto the ice for warmups. It was chaotic, electric, and exactly what college hockey was supposed to feel like.
Maisy stood tucked between Addy and a few of the other hockey girlfriends in the stands, her hands buried in the oversized sleeves of her new Boston College jersey. Matt’s jersey. It swallowed her whole, hanging past her hips and drowning her frame—but it was perfect. Because it was his. She felt safe in it, like a piece of him was wrapped around her even with the boards between them.
As Matt skated his usual warmup lap, he slowed right in front of where she stood. His eyes locked with hers through the glass, and the noise around them faded for a split second. That signature toothy grin spread across his face, and even through all the chaos, she heard him shout, "Looks good on you, M!"
Addy shoved her playfully, squealing like a proud best friend. Maisy rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the blush that rose to her cheeks. With a grin, she blew him a gentle kiss through the glass before he turned and skated back into formation.
The game itself was fast and physical. Boston College fought hard, their passing was clean, their pressure unrelenting—but Wisconsin came out strong, too strong. It was a battle until the final buzzer, but ultimately, the Eagles walked away without the win.
Matt exited the locker room wearing a tired expression, his face tight with frustration. He hated losing. Hated it more when he felt like he hadn’t played up to his own standards. Maisy waited at their usual spot by the family and friends section, arms open the moment she saw him.
She didn’t bring up the game. She didn’t need to. Instead, she wrapped her arms tightly around him, holding him to her chest, her fingers gently brushing through the back of his damp curls. He clung to her a second longer than usual, grounding himself in her touch.
They spoke with Matt’s parents for a bit, polite smiles all around, but Matt’s energy was off. Tired. Worn. Eventually, he mumbled something about wanting to just go home and crash. Maisy didn’t hesitate. She gave his parents a hug and took his hand in hers as they walked across the icy parking lot.
They stayed quiet, wrapped in their little bubble. Her arm circled around his waist, his around her shoulders, keeping her close. They walked like that until they reached the car.
Matt stopped at the passenger door, opening it for her with a tired smile. One hand on the doorframe, the other bracing against the car roof, he leaned down slowly, eyes fluttering shut as he moved in for a kiss—
"ATTA BOY, BOLDY!!!"
Maisy flinched, startled by the sudden yelling.
Alex and Cole stood across the lot near their team’s charter bus, laughing and packing up gear. Matt’s head snapped up, his entire body freezing in place.
Panic.
Pure panic.
What if they saw her? What if they told Jack?
Matt turned quickly to block their view, waving them off with a fake grin while Maisy ducked a little lower in the seat, her cheeks burning.
They were quiet for a beat, both processing the very near exposure.
And then Matt let out a snort.
Maisy followed, unable to stop herself from laughing. It bubbled up out of her chest, and soon they were both breathless with laughter, heads thrown back, the stress of the moment melting away.
After a few long seconds, she met his eyes with a grin. "You’re so dead to them."
The rumors started spreading like wildfire.
By the time everyone was home for Christmas break, the USA NTDP group chat was in chaos. The boys were relentless. They hadn’t missed Matt cozying up to a blonde mystery girl outside the Wisconsin game, and now they wanted answers.
Thankfully, Alex and Cole hadn’t seen Maisy’s face—just a flash of long blonde hair before Matt had stepped in and blocked their view. It was enough to send the group into a spiral, but not enough to expose the truth.
Matt played it off, shrugging the whole thing off with a "just some girl" excuse, tossing crumbs and hoping the boys would get bored. They didn’t. They asked for names. Details. Instagram handles. He gave them nothing.
Maisy, for her part, played it just as cool. When Alex and Cole texted her a few days later asking if she had any clue who the girl might be, she rolled her eyes and typed back:
“No idea. But bless her if she’s putting up with him.”
Back home in Michigan, Maisy had been back for a week, spending every second she could with Luke. Her best friend had been soaking up every second with her around, even if he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different.
She was... glowing.
It wasn’t anything she said. It was the way she smiled more. The way her laughter came easier. The way she wasn’t carrying the same weight in her shoulders. Luke had no clue what—or who—was behind it. But he didn’t care. He was just happy to see pieces of her returning to herself.
The house felt alive again.
Quinn and Jack flew home for a few days during the holiday break, and with the four of them finally under one roof again, the Hughes-Stella home was bursting with noise and laughter. It hadn’t felt that full in years. Not since Darien.
Each of the kids shared their updates. Luke, flustered, admitted he had a girlfriend, which earned him endless teasing. Maisy proudly rattled off her stats and rookie achievements, earning cheers and high-fives. Jack boasted about settling into life in Jersey. Quinn, despite his usual quiet demeanor, took his teasing about the Canucks in stride.
Their moms—Monica, Ellen, and Jim—all had misty eyes. It had been so long since they’d seen their kids this happy, this whole. Even Dominic, who wasn’t there, was spoken about warmly, and the air felt light.
On the day before Jack and Quinn were scheduled to fly back out, the group piled into the family van and made the drive to the lake cottage.
The drive was quiet, peaceful.
When they arrived, they spent an hour or two laughing and lounging around the snow-dusted cottage, reminiscing about old summers and sharing stories. Then, they bundled up, grabbed a few bouquets from the local market, and made their way to the path behind the house.
There, nestled between snowdrifts and pine trees, was Darien’s headstone.
Maisy laid the blanket down gently, brushing snow from the edges of the stone. One by one, each of them laid their flowers down. They didn’t say much. They never did when they came here. Words weren’t needed.
But this time, Luke broke the silence.
“May…?” he said softly. “You’re happy again.”
Maisy looked up at him, then at Jack and Quinn beside him. All three wore soft, unreadable expressions. Their lips quirked into gentle smiles.
She sucked in a breath, adjusting her worn Michigan-blue mittens. Her voice was quiet but sure.
“Yeah. I think I am.”
And that was all they needed.
They didn’t know why yet. Didn’t ask. They just knew their sister was smiling again. That the spark in her eyes—the one they thought might never return—was flickering back to life.
And for the first time in a long, long time…
Maisy Stella was home.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Summer came quickly, and with it, the impossible task of trying to figure out how—or when—to tell the rest of their world about their relationship. Maisy and Matt still hadn’t come up with a good way to come out with the truth. They weren’t hiding because they were ashamed, but because this felt sacred. Quiet. The kind of love you held close to your chest before the rest of the world had a chance to tear it apart.
Maisy had a sneaking suspicion that Luke had caught on. There were moments when his knowing gaze would linger on her just a second too long. But he never pressed her for details. He simply told her that as long as she was happy, and the guy treated her right, that was all that mattered.
Of course, that didn’t stop him from texting Matt anyway.
You got anything to do with Maisy glowing like this? he’d typed one night.
Matt, with his usual poker face, replied: Still her number one hater, don’t worry.
Three weeks into the summer, Matt finally arrived at the cottage. He had been counting the days. Texts and late-night calls had been their only lifeline for weeks, but none of that compared to seeing her—holding her.
When he arrived, the rest of the group was already there, most having come the day before. Jack met him at the driveway and led him to his assigned room for the trip.
Matt blinked.
It was the room across from Maisy’s.
He looked around quickly before Jack patted him on the back and ran off to rejoin the group. The moment he was gone, Matt dropped his bags, crossed the hallway, and knocked gently on her door.
“J, go away—I’m not in the mood.”
He grinned at the sound of her voice.
"M? It’s me."
There was a flurry of movement before the door swung open, and there she was—sun-kissed and barefoot, wearing a hoodie that was definitely his. She yanked him into the room by the collar of his shirt and closed the door.
Maisy practically tackled him, pressing kisses to every inch of his face. Matt laughed, his arms wrapping around her and lifting her clean off the ground. Their mouths met in a real kiss, finally, and they both sighed into the embrace like it was air.
They stayed like that for a while, breathing each other in.
Eventually, they agreed it was best not to be suspicious. They staggered their entrances downstairs, Maisy going first, doing her best to hide her blush.
Luke didn’t miss it. He raised a brow, silently clocking the difference in her mood. She’d left grumbling upstairs, and now she practically glowed. He didn’t say anything, just observed.
Over the next few days, Luke kept an eye on them. Maisy and Matt never touched in public, never said much to each other when others were around—but they were always near each other. Always hovering.
Luke noticed everything.
He saw how Matt always had a hoodie nearby when the sun dipped and the night got cold, one that would somehow end up draped over Maisy's shoulders.
He noticed how Maisy would crack open two beers at a time, placing one beside her where Matt would eventually pick it up. He noticed how their gazes found each other across rooms, how their hands brushed for a second longer than necessary when they crossed paths.
Luke smiled to himself. He didn’t need her to say anything. He knew. And if Matt Boldy was the one bringing this light back into his best friend’s eyes, then he was all for it.
One night, he and Maisy lay out under the stars, as they’d done for years.
“How’s Matt?” he asked casually.
Maisy blinked. “He’s fine?”
Luke turned to look at her, soft and knowing. “How’s Matt.”
She let out a little sigh, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s good, Lukey. He’s really good.”
Luke smiled, pulled her into his side, and kissed the top of her head.
“Good.”
—
The rest of the boys were slower on the uptake. Blissfully oblivious.
One night, around the fire, they brought up the infamous mystery girl from the BC vs. Wisconsin game again. The chirping was relentless.
Matt eventually groaned and stood up to grab another drink.
He wasn’t gone long—but long enough for Alex to catch the way Maisy casually reached out and touched his arm as he passed. The look they exchanged was subtle, but electric.
Alex blinked.
Did... did he just see that?
“Cole, did you—”
“Nope.” Cole was mid-story, not catching any of it.
Alex let it go.
Until later that night.
Maisy sat at the bar behind the couch in the Hughes' cabin basement, nursing a drink. The group had moved inside after the bonfire, filling the cozy space with laughter and music. When Matt approached, she looked up with the same soft smile that had haunted Alex since the hockey game was brought up. They exchanged a quiet word, then Matt leaned over to grab his drink.
It was identical to the scene at the arena.
Alex and Cole both went quiet, jaws dropping.
“Holy shit,” Cole whispered.
“Maisy,” Alex muttered.
They didn’t say anything then. Just exchanged wide-eyed glances.
Later that night, they agreed: Let them have their moment. They could mess with them later.
Matt said I love you on a boat.
Probably the worst place to say it, considering how loud and chaotic it was—but he couldn’t help it. They were surrounded by laughter, the sun casting that golden hour glow across the lake. Maisy sat beside him, legs tucked beneath her, wind whipping her hair in every direction as she grinned at something Cole shouted from the front of the boat. She looked radiant, glowing with life in a way that made Matt’s breath catch.
He watched her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks pink from the breeze. She turned and caught him staring, and instead of teasing him like she usually did, she just reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his.
That was it. That was the moment.
He leaned in, just barely above a whisper, but still loud enough to be heard over the wind.
“I love you.”
Time seemed to pause—until Trevor, clueless as ever, shouted from the other end of the boat:
“I LOVE YOU TOO, MAN!”
Matt froze. Maisy laughed, her whole body shaking with it, before she leaned in and pressed her lips to his ear.
“I love you so much.”
His heart practically burst in his chest.
From across the boat, Alex and Cole watched the moment unfold in disbelief. They exchanged wide-eyed, knowing looks—the kind of silent conversation that said, oh my god, it’s happening. Cole leaned into Alex, grinning like a fool.
"Boldy's gone," he muttered under his breath.
Alex smirked, not taking his eyes off the two. "Yeah. Totally whipped."
And at the helm of the boat, Quinn’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw them—Maisy with her head thrown back laughing, Matt looking at her like she was the only girl in the world.
Quinn smiled to himself.
His little sister was happy. That was all he’d ever wanted.
Jack was the last to figure it out. Something was going on and it seemed like everyone knew this big secret except for him. He missed all the not-so-subtle interactions between the couple, and if it wasn’t for him actually catching them in the act, he might never have found out.
It was a warm summer night and a few of the boys were out at a party, including Maisy and Matt. It was late, and a few rounds of beer pong had been going for hours. Jack challenged Maisy to a game of doubles—Jack and Quinn versus Maisy and her partner of choice. Instead of picking Luke, like usual, she ran to the couch and grabbed Matt by the arm.
“Boldy?”
“Oh J, just watch. We’re undefeated back in Boston.”
Huh. He didn’t realize they knew each other like that.
Too drunk to think much of it, Jack played. To his surprise, they got absolutely demolished. After Maisy sank the final ball into his cup, she leapt into Matt’s arms, and he spun her around like he’d done it a thousand times before.
The next morning, Jack woke up to the smell of bacon, pancakes, and maple syrup. Excited, he jogged downstairs to find the beer pong champs cooking a full breakfast spread. Still, nothing clicked.
He missed how Matt’s hands flew away from Maisy’s waist when he came in. Missed the way they sat on either side of him in silence, smiling like idiots.
That night, most of the boys went to another party. Maisy stayed behind, hoping for quiet time with Matt. Luke and Quinn stayed too, happy to hang back.
With most of the house empty, Matt and Maisy finally relaxed. They curled up on the couch in the basement of the Hughes cabin, threw on a movie, and forgot about the world. They kissed and whispered until they fell asleep, tangled together like puzzle pieces.
They didn’t even stir when the door opened hours later.
“Let’s play pool downstairs!”
Luke and Quinn exchanged glances.
Jack, oblivious as always, barreled forward.
He stopped halfway down the steps, spotting Matt’s head peeking over the couch.
“Boldy! Get up buddy, we’re drink—oh.”
He froze.
There, asleep in Matt’s arms, was Maisy.
Matt’s head rested atop hers, their bodies tucked together like they belonged.
Jack stared.
Then he looked at Luke. Then at Quinn. Then back again.
Luke winced. “I think she broke him.”
Jack stepped closer, crouched slightly. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he smiled.
He stood back up and wrapped an arm around each brother’s shoulders.
summary: When San Jose Sharks rookie Will Smith secretly starts dating Riley Thornton—daughter of Sharks legend Joe Thornton and housemate of teammate Macklin Celebrini—he thinks they’ve pulled off the ultimate stealth romance. With whispered rendezvous, late-night escapes, and a suspiciously dented bush, Will and Riley manage to keep their relationship under wraps from everyone… except, well, everyone.
masterlist
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
The restaurant was dimly lit and tucked away off a quiet street in downtown San Jose, the kind of place where the lighting was low, the tables were close together, and the world outside felt like it didn't exist. Will reached across the small table, his fingers brushing against Riley's. "You know," he said with a crooked grin, "I still can't believe you picked this place. You're like, weirdly good at Yelp."
Riley smiled, her eyes glowing in the candlelight. "It's not that hard, Will. I just read reviews and don’t get distracted by places with giant burgers in the photos."
"But those are the best photos," he said, laughing softly. His fingers laced with hers under the table. "Six months of this and you still keep surprising me."
She tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"Best thing," he said, his voice low. "By far."
They’d slipped into this bubble so effortlessly—soft smiles, shared bites of pasta, occasional brushes of knees beneath the table. No one in the restaurant knew who they were. No one cared. They didn’t have to watch their backs, or check if anyone was filming. It was rare.
Riley reached into her purse and pulled out a small, crumpled Polaroid. She passed it to him with a grin. "Remember this?"
Will looked down and chuckled. It was a blurry shot of the two of them from their first official date—him mid-blink, her laughing too hard to keep her eyes open. "You said this was too ugly to keep."
"It grew on me. Like you."
He shook his head, leaning back in his chair, absolutely enamored. "You're gonna kill me one day."
They were halfway through dessert—splitting tiramisu, his fork always trying to steal from her side—when Riley suddenly froze. Her hand brushed against his wrist in warning. "Don’t look now, but... is that Eky and Fabes at the bar?"
Will’s smile dropped. "What? No way."
He tilted his head slightly, casual-like, and there they were—William Eklund and Fabian Zetterlund, both in jeans and button downs, standing at the bar like they owned the place.
"What do we do?" Riley hissed, pulling her hand back like it had been caught on fire.
"Shit, shit, okay... act normal. No—wait, don’t act normal. They know what normal looks like." Will scrubbed a hand down his face. "Do we have a back door?"
Riley peeked around, heart hammering in her chest. "Kitchen entrance. There—see the hallway by the washrooms?"
He nodded quickly. "Let’s pay and move. Fast."
They did their best to settle the bill without drawing attention, Riley ducking her head, Will sliding the cash across like he was in a spy movie. Then they stood, trying to move naturally, not too fast, not too slow, weaving toward the washrooms like they were just going for a stroll.
The kitchen door swung open. A server stepped out. Will grabbed Riley’s hand and pulled her with him, slipping through just as it started to close. They burst into the steamy, bright chaos of the kitchen.
"Sorry! Just—emergency," Will muttered to a startled line cook, who blinked but said nothing.
Out the back door. Into the alley. Cool air hit their faces like a splash of water. Riley laughed as they ran, hand in hand, past the dumpsters and out to the parking lot.
They didn’t stop until they reached Will’s car, slightly out of breath, grinning like idiots.
"Okay," Riley said, hands on her hips. "That might have been the most stressful dessert I’ve ever had."
"That was so close," Will gasped, laughing. "You think they saw us?"
"No. I think we got lucky."
They stood there, caught in that in-between moment—adrenaline still buzzing, the quiet hum of the night settling around them. Will looked at her, really looked at her, and something in his chest cracked wide open.
"I love you," he said suddenly, the words tumbling out with a kind of reckless honesty, like they'd been pacing behind his teeth for hours, maybe days. He hadn't planned to say it, not tonight, not like this, but in the hush of the parking lot, with her cheeks flushed from laughter and her eyes still wide from their shared escape, it felt impossible not to. It was as if the adrenaline cracked him open and the truth came spilling out, raw and real and totally unfiltered.
Riley blinked. Her lips parted. The world went still.
Then a soft smile crept across her face, eyes glimmering with warmth and surprise. "You do?"
He nodded, heart thudding in his chest. "Yeah. I—I didn’t mean to say it like that, I just… I do. I love you."
Riley stepped closer, her boots crunching softly against the pavement, and lifted her hand to his cheek. Her thumb brushed lightly over his skin, and her eyes didn’t leave his for even a second.
"I love you too," she said, her voice barely above a whisper but brimming with certainty. She watched his face as she said it, the way his eyes flickered with a mix of disbelief and relief, and it made her heart squeeze.
"I’ve been wanting to say it for a while," she added, her lips curling into a shy smile. "But I didn’t want to freak you out."
He laughed softly, leaning into her touch. "You could never freak me out."
Riley’s fingers slid back into his hair as she pressed her forehead to his. "You’re stuck with me now, Smith."
"Good," he whispered. "I wouldn’t want it any other way."
He kissed her then, gentle and full, like the kind of kiss that made the rest of the world blur into soft lights and distant sounds. It was the kind of kiss that spoke every word he hadn’t said yet, that carried the weight of six months of stolen moments, whispered jokes, and every time he’d had to pretend she wasn’t his in public. Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, anchoring herself to him as if afraid this moment might vanish. His hands slid up from her waist to her back, pulling her closer, until there wasn’t a breath of space left between them. The kiss deepened—still tender, but charged with all the emotion they usually had to hide. It was slow, reverent, like they were both trying to memorize the way this felt, just in case they never got a moment like this again.
Behind them, a car door slammed. They broke apart instantly, heads whipping toward the noise. A couple exited the restaurant, laughing, not even looking their way.
"Close call number two," Riley whispered.
Will grinned, forehead pressed to hers. "Worth every second."
They kissed again, softer this time, and in that small pocket of the parking lot, hidden from everyone, it felt like the world had stopped just for them.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Will pulled up a few blocks from the Thornton house, headlights off, engine humming low, the street bathed in the warm amber glow of old-fashioned streetlights. The windows were cracked open just enough to let in the cool breeze, and for a few extra seconds, neither of them moved. The night was too perfect, too quiet, too suspended in the afterglow of everything that had just happened.
Riley reached for her bag in the back seat, fingers brushing over the strap, but paused when Will gently touched her wrist. His hand lingered there, warm and familiar.
"Text me when you're in," he said, voice low and sincere, like he wanted to memorize every second of these last moments with her.
Riley smiled, leaning across the console so their foreheads touched. "I will. And if I get caught—"
He smirked. "You won’t. You’re too good."
"But if I do, at least it was after the best night ever," she whispered.
Will’s thumb brushed over the inside of her wrist. "Still worth it."
She kissed him again—slow and lingering, a quiet promise—and then opened the door. The slam of it was too loud in the sleepy neighborhood. She ducked her head instinctively, slinging her bag over her shoulder, and waved as he eased away from the curb.
Before she could even tuck her phone into her pocket, it buzzed—FaceTime. Will.
She answered with a smirk. "You’re obsessed."
His face appeared on screen, grinning. "Just making sure you get to the door safe. Go on, I wanna watch."
"You are so dramatic," she muttered, but angled the camera to show her feet as she walked. "This is such boyfriend behavior."
"Good thing I’m your boyfriend, then."
She bit back a smile. The closer she got to the house, the more the butterflies stirred in her stomach. She turned the camera to her face when she reached the steps. "Happy now?"
Will grinned. "Very. Sleep tight, Ry."
"You too, Will."
She hung up but didn’t put the phone away. Not yet. The night felt like magic, and she wanted to hold onto every spark of it for as long as she could.
The second she stepped inside, the living room lights were on. Her dad was parked on the couch, headset on, controller in hand. Macklin was beside him, just as focused. Fortnite flashed across the big screen.
Joe paused the game the second he noticed her, his eyes narrowing with a sharpness that made Riley instinctively straighten up. His controller dropped onto the couch cushion beside him with a soft thud, and he pulled the headset down around his neck like a man about to conduct an interrogation.
"Hey," he said, but it wasn’t casual. It was the kind of 'hey' that carried weight, like a loaded question. "Where’ve you been?"
His posture shifted—arms resting heavily on his knees, shoulders squared, the full dad stare in effect. Riley knew that look. It was the same one he used when Macklin snuck into the pantry at midnight or when the boys forgot to rinse their gear after practice. Protective. Sharp. Borderline terrifying.
He glanced at the clock, then back at her, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "It’s almost midnight. You didn’t answer my last text."
"I was out with Grace," she said quickly, voice light, trying not to sound too defensive.
He arched a brow, not letting up. "Where exactly?"
"Mini golf. That new glow-in-the-dark place near the boardwalk. We’ve been planning it all week."
He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at her. Searched her face. Not angry—just locked in full dad-mode. The kind where he didn’t need to raise his voice to make her squirm.
"You drive yourselves? Who else was there?"
Riley swallowed. "Just us. Grace drove."
He tilted his head slightly. "You usually let me know when you’re going out that far. What if something had happened?"
"Nothing happened," she said gently. "I’m fine."
"I know. I’m your dad, Riley. That’s kinda the point."
Macklin, still oblivious, chimed in with perfect timing. "Oh! I think Will went there tonight too. Said he had a date. Did you see him there?"
Joe’s head snapped toward Macklin, then back to Riley.
"No," she said quickly, clutching her bag tighter. "We must’ve just missed him."
Joe’s eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a line. Something about the way he looked at her made her wonder if she’d slipped up somehow.
Macklin groaned. "Dang. I was hoping you’d get a look at the mystery girl. He’s been so secretive about it."
Joe chuckled, shaking his head, but there was a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes that hadn’t been there a moment before. "Yeah, that kid’s hiding something," he said, voice laced with amusement, but edged with something else—interest, suspicion maybe. He leaned back on the couch, arms crossed, like he was mentally running through the possible girls Will might be seeing. "Secretive little bastard. You’d think after all the hours he spends at the house, I’d get some intel." He smirked, then glanced sideways at Riley. "You ever notice him acting weird lately? I mean, weirder than usual?"
