#js20 x reader

The shout tore through the quiet like someone had slammed a door right next to your head. Loud, sharp, and absolutely not English. It hit you so fast your whole body jolted, your heart thudding against your ribs as your eyes flew open. For a moment you didn’t even know where you were—just that someone, somewhere, was furious enough to wake the dead.

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, the kind of slow, exhausted eye‑roll that came from someone who had already reached the end of their patience hours ago. You tried to sink deeper into the couch, willing the cushions to swallow you whole and block out the noise.

But then—

“Kurva!”

The shout cracked through the quiet like a whip, sharp and frustrated and very, very male. You didn’t need to understand the word to know exactly what it meant. Whoever lived on the other side of your wall was clearly losing at something, and losing badly. Or someone was getting murdered. 

“Já to jebem! To je taká pičovina!”

This time the outburst rattled the picture frames on your shelf. The walls practically trembled with the force of it, as if your neighbor had decided to wage war on his—probably—gaming console at full volume. It was eleven at night, for God’s sake. Normal people were asleep. Or at least pretending to be.

Whoever he was, he really needed to call it a night… for his own good, if not for yours.

You were one more foreign swear word away from marching over there and knocking on the door next to yours. Your patience had been hanging by a thread for the last ten minutes, and that thread was starting to fray.

“Do piče!”

There it was again—louder this time, sharp enough to cut straight through the wall. You didn’t even have to count anymore; it had to be the third time in under five minutes. At this point, you were convinced it was his favorite word in the entire language.

You stared at the wall like it had personally offended you, your jaw tightening as another burst of muffled chaos echoed through the apartment. That was it. You’d officially reached your limit. You had endured enough enthusiastic, late‑night, whatever‑language‑that‑was rage for one evening, and your half‑asleep brain was done being polite about it.

With a frustrated huff, you kicked the blanket off your legs and pushed yourself upright, the sudden movement sending a wave of cold air across your skin. If he insisted on giving a full‑volume performance at eleven p.m., then you were absolutely going to insist on a little peace and quiet.

You slipped your feet into your slippers and headed for the door before your brain had the chance to talk you out of it. You were running on irritation and half‑sleep, and honestly, that was probably the only reason you had the courage to do this at all.

Maybe he’d stop on his own.

Maybe the game would finally end.

Maybe he’d run out of creative profanity and just… breathe for a second.

“Kurva!”

Yeah. No. Absolutely not.

You yanked your door open and stepped into the hallway, the cool air waking you up just enough to fuel your determination. Three quick strides carried you across the narrow space, and you knocked on his door—sharp, firm, and very much done with this nonsense. Once. Twice. And then a third time, just to make sure he understood you meant business.

The shouting cut off instantly.

Silence settled over the hallway, thick and sudden, like someone had pressed pause on the entire building.

And that was when it hit you—hard and inconvenient—that you were standing there in pajama shorts and an oversized T‑shirt, hair a mess, socks mismatched, looking like someone who had been dragged out of sleep by a small earthquake. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. If he opened the door right now, this would be the grand introduction.

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of every inch of bare skin and every questionable life choice that had led you to this moment.

The handle turned.

The door swung open.

And whatever annoyed, righteous little speech you’d been rehearsing evaporated the second you saw him.

He was tall. Unfairly tall. The kind of tall that made you instinctively straighten your spine, like your body was trying to compensate. His dark hair was slightly messy, pushed back in a way that looked accidental but stupidly good. His jaw was sharp, his shoulders broad beneath a gray Canadiens training shirt that clung to him like it had been personally tailored to show off every line of muscle. His chest rose and fell quickly, like he’d just sprinted across the apartment—or fought someone through the television screen.

Then his eyes met yours. Warm brown, focused, a little wild from whatever he’d been yelling about. Confusion flickered first. Then curiosity softened the edges.

“Yes?” he said, his accent thick, his voice still buzzing with leftover adrenaline.

You blinked, your brain scrambling to remember why you were standing here in pajama shorts and slippers, staring up at a man who looked like he’d stepped straight out of a sports documentary and into your hallway.

Right. The speech. The noise complaint. The moral high ground you were desperately trying to hold onto.

“Are you…” You cleared your throat, trying to gather the pieces of your dignity. “Are you aware that it’s eleven at night?”

He stared at you for a moment, like his brain was still catching up to the fact that someone had actually knocked on his door. His gaze dipped—quick, instinctive—to your pajama shorts and oversized T‑shirt before snapping back up. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, subtle but impossible to miss.

“I am aware,” he said slowly, like he was choosing his words with care.

