#gabo

PAIRING ▸ gabe perreault gp94 x reader 

GENRES ▸ fluff, mutual crush, meet cute, oblivious reader, gabe HATTY

SUMMARY ▸ your morning routine is simple: the same coffee shop, the same iced caramel latte, the same ten minutes before work. it also, apparently, includes your quiet coffee shop crush who orders cold brew under the name “dan.” you just didn’t realize he’s also a professional hockey player.

WORD COUNT ▸ 4.1k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ hi welcome to an incredibly self-indulgent gabo fic UR HONOR I LOVE HIM :) but GABO HATTY WHAT A STAR!!!!!! im so happy for him <3 also enjoy the perrempe if you squint sorry im a #truther and happy easter if you celebrate!

this also references the video of gabe from us dev where he apparently said dan as his name for food? oh gabe ur so weird lets get married!

(p.p.s if u r reading this i just realized my account wasn’t set to let other ppl/recommended see (bruh) until today so ill be linking my master list below!)

in this world, the only certain things in life are death, taxes, and you getting your morning coffee.

to that end, there’s a strict routine.

every morning, before becoming a slave to the corporate machine (i.e your desk job), you stop at the tiny coffee shop two blocks from your apartment and order the exact same thing: a small iced caramel latte, light ice. nothing more, nothing less.

same coffee shop, same time, same barista who writes your name slightly too large on the cup. and at times, spells your name wrong, whether that be on purpose or not.

you get your coffee, sit at the little window counter for exactly ten minutes, mentally prepare yourself for another day of emails and meetings that could have been emails, and then drag your feet to work.

it’s extremely predictable, as you were a woman of routine after all.

which is why the first time you notice him, it’s because he disrupts the routine. not in a dramatic way, but just enough to make you look up.

the barista calls out from behind the counter. “large cold brew for dan!”

and for some reason, amidst your ten minute window sulk, you glance up. the guy standing next to the pickup counter grabs it.

you shamelessly check him out: he's tall, dark curly hair, rangers shirt, big nose. the kind of quiet guy who looks like he just rolled out of bed but still somehow looks good doing it. your type to a t.

he nods at the barista. “thanks.”

then he turns and almost runs straight into you as you're leaving. 

“oh—sorry,” he says quickly, a sheepish look pulling onto his features.

you reply without thinking, a polite smile on your own. "you're good, no worries."

he pauses, just for a second. you revel in the way he also seems to check you out, in your work clothes and all, and you enjoy the momentary ego boost. 

then he smiles, a gorgeous thing. “…yeah, thanks.”

and leaves. you sip your latte, already forgetting about the entire interaction.

after all, people come and go from this coffee shop every day. it's also new york, and you see attractive people approximately every two hours: celebrities, influencers, even the random ny knicks player you saw on raya and didn't end up matching with last week.

it’s not like you’ll see him again.

except you do.

it's a week later.

same small coffee shop, with the barista scribbling names onto cups like she’s practicing calligraphy, and sometimes her spelling.

you’re halfway through your daily ten-minute existential crisis at the window counter, zoned out to the unfortunate benson boone blasting in the shop, when you notice him again.

it’s him: tall guy, same rangers shirt situation, but today there’s a black cap pulled low over his curls like he’s trying to stay a little under the radar. it gives him a slightly mysterious, joe-from-you-esque vibe. almost…incognito.

he’s sitting at one of the small tables near the wall, and you hear his quiet, soft voice on the phone, amused, "no, rempe, i don't think you can run a kids camp after-"

and then the barista calls it again. “cold brew for dan!”

you glance up automatically, because apparently your brain has already filed that away as information worth remembering.

he grabs the cup, nods his thanks, then he adjusts the brim of the cap a little lower, like he’s used to keeping his head down in public. he then turns right as you’re walking past his table he's sitting at. 

you think you'll just walk by, but when you glance at him to again (shamelessly) check him out for a second time, he surprisingly smiles at you, silently nodding a greeting.

you pause just long enough to say, casually, “morning, dan.”

he looks up from his phone call. there’s a split second where he clearly did not expect you saying his name. then his mouth twitches slightly, like he’s trying not to laugh. “…morning, y/n.”

he says it like he’s amused about something. you assume he’s just not a morning person. which, fair.

you also note how he now knows your name, probably also hearing the barista like you did.