"Nope!" Riley forced a yawn. "Well, I’m exhausted. Night, boys."
"Night," they both mumbled, already back in the game.
She bolted up the stairs, praying her poker face had held up. But the second she opened her bedroom door, she jumped.
Her mom was sitting on her bed.
"Mom—"
"Hi, sweetie." Her mom’s voice was soft, but there was a sharpness in her eyes Riley knew all too well—the quiet kind of knowing that only mothers seemed to have. She patted the spot beside her on the bed, her posture calm, composed, almost too casual. "Sit," she said, but it wasn’t really a request. It was the same tone she used when Riley was five and tried to hide a broken vase behind the couch. That tone that said: I already know the truth, but I’m giving you one last shot to come clean.
Riley obeyed. Her heart raced.
"You were with Grace?"
"Yep. Mini golf. Then ice cream. Home now."
Her mom studied her. "Uh-huh."
Riley gave her best innocent smile. "She already texted you, didn’t she?"
"She did."
Riley exhaled. Nailed it.
But her mom kept looking at her, a knowing expression softening her features. The kind that said, 'You think you're being subtle, but I've been watching you since the day you were born.' Her eyes flicked down to Riley’s fingers still curled around her phone, then back up to her face, lingering just long enough to make Riley feel like a lie was scrawled across her forehead. She didn’t press, though—didn’t need to. Her silence was its own kind of interrogation, gentle but suffocating, wrapped in love and quiet judgment.
"You’re a little too good at that story," she said gently.
Riley opened her mouth to protest, but her mom just kissed her forehead.
"I won’t ask again. But be careful, okay?"
Riley nodded slowly. "Okay."
Her mom gave her a small smile. "Goodnight, baby."
"Night, Mom."
Once the door clicked shut behind her, Riley exhaled fully for the first time all night.
She grabbed her phone and texted Will one word: "Safe."
A second later: "Also, we’re SO bad at this."
He replied instantly: "Speak for yourself. I’m flawless."
She laughed into her pillow, heart full.
And somehow, even with the close calls, the hiding, the lies—it all still felt worth it.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Saturday morning hit like a slap to the face.
The rink was humming with the usual buzz—music low, sticks tapping on the rubber flooring, the hiss of skate sharpeners and the occasional burst of laughter from the showers. But Will felt like he was walking a tightrope the moment he stepped into the locker room. He had barely made it to his stall and started unlacing his shoes when Macklin’s voice rang out.
"Yo, Smitty," Mack said from across the room, spinning a puck on his palm. "How was that glow-in-the-dark mini golf place? You said you were taking that girl last night."
Will froze for half a second. His fingers stuttered over his shoelaces before he forced a lazy grin and leaned back. "Oh—uh, yeah. It was... fine."
"Just fine?" Macklin raised an eyebrow. "That place is sick."
"Yeah, well, the date kind of sucked," Will said, trying to keep his tone casual. "She wasn’t really who I thought she was. We didn’t vibe. So I bailed early."
That answer seemed to satisfy Mack, who shrugged and went back to flipping his puck. But before Will could let out a breath of relief, Eklund and Zetterlund came strolling in, mid-conversation.
"I swear I saw his car last night," Eky was saying. "At that restaurant on Third—what’s it called, the Italian one? Real dark lighting, kind of bougie."
"Oh yeah," Fabes added. "That’s where I saw it too. You weren’t at mini golf, man."
Will blinked, caught like a deer in headlights. "No, yeah—I mean, I was. I just... went to get food after. Alone. That restaurant’s got good takeout."
Will nodded too quickly. "Yeah. It was late. I didn’t want to eat at home."
Fabian squinted. "You were there for like an hour."
Will’s palms started to sweat. "I was hungry."
The chirping started almost immediately—good-natured, but relentless. Macklin howled with laughter while Eklund clapped his hands like a game show buzzer had just gone off.
"So let me get this straight—you had a bad date, left early, then took yourself to a romantic candlelit restaurant for some alone time?" Eky asked.
"Inspiring," Fabes added. "Real commitment to the solo vibes."
Will rubbed his face. "You guys suck."
Just as the chaos was starting to calm, his phone buzzed in his open duffel bag. He reached for it instinctively and unlocked the screen.
At the top of the screen, glowing in bold letters, was a message from Lover 💫💛.
Will nearly fumbled the phone straight onto the floor.
"OHHHHHH," Macklin sang, his head whipping around. "Who’s Lover💫💛?"
Will scrambled to lock his screen. "Nobody. Just a friend."
"A friend who texts you at nine a.m. with heart emojis?" Eky grinned, voice sing-songy.
Macklin leaned forward like a bloodhound. "Wait—if your date was that bad, how come Lover💫💛 is texting you right now? You sure you bailed early?"
Will opened his mouth and closed it again.
And just then—like fate really had it out for him—Patrick Marleau walked into the room with a coffee in one hand and a towel slung over his shoulder.
"Oh yeah," he said offhandedly, clearly having caught the tail end of the conversation. "Smitty came in late last night. I think it was past one."
Silence fell over the room like a dropped puck.
Will stared at Marleau, who didn’t even blink as he walked past to grab some tape.
Eklund turned slowly toward him. "Late, huh? I thought the date was a bust?"
"I thought you went home," Zetterlund added.
Macklin was staring like he was trying to read Will’s mind. "Wait. Did you—did you go out again? With someone else?"
Will was desperate. He felt like he was being cornered by a pack of wolves.
"Yeah," he blurted. "Yeah, okay. After the first one flopped, I hit up someone else."
The boys erupted.
"PLAYER!" Fabian shouted, laughing.
"Damn, Smitty! The San Jose ladies aren’t safe!" Eklund whooped.
Macklin leaned back, his eyes wide. "Okay, now you have to tell us who it is. What’s her deal? Is she cute? Are you seeing her again?"
Will could feel his soul leaving his body. He gave a weak laugh. "Nah, I don’t think it’s going anywhere. Just... spur of the moment."
"Cold," Fabian said. "Ice cold."
They were still teasing him when the coach called them out onto the ice, but Will barely heard it. His brain was a mess. All he could think about was how badly this entire situation was spiraling.
And he still had to find a way to tell Riley.
Three days later, he did. Or rather—Riley found out before he could confess.
He was sitting in his car after practice, sipping a smoothie and scrolling through his phone when a text popped up.
Lover💫💛: should i be worried about my competition? 👀😏
Will stared at the message, groaned out loud, and dropped his head against the steering wheel.
Another text came through.
Lover💫💛: i hear there’s a mystery second girl 😱
Lover💫💛: should i be flattered or insulted that i didn’t make the story? 😂
Will quickly tapped out a reply.
Will: okay in my defense i panicked
Will: they cornered me and marleau BROKE THE CODE
Lover💫💛: lol i thought you were flawless?
Will: 😒 betrayal from within
Lover💫💛: don’t worry. you’re safe... for now. but if you EVER try to “spur of the moment” another girl, i will personally tell my dad everything
Will winced. He knew she would, too.
Will: you’re evil
Lover💫💛: and you love it 😇
He leaned back in his seat, a grin tugging at his lips despite the embarrassment still bubbling under his skin. Somehow, even in chaos, she made everything better.
But seriously—he had to work on his lying game. Or better yet, find a way to make it so they didn’t have to lie at all.
Someday.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
To say the plan was airtight would be a stretch, but Will and Riley had been playing this game long enough to know the drill.
Step one: lie convincingly. Riley told her family she was spending the night at Grace’s. It wasn’t even a big stretch; she’d stayed there before, and Grace had already been prepped to cover.
Step two: clear the house. Her parents and siblings—Alya and River—were off at the new movie everyone had been hyping for weeks, complete with dinner reservations after. Macklin, who was usually the wildcard, had texted earlier to say he had a date and wouldn’t be back until late. That was a win.
Step three: park Will’s car three blocks over, behind a long hedge on a side street where no one would look twice.
And step four: finally, finally relax.
They were curled up on Riley’s bed in her room—second floor, blinds drawn, lights low, the TV casting soft glows across the walls. Riley’s head rested on Will’s chest, his arm around her shoulders, thumb gently brushing her upper arm. They were on season three of New Girl, and while Riley adored the show, she could hardly believe that Will had been the one to suggest it.
“You’re seriously obsessed,” she teased, glancing up at him during a commercial break.
Will gave her a look that was part sheepish, part proud. “It’s elite television. Schmidt is a cultural icon. I don’t make the rules.”
Riley snorted. “You said you’d never seen it before we started.”
“I lied. I watched, like, four seasons in secret freshman year. Don’t tell anyone.”
She laughed, burying her face in his sweatshirt. “Your secret’s safe with me, Smitty.”
But before Will could come back with a sarcastic quip, the sound of the front door clicking shut echoed faintly from downstairs.
They both froze.
Will’s hand paused mid-circle on her arm. Riley sat up slowly.
“Did you—?”
“I definitely—”
“Someone’s home.”
Will was already moving, bolting upright and scrambling off the bed like a man in a spy movie. Riley followed, peeking out the window just in time to hear footsteps in the hallway.
Then: “Hey Ry!”
Macklin’s voice.
Crap.
“Wanna watch a movie or something? I’m bored and my date didn’t go well. Just another clout chaser. Oh—by the way, did you see that car down the street? Looks exactly like Will’s. Kinda sus, right? Oh and speaking of Will, did you know he loves to watch New Girl? Have you seen it? Should we try it tonight??”
Will, in the corner, was flailing silently. His mouth was open in horror, arms gesturing wildly in a panicked charade that screamed make him go away.
Riley’s eyes were wild as she pointed at the door. Macklin’s footsteps were getting closer.
Will mouthed, “DO SOMETHING!”
Riley threw her hands up and made a split-second decision.
As the doorknob began to turn, she shrieked: “MACK NO! I’M CHANGING—NAKED! I’M, UHH, CHANGING SO I’M NAKED. GIMME A SEC!”
The footsteps stopped. A beat of silence.
“Okay, sheesh,” Macklin said, unbothered. “I’ll be in the guest house. Gonna set up the show.”
They heard him shuffle away.
Will collapsed onto the floor, face buried in the carpet. “I’m gonna die. This is how I die. Heart attack at nineteen. Cause of death: panic.”
“We need to get you out,” Riley whispered, already scanning the room.
“I parked three blocks away, Riley. We’re upstairs. This house has like thirty windows. It’s a fortress of doom.”
They started whisper-arguing, huddled by her bedroom door, trying to figure out the logistics of sneaking Will out without Macklin noticing. Every creaky floorboard felt like a landmine.
Step by painful step, they crept down the staircase, Riley leading the way, Will behind her trying not to breathe too loudly. The house was mostly dark, save for the soft glow of a hallway lamp near the front. The stairs creaked ominously with every shift of weight, and both of them paused more than once, holding their breath at the slightest sound.
Halfway down, Riley whispered over her shoulder, “You’re walking like you weigh five hundred pounds.”
“I’m literally trying not to die,” Will hissed back.
They made it to the bottom without detection, dodging into the hallway beside the front door. Will wiped his palms on his jeans, adrenaline rushing like he was sneaking out of some high-security vault instead of a suburban house. He reached for the door—
Then the flash of headlights spilled across the foyer.
Riley’s breath caught. “Oh no. My dad.”
“What?!”
“I thought they were going to dinner after the movie!”
Panic overtook reason. Riley shoved Will toward the front door with surprising force.
“What are you—” he started.
“Just GO!” she hissed.
The door flung open and she practically launched him out onto the front steps. The sound of a car door slammed from outside.
Riley shoved him out the front door and directly into the massive hedge beside the porch.
There was a rustle, a yelp, and a very clear, “Son of a—Riley!”
“Shh!” she hissed. “Hide better!”
The front doorknob turned again and she slammed it shut behind her, bolting to the back of the house like a cartoon character. She sprinted across the yard and slipped into the guest house just in time to hear the front door open.
Inside the bush, Will sat hunched, tangled in twigs and half-covered in leaves. His hoodie had a stick poking out of the hood. A spider crawled up his sleeve. His entire body was buzzing with nerves, but all he could do was sit still.
He watched the Thornton family walk past the front foyer, chatting casually. Joe, Alya, and River. The coast was almost clear—
Until he looked up.
In the second-story foyer window, two faces were pressed against the glass.
River.
And Tabea.
Riley’s mom. Very observant. Very amused.
Tabea smiled, wide and smug, then gave a small wave. Her hand rotated into a ‘shoo, shoo’ motion. River, bless his soul, looked confused but entertained.
Will mouthed please no and Tabea just winked.
Humiliated, Will gave a tight, sheepish wave, rubbed the back of his neck, and started jogging toward his car.
When he finally reached it, he dove in like a man escaping war. His phone buzzed in the console.
From Lover💫💛: sorry for the bush shove 😂
From Lover💫💛:: also u screamed. not very stealthy of u
From Lover💫💛: but also you’re welcome. i saved your life
From Tabea: caught! lol. don’t worry i won’t tell 🤭
From Macklin: bro i’m watching new girl rn with Ry
From Macklin: SCHMIDT IS ELITE
Will leaned his head back against the headrest and groaned.
This was getting out of hand.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Riley had known this moment was coming.
The morning after the bush incident, she tiptoed into the kitchen like someone sneaking into a crime scene. The house was quiet save for the hum of the coffee machine and the low murmur of the morning news on the TV. She’d barely made it three steps inside before she saw her mom—Tabea—at the kitchen island, coffee in hand, reading glasses perched on her nose, the picture of calm but with that trademark glint of knowing in her eyes.
"Morning," Tabea said, without looking up.
Riley hesitated. "...Morning."
She tried to sneak past her like she was still twelve and hiding bad report cards in her backpack, but the moment she reached for the fridge, her mom spoke again.
"So," Tabea began, voice too casual, eyes still on her tablet. "How’s Will?"
Riley froze mid-step, one hand on the fridge handle, a flush of heat rushing up her neck.
"W-What?"
Her mom looked up then, eyes warm and full of mischief. "You know, Will. Will Smith. Hockey star. Hidden in my hydrangeas last night like a raccoon. That Will."
Riley groaned, slumping against the fridge door. "Oh my god. You saw that?"
"I saw the top of his head rustling like a cartoon. And so did River, by the way. You’re lucky your dad’s terrible with peripheral vision."
Riley buried her face in her hands. "This is so bad. I was gonna tell you, I swear. I just didn’t know how."
Tabea chuckled and got up to pour another cup of coffee. She handed one to Riley, nudging her gently toward the bar stools. "Relax, kiddo. I’m not mad. Honestly, I’m mostly impressed."
Riley blinked. "You are?"
Her mom nodded, sitting across from her. "Will’s a good guy. Polite, driven, respectful. And I’ve seen the way he looks at you, the way you smile when you look at him. So... I approve."
Riley let out a long, relieved breath, slumping forward onto the counter. "I really thought you were going to ground me or something."
"Oh no, I’m saving the punishment for the part where you shoved him into a bush."
Riley winced. "Desperate times."
Tabea smirked. "You could’ve at least warned him first. I had to keep River from reenacting the whole thing with his ROBLOX this morning."
They both laughed. The tension that had been building in Riley’s chest for days melted a little, replaced by something warmer. The kind of warmth that came from knowing you weren’t alone in something complicated.
But then her mom leaned in, dropping her voice like she was revealing state secrets.
"Now, about your brother."
Riley groaned. "River saw too, didn’t he?"
"Saw and enjoyed the show. And you know that boy can’t keep a secret to save his life, especially around Macklin. He worships that kid. One casual conversation and we’re all doomed."
Riley covered her face again. "I’m so doomed."
"Not necessarily," Tabea said, sipping her coffee with all the calm of a woman who had already played this game and won. "You just need to bribe him."
"Bribe an eleven-year-old?"
"Bribe him well."
Riley stared at her mom for a beat. Then she sighed. "I’ll figure something out."
—
Cornering River took strategy. He was slippery and fast, always bouncing from one obsession to another—video games, hockey, Macklin Celebrini. She caught him one afternoon post-practice, lounging on the couch in his Sharks hoodie and eating cereal while watching old Macklin highlights on YouTube.
"Hey Riv," she said, sliding in next to him with a smile she hoped looked friendly and not desperate.
"Hi," he said through a mouthful of Cheerios, eyes never leaving the screen.
She eyed him. "So. About the other night."
He paused mid-spoon.
"What about it?"
"You saw something."
River blinked innocently. "I saw lots of things."
Riley narrowed her eyes. "Bush. Boy. You know what I’m talking about."
He grinned slowly, the picture of smugness. "You mean when you shoved Will Smith into Mom’s hydrangeas?"
She slapped a hand over his mouth and looked around wildly. "Lower your voice!"
He pulled her hand off with a look of offense. "Relax. It’s just me."
"Exactly. And you’re the liability. So I need you not to tell anyone. Especially Dad. Or Macklin. Especially Macklin."
River gave a dramatic sigh and leaned back like a mob boss considering a deal. "Fine. I won’t say anything."
Riley’s shoulders sagged in relief. "Thank—"
"Under one condition."
She froze. "What?"
"You have to drive me to hockey. And whenever I want to go out."
She gaped at him. "Go out? You’re eleven. Where would you even go?"
"Not my problem," he said cheerfully. "Also—I want snacks on the way. Real ones. Not apple slices."
"I don’t drive!"
River shrugged. "You have a boyfriend who does. Figure it out."
Which is how, two days later, Will found himself in the driver’s seat of his brand new Ford Bronco with Riley in the passenger seat and River in the back, smug as ever, acting like he was royalty with state secrets locked behind his mischievous grin.
“Thanks for this,” Riley mumbled as Will pulled out of the driveway.
Will gave her a long-suffering look. “I am being blackmailed by a middle schooler.”
“Technically, we are.”
River leaned forward. “Can we get slushies after?”
“No,” they both said in unison.
And from that day forward, anytime Riley tried to skip out on a River-dropoff, he’d just send her a knowing look—the kind of look that said I know things. And every time, she’d shut up and climb into the car without protest. It didn’t go unnoticed.
“Why does Riley always get so quiet around River?” Alya asked once.
“She’s probably scared of his Fortnite kill count,” Macklin joked.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
It was a random Tuesday when it all started to unravel again.
Riley had stopped by the Sharks facility to drop something off for her dad—just a spare charger and a sweatshirt. She was walking through the hall when Mario Ferraro caught sight of her.
“Hey, Riley,” he said. “Your dad’s not in his office, but he’s around. Oh—hey, isn’t that Smitty’s sweater?”
Riley froze. She looked down.
It was a black hoodie. Very oversized. Subtle logo near the wrist. The number 2 printed faintly on the sleeve.
Crap.
“Oh,” she stammered. “No. It’s Macklin’s.”
Mario raised an eyebrow. “Huh. Thought he was wearing his black one today.”
“I mean—he has multiple. I think. Anyway—I gotta go!”
She speed-walked out of the hallway like it was on fire. Mario watched her go, eyebrows furrowed.
“...But there’s a number 2 on the hood,” he said to himself.
From that moment, the veterans on the team started watching more closely.
First it was the way Will smiled every time his phone buzzed. Like, grinned—soft and sweet in a way most of them had never seen. Then it was how he always had a smoothie on game days—one that conveniently matched the one Riley had in her hand when she stopped by. Not from the café near the rink either. From a place across the city. That took coordination.
There were bracelets—subtle, barely visible, but clearly matching. Hers had a tiny silver "W." His had a tiny letter “R.”
Then there were the glances. Not subtle ones. Full-on longing, heart-eyes, across-the-room movie magic nonsense. Like they forgot other people had eyes.
By the time the Sharks’ annual charity gala rolled around, most of the older guys already had their suspicions.
Will arrived in a deep maroon suit that looked like it belonged on the red carpet. Sleek, sharp, clearly not chosen last minute. Five minutes later, Riley walked in wearing a maroon dress—long, form-fitting, elegant as hell, the kind of dress that made people stop talking mid-sentence.
They didn’t arrive together. Didn’t touch once all night. They mingled like professionals, always in separate circles, but never out of each other’s line of sight.
But the veterans didn’t miss the matching colors. Or the way Will’s eyes followed her every time she walked past. Or the way she accidentally let a hand brush his arm when she slipped behind him to greet someone. Or how his smile lingered just a beat too long.
No one said anything. Not yet.
But the vets shared a knowing look. The kind that said: we see you. And now, it was just a matter of time.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
For a guy with killer instincts on the ice, Macklin Celebrini was alarmingly oblivious off it.
Will and Riley’s relationship had been going on for months now—hidden in plain sight, wrapped up in a string of inside jokes, soft glances, and near-catastrophic slip-ups. And while the veterans were beginning to connect the dots and River had them under playful blackmail, Macklin remained… blissfully unaware.
And that wasn’t for lack of opportunity.
It started on a quiet Thursday. The team had a rare off day, and Macklin, ever the extrovert, found himself bored and wandering. He decided to swing by the Marleau house, figuring Will would be around to kill time with him. Patrick opened the front door with a warm smile, still in his Sharks hoodie and holding a cup of coffee.
“Hey, kid. You looking for Will?”
Macklin nodded. “Yeah, just bored. Thought I’d come hang out. He around?”
Patrick shook his head, casual as ever. “Nah, he didn’t tell you? He’s out. Said he was going to see that new Marvel movie—something about Captain America or whatever. Seemed pumped.”
“Oh,” Macklin said, brows lifting. “Nice. I asked Riley if she wanted to do something earlier too, but she said she already had plans to go see that same movie.”
Patrick blinked, then shrugged. “Must be popular.”
“Guess so,” Macklin said, scratching the back of his neck. “Weird coincidence.”
And that was it. That was all he thought of it. Not that Will and Riley were together. Not that they were probably sitting side-by-side in the back row sharing popcorn and whispering their favorite lines. No, to Macklin, it was just a fluke in timing and taste.
Then there was the ring incident.
A week later, the two of them had carpooled to the arena for morning skate. Will was driving, music playing low, windows cracked to let in the cool air. Macklin had tossed his gear in the back and hopped in without a second thought.
They were halfway through traffic when Macklin reached down to adjust his seat and noticed something glinting in the cup holder.
“What’s this?” he asked, holding up a small gold ring with a delicate pearl in the center.
Will swerved slightly.
“Whoa,” Macklin laughed. “Dude, relax. Is this Riley’s?”
Will’s mouth opened and shut. Then opened again. “Uh—yeah. Kind of. She, uh, she dropped it at a team thing. I think. I told her I’d get it back to her, but I keep forgetting.”
Macklin frowned, rolling the ring between his fingers. “We haven’t had a team thing in, like, two weeks.”
Will nodded far too quickly. “Yeah, no—I mean, it was more of a small one. Not everyone was invited. Kinda like a mini-meeting. Media stuff. You know how it is.”
Macklin looked confused but shrugged. “Weird. She wears this thing everywhere.”
Will let out a nervous laugh. “She’ll get it back. Promise.”
Macklin didn’t question it again. Just handed the ring back and cranked up the volume on the music like the whole conversation never happened. Will spent the rest of the drive silently cursing every decision that led to this moment.
But the worst—the absolute worst—slip-up happened two weeks after that.
It was a chill Friday night, and Eklund, Zetterlund, and Macklin were out grabbing food at a little bar-restaurant combo downtown. Will had been invited, obviously, but he’d sent a last-minute text: Rain check. Something came up.