“Because it sounds like you’re personally fighting the bears in there.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—unexpectedly—he let out a laugh. Low. Warm. A little dangerous in the way it curled through your stomach. He dragged a hand through his hair, pushing the messy strands back.

“Ah. Sorry,” he said, still slightly breathless. “I’m watching hockey.”

That tracked. God, it did track.

Up close, he looked like the blueprint for a hockey player—broad shoulders stretching the seams of his gray Canadiens training shirt, thick forearms, the kind of build that suggested he could bench‑press you without breaking a sweat or accidentally knock down a wall just by leaning on it too hard.

“Explains a lot,” you said, letting the sarcasm soften into something almost amused. “Who’s playing?”

“Slovakia and USA.”

Oh.

You glanced past him, catching a quick flash of the TV—ice, speed, blue and white jerseys streaking across the screen. The commentary buzzed faintly in the background, all intensity and adrenaline.

You looked back at him, trying to sound casual even as your brain scrambled. “And you’re cheering for…?”

The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them. Obviously. Obviously he wasn’t yelling in English. Obviously he wasn’t cheering for the U.S. Idiot. Absolute idiot.

Heat crept up your neck as you mentally kicked yourself, waiting for him to react.

“Slovakia. Obviously.” He shrugged, like the answer should’ve been carved into stone somewhere.

“And I’m guessing Slovakia isn’t exactly thrilled with the referees?”

His jaw tightened just a little, that competitive edge flickering back to life in his eyes. It was subtle, but you could practically feel the indignation radiating off him.

“They are blind,” he muttered. “Completely blind.”

You folded your arms, trying to look unimpressed even though the whole thing was starting to feel more entertaining than annoying. “So the screaming is… patriotic?”

“Very,” he said, absolutely serious. Not a hint of irony.

Jesus. Patriotism had no business looking that good on someone.

Despite yourself, you felt the beginnings of a smile tug at your mouth, the irritation you’d carried over here slowly dissolving into something warmer, lighter.

“Still,” you said, tilting your head, “maybe support your country at a slightly lower volume?”

He held your gaze for a long moment, the adrenaline in him settling, the edges of his expression softening. Then he let out a slow sigh, shoulders dropping as if he finally realized how loud he’d been.

“You’re right. I got carried away.” His eyes lingered on you, studying your face with a kind of quiet curiosity. “I’m Juraj, by the way.”

Before you even processed the movement, his hand was already reaching out, warm and big and steady as it wrapped around yours. The shake was firm but gentle, his palm completely engulfing yours.

“I’m Y/n,” you said, your voice a little softer than you intended.

His thumb brushed lightly against your knuckles before he let go, and suddenly the hallway felt much smaller, much warmer, and far too intimate for two strangers meeting over a noise complaint.

His hand lingered for half a second longer than it needed to before he finally let go.

And you felt it.

That tiny pause—intentional or not—sent a quiet ripple through you, something warm and unsettling that settled low in your stomach. The hallway suddenly felt too narrow, like the walls had inched closer while you weren’t looking. The air between you thickened, charged with something you definitely hadn’t expected when you stomped over here in slippers.

He didn’t step back. If anything, he seemed rooted in place, close enough that you could catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean, woodsy, threaded with the sharp edge of leftover adrenaline. It wrapped around you before you could stop it.

“So,” he said, his voice lower now, almost thoughtful as he said your name, “Y/n.”

The way he shaped it—slow, careful, softened by that accent—sent a quiet shiver down your spine. It was ridiculous how good he made it sound.

“You always threaten your neighbors on first meeting?” he added, one eyebrow lifting in a way that was entirely too confident for someone who’d been screaming at referees five minutes ago.

You blinked, pulling yourself back together. “Only the ones who scream in Slovak at eleven p.m.”

A corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smile but close enough to make your pulse jump.

“That is fair,” he said, warm amusement slipping into his voice.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The hallway felt suspended in time, while from inside his apartment the muffled sounds of the game kept going—commentators talking too fast, the scrape of skates, the rising swell of a crowd you couldn’t see. It all bled together into a frantic, distant pulse.

He glanced over his shoulder toward the TV, his jaw tightening again at whatever was happening on the screen.

You followed his gaze. “Bad?”

He let out a sharp breath through his nose, the kind that carried more emotion than words ever could. “Very.”

But there was something else in his expression too—frustration, yes, but also a fierce kind of pride. A weight. An investment that went deeper than just watching a game for fun. This wasn’t casual. This mattered to him in a way you could feel even from the doorway.

“You’re really into this,” you said quietly.

He looked back at you, and for a second something unreadable flickered in his eyes—something guarded, something honest.

“I play,” he said simply.

You froze.

“Oh.”