so with that and an extra pep in your step, you grab your bag, finish your coffee, and leave.

but after that, it becomes a thing. not an intentional thing. just, a kinda, routine thing.

some mornings he’s already there when you walk in: sat with his cold brew sweating in front of him, usually in some sort of cap or beanie to conceal his dark curls, and many times on the phone with a loud man you've gathered to be named rempe?

some mornings you’re the one sitting at the counter first: iced caramel latte, peering out the window, and usually wishing you were laid out on some sort of tropical vacation.

but somehow, around the exact same time every morning, you end up occupying the same two corners of the same tiny coffee shop. and eventually the two of you start talking.

although, not full conversations. just little things. small talk, whatnot, and the like.

“busy today?” you ask once while stirring your latte.

he glances up from his phone. “always.”

you nod like that makes complete sense, but you appreciate the little rapport between you two.

another morning he asks, “what do you do?”

you gesture vaguely, not wanting to get into boring details that would surely put anyone to sleep.

“corporate stuff. not too important."

he laughs quietly at that. “sounds thrilling.”

“oh trust me, it’s not.” you playfully roll your eyes.

he smiles, “i believe you.”

then, you ask what he does.

he shrugs a little, nonchalantly, “sports stuff. not too important.”

you nod like that’s a perfectly normal, completely explanatory answer. but you let it slide because it's not like your answer was any better. just adds on to his mysterious allure, i guess. 

you smile back at him, “sounds thrilling.”

even some mornings the shop gets too crowded and you end up sitting across from each other. the tables are tiny anyway, and you end up close enough that your knees bump under the table if neither of you is paying attention. but neither of you care enough to move your knees away.

and you seem to very much like this coffee shop crush that's developing.

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one morning, the calm shop is unusually loud. not exactly crowded or loud, just chattier than normal.

there’s a small TV mounted above your usual designated table that usually plays muted morning news, but as you walk in, today someone has changed it to a hockey highlight reel.

you barely notice at first, with your back to the tv.

until the barista groans from behind the counter. “i swear if the rangers blow another lead tonight i'm quitting.”

that gets your attention.

you glance up toward the TV just as a replay starts. some player in red and blue, with his back to the camera, skates down the ice, with quick hands, makes a quick shot, crowd roaring in the background.

you don’t really follow hockey, as you grew up definitely more of a basketball fan, but even you can tell it’s impressive.

behind you in line, you hear a huff and a quiet laugh. you glance back, noticing it's dan, clad in all black and his now signature black cap.

you make a face at him, “what?”

he shakes his head, clearly amused. “nothing.”

you narrow your eyes suspiciously, but you remember the few times you've seen him in rangers gear, and assume he's agreeing with the illiterate barista. “you a big rangers fan?"

he smiles, “something like that.”

you gesture vaguely toward the screen. “do people actually fight like that all the time? like elbowing in the face and everything?”

he glances up at the TV, then back at you, the smile never leaving his face. “…sometimes.”

you study him for a second, wondering why he's suddenly become mr. smiley, then shrug. “seems stressful, i don't think i could ever do it.”

then the barista calls out your order. “small iced caramel latte, for y/n.” you then realize your name is a letter off, but still sit at your table.

later, post your ten-minute window yearning, when about to leave, you pass dan’s table, then pause.

“what's a rangers game like?” the question comes out before you even realize you’re asking it.

he blinks down at his phone, then looks up at you, a little taken aback at the directness of the question. “a rangers game?”

you nod, "you're a fan, aren't you? don't tell me you've never been to a game. "

he smirks a little, but you miss the playful lilt in his tone. “yeah, those are pretty fun. they've got some real good players too.”

you nod your thanks in appreciation, continuing your rant. "my friend has…courtside? rink-side? whatever hockey calls it, seats. she says we're across the bench, for allegedly 'optimal viewing pleasure' …whatever that means. but personally i've never been a huge fan, i'm being dragged to this.”

he raises an eyebrow and laughs a little more, “dragged?”

“she also said and i quote: ‘live sports will fix your opinion.' i've never been to a hockey game before so guess there's only way to see.”

that makes him laugh again. “did it work?”