Typical.
They were just settling into their booth when they caught sight of a figure bolting past the restaurant’s wide glass windows—a blur of motion, tall and fast and laughing under his breath.
“Was that—” Eklund leaned forward.
“Will?” Zetterlund finished.
The figure paused just long enough at the edge of the frame, hoodie half-zipped, signature gait unmistakable. And beside him, a girl with long, bright blonde hair, wrapped in a long coat and moving just as quickly.
Macklin squinted. “Looks like him. Maybe. But I don’t think so.”
Zetterlund and Eklund shared a look.
“Could’ve sworn that was his hoodie,” Eky said.
Fabes nodded. “And isn’t that Riley’s hair color?”
“She said she was busy tonight with Grace,” Macklin added helpfully, sipping his Sprite. “Probably wasn’t her.”
The other two just looked at each other.
“Yeah,” Zetterlund said slowly. “Probably not.”
The next morning, Riley showed up at the practice facility. Hair in a loose braid, sweatshirt tied around her waist, sipping from the exact smoothie shop she and Will had made their thing. She stopped by her dad’s office like usual, waved at the media crew, and paused to say hi to the players.
Eklund and Zetterlund were in the locker room when she passed.
Zetterlund turned to Eklund. “That was her.”
“Definitely.”
“She was with Will.”
“Yup.”
“Think Macklin’s figured it out yet?”
Eklund looked over at Macklin, who was humming a random tune while trying to juggle two tape rolls and a stick.
“Not even close.”
They shared a long, amused silence.
“Should we tell him?” Fabes asked.
Eky shook his head. “Nah. Let him figure it out.”
And so the chaos continued. Riley and Will, dancing the thin line between secrecy and exposure. Macklin, somehow always inches away from the truth, but never quite stepping over the line.
If anything, it had become a game.
A very stressful, heart-palpitating, constantly-about-to-get-caught game.
But it was kind of fun. Kind of thrilling. And at the very least—it gave Will and Riley stories they’d laugh about later. Assuming Macklin never figured it out first.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Will really thought he was slick.
It was a quiet Sunday afternoon when he pulled up to the Thornton house. He double-checked the text Macklin had sent earlier—something about being with family out of town for the weekend. Perfect. No risk of Macklin chaos. The plan? Play it casual. Say he dropped by to hang out. Kill time in the basement with Riley like they always did when Mack was around. Same story, different day.
He parked across the street like he usually did, tucked a little too close to the neighbor’s curb. It had become a routine by now: park out of view, sneak in, spend the afternoon curled up with Riley watching some Netflix series they’d sworn they wouldn’t binge without the other.
He knocked once before letting himself in, greeted only by the faint sounds of a hockey game playing in the living room. Joe was there, lounging on the couch in sweats, phone in one hand, remote in the other.
Will stepped inside, trying to keep his voice even. “Hey, Joe. Just came to see if Mack was around. Thought we’d hang out.”
Joe didn’t even look up. “Mack’s out of town. With his mom for the weekend.”
“Oh. Right. Uh—yeah, sh-shoot. Maybe I’ll just hang out with Riley for a bit. Maybe go watch that new movie in the basement.”
Joe nodded once, barely reacting. “Sure.”
Will turned toward the stairs, internally patting himself on the back for a smooth entry—when Joe’s voice rang out again.
“Oh, by the way,” he said, still staring at his phone, “I got a text from the neighbor. Said if you’re gonna park across from his house every night to drop Riley off, maybe don’t keep driving over his curb.”
Will froze mid-step.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “I—uh—”
“I mean,” Joe continued casually, “I don’t know why you keep parking there, kiddo. We have a driveway. Pretty sure it would save you the trouble of Ry having to walk down the street late at night.”
Will blinked. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. It was like his brain had short-circuited and all he could do was stand there, staring at Joe with full-on deer-in-headlights panic.
Still, Joe didn’t look up.
“Oh, and,” he added, almost offhandedly, “Tabea says you’re helping her fix the dent you left in the front bush.”
Will’s heart fell into his stomach, ice flooding his veins like he’d just missed an empty-net shot in overtime. He stared at Joe, frozen, every nerve in his body screaming. “You… you know?”
Joe finally glanced up. His smirk was infuriatingly calm. “Will. You and Riley are the worst liars I’ve ever met.”
Will gaped. “But—we’ve been so careful.”
Joe snorted. “Careful? You sneak in like it’s Mission Impossible, leave hoodies in our daughter's room, park in the same exact spot every night, and whisper to each other like the walls aren’t made of drywall.”
Will sank onto the nearest armchair, rubbing his face. “Oh my god.”
Joe chuckled, setting his phone down. “Look, I’m not mad. You’re a good kid. I’ve seen the way you treat her. You two think you’re fooling the world, but you’ve been fooling exactly one person. And that’s Macklin. Which, I mean—God love the kid, but let’s be honest…”
Will groaned. “I feel like such an idiot.”
“You’re just young,” Joe said, leaning back. “But not an idiot. You’ve been respectful, you’ve been kind, and as far as I can tell, you make her happy. That’s what matters.”
Will looked up, still shell-shocked. “So… you’re okay with it?”
Joe shrugged. “You’re not sneaking around anymore. That’s the only thing I care about. If you’re gonna be around this house, we do it the right way. None of this back-door, bush-diving, parking-sneaky nonsense.”
Just then, Riley came down the stairs with a bounce in her step, clearly unaware of the conversation she was walking into.
“Hey, Dad. Hey, Will. Ready to—” She stopped when she saw the expression on Will’s face. “What happened?”
Joe stood up, stretching his arms. “Ry, why don’t you help your mom set the table? Your boyfriend will be joining us for a proper dinner where we talk about the new rules in the house with you two.”
Riley’s face drained of color. “You what?”
Joe was already heading toward the kitchen. “Come on, Ry. Chop chop.”
She turned to Will, wide-eyed. “What did you do?”
He held up his hands. “I didn’t do anything. He knew. He knew all along.”
They stared at each other in stunned silence, the weight of Joe’s words still settling like bricks on their shoulders. Will looked like he’d been hit by a puck to the chest, and Riley’s jaw was practically on the floor. Then, from the kitchen, Joe’s voice floated back in—bright, amused, and far too cheerful for the emotional damage he’d just caused.
“And Will, no more parking like a lunatic, alright? The neighbor’s this close to leaving a note.”
From the kitchen came the clatter of plates and a soft burst of laughter. Tabea’s voice rang out: “You owe me a new hydrangea bush, Smith!”
Will slumped deeper into the couch. “They’re enjoying this way too much.”
Riley nodded slowly. “So much for thinking we were subtle.”
And as they shuffled toward the kitchen for what was now officially the most awkward dinner of their lives, they were met with two smug parents and the smell of garlic bread.
“You know,” Tabea said as she handed Riley a stack of plates, “we were going to let it slide a little longer. But you two just made it too entertaining.”
Joe raised his glass with a smirk. "To the world’s worst secret relationship. Honestly, we didn’t even need to see you look at each other anytime Will was around." He chuckled, setting his drink down. "Patty actually tipped us off a while ago. Said he kept noticing Will coming in late—like really late—and every time, it lined up with when Riley was gone with "Grace". Then there was Ry moping around the house during road trips, then suddenly perking up the second you were home again. Tabea and I figured it out way back and decided to just sit back and enjoy the show. Honestly? It’s been hilarious."
Will groaned into his hands.
Riley looked like she wanted to crawl under the table.
And yet—somewhere between the teasing, the garlic bread, and the new house rules (which included, notably, no more hiding in bushes), it didn’t feel all that terrible.
It felt… kind of nice.
Because now, they weren’t sneaking. They weren’t hiding.
They were just Will and Riley.
And finally, everyone knew. Well—except for Macklin. But that was a problem for another day.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
It was a sunny, chill kind of afternoon—exactly the type that screamed off-day energy. The Marleaus were hosting one of their classic post-road-trip lunches. Nothing fancy. Just family, a grill on the deck, a few dogs sprinting through the backyard, and a healthy dose of hockey players lounging on patio chairs like exhausted golden retrievers.
The Thorntons were there too, all four of them. Joe had brought wine, Tabea brought a massive pasta salad, and Riley… well, Riley brought Will. Though technically, Will had come from upstairs—he was still living with the Marleaus as part of his billet arrangement, which made this whole inter-family hangout even more chaotic in retrospect. Because after Joe’s legendary reveal, the sneaking had officially ended. Everyone knew they were together. And since then, the couple had settled into a casual comfort that radiated through every room they walked into.
Everyone knew.
Well.
Almost everyone.
Because somehow—somehow—Macklin Celebrini still hadn’t figured it out.
They weren’t even trying to hide it anymore. Riley and Will were curled up together on the Marleaus’ living room couch, his arm slung over her shoulder, her feet tucked beneath her. They were talking to Auston Matthews and Mitch Marner, who had dropped by while the Leafs were in town to visit the veterans and their families.
Auston greeted the Thorntons warmly, hugging Riley like she was a younger cousin. Mitch followed suit, ruffling River’s hair and grinning.
“So, Jumbo,” Mitch said as he plopped down across from Joe, already grinning, “I gotta know. How were you so chill when you found out Smitty was dating Riley behind your back?”
There was a pause.
A brief, flickering silence.
And then Macklin, who had been mid-bite of his sandwich, laughed.
“What?” he snorted. “What do you mean? Will and Ri—”
He stopped.
The laughter died in his throat.
He looked around the room.
At Will, who had the decency to freeze mid-sip of his drink.
At Riley, who looked down at her lap, trying to suppress a smile.
At the rest of the room, which was suspiciously quiet.
Macklin’s eyes darted from face to face.
Joe.
Tabea.
Patrick.
Auston.
Mitch.
Everyone was looking at him with the exact same expression: mild amusement and a you just now figured this out? glint in their eyes.
He turned slowly, finally letting his gaze fall on Riley and Will.
Riley had leaned into Will’s side, her hand resting on his knee. They weren’t even trying to be subtle.
“What…” Macklin started slowly. “WHAT?!”
His voice cracked with genuine disbelief. “No. No. You’re kidding. This is a bit, right? This is one of those inside joke things I’m just not in on. Will and Riley?”
Will gave him a small wave.
“Hi.”
Riley smiled apologetically. “Hey, Mack.”
“No. No way. I live with you, Riley. And Will, you’re my best friend. There’s no way you could’ve been together this whole time without me noticing. I would have known! I’ve walked into the kitchen and seen you two sitting on the same side of the table—I just thought you were bad at spacing! You guys always claimed you were just watching TV and, like, sharing smoothies. But we all share smoothies! Or at least—I thought we did! Was I the third wheel in my own house?!”
Auston choked on his drink.
Mitch doubled over laughing.
“Dude,” Patty wheezed from the other side of the room. “Come on.”
“You mean to tell me,” Macklin said, pointing between them, “that this has been happening under my nose for MONTHS?! And all those girls Will was supposedly going on dates with? The ones he said never worked out because they were ‘too loud’ or ‘didn’t vibe’? THAT WASN’T REAL? And the contact in your phone labeled ‘Lover’ that we all joked about??”
Will coughed. “Yeah… that’s always been Riley.”
Macklin looked like he was short-circuiting. “I made fun of you for weeks about that contact name and you didn’t say anything??”
Will shrugged helplessly. “I thought you were kidding. And technically, you weren’t wrong.”
Joe leaned over, clapping Macklin on the back. “It’s okay, kiddo. I told Will I approved as long as he promised to stop hiding in our bush.”
Macklin’s jaw dropped. “The bush?? You mean—that bush?”
Tabea nodded sagely. “It was a tragic loss. Hydrangeas never recovered.”
“I—HOW DID I MISS THIS?” Macklin yelled, standing now, arms flailing as he began pacing the room. “You were literally in our house all the time. I thought you just liked dinner a lot! I thought you liked hanging out with me a lot!”
Riley was giggling now, hiding behind Will’s shoulder.
Will was bright red.
Joe was openly enjoying this far too much.
“And the smoothies! The matching bracelets! The way Will would blow us off during off days!”
“Honestly, I thought you had figured it out like, ten different times,” Fabes said from the armchair.
“Same,” Eky added. “But then you just… didn’t.”
“I’m so dumb.” Macklin groaned, dropping back onto the couch and putting his head in his hands. “I can’t believe this. You were RIGHT THERE. ALL THE TIME.”
Tabea passed him a lemonade. “You’re not dumb, Mack. Just… sweetly oblivious.”
Will leaned forward. “You okay, buddy?”
Macklin peeked through his fingers. “No. I need a second to grieve the trust I thought we had.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Riley said, still laughing.
“I’m allowed! I feel betrayed! You guys made me sit through so many awkward movie nights and I thought it was just the vibes being weird. You were probably playing footsie under the blanket!”
They absolutely were.
Joe raised his drink. “To Macklin. The last to know. But still very much loved.”
Everyone clinked their glasses, grinning.
And Macklin, despite himself, smiled too.
“Okay,” he said finally. “But like… just tell me next time, okay? I can keep a secret. I swear.”
12k | w.eklund x fem!oc | w.smith & m.celebrini x oc platonic
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Summary: the sharks have a new social media intern and immediately the two young rookies stake their claim on her as their "adopted older sister". the three were always attached at the hip. when william eklund meets the new girl, hes immediately smitten by her. the only issue? he's too shy to do anything about it.
masterlist | series masterlist
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
If June Johnson had any illusions about starting a calm, professional internship with the San Jose Sharks, they were completely shattered the moment she stepped into the dressing room. She wasn't new to social media—she had spent years running accounts for small businesses, university sports teams, and even a short stint with a junior hockey club. But this? This was different.
This was the NHL.
And the NHL, apparently, came with an unspoken initiation involving two overly energetic rookies and a locker room full of chaos. She had barely set foot inside before she was noticed.
"Wait, you're new." Macklin Celebrini, the Sharks' golden boy, stood in front of her with a curious expression, his practice jersey half on, his skates still untied. Before she could respond, another voice piped up.
"Yeah, dude, she literally just walked in," said Will Smith, his grin wide, blonde hair slightly damp from morning skate. June barely had time to introduce herself before Will and Macklin had already formed a huddle, whispering loudly enough for the entire room to hear.
"Alright, what's the bet?" Will muttered dramatically. "How long do we think before she quits?"
"Oh my god." June rolled her eyes. "I'm literally standing right here." Macklin hummed, rubbing his chin as if he were deep in thought. "I give her three weeks."
"Three weeks?" Will scoffed. "Nah, she looks tough. I say she lasts a month." June crossed her arms. "You guys do realize I control the social media accounts, right? I can absolutely mute you both from existence."
Macklin's eyes widened. "You wouldn't." Will gasped. "That's... I didn't think of that." June smirked. "Try me."
For a moment, there was silence. Then, as if she had passed some unspoken test, Macklin and Will immediately abandoned their "bet" and turned their attention to grilling her instead. "Alright, but for real," Macklin leaned against his stall, arms crossed. "You actually want to work here?"
June shot him a look. "Yes? Why, should I be concerned?" Will grinned. "Let's just say... we're a little much." June snorted. "Oh, I've noticed." That was when Mario Ferraro, one of the veteran defensemen, wandered over with a laugh. "You'll get used to them."
"Will I?" Mario patted her shoulder. "Probably not."
Despite Macklin and Will's warnings, June quickly settled into her role. Her first few days were a whirlwind of learning the ropes, familiarizing herself with the Sharks' social media strategy, and—most importantly—figuring out how to handle the absolute disaster that was the team's young core. It didn't take long for Macklin and Will to adopt her as one of their own. At some point, she had unknowingly become their unofficial babysitter. They followed her around like lost puppies, insisted on helping her gather content, and were constantly dragging her into their antics. By day three, she had already been roped into filming a TikTok where the two of them attempted a viral dance trend.
Spoiler: it did not go well.
"I swear, we had it perfect before you hit record," Will complained, shaking out his hands as Macklin groaned beside him. June snorted. "Sure you did." Macklin narrowed his eyes at her. "Are you going to be this sassy all season?"
"Oh, absolutely." Will grinned. "I like her."
But June quickly realized that handling these two was only part of the challenge—because the rest of the team wasn't any better. She had planned to ease into things, maybe take a few weeks before jumping headfirst into recording the "random question of the day" segment.
Yeah. That plan lasted all of five minutes.
The second Logan Couture spotted her with the team's media camera, he nudged Tomas Hertl. "Bet she asks something ridiculous." Tomas, grinning, turned to her. "First question, let's go."
June hesitated, flipping through her mental list of backup prompts before blurting out, "Would you rather fight one horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses?" The room erupted.
"Oh, that's a good one."
"Wait, do we get weapons?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"Absolutely taking the duck-sized horses."
"Are you crazy? The horse-sized duck would kill you."
June blinked as chaos ensued. "...So I take it this is a success?" Mario nodded solemnly. "You're going to fit in just fine."
By the end of her first week, June had established herself as more than just the new intern—she was officially part of the team's day-to-day chaos. She had already lost count of how many times Macklin and Will had dragged her into some ridiculous argument (the most recent one being about whether or not cereal counted as soup). She had also learned that Henry Thrun would agree to any TikTok challenge if you dared him, and that Noah Gregor was terrifyingly good at coming up with completely random, borderline unhinged facts about obscure animals.
Most importantly, she learned that despite their antics, these guys weren't just a team—they were a family. And as much as she had expected to feel like an outsider, June realized something as she sat in the locker room, laughing at yet another one of Will's dumb ideas: She was already part of it.
⸻By the time June's second week rolled around, she had fully accepted her fate. She wasn't just the Sharks' new social media intern. She was now the official (unofficial) babysitter of two NHL rookies who had way too much energy and way too little supervision. Her schedule? Completely dictated by Macklin and Will. Her daily tasks? Constantly interrupted by their antics. Her peace and sanity? Gone.
And the worst part? She didn't even mind.
June had just walked into the practice facility when she heard it. "Junie! HELP!"
She barely had time to process before Macklin came barreling toward her. She dodged out of the way just in time to see Will chasing after him, waving what looked like—was that a half-eaten protein bar?
"You're a menace to society!" Will shouted. "How do you not like peanut butter?!"
"It's disgusting!" Macklin yelled back, jumping behind June for cover. June, half-awake, pinched the bridge of her nose. "It's literally eight in the morning."
"He called peanut butter MID!" Will exclaimed, shoving the evidence (a protein bar wrapper) in her face. "This is a CRIME, June. A CRIME." Macklin peeked out from behind her. "Are you seriously telling me peanut butter is top-tier? Grow up."
"GROW UP?!" And just like that, they were arguing again. June sighed, stepping around them to grab her morning coffee from the media lounge. "I'm too tired for this." She had barely taken her first sip when Logan Couture walked by, shaking his head. "Still want the job?"
June took a long, dramatic sip of her coffee before deadpanning, "I've made my peace with it." Logan smirked. "Good answer."
The thing about Macklin and Will was that they had absolutely no chill. If June thought they had been bad the first week, she completely underestimated just how much worse it could get. They followed her everywhere. They never let her work in peace. They somehow managed to turn every single day into some kind of ridiculous event.
Exhibit A: June had been setting up a behind-the-scenes TikTok, casually filming players walking into practice, when Macklin and Will sprinted into the frame—dramatically sliding in on their socks like they were action movie stars. She barely had time to react before they started posing. "Mack, hit 'em with the Zoolander." Macklin turned to the camera and gave his best Blue Steel impression.
"Oh my god," June muttered. "We're naturals," Will declared, tossing an arm over Macklin's shoulder. "Should we be influencers?" June deadpanned. "Absolutely not."
"Okay, rude."
Exhibit B: June was setting up a mic for a player interview when she felt something land on her head. She immediately knew who was responsible. "Will," she said slowly, reaching up to remove the hockey tape ball that had just been thrown at her. Will, sitting across the room, looked way too innocent. "What?" he said, blinking at her. "That could've been anyone."
June narrowed her eyes. "Really?"
"Really." From beside him, Macklin was struggling not to laugh. "You're lucky I like my job," June muttered, tossing the paper back at him. Will caught it easily, grinning. "You love us." June rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. "Debatable."
It took approximately zero days for the rest of the team to notice just how much time Macklin and Will spent following June around. "They have imprinted on her," Henry Thrun declared during a team meeting. Mario Ferraro nodded solemnly. "She's like their pack leader now."
"I give it a week before she starts bringing them snacks like a hockey mom," Tyler Toffoli joked. The worst part was that June heard all of this.
"You guys are talking like I'm not right here," she pointed out, arms crossed. "Oh, we know," Logan said, smirking. "We just think it's funny." June rolled her eyes. "They're not that bad." That was when Macklin and Will—who had been wrestling over a Gatorade bottle like literal children—accidentally knocked over an entire stack of towels. Everyone turned to her.
June sighed. "Okay, fine, they're a little bad."
By the time practice ended, June was exhausted. Not from the work—no, she could handle that. She was exhausted from babysitting two grown hockey players. As she sat in the lounge, sipping on what had to be her third coffee of the day, she suddenly felt two shadows looming over her.
"Junie." She sighed. "What do you want now?"
Macklin plopped down beside her, grinning. "Just saying hi." Will flopped into the chair on her other side. "We missed you." June gave them a look. "I literally saw you guys an hour ago." Will shrugged. "Yeah, but still." June groaned, dramatically dropping her head onto the table. "I give up." Macklin patted her shoulder. "It's okay. We love you too."
And that's when it hit her. Somehow, without even trying, she had become one of them.
⸻June Johnson was used to chaos by now. She had accepted that working for the San Jose Sharks meant zero peace and infinite amounts of babysitting two overgrown children (Macklin and Will) on a daily basis. But what she hadn't accounted for?
William Eklund.
She had heard his name before—obviously. He was one of the team's top young players, constantly hyped up by the media, and apparently the "responsible" one out of all the rookies. That was a lie. Because when she finally met him? He was the opposite of put-together. In fact, he completely malfunctioned.
June was minding her own business, setting up a camera for a post-practice TikTok, when she felt it. The weirdest, most intense stare from across the room. At first, she ignored it, assuming it was just one of the guys zoning out. But then she heard a very distinct choking noise. She turned—only to find William Eklund standing a few feet away, frozen, wide-eyed, and looking like he had just forgotten how to breathe.
"...Uh," June blinked. "Are you okay?"
William made a sound that was definitely not human. Then, instead of speaking like a normal person, he just kept staring. Like, full-on deer-in-the-headlights staring. It was so bad that even Macklin noticed.
"Yo, Eky," Macklin called, waving a hand in front of his face. "Earth to Eky?"
William didn't respond. He just continued looking at June like she was a mythical creature. Macklin and Will exchanged glances. Then Will, ever the troublemaker, grinned.
"Oh my god," he whispered. "He's starstruck." Macklin's eyes widened. "No way."
June, completely lost, looked between them. "What?" Will beamed. "Oh, this is amazing." At that moment, William finally snapped out of his trance—only to immediately panic.
"Vad i helvete," he blurted out. June frowned. "What?" William visibly cringed. Then, because his brain was apparently not functioning, he started nervously rambling.
"Uh—I—hi," he stuttered. "You're—you're—um."
"Oh my god," Will whispered. "He's broken." Macklin gasped. "Did we just witness love at first sight?"
William immediately turned bright red. "Nej! Sluta!" June tilted her head. "I don't speak Swedish, but that sounded defensive." That only made him more flustered.
Macklin doubled over laughing. "He's panicking! He's literally panicking!" William looked so done. June, still completely out of the loop, crossed her arms. "Okay, can someone explain what's happening?" Will grinned. "Oh, nothing."
"Except that Eky," Macklin added, "is down bad." June raised an eyebrow. "Down bad?"
William groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Jag hatar det här." The second William left the room, Macklin and Will lost their minds.
"This is the best day of my life," Will announced. "I have never seen Eky lose his cool like that."
June, still confused, took a sip of her coffee. "So what you're telling me is..." She pointed toward the door William had just fled through. "That guy just had a meltdown because of me?"
"Oh, absolutely."
"A hundred percent."
June frowned. "But why?" Will grinned. "Because he's so in love with you." June choked on her coffee. "EXCUSE ME?"
Macklin nodded seriously. "It's true." Will gestured toward the hallway. "I mean, did you see that? You literally broke him Junie."
"That was not normal behavior," Macklin agreed. "Oh," Macklin said, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "This is gonna be fun."
⸻William was dying.
He had locked himself in the players' lounge, pacing back and forth like a man on the verge of a crisis. Which, to be fair, he was. He had completely embarrassed himself. He had made a fool of himself in front of June. He was never going to live this down. And the worst part? He still hadn't said an actual sentence to her. Instead, he had just... malfunctioned. Because apparently, his brain stopped working whenever June was around. This was a disaster. A complete, total disaster. And William had no idea how he was going to survive the rest of the season.
⸻June Johnson wasn't the type to take things personally. She had thick skin, a sharp sense of humour, and enough patience to deal with Macklin and Will on a daily basis. But even she had her limits. And right now? She was absolutely convinced that William Eklund hated her. It started immediately after their first meeting. At first, she chalked it up to coincidence. Maybe he was just busy. Maybe he had a lot on his mind.
But by the third day? She noticed. Because every time she set up her camera for a TikTok, William suddenly disappeared. And it wasn't subtle. It was full-on, "I see June and immediately turn and walk in the opposite direction" avoidance.
Like today. She had just finished setting up her phone for a new round of "Question of the Day" when she spotted William across the room. She raised a hand to wave. His eyes went wide. And then? He turned and booked it. Like, actual Olympic-level sprinting.
June blinked. "...Did he just run away from me?" Will, standing beside her, cackled. "Oh yeah," he said, grinning. "He totally did." June frowned. "Okay, what is his deal?" Macklin, sitting nearby, hummed in amusement. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," June gestured vaguely toward the door William had just escaped through, "he keeps avoiding me." Will snorted. "Yeah. And?"
"And—!" June huffed. "What did I do?" Macklin and Will exchanged glances. Then they grinned. "Oh," Macklin said innocently. "I'm sure it's nothing."
It wasn't just the dodging. No, because apparently whenever William couldn't escape in time, he had another reaction. He turned bright red. It happened constantly.
The first time, June had genuinely thought he was overheating. She had run into him near the locker room, and the second they made eye contact, his entire face flushed. She had even been concerned for a second.
"Are you okay?" she had asked.
William, visibly struggling, had muttered something under his breath and immediately turned on his heel and left. At first, June didn't think much of it. But then it happened again.
And again.
And AGAIN.
Any time their eyes met? Boom. Red. And yet, somehow, she was the only one confused about it. Macklin and Will? They were having the time of their lives.
"Oh my god, this is so funny," Will had whispered after William once again fled the scene. Macklin nodded. "He's actually suffering."
June, arms crossed, frowned. "Do you guys know something I don't?" Will just smirked. "Maybe." June narrowed her eyes. "I don't trust you." Will patted her shoulder. "That's fair."
By the time a full week had passed, June was convinced she had done something wrong. Because who avoids someone this hard if they don't hate them? She finally snapped during morning skate. She had been setting up her camera when William walked into the room—only to immediately turn around and leave.
June had had enough.
"Okay," she said, turning to Macklin and Will. "Be honest. Does he hate me?" Macklin choked on his water. "What?" Will, looking way too entertained, laughed. "Oh, June." June crossed her arms. "No, seriously. Did I do something?"
Macklin wiped his mouth, still grinning. "You really think Eky hates you?"
"Yes?" June threw up her hands. "He literally refuses to be in the same room as me!" Will, barely containing his laughter, shook his head. "Oh, Junie. You're so, so wrong." June frowned. "Then what is it?" Macklin grinned. "Oh, he doesn't hate you," he said. "Not at all." Will smirked. "If anything, it's the opposite." June blinked. "What?"
Macklin leaned back in his seat, looking way too smug. "June," he said slowly, like he was explaining something obvious. "The guy has a huge crush on you."
June froze.
She stared at them. "What? Absolutely not. You're lying." Will nodded. "Oh yeah." Macklin shrugged. "It's actually kind of pathetic."
"...Wait." She shook her head. "You're telling me that he's been avoiding me because he likes me?" Will beamed. "Exactly." June frowned. "That makes no sense." Macklin snorted. "No, it makes perfect sense."
Will nudged her. "Think about it. He literally panicked when he first met you." Macklin nodded. "And he turns bright red whenever you look at him." Will wiggled his eyebrows. "He's smitten."
June, suddenly replaying every single interaction she had with William, felt her stomach drop. No. That can't be it. This is just Mack and Will pulling on her leg. Shoving Macklin and Will away, she walked away, mumbling about how they're a bunch of idiots that don't know what they're talking about.
⸻William Eklund had one goal today. Survive.
Media day was supposed to be easy. It was literally just a few hours of posing for headshots, recording promo videos, and answering basic questions for the Sharks' social team. Simple. Routine. No stress. Except for one problem.
June was there. And not just there. She was practically running the entire thing. Which meant William was now trapped in a room with her for hours, forced to interact, unable to escape like he usually did. He was so screwed.
The media room was buzzing with activity. Bright studio lights were set up along the far wall, cameras positioned at different angles, with a backdrop featuring the Sharks logo. A handful of team staff were already filtering through, prepping the players for their photos and coordinating the shoot schedule.
And in the center of it all?
June.
She was checking over the camera setup, giving quick instructions to the photographer, her clipboard tucked under one arm. Completely in her element. William watched from a safe distance, praying she wouldn't notice him. He had almost convinced himself that he could get through this without incident—until he made the mistake of glancing toward the schedule board.
PLAYER ORDER:
1. Logan Couture
2. Henry Thrun
3. Mario Ferraro
4. William Eklund
William Eklund.
FOURTH? NO TIME TO PREPARE. His stomach dropped. "William!"
His head snapped up just in time to see June waving him over. Oh.
Oh no.
She was smiling at him. Why was she smiling at him? Why did she have to be so effortlessly cool and put-together and—
"Come on," June said, gesturing toward the backdrop. "You're up next."
William's feet refused to move. He was frozen—fully paralyzed—as his brain scrambled for an escape plan that didn't exist. June tilted her head, confused. "You good?" He nodded way too fast.
"Y-yeah! Yes! Of course! I am—good. Very good." Oh my god. What was that? What kind of response was that? He sounded like a robot. June blinked, her brow furrowing slightly. "Okay... cool. Just step into the frame, and we'll get started."
William swallowed hard. This was a nightmare. He forced himself forward, his legs moving stiffly as he positioned himself in front of the camera. "Alright," June said, adjusting the lighting. "Just look straight ahead."
William tried. He really did. But the problem? June was standing right next to the camera. Which meant that every time he looked forward, he was also looking directly at her. And holy shit. That was not helping.
He could feel it happening. The dreaded blush. It started creeping up his neck, warming his face, and no matter how hard he tried to fight it, it just kept getting worse.
He was going to die.
Meanwhile, June—completely unaware of his suffering—was focused on her job. "Alright, now turn a little to your left," she instructed. William nodded too fast again. "Okay. Yes. Left. I can do that."
Stop talking. Stop talking. Stop talking.
He adjusted his pose, feeling like an actual idiot. "Perfect," June said, tapping something on the screen. "Now just relax your shoulders a bit."
Relax? Relax?!
How was he supposed to relax when she was literally standing right there, looking at him, analyzing him, judging his every movement— "Eklund," June interrupted, giving him a look. "Breathe."
Oh.
Right.
Breathing.
That was a thing he should probably do.
He forced himself to inhale, feeling like a malfunctioning robot. After what felt like years, the photographer finally finished. William was seconds away from sprinting out of the room when June held up a hand. "Wait," she said. "One more thing."
He froze. "What?" She handed him a mic. "You need to record a quick intro for the season promo."
...Oh no.
Oh no.
Talking? In front of June?! This was worse. This was so much worse. But he had no choice. So he took the mic, cleared his throat, and—
"Hi. I mean—hello. I'm William Eklund. And you're watching—" He stuttered. "No. Wait. That's Disney Channel. That's not right."
OH MY GOD.
A beat of silence.
Then—
June snorted. Like, actually snorted.
"Dude," she said, trying (and failing) to hold back laughter. "Are you okay?"
William felt himself combusting. "I—uh—I don't know?"
And then, because his embarrassment reached an all-time high, he did the worst thing possible. He cursed in Swedish.
Loudly.
June immediately caught it. "That was Swedish," she said, grinning. "What did you just say?"
William's soul left his body. "Nothing!" he blurted. "It was nothing! I—uh—I should go." And before she could stop him, he turned and speed-walked out of the room. The second he escaped, he slumped against the nearest wall, running a hand through his hair.
That was a disaster.
An absolute disaster.
He could not handle this girl.
Not her smile. Not her teasing. Not the way she effortlessly made him look like an idiot. He was so doomed.
And the worst part? He still had to see her every single day. There was no way he was making it through the season in one piece.
⸻ June Johnson had watched NHL games before. She had grown up watching them on TV, sometimes in the stands, cheering alongside packed crowds. But standing on the ice, just feet away from the players, camera in hand, feeling the energy of the arena before puck drop?
This was different.
This was insane.
And, for the first time since starting this job, she fully grasped the magnitude of what she had walked into.
The arena was electric. The SAP was packed, fans decked out in teal and black, waving rally towels as the pre-game light show illuminated the ice. The music boomed through the speakers, matching the pulse of the anticipation hanging in the air. From ice level, it felt ten times louder.
June had her phone in one hand, her camera in the other, capturing clips for TikTok and Instagram. Players skated by, locked in, the sound of their blades carving through the ice mixing with the deep bass of the arena soundtrack. She turned, scanning the crowd through her lens, before shifting her focus back to the bench.
And that's when she saw them. Macklin and Will.
They were standing by the boards, both trying (and failing) to act like they weren't completely freaking out.
It was their first NHL game.
The real deal.
And June, despite all her focus on capturing the perfect shot, could see the nerves written all over them. She lowered her camera and walked over, nudging Will's shoulder. "You good?"
Will grinned way too fast. "Yeah! Totally! Super fine! Not nervous at all!" Macklin, standing beside him, snorted. "He's lying." Will shot him a look. "Dude, you're literally shaking."
"I am not."
"You so are."
June rolled her eyes. "Okay, both of you need to chill." Macklin exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I mean... it's a lot, right? The lights, the crowd, the pressure." Will nodded. "Kinda feels like I might throw up." Macklin grimaced. "Yeah, please don't do that."
June, watching them closely, softened. She had been so focused on the media side of things, she had almost forgotten that this was just as much a huge moment for them as it was for the fans.
Their first NHL game. Their first time skating out to their names being announced in front of thousands. Their first real taste of the league they had dreamed of playing in since they were kids.
And the fact that they got to do it together? That made it even more special.
June shifted, nudging Macklin first, then Will. "You guys know you belong here, right?"
Will blinked. "Huh?"
"I mean it," she said, looking between them. "You guys worked your asses off to get here. And yeah, it's scary, but you're not alone. You've got each other. And," she added with a smirk, "you've got me."
Macklin snorted. "Oh, lucky us." Will grinned. "Yeah, what would we do without you?" June crossed her arms. "Exactly. Now stop freaking out and just play. You'll be fine."
They didn't say anything for a moment, just exchanged a glance—one of those silent, best friend conversations where nothing needed to be said.
Then Macklin smirked. "Alright. Let's do this."
Will nodded. "Yeah. Let's go."
Before heading toward the ice, they both turned back at the same time and, without warning, pulled June into a quick hug. It was so fast she barely had time to react before they let go and skated off, leaving her standing there, completely caught off guard.
She blinked, watching them go. Then, with a small smile, she raised her camera and hit record.
This?
This was going to be a hell of a season.
⸻ June Johnson was not prepared for how emotional this game was going to make her. She had spent the past few weeks fully settling into her role with the Sharks, getting used to the chaos, the media responsibilities, and—most of all—her new dynamic with Macklin and Will. She knew how much this night meant to them. But standing here, watching it all unfold in real time, she realized she had drastically underestimated just how much it meant to her too.
The hug wasn't planned. It had been impulsive, a quick, wordless exchange that lasted no more than a few seconds before Macklin and Will skated off, leaving June stunned on the bench.
But apparently? Everyone noticed. Not even five minutes later, her phone buzzed with a notification.
@/SharksMedia: A special moment between our three "rookies" before puck drop. 🦈💙
She clicked the video, watching the moment play back in real-time. The clip wasn't even high quality—just a quick, shaky recording taken by a the other social media crew. But that almost made it better. The three of them huddled together, Will grinning, Macklin looking focused but excited, June laughing as she nudged them before they pulled her in for a fast, almost instinctive hug.
It was so small, so simple—but it had everyone melting. The replies were already flooded with comments.
@/freshprinceofchestnuthill02: STOP THIS IS TOO CUTE 😭
@/miami101: not the sharks making me emotional before the game even starts
@/willmack7102: the way they just pulled her in like it was nothing 🥺
June groaned. "Oh my god." Then, it was time. The lights dimmed. The music swelled. The energy in the arena built to a fever pitch.
And then—
"Starting at center, making his NHL debut... MACKLIN CELEBRINI!" The crowd exploded.
June felt her chest tighten with pride as Macklin took the ice, his first NHL solo lap, carving through the rink with ease, the lights reflecting off his jersey.
Then came—
"Starting at forward, making his NHL debut... WILL SMITH!"
Another huge roar from the crowd. Will skated out, grinning ear to ear, pumping his fist as he took his lap. And June? She was so damn proud.
Her boys. Her stupid, chaotic, lovable little brothers were in the NHL.
She held up her phone, capturing every second. She wanted to remember this. She wanted them to remember this.
The game itself was a blur of fast-paced action, adrenaline, and a ridiculous amount of yelling from the bench. But the moment that would live in her brain forever?
Macklin's first goal.
She had barely processed what happened.
One second, the puck was dropped.
The next? Macklin had it. And before anyone could react—
HE SCORED.
On his first shot. The puck hit the back of the net, and the entire arena erupted. The goal horn blared. The bench exploded. Macklin threw his arms up in disbelief, eyes wide before he was immediately swarmed by his teammates.
June? June was losing her entire mind. She practically shoved her phone into the air, recording as she jumped up and down, screaming.
"Oh my god! OH MY GOD! MACKLIN!" She didn't even care if it was professional or not—she was screaming her lungs out. The guys on the bench were laughing at her, but she didn't care.
She could feel her eyes watering, could barely hold the camera steady, but she kept recording, capturing the pure, unfiltered joy on Macklin's face as he skated past the bench. When he spotted her?
He pointed.
Directly at her.
Like he knew she was freaking out. Like he knew this meant just as much to her as it did to him. She covered her mouth, grinning like an idiot, heart bursting with pride.
June barely remembered the final buzzer, too wrapped up in the chaos of celebration, but the moment the game ended, she was already on the move. She didn't care about decorum, didn't care about looking professional—she just sprinted down the tunnel, camera forgotten, shoving past staff and players until she finally found them.
"MACKLIN!"
Macklin barely had time to turn before June crashed into him, throwing her arms around him in the biggest hug imaginable. Will, laughing, barely had time to react before she grabbed him too.She held onto both of them way too tight, face buried in Macklin's shoulder, because she was so proud she didn't even have words.
"You guys," she choked out, voice muffled. "You guys are—ugh! I'm so proud of you!" Macklin laughed, squeezing her back. "June, you're literally crying." She pulled back just enough to wipe at her eyes, sniffling. "Shut up, I'm not."
Will smirked. "Oh, she totally is." Macklin nodded. "Big time." June groaned. "I hate you both." Will grinned. "Love you too."
Macklin slung an arm around her shoulder, still smiling. "Thanks for being here, Junie." June sniffed, rolling her eyes. "Where else would I be?"
Because honestly?
There was nowhere else she'd rather be.
⸻ William Eklund was already down bad. But after tonight?
It was getting worse.
William was still coming down from the high of their first win when he took a moment to breathe, slumping back against the bench as the final cheers from the crowd echoed through the arena. That's when he saw her. June.
She was still in the tunnel, grinning like an idiot, her arms wrapped around Macklin and Will like they had just won the Stanley Cup. The way she smothered them, pulling them in, eyes bright with pride—it was so genuine, so soft, so full of love that it actually made his chest ache.
And the worst part? The look on their faces.
Macklin and Will—who normally acted like two little menaces—completely melted.
Macklin let himself be squeezed half to death, grinning through it.
Will actually laughed into her shoulder, nudging her playfully but not pulling away.
They just... let her love them.
And William? William realized he wanted that too.
He wanted her looking at him like that. He wanted her throwing her arms around him, laughing, telling him she was proud.
God, he was so screwed.
Later, in the locker room, Macklin leaned against his stall, arms crossed. "Okay," he said, tilting his head toward William. "We need to do something." Will, peeling off his tape, raised an eyebrow. "About what?" Macklin scoffed. "Are you serious?"
Will followed his gaze toward where William was sitting, fully staring at June from across the room, looking like a lovesick puppy. Will smirked. "Oh. That."
Macklin rolled his eyes. "Dude, it's getting embarrassing." William was barely trying to be subtle. June was just talking to Ferraro, completely oblivious, but William was staring at her, practically drooling.
"I mean, come on," Macklin continued, nudging Will. "Look at him. He's helpless." Will snorted. "I bet if she even looked in his direction right now, he'd combust."
Macklin smirked. "Wanna test that theory?" Will grinned. "Oh, absolutely."
"Okay, hear me out," Will said, leaning in. "We make him jealous." Macklin raised an eyebrow. "You think that'll work?" Will nodded. "Dude. He's already in the deep end. We just gotta make him feel like he's actually losing her."
Macklin hummed, considering. "And how do we do that?" Will grinned. "I'll flirt with her."
Macklin immediately started laughing. "Oh, that's evil."
Will shrugged. "Gotta do what we gotta do." Macklin smirked. "Alright, let's see if this works."
_
The next morning, June was walking through the facility, minding her business, when Will suddenly appeared beside her.
"Good morning, gorgeous," he said smoothly.
June almost tripped. "...What." Will grinned. "Just appreciating beauty when I see it."
June narrowed her eyes. "What do you want?"
"Nothing," Will said way too innocently. "Can't a guy just compliment his favorite person?"
Okay.
Weird.
But this was Will. So instead of overthinking it, June just rolled her eyes. "Right. Sure."
Will patted her shoulder. "Looking forward to spending the day with you, sweetheart."
And then he just... walked off.
June blinked.
What.
The.
Hell.
William witnessed the entire thing. And immediately malfunctioned. Will had barely touched her, had just thrown a few dumb compliments, and yet William felt actual, physical heat crawling up his neck.
Why was Will talking to her like that?
Why was June smiling at him like it was normal?
WHAT WAS HAPPENING?
He was so busy panicking that he didn't even realize Macklin had been watching him the whole time.
Macklin smirked. "Something wrong, Eky?" William blinked, still staring after June and Will. "Huh?"
Macklin grinned. "You look... distracted." William scowled. "Shut up."
Macklin snorted. Oh yeah. This was gonna be fun.
If William Eklund thought things couldn't get worse, he was very, very wrong. Because Will Smith was escalating.
And William? William was losing his mind.
It started the second June walked into the practice facility. She had barely taken two steps before Will was right there, flashing his biggest, most ridiculous grin.
"Junie," he greeted smoothly. "You're glowing today."
June, already skeptical, blinked. "I... what?"
Will placed a hand over his heart. "It's true. You brighten this entire place."
Okay. What the hell was going on? June narrowed her eyes. "Alright. What do you want?" Will gasped, offended. "I'm just being nice!"
"You're being weird."
"I'm being appreciative." June sighed. "Of what?" Will smirked. "Of you, obviously." June stared at him for a solid five seconds.
Then?
She just shook her head and walked away.
Weird. But again—this was Will. So she didn't think much of it.
William, however? William was dying. He had been right there, watching the whole thing, and holy shit. Will was so obvious.
The way he tilted his head just right, the stupid smooth tone of his voice, the way he just kept smiling at her like she was the best thing in the world— William was going to explode.
And the worst part? June didn't even seem fazed. She just rolled her eyes and kept moving, like Will flirting with her was normal. Like she was used to it.
William hated that. Macklin, standing beside him, smirked. "You good, bud?" William gritted his teeth. "I'm fine."
Macklin snorted. "Right. Totally believe that." Macklin just patted his shoulder. "Whenever you're ready to, you know, actually do something about this, let us know."
William groaned, running a hand through his hair. Yeah. That wasn't happening anytime soon. If William thought Will was done for the day, he was so wrong. Because later, when they were in the gym, stretching before practice, Will decided to take things a step further.
June was standing by the benches, scrolling through her phone, completely minding her own business.
And Will? Will casually walked over, plucked her phone out of her hand, and sat beside her. "Hey," he said, grinning. "You look a little tense." June frowned. "What—"
And then? Will reached out and started massaging her shoulders.
William almost had a stroke. June froze. Then, slowly, painfully, turned her head to look at him.
"...What are you doing." Will, completely unbothered, kept massaging. "Just helping you relax."
June stared at him. "Dude."
"What?"
"This is weird."
Will sighed dramatically. "See? You never let yourself be taken care of." June pinched the bridge of her nose. "Oh my god."
But she didn't immediately push him away, just let out a long, exhausted sigh before finally grabbing his wrists and prying his hands off.
"Okay. Enough." Will smirked. "You love me."
"I tolerate you." Will winked. "Close enough."
William Eklund needed help. William had been watching all of this from across the room, barely holding it together. He felt like his brain was on fire.
What was Will doing?!
Why was June letting him?!
WHY WAS THIS HAPPENING IN FRONT OF HIM?!
His jaw was so tight he thought his teeth might crack. He didn't even realize how tense he looked until Ferraro passed by and gave him a knowing look.
"Something wrong, Eky?" he asked, amused.
William, glaring at Will, muttered, "Jag ska döda honom." Ferraro snorted. "Don't need to speak Swedish to know what that means."
William groaned, dropping his head back against the bench. He was never going to survive this.
⸻June Johnson had way too much in her hands.
She had one camera bag slung over her shoulder, a stack of memory cards tucked in her arm, and an iced coffee balancing precariously in her grasp.
She was one wrong move away from disaster. And, of course, that's exactly what happened.
She had been power-walking down the hallway toward the media room, fully convinced she could make it without incident. And then?
She bumped into someone. Her elbow knocked against them just hard enough, and—
One of the memory cards slipped from her grip, tumbling toward the floor. She cursed under her breath and immediately went to grab it. What she didn't realize was that the person she had bumped into—William Eklund—had done the exact same thing.
And just like that—
Their hands collided.
It was barely anything.
Just a quick brush of fingertips, warm skin against warm skin, but it lingered for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. June barely had time to process it before William yanked his hand back like he'd been electrocuted.