“i’ll let you know.”

you grab your bag and head for the door, waving goodbye. “see you tomorrow.”

there’s a small pause behind you. then,

“yeah,” he says softly. “see you.”

you do not, at that moment, realize two things.

one: that "dan" watches you leave every single morning, right before he leaves for rangers morning ice practice.

and two: that the player who just scored on the TV behind you last night, number 94, looks suspiciously familiar.

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madison square garden, during a new york rangers game, is a lot.

you realize this almost immediately, literal seconds into walking into the arena.

it’s loud. like really loud. the kind of loud where the entire building vibrates every time someone so much as bumps into the boards. overstimulation central. 

your friend, meanwhile, is thriving in all the chaos, the hockey fan she is.

“isn’t this amazing?” she yells over the music blasting through the arena.

you glance around at the crowd, the lights, the giant scoreboard hanging above the ice. “i mean…it’s definitely something.”

“you’ll get into it, i swear,” she promises. “everyone gets into it.”

you remain skeptical, even while wearing the rangers hoodie she basically chucked in your face an hour before.

but the seats are good, like really good. close enough that you can see the players skating past the bench right across you, helmets flashing under the lights.

close enough that when the rangers take the ice for warmups, you can actually make out faces.

you sip your emotional support alcoholic drink of choice, watching casually and getting more hype by the second.

until, you pause.

because one of the players skating, number 94, looks oddly familiar as he flies by.

dark hair, skinny frame, same slightly awkward posture you’ve seen a hundred times leaning over a tiny coffee shop table.

you squint, mostly talking to yourself. “…wait.”

but then your friend looks over in curiosity, pausing her extreme yelling for a puck, thank god. “what?”

you gesture toward the ice. “that guy.”

she glances over. “which one?”

you hesitate. because the player is already skating away. “…never mind.”

because that would be insane. so incredibly insane. there are millions of handsome, tall guys with dark hair in new york. you shake it off.

but your eyes keep going to 94, perreault. you notice that he's making laps around the rink, seemingly scanning the crowd.

you notice that he's making laps around the rink, seemingly scanning the crowd and focusing across the bench. like he's looking for someone.

your brain tries very hard not to make that someone you.

then he skates past your section again. closer this time.

and suddenly, his head turns. your stomach drops. because his eyes land directly on you. not just in your direction.

on you.

for a split second he slows, like he’s making sure. then his mouth pulls into a small, familiar smile. the same crooked, extremely charming one he gives you over a cold brew and a tiny coffee shop table.

your heart stops.

because he lifts his glove, and gives you a quick little wave. it's not even a big dramatic wave, just a small one, casual, basically just lifting his hand. like this is a completely normal thing to do during warmups at madison square garden. in front of 19,000 people.

but it's undeniably directed right towards you. so you stare back at him, completely frozen. if fight or flight were the main two psychological responses, you must've unlocked some secret third one where your mind, body, and soul were in absolute paralysis. holy fuck.

“…oh my god,” you whisper.

your friend turns toward you immediately, and her light hand on your shoulder could tip you over. “...oh my GOD.”

you eventually kick-start your brain after a few seconds, and wave a weak hand absolutely pathetically, all done wordless. you don't even want to think about what your face looks like at the moment.

then he's already skating away again, pushing off toward the blue line, leaving you with a single last grin. motherfucker.

your friend squints at the jersey. PERREAULT.

then she slowly turns toward you. “…why did gabe perreault just wave at you.”

you press both hands to your face, hoping your hands could shield you from all the stares you were getting. “that’s dan.”

she stares. “…who the hell is dan.”

“my coffee shop friend…crush…situation…”

your friend blinks: once, twice, then her eyes get very wide. “…your coffee shop crush-situationship,” she repeats slowly, like she’s trying to process the words one by one, “is gabe perreault.”

you peek at her through your fingers.“…apparently? and i thought his name was dan!”

she grabs your arm, hard. “you have been flirting with a new york ranger over iced lattes? ”

you stare back at her, “i didn’t know he was a new york ranger! his name is gabe?”

“you told me he literally wears rangers merch!”

“in my defense, i thought he was just really supportive!”

she stares at you like you’ve personally offended the entire sport of hockey. “that man,” she says, pointing dramatically toward the ice, “is literally the future of the rangers.”

you slowly lower your hands from your face. “…you’re kidding.”

“i am absolutely not kidding.”

you glance back toward the ice. gabe, dan?, gabe is skating another lap during warmups.

and for a split second, like he can feel you looking, he glances back toward your section again.

your friend notices immediately. “…oh my god.”