Her brow furrowed. "Woah." William, visibly flustered, refused to look at her. "Sorry."
June grabbed the memory card and straightened, eyeing him. "It's fine. You okay?"
William cleared his throat, still avoiding eye contact. "Yes. Fine. Totally fine."
June narrowed her eyes.
Weird.
So weird.
But before she could push it further, William mumbled another quick apology and walked away. She watched him go, shifting the equipment in her arms.
"...Alright."
She had no idea what just happened. But one thing was becoming very clear.
William Eklund was acting really, really weird around her. And for the first time, she actually wanted to figure out why.
⸻ William Eklund had a problem.
And that problem?
June Johnson.
Because somehow, without realizing it, he had spent the entire night keeping an eye on her. The night had started like any other team outing. The Sharks were in Canada, celebrating a win in one of the liveliest bars in the city. The place was packed, the music loud, drinks flowing, and the energy electric.
June had arrived with Macklin and Will, just like always, falling into her usual spot between them like they were an inseparable trio. And William? William shouldn't have cared. He should have been focused on his own night, drinking, laughing with the guys, letting loose after a good game.
Instead?
His gaze kept drifting. Not intentionally—at least, not at first. But every time she laughed at something, every time she leaned against Macklin's shoulder, every time she flashed that stupid, perfect smile, his brain short-circuited. And then, when Macklin and Will got distracted, when she was off talking to someone else, he found himself checking on her.
Was she okay? Was she having fun?
Who was she talking to?
He had no reason to be watching her this much. No reason at all. And yet, there he was.
Sitting at the table, barely hearing what Ferraro was saying, because he was too busy making sure June was good.
And that? That's how he noticed.
He had been watching her—not intentionally, just subconsciously, scanning the bar like always—when he saw it.
A guy.
Too close.
June tense.
William sat up, spine snapping straight. At first, it was just mild concern.
Maybe she knew him. Maybe she was fine.
Then—
The guy reached for her.
Something in William's chest snapped. Before he even thought about it—before he even processed what he was doing—he was moving. It was pure instinct.
One second, he was at the table.
The next?
He was right there.
His hand landed on June's wrist, and in a flash, he pulled her behind him. The second he did it—the second he put himself between her and the guy—his brain switched off.
No nerves.
No hesitation.
No overthinking.
Just pure, protective instinct. And for the first time ever, he wasn't flustered around her.
Because right now? She needed him. And that? That was the only thing that mattered.
"Back off." His voice was low, sharp, and dangerously calm.
The guy, clearly drunk, scoffed. "Relax, man. We're just talking."
William didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't budge an inch.
"She's not interested," he said coolly. "Walk away."
The guy rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath, but after a moment, he made the right choice and left.
It wasn't until the guy was gone that William's brain started functioning again. And that's when he realized—
He still had his hand on June.
Oh.
Oh no.
The protective instinct that had taken over? Gone.
Now?
All that was left was panic.
He turned to check on her, his heartbeat still racing, and the moment their eyes met, it hit him all at once.
How close they were.
How his hand was still gripping her wrist.
How she was looking up at him with wide, unreadable eyes.
His brain completely melted.
Before he could let go, apologize, or run away forever, June suddenly smiled.
Soft.
Grateful.
And then?
She kissed his cheek.
William stopped breathing.
It was so fast—barely a second, just a light press of her lips to his skin—but it destroyed him.
The warmth.
The softness.
The casual, effortless way she did it—
William was dead.
Actually, physically deceased. And then? She just patted his chest, smiled like nothing happened, and said—
"Thanks, Eky." Then she walked back to the table like it was nothing. He stood there, completely frozen, hand still hovering in midair like an idiot.
His face was on fire.
His brain was empty.
And then—
"Ohhh my god."
A voice.
A voice that sent pure fear down his spine.
William turned, and—
Macklin and Will. Watching the whole thing. And losing their minds.
Will was gasping for air. Macklin was halfway to the floor, wheezing. "Oh my god," Will repeated. "DID SHE JUST—"
"Oh, he's so gone," Macklin choked out. "Look at him. LOOK AT HIM."
William's ears were ringing.
He needed to leave.
Right now.
Immediately.
But he couldn't.
Because he was still standing there, still feeling the ghost of her lips on his cheek, still trying to process that June Johnson had just kissed him.
And worst of all?
He had no idea what it meant.
⸻ June Johnson had made one mistake tonight. And that mistake? Thinking she could get through the rest of the night without being interrogated.
By now, it was common knowledge around the team that Will, Macklin, and June always shared a hotel room.
It was ridiculous—they were literal NHL rookies, not kids at summer camp. But somehow, every single road trip, they managed to convince the team staff to let them bunk together.
Why? Because they couldn't function without each other. (Also because Will and Macklin were man-children who needed supervision, but June wouldn't admit that out loud.)
So when they got back to the hotel after the bar, she should have known what was coming.
The moment June walked in, Will threw himself onto the bed, dramatically sprawling out like he had just run a marathon. Macklin, meanwhile, plopped onto the couch, cracking open a water bottle.
And then—at the exact same time—they both turned to her. And grinned.
June froze. "What." Will wiggled his eyebrows. "Sooo..." Macklin smirked. "How's Eky?"
June's stomach dropped.
Oh, god.
They knew.
She forced herself to act casual, dropping her bag by the dresser. "Uh... fine?"
Will snorted. "That's all you're gonna say?"
June narrowed her eyes. "What are you two getting at?"
Macklin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Oh, I don't know," he said casually. "Maybe the fact that you kissed him."
June instantly turned red. "It wasn't a kiss."
Will gasped, clutching his chest. "IT WAS A KISS."
June groaned. "It was barely anything. It was on the cheek."
Macklin smirked. "Did your lips touch his skin?"
June hesitated. "...Yes?"
Will sat up straight. "DID HE TURN BRIGHT RED AFTER?"
She huffed. "Obviously."
Macklin grinned. "Then it counts."
June covered her face. "Oh my god, you guys are so annoying." Will kicked his feet like an excited child. "So, tell us everything. How was it? How did it feel? Was it soft? Did he smell good? Did he—"
"STOP," June groaned. "It wasn't a big deal."
Macklin scoffed. "Oh, it was a huge deal."
Will nodded aggressively. "Eky's probably still in shock. You fried his entire brain."
June sighed, throwing herself onto the bed. "You guys are making this so much bigger than it was."
Macklin raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so you just go around kissing people on the cheek all the time?"
June glared. "I WAS THANKING HIM."
Will grinned. "Sure. Sure."
Macklin smirked. "You know he's in love with you, right?"
June froze. Her stomach did something weird. She sat up quickly. "He is not."
Macklin and Will exchanged a look. "Oh, she's in denial," Will whispered.
Macklin nodded. "Big time."
June crossed her arms. "He doesn't like me like that. He's just... shy."
Will snorted. "Junie. He literally worships the ground you walk on."
June's face heated up.
Macklin shrugged. "Honestly, I'm kinda impressed with you." She frowned. "What?"
Macklin smirked. "You broke him. I've never seen Eky that flustered before. He might actually be in a coma right now."
June groaned. "You guys are the worst."
Will flopped back onto the pillows, grinning. "Face it, Junie," he said. "You're in trouble."
And, for the first time, June was starting to think he might be right.
⸻ Tyler Toffoli had played in the NHL for a long time. He had seen a lot. He had been on championship teams, endured chaotic locker rooms, and witnessed some of the most ridiculous bets ever made between teammates.
But somehow?
Somehow, this might be the dumbest one yet.
They were on the road, heading into Buffalo for the next game on their trip. The usual post-practice bus chatter filled the air—guys talking about dinner plans, chirping each other about bad drills, and overall just keeping the mood light. Tyler was sitting near the middle, scrolling through his phone, when a voice from behind him made him pause.
"Alright," Will Smith said, loud enough for half the bus to hear. "Let's make things interesting."
Tyler sighed. It was never good when Will started sentences like that. Henry Thrun, sitting near the front, barely turned around. "This ought to be good."
Will grinned. "If Mack, Toff, and I all score against Buffalo, then Toff has to—" He turned dramatically. "Join our legendary sleepover."
Tyler blinked. "...Your what?"
Macklin Celebrini smirked. "Oh, he doesn't know." Mario Ferraro snorted. "Dude, they have a whole routine."
Tyler, confused, looked between them. "You guys still do sleepovers?"
Will grinned proudly. "Hell yeah, we do."
"I—" Tyler shook his head. "Why?"
June, sitting two rows ahead, barely glanced up from her phone. "They're codependent." Will ignored her. "It's tradition. And you can't really talk, you're a part of it."
Tyler rubbed his temples. "Okay, but why me?"
Macklin smirked. "Because we need to test your loyalty." Tyler scoffed. "And what are the chances all three of us actually score?"
Will shrugged. "Low."
Macklin nodded. "But if it happens, you're in."
Tyler rolled his eyes. "Fine. Whatever. Not gonna happen anyway."
It did, in fact, happen.
Will scored in the first period, skating past the bench with a cocky grin, pointing at Tyler. Then Macklin tipped one in on the power play. And then, because the universe hated him, Tyler sniped one in the third.
The bench erupted.
But instead of normal goal celebrations, Tyler was met with immediate chirping. "Ohhh, Toff," Thrun teased. "You're in trouble now."
Will and Macklin bounced on the bench screaming "Sleepover! Sleepover!!" Tyler groaned. "Oh my god."
By the time they got back to the hotel, Tyler was praying everyone had forgotten.
They did not. Because the coaching staff got involved.
David Quinn, standing in the hallway post-game, grinned when he saw Tyler. "So, Toffoli," he smirked. "You ready for your sleepover?"
Tyler stared. "Coach, please." Mario Ferraro walked by, dying of laughter. "Gotta follow through, bud."
And just like that?
Tyler had no way out.
When Tyler finally showed up to their hotel room, dragging a stupid rollaway cot behind him, he had one thought.
What the hell did I just get myself into?
Because what he expected was a normal setup.
What he got was a full-fledged system.
• Will and June were in one bed.
• Macklin was in the other.
• There was a plate of cookies and two glasses of milk on the bedside table.
• And a stupid spot was set up at the foot of both beds for his cot.
Tyler blinked. "You guys are unreal."
Will beamed. "Welcome to the fam, Toff."
Macklin smirked. "Did you actually think we were joking?"
Tyler exhaled. "I was hoping."
June, casually scrolling on her phone, snorted. "Well, you're here now."
"Okay," Will said, pulling out his phone. "Photo time."
Tyler groaned. "Is this really necessary?"
Macklin grinned. "Oh, 100%."
They took the stupidest, most ridiculous photo possible—Tyler lying stiff on his cot, looking miserable, June and Will grinning like gremlins, and Macklin flashing a peace sign from his bed.
June shook her head. "This is absurd."
Will grinned. "It's tradition."
At first, Tyler thought, Okay. Fine. We'll go to sleep now. It was 3am, what else were you supposed to do.
Wrong.
Because Macklin and Will would. Not. Shut. Up.
They talked about everything. The game. The best goal celebrations. Some random inside joke that made zero sense.
June?
She just sat there on her phone, occasionally chiming in like this was completely normal. Tyler turned to her. "How are you just... ignoring this?"
June shrugged. "You get used to it."
Tyler sighed. "I don't think I will."
And then—
Mid-sentence, Will just stopped talking. Tyler frowned. "What the—"
He looked up—Will was just... asleep. Out. Like a light.
Macklin didn't even react.
June, without missing a beat, just sat up, pulled the covers over Will, then rolled over and fell asleep too.
Tyler stared. "What," he whispered. "The hell just happened?"
Macklin yawned. "It's just how it is."
Tyler frowned. "What do you mean?"
Macklin shrugged. "Will has a hard time sleeping alone. He started bunking with June because it helped. And somewhere along the way, I joined too."
Tyler stared.
Slowly, it started to make sense. It wasn't just some dumb rookie sleepover.
It was... routine. A weird, chaotic, ridiculously wholesome routine. And June? She wasn't just their friend. She was their person. Their family. Their everything.
The one who made everything easier, lighter, better.
Tyler shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.
This was insane.
But also?
Kind of perfect.
Before turning over to sleep, Tyler pulled out his phone. He stared at the stupid photo they had taken earlier. Then, before he could overthink it, he posted it to his Instagram.
Caption: "Reporting for duty 🫡"
He tossed his phone on the nightstand and settled in.
Yeah.
This team?
This team was something special.
⸻ William Eklund had survived a lot in his career.
Gruelling practices.
Hard-fought games.
The relentless chirping of his teammates.
But this? This was worse than all of that combined. Because June Johnson was flirting with him.
And she was doing it on purpose.
William had been suffering in silence for months, convinced that June saw him as nothing more than a teammate, a coworker, a friend of a friend.
He had resigned himself to his quiet, torturous little crush. And then, out of nowhere, everything changed. It was like a switch flipped. Because suddenly, overnight, June started acting... different.
Not in a way anyone else would notice.
But he noticed.
At first, he thought he was imagining it. The way she started standing closer to him in conversations. The way her fingers would brush his wrist when she handed him something. The way she'd lean in, just slightly, when they were talking, like she was completely comfortable in his space.
And then came the comments. The too-casual, too-smooth compliments that made his entire brain malfunction.
"Looking good today, Eky," she had tossed out casually, winking as she walked past.
Or worse—after practice, when she'd toss him a water bottle and say, "Stay hydrated, pretty boy."
PRETTY BOY.
William had fully choked on his own spit.
Ferraro had had to thump him on the back to save him.
June?
She had just grinned and walked away. She was doing this on purpose. He was sure of it now. And it was killing him.
Unfortunately, William was not subtle.
The team picked up on it immediately. They watched as June slowly turned up the heat, adding more teasing, more touches, more deliberate moments that left William looking completely fried.
And the guys?
They were thriving off his suffering.
"Eky, man," Hertl grinned one day. "You look stressed."
"Yeah," Ferraro added. "Everything okay? You seem a little... distracted."
William, completely red, grumbled, "I'm fine."
The worst part?
June had heard the whole thing. And instead of saving him, she had just smirked. Like she knew exactly what she was doing.
It finally reached critical levels one afternoon after practice. William had spent the entire day dodging her, avoiding eye contact, trying to survive.
And then—
She cornered him.
It was just the two of them in the media room, the door clicking shut behind them.
William's heart was already racing, just from being alone with her.
And then—
She leaned against the table, crossed her arms, and smirked.
"So," she said casually. "When are you going to ask me out on a date?"
He stopped breathing.
His brain shut down.
She just—
She actually—
WHAT.
She was looking at him, waiting for an answer, and oh my god.
She knew.
She had known this whole time.
And now?
Now she was messing with him.
William opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
His face was so red, he could actually feel the heat in his skin.
June tilted her head, amused. "Eky?" she teased. "You good?"
No.
No, he was absolutely not good.
He was broken.
And June was loving it.
⸻ William Eklund had been barely holding himself together for weeks.
But this?
This was a new level of suffering. And it all started with a movie night ambush.
William had no idea what he was walking into. Will and Macklin had texted him earlier:
Will: Movie night at ours. Get here ASAP.
Macklin: We got snacks.
William, thinking it was just the three of them, didn't hesitate. But when he walked in, he realized immediately—
He had been set up.
Because sitting on the couch, curled up in the coziest, most unfairly cute outfit imaginable, was June.
William was done for.
She wasn't in her usual media attire. She wasn't wearing her Sharks press pass, or running around with cameras, or giving him heart attacks by casually calling him "pretty boy."
No.
She was wearing sweats, an oversized Sharks hoodie (probably Will or Macklin's), huge glasses, and a messy bun.
And William?
William short-circuited on the spot.
She looked so soft. So effortless. So perfect. She looked so different from the sharp, witty, always-in-control June he was used to. And somehow, that made it so much worse.
She looked like she belonged here.
William could not stop staring.
"Eky," June greeted, smiling up at him. "Didn't know you were coming." William forgot how to speak.
Because her voice was so soft.
And she was hugging a pillow to her chest.
And she was wearing glasses.
And oh god.
He was in so much trouble. Will and Macklin, of course, noticed immediately. Will barely suppressed a grin. "Yeah, we... forgot to mention June was here."
Macklin smirked. "Hope that's cool."
William, still completely malfunctioning, just nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, totally. Cool. Fine."
Will snorted. "You sure, bud?"
William forced himself to sit down, taking the safest possible spot—the chair across from the couch, as far from June as possible.
Macklin and Will exchanged a look.
Oh, this was gonna be fun.
The next night, the team had a bonding event planned. Bowling. Which should have been normal, fun, low-stress. But of course, that was before June decided to completely ruin William's life.
"Alright," Couture called out. "Pair up, let's get the teams set."
Before William could even think about what was happening, June appeared right next to him. She looped her arm through his, looked up at him with a sweet, innocent smile, and said,
"Me and Eky are a team." William's brain immediately malfunctioned. The guys immediately noticed.
"Ohhh," Toff grinned. "Interesting choice."
Will, barely containing his excitement, leaned over to Macklin. "This is gonna be so good."
Macklin nodded. "Eky's gonna combust."
And honestly?
They weren't wrong.
It started small.
She made little touches—brushing her fingers against his when she grabbed the bowling ball, nudging him when she laughed.
Then, it got worse.
She fixed the collar of his hoodie, totally casual, completely unaware of how William's soul left his body.
And then, when he went up to take his turn—
She stood way too close behind him. She leaned in and whispered, "No pressure, but I expect a strike."
And William?
William bowled the worst shot of his life.
The ball went straight into the gutter.
And the team?
Lost their minds.
"Oh my god," Will howled, actually falling onto the seats.
"Eky," Mario teased. "What the hell was that?"
William had no words. He just turned, fully red, looking at June. She was smirking. Like she knew exactly what she was doing.
And then, like she hadn't just completely ruined his night—
She patted his back and said, "You'll get 'em next time, pretty boy."
William wanted to scream.
At this point, William was barely hanging on. And Macklin and Will? Decided to help. Which, of course, made it so much worse.
They started pushing William toward June at random moments. They wingmanned him so hard it was embarrassing.
"Oh, you guys look good together," Macklin said loudly.
"Right?" Will grinned. "Power couple."
William wanted to die.
June?
June just laughed and played along.
"Oh, totally," she smirked. "We make a great team." William was one second away from actually combusting.
⸻William Eklund had reached his breaking point. For weeks, he had been tortured. June had been flirting relentlessly, finding every possible excuse to touch him, tease him, ruin his entire existence.
And worst of all? She knew exactly what she was doing.
Then, the other night, she had straight-up asked him when he was going to ask her out.
And William?
William had said nothing. He had just stood there buffering like a broken computer.
Pathetic.
Which is why, today, he was done. "What if I mess up?" William asked, pacing back and forth in the locker room.
Zetterlund leaned against his stall, arms crossed. "Eky, buddy, you've already messed up."
William groaned. "Okay, but—"
"No. No more 'but,'" Zetterlund cut in. "You're asking her out today."
William ran a hand through his hair. "I had a plan." Zetterlund raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?" William nodded. "I was going to wait for the perfect moment."
Zetterlund sighed. "Dude, you had the perfect moment. She literally asked you when you were going to do it."
William groaned again, covering his face. "I KNOW."
Zetterlund clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Listen to me, okay? Just keep it simple. 'June, go out with me.' That's it."
William took a deep breath. He could do that.
Right?
The plan was simple. June did her "Question of the Day" segments every morning. All he had to do was wait until she finished, walk up, and ask her out.
He had it all rehearsed—every word planned out perfectly in his head.
But then...
He saw her.
She was standing in the hallway, smiling, laughing, looking unfairly beautiful, and—
His brain turned to static.
Before he even knew what was happening, he was walking toward her.
And then—
Words started falling out of his mouth.
"H—hey, um, I was wondering if, uh—well, you see—what I meant was—um—if you, like—wanted, um—go, uh, eat—dinner? With—me? Or something? At some point. Maybe. I don't know. No—I mean, I do know. I mean—I want to. Do you want to?"
Silence.
Absolute.
Painful.
Silence.
June just stared at him.
William wanted to jump into the nearest trash can.
Then—
She smiled.
And oh god.
She was blushing.
"Are you asking me out, Eky?" she asked, tilting her head. William, fully malfunctioning, just nodded.
June's smile grew.
"Then yes," she said softly.
William stopped breathing.
Then, as if she hadn't just completely ruined his life, she leaned in—
And pressed a kiss to his cheek.
But not just anywhere. Dangerously close to his lips.
William was dead.
June pulled away, grinning at his stunned expression. "Pick me up at seven?" she asked.
William, still not functioning as a human being, just nodded wordlessly. June gave him one last teasing look before walking away. Leaving William standing there, completely frozen.
That's when he felt two hands clap onto his shoulders. "Ohhh buddy," Macklin wheezed.
Will, barely holding it together, patted his back. "You okay, champ?"
William said nothing. He just stared into the void.
Macklin and Will looked at each other. Then—they burst out laughing. "Oh, this is too good," Will gasped.
Macklin shook his head. "She broke him."
William, still completely stunned, just whispered "What just happened?"
Will grinned. "You got a date, Eky." Macklin smirked. "And a near-kiss." Will waggled his eyebrows. "She's bold, huh?"
William was still buffering. Macklin clapped him on the back. "You're so screwed, dude."
And honestly?
He was.
⸻ William Eklund had never been this nervous in his entire life.
Not for his NHL debut.
Not for a shootout attempt.
Not even for post-game interviews where he had to answer questions in English instead of Swedish.
This?
This was worse than all of that combined.
Because tonight? He was taking June Johnson on a date.
When William pulled up to June's place, he felt like he was going to be sick. His hands were clammy, his heart was pounding, and he could already feel the team's chirps echoing in his brain.
But then—
She stepped outside.
And William?
William almost forgot how to breathe.
She looked stunning. Her hair was in natural curls, bouncing with every step she took.
Her eyes were bright, glowing, filled with excitement.
And her smile?
Her smile was going to kill him.
She was wearing something simple—jeans, sneakers, a cozy sweater—but she had never looked prettier.
William actually felt his jaw drop.
"Oh," he blurted before he could stop himself.
June raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh?"
William, still short-circuiting, cleared his throat aggressively. "You look—uh—really, really, really—"
Stop saying 'really'—
"—really pretty."
June laughed, eyes crinkling. "Thanks, William."
Then—as if she hadn't just melted his entire brain—she stepped forward and hugged him.
And to make things so much worse for him?
She kissed his cheek.
Again.
William fully blacked out.
June pulled away, grinning. "Are we ready?" William, still struggling to recover, just nodded. "Yeah. Uh. Yep."
He quickly thrust the bouquet of daisies toward her. "These are for you."
June's face softened immediately. "Daisies?" she murmured. William rubbed the back of his neck. "They're your favorite, right?"
June blinked.
Then—to his complete horror—her eyes started glistening.
"I can't believe you remembered that," she whispered. William panicked. "Did I do something wrong?" June laughed, blinking away tears. "No, you idiot. You just did something really sweet."
William, already red, opened the car door for her. "You deserve sweet things."
June stared at him. William immediately felt like he said too much. But before he could freak out completely, June smiled, slipping into the car. Then—just as he was about to close the door—she reached out and grabbed his hand.
"William..." He froze.
June squeezed his fingers gently. "You don't have to be so nervous," she said softly. "I like you, okay? A lot. And I'm glad we're going on a date. Let's just focus on that."
William's chest tightened.
How was she so effortless?
How was she so easy to be around?
He swallowed, nodding. "Okay."
She smiled. "Good."
And just like that, he felt himself relax.
⸻ By the time they got to the arcade, William felt significantly less like he was about to throw up. And after about ten minutes, he was actually having fun.
Because June? June was competitive.
"I hope you're ready to lose, Eky," she said, cracking her knuckles as they approached the basketball hoops. William smirked. "I play hockey, not basketball. You should win this one." June grinned. "We'll see."
The timer started.
Balls flew.
And to William's surprise—
June was actually good.
Like, weirdly good.
"Okay, what the hell," he muttered, watching as she sunk shot after shot with perfect form. June laughed. "You didn't know I played in high school?"
"No!" William gawked. "You were actually an athlete?" June smirked. "What, did you just think I was some media nerd?"
William grinned. "Yes." June gasped, feigning offense. "You take that back."
William laughed.
And for the first time all night, he felt like himself.
⸻ The rest of the night was filled with games, teasing, and ridiculous bets. William beat her at air hockey. June destroyed him at Dance Dance Revolution. He got way too competitive during Mario Kart. She giggled every time he muttered Swedish curses under his breath when he lost.
And somewhere along the way?
June realized something.
She was so, so smitten.
Because William Eklund?
Was the absolute sweetest.
He was a gentleman—opening doors, making sure she was warm, letting her pick the games.
He was hilarious—constantly chirping her, making her laugh until her stomach hurt.
And most of all?
He was so, so easy to be around.
This wasn't just a date. This was fun. June didn't want it to end.
As they left the arcade, June nudged him. "So," she teased. "Was this so bad?"
William grinned. "No." She smiled. "Good."
They reached the car. And then—
Before William could open the door for her, June turned and tugged on his hoodie.
William froze.
"William?" she murmured.
His pulse skyrocketed. "Yeah?"
She looked up at him, eyes soft. "I had fun tonight," she said.
William swallowed. "Me too." June bit her lip. "We should do it again."
William's stomach flipped. "Yeah?" he asked. June smiled. "Yeah."
Then—because she clearly wasn't done torturing him—
She leaned in. And kissed his cheek.
Again.
But this time? It lasted just a second longer. And it was way too close to his lips.
William actually forgot how to breathe. By the time he snapped out of it, June was already grinning at him.
Oh, yeah.
He was so in trouble.
⸻William Eklund had never felt this happy in his entire life.
As he drove home from June's house, his fingers tapped against the steering wheel, his heart still racing, his mind replaying every second of the night.
The laughs.
The way she looked at him.
The way she kissed his cheek—so close, so soft, like she was waiting for him to do something.
And suddenly—
He couldn't take it anymore. His pulse skyrocketed as a wave of pure confidence rushed through him. Without even thinking, he slammed the brakes, threw the car into reverse, and sped back toward her place.
June had barely made it inside when the doorbell rang. She frowned.
Who the hell—
When she opened the door, she was met with William. Breathless. Wild-eyed. Looking at her like she was the only thing in the entire world.
"William?" she blinked, confused.
He didn't answer.
Didn't hesitate.
Didn't think.
He just moved.
One second, she was standing there, trying to process what was happening.
The next?
His hands were cupping her face, his body was stepping forward, and his lips were crashing into hers.
June was frozen for a second.
But then—
She melted.
The kiss.
It was desperate. All of tension unraveling in a single moment.
His hands were firm, holding her like he was afraid she'd disappear.
His lips were soft, warm, urgent against hers.
And his body—
God.
His body was pressed so close, she could feel his heartbeat racing as fast as hers. She barely had time to react before she was gripping his hoodie, pulling him closer, kissing him back with everything she had.
Because this?
This was what she had been waiting for. And the way William was kissing her? Like he had been dying to do this. Like he had been waiting just as long. It sent shivers down her spine.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless. June, still gripping his hoodie, stared up at him. William, face flushed, chest heaving, stared back.
Neither of them spoke. Neither of them needed to. Because in that moment? Everything was finally clear.
William exhaled a laugh, still looking at her like she was unreal. "I, uh..." He swallowed. "I couldn't stop thinking about you."
June's lips curled into a soft, dazed smile.
"Good," she whispered, pressing her forehead against his. "Because I couldn't stop thinking about you either."
Summary: when will's date doesn't go as planned and he crashes date night for macklin
masterlist
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
The apartment smelled like garlic, tomato, and love. I had just pulled the lasagna out of the oven, my oven mitts covered in little strawberries, and Mack was setting the table with a kind of clumsy charm that always made me grin. He was trying to be precise, lining the forks up perfectly, but every so often he’d bump one slightly out of place with those big hockey hands of his and mutter something like, “Dang it,” under his breath.
Our playlist was on in the background, low and mellow, the kind of indie love songs that made me want to sway in the kitchen with him. And for a few blissful minutes, that’s exactly what we did. He came up behind me while I was wiping the counter, wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed the top of my head, whispering something corny about me being the best chef in the world. I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. We danced there, barefoot and swaying, just the two of us in our little bubble of coziness.
Just as we sat down with our plates full, a knock echoed through the apartment. Mack and I both turned our heads.
“Are you expecting someone?” I asked, already rising, my napkin sliding off my lap.
He shook his head, brow furrowed. I opened the door to find Will standing there, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes wide and red-rimmed, and none of the usual fun, bubbly, giggly, smiley Will anywhere to be found. My heart dropped.
“Hey,” he said softly.
“Oh, Will,” I murmured, stepping aside without even asking. He looked like a kicked puppy.
Mack was already on his feet when Will stepped inside. “What happened, man?”
Will shrugged, and it was almost worse than if he’d cried. “Date was... bad. Really bad. She spent half the time on her phone, and then said I was 'too nice.' Like that’s a dealbreaker or something.”
I glanced at Mack, who was already moving to grab a third plate. We didn’t need to speak. We had our unspoken language. Mom and dad mode: activated.
“Well, lucky for you, I made enough lasagna to feed a small village,” I said, guiding Will to the table. “Sit. You need carbs and comfort. And maybe a hug.”
Will gave me a grateful look and sank into the chair. I could see the weight of the night in his posture, the slump of his shoulders. He looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical tiredness, like he was carrying the rejection around in his chest, pressing down with every breath.
Mack heaped a generous portion of lasagna onto Will’s plate while I fetched one of Mack’s comically oversized hoodies—one of those ridiculously soft ones he wore after games. I handed it to Will with a smile.
“Go change, get comfy. You’re staying here tonight.”
“I don’t want to crash your night,” he started.
I gave him a look. “You are not crashing anything. You’re our favorite third wheel.”
Mack nodded solemnly. “We were actually just saying we wished someone would interrupt our romantic night with a lasagna emergency.”
That finally got a small laugh out of Will. He took the hoodie and disappeared into the bathroom. When he came back, he looked ten times cozier and maybe a little less like his heart had been stepped on. His damp hair curled slightly, and he looked younger, softer somehow.
We put on the cheesiest rom-com we could find—Mack's idea, surprisingly, and not mine. Will curled up on the couch between us, a tub of ice cream in his lap, a blanket thrown over all three of us. Mack rested his feet on the coffee table and I tucked my legs up, leaning into his side. Will was quiet at first, barely touching the ice cream, staring ahead like he wasn’t really seeing the screen.
But little by little, the movie did its job. He started to laugh at the dumb jokes, snorted when a character tripped over a dog leash, even groaned when the predictable kiss-in-the-rain scene came on. He even made fun of the plot, which is how I knew he was starting to feel like himself again. At one point, Mack reached over and ruffled his hair.
“You’re not too nice, man. You’re just real. Anyone who can’t see that doesn’t deserve to know you.”
Will blinked a few times too fast and nodded. “Thanks.”
I reached over and gave his knee a squeeze. “You’re gonna find someone who actually thinks your stupid little jokes are funny. Just wait.”
When the movie ended, we didn’t even bother moving. Mack grabbed more blankets, and I brought out extra pillows, and we built the coziest little couch nest you could imagine. We started a second movie—something equally cheesy and predictable—and all three of us melted into the cushions. Will ended up with his head on Mack’s shoulder and his feet on my lap, and at some point, he passed me the ice cream without a word like it was a peace offering.
As the second movie dragged on, the atmosphere shifted into something softer, sleepier. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering screen and the tiny string lights we had hung up months ago and never took down. I yawned and leaned into Mack, who kissed my forehead without looking away from the screen.
I thought briefly about setting up the guest room, but looking at the two boys I loved in such different ways snuggled up like overgrown puppies, I didn’t have the heart to move anyone. Will’s breathing had gone even and deep, and Mack’s arm was heavy around my shoulder.
Mack kissed the top of my head as the credits rolled. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” I murmured, eyes already heavy.
And with Will snoring gently beside us and a faint smell of garlic still in the air, we all fell asleep like that—safe, full, and loved. Just three people on a couch, wrapped up in warmth and friendship, and the kind of quiet that only comes when you know you're not alone.
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summary: whiskers was a quiet oasis for those who needed it. a place where everything else in the world just disappeared for a moment and you were able to just. breathe. what happens when a certain new jersey devil stumbles upon this place and can't leave?
masterlist
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
The scent of freshly brewed espresso clung to Mallory White’s sweaters like a signature. No matter how many times she washed them, the faint aroma of dark roast and steamed milk lingered in the fibers, a soft, constant reminder of where she spent most of her waking hours. Whiskers—her aunt’s pride and joy—was tucked into a quiet street corner just off Ferry Street in Newark. It was the kind of place you only found if you were looking for it, or if you needed it in a way you couldn’t explain. A cutesy, whimsical blend of mismatched armchairs, crowded bookshelves, twinkle lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling, and window seats that always seemed to catch the best kind of sunlight. Cats draped themselves lazily over the tops of couches, curled in the corners of shelves, or pawed at the steam curling up from customer mugs. Every one of them was adoptable. Some stayed a day, some stayed months, but all of them came to know Mallory’s gentle voice and steady hands.
She’d been working there part-time for years, ever since her aunt offered her the job to help cover books and groceries while she finished school. Full-time student, part-time barista, amateur therapist to half the neighborhood regulars—Mallory made it work. She always had. Psychology fascinated her, not just the clinical definitions or brain chemistry, but the little things. The way people picked at napkins when they were nervous, how eyes darted when a lie teetered on someone’s tongue, the unconscious rituals of grief, of joy, of healing. People told her everything. She had a face for it—open, calm, curious without being invasive. The customers who wandered in during slow mornings often left with more than caffeine. Confessions, vent sessions, old wounds cracked open over chai lattes. Mallory listened the way the cats did—quietly, patiently, without judgment.
Her life was quiet, a patchwork of routines and late-night study sessions, paper deadlines, and morning coffee grinds. She lived in a tiny walk-up two blocks from Whiskers, a third-floor studio with crooked hardwood floors and plants crowding every windowsill. Her rescue tabby, Clementine, ruled the place like a queen, sprawled across textbooks or wedged herself into the sink just to make a point. Mallory found comfort in the familiar—her regulars, the way the sunlight always hit the front window just right around 4 PM, the hum of soft jazz that played through the speakers when the place began to wind down for the night. She had her favorite mugs, her favorite playlists, her favorite pens for annotating psychology textbooks. Everything in her world had a place, a rhythm. Even the chaos felt choreographed.
Newark had never seemed small to Mallory, even though she’d never left it for long. She’d traveled a bit—trips to Boston for conferences, the occasional weekend in Philly with friends—but New Jersey was in her bones. It was in the cadence of her voice, the way she knew what joint served the best pizza at 2 AM, the way she rolled her eyes when people asked why she hadn’t moved to the city yet. Newark was home. It was messy and overlooked and constantly changing, but so was she. Her childhood was rooted in its cracked sidewalks, her adolescence mapped across its diners and bookstores, her adulthood unfolding in the scent of espresso and the soft, low purr of content cats.
Whiskers was more than just a job. It was her second skin. She knew every creaky floorboard and which chair the orange tabby preferred for his midday naps. Her aunt, Nora, had turned the place into a refuge, and Mallory—without even realizing it—had become part of the soul of it. She knew when a regular was having a bad day by the way they stirred their coffee, knew how to distract a lonely heart with a stack of books and a napping kitten. On weekends, families came in just to sit and laugh and maybe fall in love with a pair of green eyes and a twitching tail. Mallory floated through it all with practiced ease, pouring lattes and restocking biscotti, recommending paperbacks and refilling water bowls.
Lately though, there’d been a tug in her chest. A sense that something—or someone—was coming. Something she couldn’t name. Maybe it was graduation looming closer, the unknown pressing in now that her final semester had started. Maybe it was the weight of a future she hadn't quite mapped out yet, pressing against the edges of her carefully ordered life. Or maybe it was the way Clementine had taken to sitting in the window every night, watching the sidewalk below like she was waiting for something. Her tail would flick, her eyes fixed, as if she knew something Mallory didn’t. It made her uneasy, but also… hopeful.
Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it was everything.
Whatever it was, it was on its way.
__
Jack Hughes was not having a good season. On paper, the numbers weren’t bad—solid stats, some strong games, the kind of season that didn’t raise alarms. But under the surface, it was a different story. The pressure was relentless, an invisible weight pressing down on him every time he stepped onto the ice. Every game felt like a test he couldn’t afford to fail. Produce. Lead. Win. Repeat. There was no room for off nights, no space for mistakes. The joy—the spark that used to fuel him—was flickering dangerously low.
So that night, with the sky heavy and gray over Newark, Jack laced up his sneakers and left his apartment without a destination in mind. He needed to breathe. No fans. No expectations. Just air. The city buzzed around him—cars, voices, the clatter of life continuing at its own pace. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and walked, letting his mind wander, his steps aimless but searching.
That’s when he saw it.
Tucked away between a boarded-up corner store and a laundromat with flickering lights, there was a shopfront Jack swore hadn’t been there before. The windows glowed with soft amber light, and the sign above the door read simply: Whiskers. It was quaint, inviting, oddly out of place in the gritty stretch of street. A place that felt… safe. Like the Room of Requirement from Harry Potter if it catered to coffee snobs and cat lovers instead of stressed-out wizards.
He pushed open the door, and immediately, the scent of espresso and vanilla filled his lungs. Warmth wrapped around him like a blanket fresh from the dryer. The bell above the door chimed softly, and before he could fully take in the space, a cat—an elegant gray tabby with white paws and an air of dignified authority—padded over to greet him. She sat in front of him, blinking slowly, tail flicking once.
“Oh. Uh. Hi,” Jack muttered, crouching slightly as if unsure how to proceed. The cat continued to stare, unimpressed but accepting. Missy, as he’d later learn, had that effect on people.
Jack stood up and glanced around, wide-eyed. The place looked like a Pinterest board come to life—string lights, overstuffed chairs, cat beds tucked in every corner, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that made the air feel thick with stories. It was the last thing he expected to find on a quiet walk meant to clear his head. And yet, it felt like exactly where he was supposed to be.
He thought he was alone until he spotted her.
In the back corner of the café, nestled into the cushions of a sun-drenched window seat, sat a girl with strawberry-blonde hair pulled into a loose, practical knot. A half-dozen cats lounged around her like they’d claimed her as one of their own. One lay across her lap, another perched on the back of her chair, while two more batted lazily at the dangling strings of her hoodie. Her eyes were glued to the screen of her laptop, fingers tapping away in focused concentration.
Mallory White glanced up at the sound of the doorbell, expecting a regular, or maybe someone looking for directions. What she saw instead was a tall brunette standing near the entrance like he wasn’t sure if he’d stumbled into a dream or a fever-induced hallucination. His eyes were wide, darting around the shop, lips slightly parted in bewilderment. He looked both exhausted and in awe.
“First time?” she called out, voice light but kind. She already knew the answer.
Jack turned toward her, nodding slowly. “Yeah…”
She smiled, something soft blooming in her chest. There was always something beautiful about watching people find Whiskers for the first time—especially the ones who clearly needed it. They came in burdened, distracted, lost. And they stayed, because something about the place told them they were allowed to rest. To breathe.
And for Jack Hughes, that was exactly what was happening.
__
Jack approached the counter slowly, his gaze sweeping over the handwritten chalkboard menu, though his eyes weren’t really reading. The place still didn’t feel real. Like he’d slipped into some alternate version of Newark, one where life moved slower and smelled like cinnamon.
Mallory stood behind the counter now, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a cat—Oscar—draped around her shoulders like a fuzzy scarf. She gave Jack a smile that didn’t force anything out of him, just offered something steady. Comfort without pressure.
“What can I get you?” she asked, pulling a mug down from the shelf.
He blinked, momentarily thrown. “Uh. Just… coffee? I think?”
Mallory bit back a grin. “Bold order.”
Jack laughed softly—an unintentional sound, like it startled him. “Right. Sorry. I’m more of a… dog guy.”
Oscar meowed in protest from her shoulders. Mallory feigned offense. “You can’t just walk into a cat café and say something like that.”
“I know, I know,” he said, hands raised in surrender. “I’m already on thin ice, aren’t I?”
“Extremely,” she teased, but her tone was still light, welcoming. “Lucky for you, the cats are forgiving. Mostly. Missy already gave you a pass, so you’re basically in.”
Jack watched her pour the coffee with a kind of reverence, like the ritual of it was grounding him. Something simple. Something normal.
Mallory set the mug in front of him, her voice dipping into something softer. “You look like you needed to find this place.”
He looked up, startled—not because she was wrong, but because she’d said it out loud.
He didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, lips pressing into a tight line before he picked up the cup and took a slow sip.
Mallory didn’t press. She just moved around him with quiet ease, giving him space while staying close enough to offer more if he wanted it. Eventually, he found a seat by the window. The same one she’d been curled into earlier, now cleared of cats. Like they knew he needed it.
The hours slipped by.
They started talking slowly, in fits and starts—about nothing at first. The coffee. The cats. The weather. But Mallory had a way of asking questions that made Jack want to answer. And she listened—not like she was waiting for her turn to speak, but like she actually cared about the in-between moments. The pauses. The sighs.
Without realizing how or when, Jack started to talk. Really talk.
About the season. About the pressure. The weight of being expected to be everything, every night. About how he couldn’t even remember the last time he played just for fun. How even on good days, he felt like he was chasing something he couldn’t name. He didn’t mention who he was. He didn’t have to. Mallory never asked.
She just sat across from him, legs curled under her, sipping tea and nodding quietly. When he stopped, she’d offer a thought, something gentle and reflective that didn’t feel like advice but helped anyway.
It was effortless. Unscripted. Safe.
And somehow, in the middle of that cozy café with jazz humming low and cats circling their feet, Jack Hughes—hockey star, exhausted athlete, public figure—let himself breathe.
When he finally looked at the time, hours had passed. The sky outside had gone from moody gray to a soft indigo. The shop was even quieter now, a few lingering customers curling up in corners with books and content kittens. Mallory stood behind the counter again, cleaning up with a rhythm born from years of closing shifts and late-night routines.
Jack stood, stretching like he was waking from a dream.
“Thanks,” he said, voice low but real. “For… I don’t know. This.”
Mallory looked over, smiling like she knew exactly what he meant. “Come back whenever. Whiskers shows up when people need it—but once you find it, it’s easier to return.”
Jack nodded, lingering in the doorway for a second. Then he stepped out into the cool night air.
And for the first time in a long time, he smiled.
Not for a fan. Not for a camera. Not because he had to.
But because he wanted to.
__
Jack didn’t plan on going back to Whiskers.
Not really. It had felt like a one-time thing—some serendipitous stop on a bad day. But the next time the pressure swelled again, sitting on his chest like armor he couldn’t get off, his feet led him there without thinking. And when he opened the door, the same warm scent of coffee and cat fur greeted him like an old friend.
No one batted an eye when he came in. Missy trotted over to him again, dignified as ever, and gave his shoes a once-over before returning to her perch by the window. Mallory was already there, at her usual table in the corner, laptop open, hair pulled back, surrounded by open textbooks and cats who insisted on lying across her notes. She looked up when the bell chimed and gave him a soft, familiar smile. Like she’d been expecting him.
From then on, he became a regular.
He didn’t always talk. Some days, he didn’t even get coffee. He just… existed. Found the seat by the window and sat with whatever book he was working through, or nothing at all. Sometimes he stared out the glass, watched the city move in its chaotic rhythm while inside, everything was quiet. Safe. Still.
There were days he came after a loss, his body heavy and tired. Days he came before a game, needing to ground himself. And days where he just needed a reminder that there was more to the world than headlines and ice time. That there were places where no one needed anything from him.
Mallory didn’t pry. That was what he liked most. She always greeted him with that same smile, then returned to her work. Her energy was calm, a quiet presence that didn’t demand attention. He learned she was finishing up a psych degree, that she helped run the café with her aunt, that she was the kind of person who read three books at once and always had pens tucked behind both ears. He also learned she had a cat named Clementine who hated car rides and a soft spot for vanilla scones.
Their conversations were scattered and slow. Shared glances over their mugs. A dry joke exchanged when a customer knocked over a display. Quiet chuckles when a kitten decided Jack’s lap was the best nap spot. But mostly, they sat in silence.
The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.
Jazz played low in the background. Mallory’s keys clicked against her laptop. The espresso machine hissed softly from the bar. A cat would leap from one chair to another. And Jack, for the first time in months, felt okay not saying a word. Just breathing. Just being.
That bond—unspoken but steady—grew in the spaces between the stillness. In the shared routines. She would slide him a drink without asking. He’d bring her a croissant from a bakery he found downtown. Neither of them acknowledged the softness curling between them. It just existed. Natural. Unrushed.
Whiskers became his sanctuary. A place untouched by expectation or fame. A place where he wasn’t Jack Hughes, hockey star.
Just Jack.
And in that little corner café with cats lounging in the sun and Mallory humming under her breath as she typed, Jack found something he hadn’t realized he’d been searching for:
Peace.
__
It didn’t take long for Luke to notice the shift.
At first, it was small things. Jack stopped snapping at reporters after games. He didn’t spend as much time glued to his phone, doom-scrolling between practices. He started showing up early to workouts. Smiling more. Laughing, even. And not the hollow, media-trained kind of laugh either—the real kind, the kind that lit up his face and softened the edges of his exhaustion.
And then came the disappearing.
Luke would be halfway through a lazy off-day, sprawled across the couch, and Jack would toss on a hoodie, grab his keys, and say, “I’m heading out for a bit.”
“To where?”
“Nowhere. Just… around.”
Luke arched an eyebrow. “That’s not a place, Jack.”
“I’m just going for a walk. Or maybe a drive.”
He never offered more than that. No details. No specifics. Just vague, noncommittal answers. And then he’d come back three hours later like someone had hit reset on his entire nervous system—relaxed, clear-eyed, a little too peaceful for someone playing in a pressure cooker like the NHL.
It was starting to freak Luke out.
One afternoon, after a tough practice and an even tougher media scrum, Jack came home humming. Humming. He dropped his bag, cracked open a bottle of water, and leaned in the doorway with the kind of serenity usually reserved for people on vacation or heavily medicated.
That was the final straw.
Luke narrowed his eyes. “Are you doing drugs?”
Jack choked on his water, coughing so hard he had to lean forward, hand braced on the wall. “What? Are you crazy? No! Jesus.”
“I don’t know, man!” Luke threw up his hands. “You disappear for hours with no explanation and come back looking like you just won a million dollars. Or just got laid. Or both.”
Jack just laughed, which only made Luke more suspicious.
“So where do you go?” he pressed.