“please stop.”

“he’s doing it again. look back and smile.”

“no, stop.”

“he’s literally looking right at you.”

“stop.”

she leans closer to you, whispering like this is the most serious gossip of her life. “does he know you’re here?”

you think about the wave, the grin, the fact that you have called this man dan for the last three weeks. “…yes.”

“how.”

“i may have told him i was coming to the game.” you groan into her, "and i may have also told him you were dragging me here."

she slaps your arm, “YOU INVITED YOURSELF TO WATCH YOUR COFFEE SHOP CRUSH PLAY IN THE NHL?”

“I DIDN’T KNOW HE WAS IN THE NHL!”

she stares at you, then slowly shakes her head. “…this is the craziest meet cute i’ve ever witnessed.”

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the game starts. and suddenly everything is happening very fast.

people yelling, sticks clashing, pucks flying. and you try to focus on the game, you really do. but unfortunately, number 94 is very noticeable. and it is extremely hard to take your eyes off of him.

every time he touches the puck your friend grabs your arm, which will probably bruise at this point. “your man has the puck.”

“y/f/n, please stop calling him that.”

“he's skating toward us.”

“stop narrating.”

then, it happens. perreault steals the puck near center ice. he cuts down the left side, quick hands, faster feet.

the goalie drops. the puck snaps into the net. and the arena absolutely erupts.

your friend screams. “GOAL!”

you glance up at the scoreboard. PERREAULT GOAL!

your friend is shaking your arm now, jumping. “THAT'S YOUR COFFEE BOY.”

“HE IS NOT MY—” but you don't even bother to finish the sentence, the infectious energy causing you to laugh instead.

on the ice, gabe is smiling as his teammates crash into him. and for just a second, he looks up again.

right toward your section. right toward you. and you swear, he’s trying not to laugh.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

the second goal happens so fast you almost miss it.

one second the puck is pinned against the boards near the blue line. the next second gabe somehow slips it free, cuts through two defenders like it’s nothing, and snaps the puck past the goalie.

the arena detonates. again.

your friend is now fully standing, now high fiving people around her. “OH MY GOD.”

you barely process what just happened. because as the celebration breaks out, gabe skates past your section. and this time, instead of just glancing up, he taps the glass. twice. with his glove. right in front of you.

your friend loses her mind. “HE KNOWS YOU!”

you're at a loss for words, "oh my god.”

shes absolutely geeked, “HE JUST TAPPED THE GLASS AT YOU.”

“i saw.” your heart is beating so fast.

“THIS IS SO ROM COM. I THINK THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE! ” you're unsure if it's still your friend or just the alcohol talking.

you sink low into your seat. “i am never returning to that coffee shop. i simply cannot.”

“oh you absolutely are.”

then something worse happens. much worse. because minutes later, suddenly the arena music cuts out.

and the giant scoreboard above center ice flashes to life. FAN CAM

your friend gasps, standing and waving her hands. “oh my god. we have to get on it.”

you don’t even have time to react before, both your faces appear on the jumbotron, and you notice the camera only a few feet away.

massive, twenty feet tall, staring back at you in high definition. you freeze instantly: fight, flight, or the mysterious third option: complete psychological shutdown.

“…no.”

your friend grabs your shoulders and starts shaking you as she's pulling every dance move in history, “WAVE.”

your teeth are clenched, “absolutely not.”

“YOU HAVE TO.”

“i am going to die. you will never see me again.”

the camera zooms in slightly, the crowd around you starts cheering. you reluctantly lift your hand and give what you think may be the most awkward wave in human history. the arena erupts in applause.

and then, the camera cuts to the ice. to number 94, gabe perreault, who is standing near the bench. holding his stick vertically with his arms on it and grinning. right at the screen, right at you.

your friend screams directly into your ear. “HE'S SMILING AT YOU, literal heart eyes.”

you think this may be some sort of humiliation ritual, “i am literally going to move cities.”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

five minutes left in the game. you are mentally exhausted, emotionally unstable, and fully aware that the hockey player you’ve been calling dan for three weeks has now scored twice.

then it happens again. the puck rebounds loose in front of the empty net. gabe is already there and he taps it in clean. goal.