“Nowhere.”
“Stop saying that. You can’t just ‘nowhere’ your way into this weird Zen state. I know you. You're like a caged animal half the time and now you're… this.”
Jack shrugged, trying to hide the way his lips twitched like they wanted to smile. “It’s not a big deal.”
“If it wasn’t a big deal, you’d tell me.”
That part wasn’t wrong. Jack could tell Luke. He probably should. But there was something about Whiskers he wasn’t ready to share yet. Something about that cozy little corner of the world that felt untouched by everything else in his life. He wasn’t ready to let anyone else in. Not even Luke.
So he gave another half-assed answer.
“Just a spot I found. Good coffee. That’s all.”
Luke squinted at him like he was trying to see through the lie. “You don’t even drink that much coffee.”
“Maybe I do now.”
Luke groaned dramatically, flopping onto the couch. “You’re so annoying. Just admit you’re seeing someone.”
Jack didn’t respond.
He didn’t have to respond. His silence said enough.
Luke sat up slowly. “Wait. Are you?”
Jack finally met his gaze and smirked. “Didn’t say that.”
“You are! Oh my god, you’re totally sneaking off to see someone. That’s why you’ve been all floaty and weird.”
“There’s nothing weird about it.”
“Nothing weird about being in love with a barista and hiding her from your own brother?”
“I’m not—" Jack paused. "—in love.”
Luke raised both brows.
Jack shoved him with a pillow.
“Shut up.”
Luke grinned, already pulling out his phone. “I’m gonna figure this out.”
“No, you’re not,” Jack said, and for once, his tone was firm. “Not yet.”
There was a pause.
And then Luke looked at him, just a little softer. “Okay. I’ll drop it. For now.”
Because even he could see it—whatever Jack had found, it was helping. It was healing something.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.
_
The truth?
Jack had fallen in love.
He hadn’t said the words out loud. Not even to himself. But it was there—in the way his feet carried him to Whiskers without hesitation, in the way he looked at her like she held all the quiet parts of the world in her palms. In the way just being near her was enough to make his chest loosen and his breathing slow. He wasn’t ready to explain it to anyone, not even Luke. Especially not Luke.
So he kept it to himself. Kept her to himself.
Until that night.
It was late. The apartment looked like the aftermath of a storm. Hockey sticks leaned haphazardly against the wall, gear dumped across the floor in a way that suggested frustration more than forgetfulness. A half-empty protein shake sweated on the coffee table beside a crumpled game schedule. Luke slammed the front door so hard that a picture frame rattled on the wall. He didn’t say anything right away, just paced—his strides tight, erratic, jaw clenched hard enough to crack.
The Devils were out of playoff contention. And it had gutted him.
Jack watched from the hallway, arms folded, leaning against the doorframe like he wasn’t sure if now was the time to step in or stay out. Luke didn’t get mad like this—not usually. He was intense, sure. Emotional, absolutely. But this kind of fury? It felt heavy. Personal.
Jack didn't ask. He just said, “Get in the car.”
Luke frowned, thrown. “What?”
“I’m not asking. Just come with me.”
Something in Jack’s voice silenced him. A low, steady kind of calm that didn’t leave room for argument. So Luke grabbed a hoodie, still in his joggers and sneakers, and followed his brother out the door.
The drive was quiet. Newark passed them in streaks of streetlight and shadow, the car a cocoon of tension and unspoken words. Jack didn’t say where they were going. Luke didn’t ask. The only sound was the occasional click of the turn signal and the low hum of the tires against pavement.
When they pulled up to the quiet corner of the city, the streets were quieter. Whiskers sat tucked beneath a canopy of trees, its windows glowing golden against the dark like a secret waiting to be shared. The string lights on the awning flickered gently, casting soft halos across the brick sidewalk.
Luke squinted. “A café?”
Jack was already out of the car.
The second the bell above the door chimed, Luke was hit with a wall of warmth—coffee, cinnamon, faint vanilla. The soft lilt of jazz floated through the space. Cats lounged on cushions and curled in baskets tucked between bookshelves and furniture. Mismatched chairs, faded rugs, low lighting. The place looked like it had been pulled straight from a dream.
Behind the counter stood a girl. She had soft strawberry-blonde curls tied back loosely and wore a slouchy sweater that had definitely seen a few too many cat naps. A content gray tabby nestled in her arms like royalty.
Luke slowed his steps, eyes flicking from her to Jack. Was this her? The girl Jack had been seeing? She was gorgeous, effortlessly so, and clearly comfortable in this magical, cat-infested café. Luke felt a small, unexpected flicker of disappointment. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it felt too… obvious. Too perfect.
Then Jack walked right past her.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Jack said with a grin, reaching for the cat in her arms—the regal, unbothered Missy.
Mallory handed the cat over with a knowing smile.
Jack cradled Missy like she was made of glass, his entire demeanor shifting into something almost unrecognizable—softer, lighter, like someone had peeled all the pressure off his shoulders. He crossed the room, sank into his usual corner chair, and opened a book, Missy curling into his lap like she’d been waiting.
Luke stared.
That was the girl?
Jack didn’t even glance up. Just scratched behind Missy’s ears and exhaled like this was exactly where he was meant to be.
Then a voice called out, warm and curious.
“Hi J! Who’s this?”
Luke turned—and that’s when everything tilted.
Mallory was standing a few feet away now, closer. And suddenly, Luke saw her clearly. Her eyes, a shade of green that didn’t quite make sense. Her voice, melodic and kind. Her smile—soft, genuine, like she’d known you forever.
She extended a hand. “I’m Mallory. You must be the brother.”
“Yeah. Uh. Luke.”
She smiled and motioned for him to follow her to a small table near the window. He did.
And something shifted.
Mallory had a way of talking that didn’t feel like talking. It felt like being. Like she saw people the way they didn’t even see themselves. She asked about the game without pity, about his season without poking at wounds. Her voice was smooth, steady, laced with humor and grace. When she laughed, it was this low, genuine sound that settled something deep in his gut.
He didn’t even notice the time passing. Didn’t realize he was leaning in, actually smiling, until he caught his own reflection in the window and barely recognized himself.
Somewhere in the background, Jack flipped a page and shifted Missy on his lap.
He hadn’t said a word since they walked in.
Because he didn’t need to.
Whiskers did what it always did.
And Mallory—Mallory did the rest.
Luke leaned back, eyes still on her, and exhaled the weight of the entire season.
He got it now.
He really got it.
__
Luke started going back to Whiskers.
At first, it was innocent enough. Just a second visit. Then a third. Then one day he realized he was typing the address into his GPS without thinking. The café had imprinted itself on him—the warmth, the quiet, the smell of cinnamon and fresh espresso. But more than anything, it was her.
Mallory.
She was always there when he arrived, tucked into her favorite spot with a mug in one hand and her laptop open in front of her. Sometimes she was surrounded by cats, sometimes it was just her and the quiet music humming through the café. She always looked up when he came in. Always smiled. And Luke… yeah, he felt that.
Where Jack disappeared into Whiskers like it was a sanctuary, a place to go silent and still, Luke leaned into the space differently. He didn’t want to disappear—he wanted to see. To learn. To ask questions. And more than anything, he wanted to understand the girl who made a place like this feel like a refuge.
“Back again?” Mallory asked one morning, raising a brow as Luke approached the counter.
He grinned. “Addicted. To the coffee. Obviously.”
“Obviously.” She handed him a mug without asking what he wanted. She already knew.
He sat at the bar that day, watching her move through her rhythm—refilling the pastry case, whispering something to one of the cats, rearranging a stack of well-loved paperbacks. Everything she did had intention, but never felt rushed. She moved like someone who had nowhere else to be, even though Luke knew she probably had a dozen deadlines waiting.
“What are you studying?” he asked after a while, casually sipping his coffee.
She looked over, a little surprised. “Psychology.”
“Like… therapy?”
She nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Something like that. I want to work with athletes, actually. Mental performance, pressure management, that kind of thing.”
Luke blinked. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Why?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t expect that.”
“Didn’t peg me as someone who understands sports?” she teased.
“No, I didn’t peg you as someone who understands me,” he said, quieter than he meant to.
She looked at him for a long moment. And then she smiled. “Maybe I do.”
That was how it began.
He started showing up more often. Sometimes in the mornings, grabbing a corner table while she worked behind the bar. Sometimes in the late afternoons, when the light poured through the front window and caught the gold in her hair. They started talking more. Long conversations that drifted from childhood memories to late-night game rituals to their favorite kinds of cereal.
She asked questions. Real ones. And Luke found himself answering, actually wanting to answer. He told her about growing up in a hockey family, about Michigan, about the pressure of always being someone’s little brother. She listened like she hadn’t heard those things a thousand times before. Like they meant something.
And sometimes, she talked too.
She told him about Whiskers—how her aunt had started it as a little dream project, and how she’d helped build it into what it was. She talked about losing her parents young, about how her aunt had raised her, about how cats were easier to understand than people sometimes. She laughed when he confessed he was still a dog person, and even more when Missy curled up in his lap for the first time anyway.
Luke didn’t realize how often he was showing up until Jack called him out one night.
“You’re there more than I am,” he said, lounging on the couch with his book, Missy sprawled across his chest like a queen.
“Maybe I just like cats,” Luke offered.
Jack didn’t even look up. “Maybe you like Mallory.”
Luke didn’t respond.
He didn’t have to.
__
It took Luke a few weeks—okay, maybe closer to a month—to finally ask Mallory out. Not because he didn’t want to. God, he wanted to. But there was something about her that made him nervous in a way he wasn’t used to. She was grounded, graceful in her own soft chaos, and totally unaffected by who he was. She didn’t care about NHL stats or jersey numbers. She cared about whether he slept well, whether the cats had taken to him yet, whether he’d been kind to himself that week.
She saw through him, and he liked it.
So one quiet Thursday morning, when Whiskers was still waking up and the smell of cinnamon rolls hadn’t yet left the oven, Luke leaned on the counter and said, almost casually, “Hey, do you wanna grab dinner sometime? Like, just us?”
Mallory’s eyes lifted from her tablet, a smile already forming. “Like a date?”
He nodded. “Yeah. A date.”
She didn’t hesitate. “I’d love that.”
He didn’t dare take her to a coffee shop. No way. That felt too close to home, too close to Jack’s territory. Besides, it would be weird to take a barista to drink coffee, right?
So he went for the most classic, chaotic New Jersey move he could think of.
Pizza.
He picked her up that Saturday night wearing a hoodie and a nervous grin, and drove her twenty minutes outside the city to a tiny brick oven place tucked between a car wash and a liquor store. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was his spot. The one he’d found during his first year with the Devils. The kind of place where the booths were squeaky and the paper plates were flimsy, but the sauce was perfect and the crust had that exact amount of char only Jersey could do right.
Mallory eyed the storefront with an arched brow. “You’re taking a Jersey native to your favorite pizza joint? That’s bold.”
“I know,” he grinned, opening the door for her. “You’re either gonna be really impressed or never speak to me again.”
To his immense relief, she was impressed.
They shared a pie—half pepperoni, half plain—over a checkered tablecloth and canned soda. And it was easy. So easy. The conversation flowed like it always did with her—effortless, rich with little revelations and teasing jokes. She told him about how she once tried to make her own dough and ended up with a flour explosion in her apartment. He told her about the time Jack got into a screaming match with their mom over pineapple on pizza.
She laughed so hard she had to wipe tears from the corner of her eyes.
But it wasn’t just the laughter. It was her. Luke couldn’t stop watching her. The way her eyes lit up when she told stories. The way she listened—really listened—when he spoke. The way she saw the world with this quiet sympathy that made everything feel less sharp. Less scary. It was… admirable. Magnetic. And it was messing him up, in the best way.
He drove her home, walked her to her door, and lingered there with both hands shoved in his pockets, heart thudding like it was trying to leap from his chest.
“I had a really good time,” she said, voice soft.
“Me too.”
And when she leaned up and kissed him—quick, but sure—Luke felt like the entire world tilted into place.
Later that night, after Jack had already passed out on the couch with Missy on his chest and a documentary droning in the background, Luke stepped out onto the tiny balcony with his phone and scrolled through his contacts.
He called Quinn.
“Hey, you good?” Quinn asked after the first ring. “You never call unless something’s wrong.”
“No, it’s not— It’s not bad. I just… needed to talk to you.”
There was a pause on the other end, then the familiar sound of Quinn settling into a chair. “Shoot.”
Luke rubbed a hand down his face. “I think I’m in love. Like… really in love.”
Quinn didn’t laugh. Not at first. Just let that sentence sit for a moment before replying.
“With the girl from the cat café?” he said knowingly.
Luke blinked. “How do you—?”
“Jack talks in his sleep,” Quinn deadpanned. “Apparently a lot about Missy. And someone named Mallory.”
Luke laughed, the tension breaking like a dam.
Quinn chuckled too, but his voice stayed gentle. “So you and Jack are both in love, huh? One with the barista. One with the cat.”
“Don’t say that,” Luke groaned. “It’s not like that.”
Quinn was quiet for a beat. “You really like her?”
“Yeah,” Luke admitted, his voice quieter now. “I like the way she sees people. Like they’re all worth knowing. Like nothing is ever too broken. I don’t know how to explain it… She makes everything quieter.”
There was a smile in Quinn’s voice when he replied, “Sounds like she’s your Whiskers.”
Luke let that sink in. Yeah. Yeah, maybe she was.
“And what do I do?” he asked, suddenly young and unsure.
Quinn didn’t hesitate. “You hold on to it. You show up for her, the way she shows up for everyone else. And you tell her. Not with flowers or grand gestures. Just… honestly. You tell her when you’re ready.”
Luke looked up at the sky, the stars faint through the city haze. “Thanks, Q.”
“Anytime, little bro.”
Luke hung up, slid his phone into his pocket, and stood there in the quiet.
In love. In awe. In it—completely.
And somehow, not scared at all.
__
For all the time Jack and Luke spent at Whiskers, it had taken a few weeks before they formally met Nora—the soul behind the café, the woman who’d built it from scratch and passed down her love for quiet corners, cat cuddles, and warm mugs to her niece.
Nora was soft-spoken, but fierce in the most gentle way. She wore chunky knit cardigans and always smelled faintly of peppermint oil and flour. She had this way of looking at people that made them want to sit down and tell her things—stories, secrets, fears. Mallory was clearly her mirror image in spirit, molded by kindness and quiet strength.
“She’s the reason this place exists,” Mallory had told Luke one evening, her voice soft as they watched Nora teach a young couple how to coax a shy kitten out from under the armchair. “And honestly… probably the reason I exist the way I do.”
Nora wasn’t just Mallory’s aunt. She was her anchor.
So when Luke’s phone rang late one night, vibrating loud and angry against the nightstand, he answered without hesitation.
Mallory’s name flashed on the screen.
He answered with a sleepy, “Hey, Mal?” but was met only by ragged breathing.
“Mallory?” he said again, now sitting up straight, tension lacing his voice. On the other end, she was sobbing—hysterical, broken sounds that Luke had never heard from her before.
He was instantly alert. “Mallory—what’s wrong? Are you okay? What happened?”
But her words were tangled. Mumbled. Drenched in pain. Luke tried to focus, heart racing, trying to make sense of it.
Then, finally, through the tears:
“Nora… she’s gone. Luke—she… she had a heart attack. They couldn’t—she—she didn’t make it.”
The words landed like ice water down his spine.
Without thinking, still holding the phone to his ear, Luke stumbled out of bed and crossed the hall. He shoved Jack’s shoulder once, then again, harder.
Jack startled awake, groggy and disoriented. “What the hell—?”
“Get up,” Luke said, his voice flat but shaking. “Something’s wrong.”
Jack sat up fast now, reading his brother’s face. The look in Luke’s eyes—he didn’t need more explanation.
“Mallory’s on the phone,” Luke said, his hand gripping the back of his neck. “It’s her aunt. Nora’s—she’s gone.”
Jack didn’t say a word. He just nodded, already pulling on sweatpants and grabbing his keys.
They didn’t speak in the car. Didn’t need to. The silence said enough.
When they got to the hospital, Mallory was sitting in one of those terrible plastic waiting chairs, curled into herself like she was trying to disappear. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot, her hands trembling in her lap. She looked so small. So un-Mallory. Like her light had flickered and gone out.
Luke approached slowly, kneeling down in front of her.
She looked up.
And then she broke.
She folded into him with a sob so raw it felt like it tore through the sterile white walls of the ER. Luke wrapped his arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other anchored around her waist. She clung to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world.
Jack sat quietly beside them, eyes glassy but steady. He didn’t speak. Just placed a soft hand on her shoulder.
Mallory had always been the one who knew what to say. Who had the right words at the right moment, the kind of comfort that wrapped around you like a blanket. But now?
Now she had none.
And Luke knew—this was the moment that mattered most. Because what do you do when the strongest person you know is suddenly falling apart?
You hold them.
You show up.
You say nothing, but stay anyway.
Hours passed in quiet fragments. Nurses came and went. The waiting room emptied. Mallory stayed curled against Luke, her tears dried but her eyes vacant. Luke stroked her back gently, murmuring things he didn’t even know he was saying—soft nothings, reminders that he was there, that she wasn’t alone.
At some point, she whispered, “I don’t know how to do this without her.”
Luke tightened his hold.
“What would you say to me if it were the other way around?” he asked, voice low.
Mallory was quiet.
“You’d tell me it’s okay to fall apart. That I don’t have to be strong right now. That it’s okay to lean on someone. So lean on me.”
She didn’t answer. But she didn’t pull away either.
That was enough.
__
When the will was read, no one was surprised.
Nora had always made her intentions clear in the soft, matter-of-fact way only she could: Whiskers would belong to Mallory. It had been her safe place before it ever became her responsibility. The deed was signed over, fully paid off, wrapped in quiet generosity and love. No debts. No catches. Just a little corner of the world with her name on it now.
But standing behind the counter alone that first morning, Mallory felt twenty-two in a way she never had before.
The keys jingled in her hand as she unlocked the door, her reflection in the glass looking slightly too pale, slightly too tired. She could recite the opening checklist by heart. She knew how to balance the books, how to feed the cats, how to fold biscotti bags just right. But knowing and owning were two different things.
She was still a student. She was still grieving. And now, she was running a business.
Her older cousin, who had flown in from Oregon the moment the news hit, was the only reason she was holding it together at all. He’d taken over the official business side—taxes, inventory orders, payroll—and left Mallory to focus on keeping the doors open, the espresso flowing, and the regulars feeling like nothing had changed.
But everything had changed.
Mallory pulled double shifts most days. Woke up at five to start the baking, stayed late after closing to do homework that never seemed to end. She hadn’t written a clean to-do list in weeks. The fridge at her apartment was empty. Clementine had started dragging her sock into the bed at night like a peace offering. And the exhaustion? It clung to her skin like sweat.
She didn’t complain, though. Because this place was hers now. And she had to make Nora proud.
Then one Thursday morning, after burning the muffins, forgetting to restock oat milk, and crying in the mop closet for twelve solid minutes, she stepped back behind the counter only to find two tall figures loitering near the espresso machine with entirely too much confidence.
“Morning, boss,” Luke said, already tying on one of the spare aprons.
Jack grinned beside him, flipping a bar towel over his shoulder. “We figured it’s time you trained us properly.”
Mallory blinked. “What?”
“You can’t get rid of us anyway,” Jack shrugged. “Might as well make us useful.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but Luke was already setting up the grinder with perfect form. “I Googled it,” he said with a wink. “We’re basically professionals.”
“I don’t—guys, you don’t have to do this.”
“We want to,” Luke said, voice softer now. “Let us help.”
Mallory stared at them for a beat, her eyes glassy from more than just sleep deprivation. She could argue. She could pretend she had it all under control. But she didn’t.
And God, it felt good to let someone hold part of the weight.
“Fine,” she said, grabbing a third apron and tossing it at Jack. “But if you mess up the espresso, you’re on bathroom cleaning duty for a month.”
Jack caught it midair. “Deal.”
From that day forward, the Hughes brothers became part of the Whiskers crew.
Luke handled the register—charming customers, flirting with old ladies, remembering people’s orders like it was second nature. Jack took on espresso duty with laser focus, determined to master the art of a perfect pour-over. They bickered constantly over music playlists, tripped over sleeping cats, and oversteamed milk more times than anyone could count.
But it didn’t matter.
Because Mallory wasn’t alone anymore.
They filled the café with laughter again. With extra hands and clumsy help and early morning coffee runs. Luke took over breakfast duty some mornings so she could sleep an extra hour. Jack learned how to do inventory. Mallory caught them reading How to Manage a Small Business for Dummies one night after closing and pretended not to cry.
Whiskers stayed open. And somehow, through the chaos and grief and spilled oat milk, it thrived.
Mallory often found herself pausing in the middle of it all—hands dusted in flour, hair pinned back, cats weaving through legs—just to watch the two of them. Luke flirting with a regular who was at least seventy. Jack trying to argue with Missy about which stool he was allowed to sit on.
She’d never imagined she’d love two hockey players like this. Like family. Like breath and comfort and sunrise.
The truth was, she didn’t just love the Hughes boys.
She needed them.
And they showed up for her in every way that mattered.
__
It had been weeks—months, even—since Mallory had a proper night off. The kind where she wasn’t multitasking between homework and baking, or replying to emails with flour on her cheek, or falling asleep on the café couch with Clementine purring on her chest and the sound of the espresso machine still buzzing in her ears.
Sure, Jack and Luke helped. Constantly. Relentlessly. But they were still professional athletes. There were away games, long practices, press responsibilities. And Mallory, in her ever selfless way, refused to let them take on more than they already were. Especially since they refused to accept even a dime in return for the hours they clocked in as honorary baristas.
So Luke Hughes made a plan.
A real one. An honest-to-God, no-half-measures, operation-code-named “Date Night.”
He got Jack on board first. That was easy. Jack was all in, especially when he heard it involved breaking and entering—technically—with the emergency key Mallory had given them months ago.
Then came the cousin. Mallory’s older cousin, who had become the business brain of Whiskers, gave them the official stamp of approval. As long as nothing caught fire and all the cats survived, they had a green light.
And finally, the recruits.
By midnight, the lights inside Whiskers flicked on one by one, the glow pooling across the dark sidewalk like a secret. Inside, a sight to behold: a squad of confused but eager New Jersey Devils players, sleeves rolled up and eyes wide as they stared at coffee beans, brewing guides, and—most intimidating of all—Missy, perched atop the counter like a very judgmental manager.
“Okay,” Luke clapped his hands. “If we can run power plays, we can run a damn espresso machine.”
“Speak for yourself,” Curtis muttered, already holding the milk steamer backwards.
Nico Hischier, ever the captain and certified coffee enthusiast, took his training very seriously. He had a notebook. He had questions. He had already pulled three sample shots to get his “ratios right.”
Jack, self-declared floor manager for the evening, barked out orders with Missy balanced like a loaf of bread in one arm. “Dawson, front of house. Jesper, you’re bussing tables. Don’t look at me like that—you’re tall, you can carry stuff. Nico, stop trying to make foam flowers and listen to Luke.”
“It’s a leaf!” Nico snapped.
“It’s a blob, bro.”
The chaos was immediate. Cats weaving between skates left by the front door, espresso dripping unevenly, someone accidentally knocking over a bag of biscotti.
But the effort? Impeccable.
Luke taught them everything he and Jack had learned. How to pull a shot, how to tamp the grounds just right, how to gently nudge a cat off the register without being mauled. They practiced for hours, growing a little more confident—if not a little more competent—by the minute.