the building explodes. hats start flying everywhere, literally everywhere.

the announcer’s voice booms through the arena. “HAT TRICK FOR GABE PERREAULT!”

you sit there in stunned silence: hats rain down onto the ice, gabe skates through the celebration, laughing with his teammates.

and then, once again, for the last time, during his victory lap, his eyes lift toward your section. toward you.

your friend leans into your ear. “…you are never beating the allegations.”

you bury your face in your hands. “i am never going back to that coffee shop.”

but across the ice, gabe perreault grins like he already knows exactly what tomorrow morning is going to look like.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

the next morning, against your better judgment, you still get your coffee.

because routines are important. also because pretending none of that happened feels significantly easier than changing your entire life schedule to avoid one very specific hockey player.

so you walk the two blocks to the coffee shop, you order the same thing.

“small iced caramel latte, light ice,” you say automatically.

the barista nods like she’s heard it a thousand times, because she has. you grab your drink and sit at the window counter.

ten minutes. in and out. normal, predictable, safe.

you take a sip of your coffee. then the barista calls from behind the counter, “large cold brew for—”

there’s a pause. “…gabe?”

your head slowly lifts, and there he is. his dark curls are out today, a few stray ones across his forehead, rangers hoodie. smiling. right at you.

you stare at him like he just personally ruined your entire life. “you…you lied to me.”

he walks over, cold brew in hand, sliding into the stool across to you like this is the most normal morning in the world, like any other day from the previous weeks.

“i didn’t lie.”

you squint at him. “your name is not dan, gabe.”

he scratches the back of his neck a little, sheepish. “okay, that part might’ve been a little misleading.”

“a little?”

he shrugs. “it’s easier.”

you stare. “…dan is easier than gabe?”

“i've used that name for food orders my whole life. ”

you blink slowly. “so…you let me call you dan for like four weeks.”

he takes a sip of his cold brew. “i mean, you seemed really confident about it. who am i to tell a woman she's wrong?”

you drop your head onto the counter. “i watched you score a hat trick last night.”

“yeah.” he smiles, like he's reliving the moment.

“and you waved at me.”

“...you waved back.”

you lift your head again. “and …you got me on the jumbotron.”

he grins. “that one wasn’t my fault.”

you narrow your eyes. “and …you tapped the glass.”

“okay, that part might’ve been my fault. you just absolutely froze every single time i interacted with you, it was just too fun.”

you sigh dramatically, leaning back on your stool. “…i cannot believe you're a new york ranger. and the fact that last night was an actual thing.”

he bumps your elbow lightly. “could be worse.”

“how?”

“i could still be dan.”

you laugh despite yourself, feeling your mood lighten by the second. then he glances at you, a little more tentative now.

you swirl your straw through your drink, studying him. “what?”

he gestures vaguely toward the window. “you realize you’ve been sitting in that exact spot every morning for a month.”

you blink. "yes…”

“same stool.”

“it’s a good stool.”

“same drink.”

“i like the drink. and if im not wrong, you get the same drink too.”

“same ten minutes.”

you pause, putting your hand on your chin. "you’ve been timing me?”

he shrugs, very unbothered. “hard not to notice.”

you stare at him. “that’s slightly creepy.”

“i prefer observant.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. then he leans his elbows on the counter a little closer. “i was thinking.”

“possibly dangerous.”

“very.”

he nods toward the door. “tomorrow morning.”

you wait. “skip the ten-minute existential crisis.”

you squint at him. “…and do what instead?”

he thinks for a second, and you realize he may be doing this all on the fly. then says, casually,  “take a walk with me.”

you gesture vaguely toward the window like he’s suggested something completely absurd. “outside?”

“that’s typically where they happen.”

you narrow your eyes at him. “gabe.”

“yeah?”

“we live in new york.”

he waits. “people here do not go on whimsical morning walks with hockey players.”

his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh. “i didn’t say it had to be whimsical. just you, me, a sidewalk, possibly angry cyclists.”

you tap your straw against the side of your cup, pretending to think very seriously about it, but a smile escapes you.

“…okay.”

he blinks, a little surprised. “okay?”

you shrug, trying to look casual even though you’re definitely not. “i guess i can spare ten minutes of my extremely busy morning schedule.”

his grin widens immediately. “good.”

and for the first time since moving to new york, your morning routine might be about to change.