By 3am, the café was spotless, the lights dimmed back to their usual glow, and the boys slipped out the door with high-fives and groggy laughs.
The next morning, Mallory showed up just before opening with dark circles under her eyes, a bag full of books, and the expectation of another long, exhausting day.
What she wasn’t expecting?
A gaggle of very tall, very smug hockey players already inside, all donning matching Whiskers aprons with varying degrees of confidence.
She blinked. “…What the hell?”
Luke popped up from behind the counter, grinning ear to ear. “Morning, sunshine.”
“Why are you here?”
Before she could even process the full scope of the invasion, Jack appeared beside her with Missy cradled in one arm and a clipboard in the other.
“Team’s here. We’ve got this. Go put on something cute. You’ve got plans.”
Mallory looked around, genuinely speechless. Nico was fiddling with the espresso machine (and yes, proudly presenting his latte art to Jesper, who clapped even though it still looked like a leaf-shaped blob). Dawson was carefully arranging the pastry case. A cat was curled up in Timo Meier’s lap while he read a children’s book aloud like it was his own kid.
It was absurd. Beautifully absurd.
Mallory opened her mouth to argue. To protest. To insist that this was her café, her responsibility, her weight to carry.
But then she looked at Luke.
He stood there by the door, coat in hand, holding it open like a promise.
And suddenly, her knees didn’t feel so steady.
So she let herself be led out into the morning air. They walked hand in hand down to the docks, the world still waking up, the air crisp and quiet around them. Luke didn’t talk much. He didn’t have to. He just walked beside her, thumb tracing soft circles over her knuckles.
They stopped at the edge of the pier. Boats rocked gently in their slips. The water glittered like glass.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said. “But you needed a break.”
She looked up at him, heart so full it almost hurt. “How do you always know?”
Luke gave a small, crooked smile and leaned in, brushing his nose against hers. “Because I read you like a book, remember?”
Mallory let out a breathy laugh, soft and full of wonder.
She kissed him.
And for a moment, the world held its breath.
Because she loved him. God, she really did.
And Luke?
Luke had known it long before now.
__
Whiskers was at max capacity—and Mallory was at her limit.
The café had quietly become one of the busiest fostering hubs in the city, thanks in no small part to the steady stream of attention it had been getting from hockey fans and latte art lovers alike. But lately? It was too much. Too many cats. Too few hands. Every time Mallory turned around, another furball needed medicine, food, or affection. She had tried to downsize, to slow adoptions until things were more manageable, but that only made the list grow longer.
And Jack? Jack was one tiny, blinking kitten away from adopting all of them.
“This one’s looking at me weird,” he said one evening, cradling a tabby in his hoodie like it was his newborn child. “I think he’s trying to tell me something.”
“Jack,” Mallory sighed.
“He said my soul is his home.”
“Jack.”
“He’s already named. Horatio.”
“JACK.”
But Luke didn’t laugh like he usually would. He watched from across the café, leaning against the counter, something quietly forming in the back of his mind. That night, Mallory passed out at the café desk again, face in a textbook, Clementine perched protectively on her shoulder. Luke tucked a blanket over her and pulled out his phone.
He had an idea.
And this time, he was going big.
Within a week, the Devils’ media team was involved. Actually, they were obsessed. Once Luke pitched the idea—an adoption event pairing each player with a foster cat—the social media interns practically burst into flames.
“It’s like… a cat draft.”
“No. No. It’s a cat red carpet.”
“Devils x Whiskers: Catwalk to Forever.”
“Stop, I’m going to cry.”
Plans moved fast. The team created promo posters. Luke personally organized the players, matching each one with a foster cat like it was fantasy hockey but furrier. The rules? Each player had to spend a few days bonding with their assigned cat, then debut them at the event in a themed outfit of their choice. Yes, even the cats had to be dressed up. Tastefully. Adorably.
Mallory didn’t know what hit her.
One minute she was trying to wrestle a tuxedo onto an uncooperative calico, and the next, she was watching Curtis Lazar strut down a mini red carpet holding a gray kitten in a sequined bow tie like it was a high-fashion handbag. Timo Meier wore matching sunglasses with his foster. Jack came out with “his” cat (Missy, obviously) in a black tutu and announced she was debuting her solo album.
But the true highlight?
Nico Hischier, cradling a shy orange tabby named Peanut Butter, who was dressed in a custom little captain’s jersey. Nico tried to act indifferent, but by the end of the night, he was lying on the floor feeding Peanut Butter treats and telling Jack, “He seems really chill. I mean… if no one else wants him, I guess he can come home with me.”
Jack screamed. Mallory cried. Missy blinked once in approval.
And somehow—miraculously—every single cat was adopted by the end of the night.
Families came, fans came, people who had never even heard of Whiskers until the Devils posted an Instagram reel of Jesper Bratt waltzing with a tabby kitten came.
And Luke?
Luke stayed in the background, smiling the whole time.
That night, after the café had been cleared out and the lights dimmed, Mallory found Luke sweeping glitter off the carpet.
She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes glassy.
“You did all of this.”
He shrugged. “You needed help.”
She stepped closer. “You got Nico to adopt a cat.”
“He loves Peanut Butter. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
“And you—” she swallowed hard, emotion catching in her throat. “You made my whole heart feel so… full.”
Luke looked up at her, and for a moment, the whole café was still. The lights twinkled low, the faint scent of espresso and fresh catnip lingered in the air, and the boy who never really saw himself as anything more than a hockey player was suddenly the reason everything worked.
Mallory cupped his face in her hands and kissed him slow.
“You’re my Whiskers,” she whispered. “You know that?”
He smiled against her lips. “I was really hoping you'd say that.”
And from her cozy little café filled with love, fur, and far too much glitter—Mallory knew something with absolute certainty:
Luke Hughes wasn’t just the boy she loved.
He was home.
__
The morning after the adoption event was quiet.
For once, Whiskers didn’t open at its usual hour. A printed sign hung crookedly on the door, written in Mallory’s neat handwriting:
Closed for the morning. Thank you for all the love. See you this afternoon.
Inside, the café was still. Sunlight filtered in through the front windows, scattering soft gold across the floorboards. A few of the permanent resident cats lounged in their usual spots—Missy on her throne of a cushion behind the counter, Clementine perched on the window ledge like a queen surveying her kingdom.
In the back, the tiny staff room smelled like fresh linens and vanilla. And in the corner, curled up together on the old loveseat that barely fit one person, let alone two, were Luke and Mallory.
She wore his Devils hoodie, sleeves swallowed over her hands. He wore a Whiskers apron that had definitely seen better days and smelled vaguely like cinnamon and cat treats. Their legs were tangled together, and Mallory’s head rested on his chest, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breathing.
It had been a whirlwind—the red carpet, the press, the laughter, the chaos—and now there was only this: the quiet after.
Luke stirred first. He blinked slowly, taking in the way the light danced in Mallory’s hair, the way her fingers curled into the hem of his hoodie like she didn’t want to let go. He didn’t move. Didn’t want to.
His heart was full. His world was soft. And she was here.
Mallory shifted, murmuring sleepily, “Are the cats making coffee without us?”
He chuckled. “Missy’s working the register. I think she’s unionizing.”
She smiled against his chest. “Good. It’s about time someone did.”
They stayed like that for a while. No pressure to move, no rush to clean or prep or respond to emails. Just silence, interrupted occasionally by a distant purr or the creak of an old chair settling.
Eventually, Mallory sat up, stretching and yawning like one of the cats. Luke watched her, chin resting on his palm, totally, hopelessly gone.
She caught him staring.
“What?”
He just smiled. “Nothing. You’re just… glowing. You know that?”
Her cheeks pinked. “I think that’s exhaustion.”
“Nope. It’s joy. And cat hair.”
“Mostly cat hair,” she agreed, brushing a tuft from her sleeve.
He sat up, hands finding her waist, thumbs pressing into her sides gently. “I meant what I said yesterday,” he told her. “You’re it for me. You always have been. I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never have to carry anything alone.”
Mallory’s eyes stung. The good kind of sting.
“I love you,” she whispered, pressing her forehead against his. “So much, it scares me sometimes.”
“Good,” Luke said. “That means we’re doing it right.”
A soft knock came from the front of the café.
They both froze.
Jack’s voice called out, muffled through the door. “If you’re decent, I brought muffins. If you’re not decent… I’m still coming in.”
Mallory snorted. Luke groaned.
But when they stood, when they opened the door and saw Jack standing there in sweats, holding a bakery bag in one hand and Missy tucked under the other like a furry football, Mallory smiled so wide it hurt her cheeks.
The rink is cold. Not just the kind that stings your nose and cheeks—this cold is bone-deep. Lonely. The kind that settles in your chest and makes your heart feel hollow.
Will leans against the boards during warmups, his stick clutched loosely in one gloved hand. The San Jose Sharks crest weighs heavy on his chest tonight, heavier than it ever has. He should be proud—rookie year, NHL dream realized, playing on the biggest stage in the world.
But all he feels is empty.
Because when he glances up at the stands, he knows she's not there.
She used to be. Every game. Every practice, when she could swing it. Always in that same hoodie—his hoodie—her coffee clasped in both hands like it was the only thing keeping her warm. Or grounded.
April Murray. The girl who knew him before all of this. Who sat with him through draft night, who helped him pick out his first apartment, who walked him through his first panic attack when the pressure of being Will Smith, top pick, future of the franchise became too much to breathe through.
And he let her go.
No—he pushed her away.
He doesn't even remember when it started. Maybe it was after the third game of the season when the headlines started turning. Promising, but inconsistent. Maybe it was when the media began comparing him to players he'd grown up idolizing, asking why he wasn't already there yet. Maybe it was the fourth night in a row he stayed late watching film, trying to be everything for a team that didn't even know how to support him back.
He started canceling plans. Ignoring her texts. Tuning her out when she tried to talk to him about anything not hockey. He blamed it on stress, on timing. On things she couldn't understand.
But she did understand. She always did.
And eventually, she stopped trying.
"Will, I'm not asking you to give it up," she'd said once, quiet and careful. "I just need to know that I still matter to you. That we still matter."
He'd scoffed. Cold. Tired. Empty. "I don't have time for this right now, April."
"Right. You never do."
She didn't cry. Not in front of him.
She just left.
He thought she'd come back. She always had before.
But this time—she didn't.
It's been three weeks since she moved out. Since she left her key on the counter and didn't say goodbye.
And Will? He hasn't scored a point since.
The team says it's a slump. A rough patch. The media calls it nerves. Rookie inconsistency. But Will knows what it really is.
He's a mess without her. A complete f*cking mess.
The kind that can't be taped over or fixed in the weight room. The kind that doesn't go away with a win.
She was the only thing keeping him grounded, keeping him human. And he treated her like a footnote to his career.
Now he's skating on autopilot. Eating alone. Sleeping in a bed that feels too big and too cold. Going home to a condo that still smells like her shampoo and can't be aired out, no matter how many windows he opens.
After the game, he sits in the locker room long after the others have cleared out. His head in his hands, the sharp scent of sweat and gear clawing at his throat.
His phone is on the bench beside him. A message unsent. It's been there for days.
"I'm sorry. I miss you. I don't know who I am without you."
He doesn't send it. Because it's too little, too late.
And maybe she's already moved on.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Will used to call her his "safe zone." Not to her face—he didn't know how to say that kind of thing back then. But she was. Every time the weight of being Will Smith, the phenom, got too heavy, he'd end up at her off-campus apartment. No questions. No lectures. Just soft music playing from her speaker, ramen on the stove, and her voice cutting through the noise like sunlight through blinds.
It didn't matter that she had three midterms the next day. Or that she'd been pulling double shifts at the campus bookstore just to make rent. When Will called—she answered.
Always.
The first time he cried in front of her, he was sitting on her tiny futon, head in his hands, the pressure of the Frozen Four and NHL scouts looming over his shoulders like ghosts.
"I'm not ready," he'd said. "Everyone thinks I'm ready, but I'm not. I don't even know who I am without hockey."
April didn't try to fix it. She didn't tell him he was wrong or feed him the same lines his coaches did. She just crawled in beside him and pulled his head into her lap, running her fingers through his curls until the shaking in his chest finally stopped.
"You're still Will," she whispered. "You're still mine."
And for that night, it was enough.
She missed her sister's wedding to fly to Denver for the Hockey East semifinals.
She called in sick to her internship when he had food poisoning and was throwing up between classes.
She sat in hospital waiting rooms when he got concussed freshman year—even though no one would tell her if she was "family."
She was. She always had been. She just never needed the title.
And what did he do when he finally made it?
He forgot.
He let the weight of the NHL chew up his time and spit out his patience. She became background noise—until one day, she was gone, and the silence was deafening.
Now he walks through his condo like a ghost, brushing past memories like cobwebs. Her hoodie still hangs on the coat rack. Her mug is still on the counter. The photos are still framed on the mantle—Boston, Denver, Nashville.
She was always there.
Until she wasn't.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
The worst part wasn't that Will forgot their anniversary.
Or that he left the pasta she made untouched on the counter three nights in a row.
It wasn't even that he stopped texting goodnight.
The worst part was how he used to care.
Back then, it was little things.
Him dropping off coffee before her 8 a.m. class.
Reminding her to eat during midterms.
Crawling onto her dorm bed with his laptop open just so she wouldn't feel so alone during late-night study marathons.
"I'll quiz you," he'd offer, head on her stomach, eyes fluttering half-shut from practice. "Just don't make me read the long-ass definitions."
She'd laugh. Toss a pen at his forehead. He'd grin like she hung the stars.
That Will—the one who saw her, who wanted to take care of her too—that's the one she fell in love with.
But the version she followed to San Jose?
The one that let hockey consume him?
That Will barely remembered she existed.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
She tried to be understanding. God, did she try.
He was under pressure. Rookie year. Big expectations.
So she didn't say anything when the late practices turned into full nights at the rink.
Didn't complain when he forgot to call.
Didn't show him the tears after another solo dinner eaten over the sink.
She told herself it was just a phase.
He loved her. He was just overwhelmed.
So she picked up the pieces. Of him. Of their life. Of herself.
Every rescheduled date, every night he stumbled in hours after midnight with nothing but apologies and excuses—she forgave.
She was fighting her own battles too.
Online school had been brutal. Isolation made it worse. Her professors didn't care that she lived on Pacific Time. Her friends were all back in Boston. She'd built a whole life there—one she gave up for him.
But she didn't tell him.
He already had too much on his plate.
So she swallowed the words every day until they burned holes in her chest.
Then one day, the letter came.
She almost didn't open it—thought it might be another bill or course notice. But her hands shook as she peeled it open.
"Congratulations. You have fulfilled all requirements for graduation..."
She reread it six times.
Finished. Done.
Four years of work in two and a half. Through COVID. Through relocations. Through loneliness.
She looked around their apartment—no, his apartment—and realized he didn't even know she'd been close.
Hadn't asked.
Hadn't cared.
The excitement turned bitter in her mouth.
So she did what she never thought she would.
She packed a bag.
Called the one person she knew would understand.
Grace.
Will's sister picked her up from the airport that night.
Neither of them spoke for the first five minutes of the drive. Then Grace reached over and took her hand.
"You should've told me sooner."
April's voice cracked. "I didn't want to make you pick sides."
"I would've picked you anyway."
April didn't leave a note.
She didn't need to.
He wouldn't have read it.
And to this day, she knows he still doesn't understand.
He knows he pushed her away—knows he f*cked up—but he doesn't know what day it was.
Doesn't know the meaning it held.
Doesn't know that he missed her biggest moment—because he never thought to ask.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
The air was crisp. Familiar. Healing.
April stood in her cap and gown, surrounded by the people who mattered.
Grace. Her old roommates. Her professors. People who saw her, celebrated her, even when she wasn't holding anyone else up.
They took a photo.
Grace posted it later that night.
"Proudest sister moment. Congrats to April for finishing her degree in record time. You're everything and more."
April's smile in that photo was real.
She never saw Will's reaction.
But Grace did.
And she never took the post down.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Will wasn't even looking at Grace's Instagram when it happened.
One of the rookies was scrolling beside him on the team plane, laughing about some TikTok when he paused and went, "Yo, isn't this your sister?"
Will looked over.
And there it was.
April.
In a cap and gown.
Grinning, radiant, unrecognizable—in the worst way.
"Congrats to April for finishing her degree in record time."
The words blurred.
Four years. Two and a half.
She never told him.
He didn't even know she'd finished.
Didn't know the day she left was the day she got that letter.
Didn't know anything.
His stomach twisted into knots.
And worse—Grace knew.
His own sister knew and never said a word.
The next few days, Will couldn't get the image out of his head.
She looked so proud. So sure of herself.
So gone.
His hands shook every time he picked up his phone, hovered over her name. But he never hit send.
When Grace and the family came to San Jose for a home game, it started civil.
Until it wasn't.
It was after dinner. Everyone had gone back to the hotel except Will and Grace. The air was stiff, sharp with unsaid things. Grace stood at the window, arms folded, jaw tight.
Will broke first.
"You couldn't tell me?" His voice cracked. "You let me find out on fcking Instagram*?"
Grace turned slowly, face hard. "You didn't exactly ask."
"Are you serious right now?" he snapped. "She graduated, Grace. I didn't even know she was close!"
"And whose fault is that?"
His hands clenched. "You knew. You picked her up from the airport and didn't say a word. That's—" he choked, voice rising, "—that's a betrayal."
Grace's eyes burned. "No, Will. You betrayed her."
The silence cracked like glass.
"You think I wanted to keep it from you?" she spat. "I had to pick up her pieces because you left her so f*cking shattered she couldn't breathe without crying."
Will staggered back like she'd punched him. "Grace—"
"She used to be everything to you," Grace pushed forward, voice shaking. "She gave up her life, her school, her friends—for you. She didn't ask for much, Will. Just to be seen. Just to feel like she still mattered."
"She did matter," Will argued, weakly.
Grace laughed, bitter and cold. "Then why didn't you act like it?"
He couldn't answer.
"She didn't tell you how hard school was getting," she continued, relentless. "She didn't tell you how alone she felt. You stopped asking. You stopped caring. She cooked you dinners you never touched. She sat alone in your apartment every night waiting for you to come home—hoping you'd remember she existed."
Will turned away, chest heaving, blinking hard against the sting in his eyes.
Grace wasn't done.
"She left on the day she got her graduation letter. You didn't notice. You didn't text. You didn't even call."
He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I didn't know—"
"Exactly," Grace snapped. "That's the problem. You didn't know. You didn't even try to know."
Will dropped into a chair, like the weight finally hit him. Hard.
"She won't go near a rink," Grace added, quieter now. "Not even to watch me coach. She says it makes her sick. You make her sick."
Will stared down at the floor.
"She loved you so much, Will. And you broke her."
The room buzzed with silence. A silence full of anger. Of grief. Of truth.
Will couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
The guilt closed around his chest like a noose.
He wanted to scream. Cry. Take it all back.
But the past didn't give do-overs.
That night, he didn't sleep.
He sat in the dark of his condo, scrolling through old photos, old texts, old videos.
April in Boston. April on the beach. April half-asleep in his hoodie, laughing at something he'd said off-camera.
He didn't even know that version of her anymore.
And she sure as hell didn't know this version of him.
He was a complete mess.
Without her.
Because of her.
Because of him.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Three Years Later
The Boston air smelled like old memories. Like the streets they used to walk, fingers laced between them. Like the rain that had soaked their jackets on late-night campus runs. Like the laughter that once echoed through the Smiths' home when everything still felt whole.
Will was back, older now. Calmer. The NHL didn't rattle him anymore. He'd weathered the pressure, the slumps, the spotlight. But no matter how far he came in his career, he never quite got over her.
He didn't even try.
He never fell in love again. How could he, when no one else even came close?
Grace's engagement party was loud—too many people packed into their childhood home, voices overlapping, champagne flutes clinking. Everyone was glowing, buzzing with joy.
Everyone except Will.
His chest had been tight the entire night, breath caught just under his ribs. Because she was here.
April.
She hadn't changed—at least not in the ways that mattered. Still graceful without trying, still holding herself with that quiet strength. But she was sharper around the edges now. More careful with her smiles. Especially when they were aimed at him.
She didn't look at him the way she used to.
He spent half the night trying to catch her eye. Half the night staring at the empty spot next to him at the dinner table where she should've been. Where she used to always be.
And the other half? He spent wondering if she hated him.
He caught glimpses of her—drifting between rooms, helping Grace in the kitchen, laughing softly with people he didn't recognize. But every time he inched closer, she slipped away. Like a ghost. Like muscle memory.
He almost gave up.
Until he saw her again—alone—in the kitchen.
She was restocking a bowl of crackers, hands moving mechanically, a furrow in her brow like she was willing herself to focus on anything but the memories pressed into these walls.
And then she froze.
She didn't need to look. She felt him.
Will stood in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, voice barely above a whisper.
"Can we talk?"
She didn't answer right away. He thought she might say no. Thought she might walk past him the same way she had all night.
But finally, she gave a small nod. Reluctant. Steady. And without a word, they climbed the stairs—like muscle memory.
His childhood room looked exactly the same.
Posters on the wall. Hockey trophies collecting dust. The twin bed still creaking under the weight of too many conversations never finished.
April sat on the edge, hands resting in her lap. Will sat across from her, just barely touching the opposite end of the mattress. The space between them felt like a chasm.
He couldn't look at her at first.
Couldn't even breathe.
He wanted to say so many things—had rehearsed them in the mirror, in hotel rooms, on empty plane rides across the country. But now, nothing came out.
Until—
"Congratulations," he said quietly. "I never got to say it to you. Not on the day. Not in person. But... I want you to know I'm so proud of you. I was then. I still am now."
April's eyes flicked up. Just barely.
He kept going.
"I don't know how I f*cked up so much that I let the one thing that was always so good to me slip away. But god, April. I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve any of that."
His voice cracked.
"You were always there. Always. And I—I took that for granted. I let the game chew me up and spit me out and I just... I let you disappear without ever realizing what I was losing. And by the time I did—it was too late."
He finally looked up. She was watching him.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't cry. Not yet.
"I replay that year in my head all the time," he whispered. "And I think about everything I missed. Everything I should've seen. The way you kept trying. The way you kept choosing me. And I didn't even see how much it cost you to do that."
His hands trembled in his lap.
"I should've asked. I should've noticed. And I didn't. I didn't even know you graduated until I saw it on Grace's f*cking Instagram. And I should've been there. For that. For all of it."
The silence between them buzzed.
Then April's voice, soft but sure:
"It's okay, Will."
He blinked.
She was staring at her hands. Then she looked up.
"I used to think it would never stop hurting. That what you did—what you didn't do—would follow me forever." She paused. Swallowed. "But I grew up too. And I see it differently now. We were young. You were drowning. And I was too scared to admit that I was, too."
She looked down again, her thumbs rubbing circles over each other.
"You hurt me. A lot. But... I know you didn't mean to."
They stayed like that for a long moment.
Then slowly, like gravity pulled them together, they leaned forward. Their foreheads touched, eyes closed. Breathing in the moment. The years. The ache.
His voice came out like wind through a cracked window—shaky, fragile, but certain.
"I still love you so much, April. I never stopped. And I'm sorry I did that to you."
He felt her inhale, felt her hands twitch against her thighs. Then:
"I still love you too, Will."
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It didn't need to be.
Because even after all this time—
Even after all the distance—
They were still in sync.