And suddenly everything clicked into place. The build. The intensity. The way he yelled like the referees had personally insulted his ancestors. The adrenaline still humming under his skin.

“For who?” you asked before your brain could stop your mouth.

There was a beat—just long enough to make your stomach flip.

Then he said, almost shyly, but with a confidence that didn’t need to be loud to be felt, “Canadiens.”

Your brain short‑circuited.

“Canadiens? Like Montreal—”

He nodded once, steady and unbothered, like this was a normal thing to admit in a hallway at eleven p.m.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, because your brain had officially left the chat.

“Well,” you said, trying to gather whatever composure you had left, “professional athlete or not, the walls are thin.”

His eyes dipped to your mouth—quick, almost instinctive—before lifting again. The glance was so brief you could’ve convinced yourself you imagined it… if it hadn’t sent a warm jolt straight through you.

“I will be quieter,” he said, his voice softer now, lower, almost gentle.

And there was something in the way he said it that didn’t feel like it was just about the game. Something that made your pulse skip.

You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself. “Good.”

Another silence settled between you, stretching out slowly. Not awkward—never awkward—but charged in a way that made the air feel heavier, warmer. You could feel your self‑control slipping, thread by thread, and he was standing far too close for your brain to function properly.

God, he was unfairly attractive. Unreasonably attractive. The kind of attractive that made you forget why you’d stormed over here in the first place.

“Good night, Juraj,” you said, forcing the words out before you did something stupid, like stay.

You turned slightly, already taking a half step back toward your door, trying to put even the smallest bit of space between you.

“Good night… Y/n.”

The way he said your name again—slow, careful, like he was tasting the shape of it—sent a flip through your stomach so sharp you almost stumbled.

You forced yourself not to look back.

You made it exactly two steps before—

“Y/n?”

You stopped mid‑stride.

Damn him.

You turned your head just enough to see him over your shoulder. “Yes?”

He was still leaning against the doorframe, but something in his expression had shifted. The teasing spark was still there, but now it was layered with something steadier, something that felt a little too much like intent. Like he wasn’t quite ready to let you walk away.

“If Slovakia scores,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a slow, knowing curve, “I might yell.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t.”

A beat passed—quiet, warm, charged.

His smile deepened, lazy and confident. “Will you knock again?”

God. Fuck him.

“You wish,” you shot back, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips as you slipped into your apartment and shut the door behind you.

The moment the latch clicked, you pressed your back to the wood, heat blooming across your cheeks. They were red. Like embarrassingly, unmistakably red. 

Because of course your neighbor had to be the sexiest man you’d ever laid eyes on. 

© 𝗘𝗟𝗔𝗘𝗭𝗭

The first thing everyone learned about Juraj was that he took up space.

Not just because he was tall, or because his shoulders seemed too broad for most doorways, or because he had the kind of presence that made people turn around before he even said anything. Juraj took up space because he was loud. He laughed loudly, talked loudly, cheered loudly, entered rooms like he had been shot out of a cannon and somehow expected everyone else to keep up with him. He was friendly in a way that felt almost aggressive, slinging arms around shoulders, chirping teammates from across the locker room, making random noises when he was bored, interrupting conversations just because he had a thought and needed to share it immediately.

He was explosive on the ice, too. Emotional. Fiery. The kind of player who celebrated with his whole chest, who got into scrums too easily, who threw his head back when he laughed and yelled across the bench like there weren’t cameras everywhere. He was energy in human form, all sharp edges and volume and instinct.

Which was exactly why nobody understood how he had ended up with you.

You were… quiet.

Not cold. Not rude. Not unfriendly, either. Just quiet in a way that felt natural, like you didn’t need to fill every silence to feel comfortable. You listened more than you spoke. You smiled softly instead of bursting into laughter. You moved calmly, chose your words carefully, and had the kind of composed presence that made people instinctively lower their voices around you without knowing why. You weren’t the type to jump into the middle of a group conversation or shout across a room. You didn’t demand attention. You didn’t chase it.

And somehow, Juraj Slafkovsky, human thunderstorm, was completely and hopelessly in love with you.

The first time the Canadiens saw you properly, it was after a home game in Montreal. Juraj had mentioned you before, of course, usually with the subtlety of a man who had never once been normal about anything in his life. “My girl likes this restaurant,” he would say when the guys talked about dinner. “My girl told me that movie is bad,” he would announce unprompted. “My girl says I talk too loud on the phone,” he had once said, sounding both offended and proud.

Still, none of them had expected you to be real in the way you were.

They expected someone loud, maybe. Someone who could match him. Someone who could chirp back just as hard, shove him when he got annoying, keep up with his nonstop talking. They expected a girl who walked into the family lounge like she already owned the place.

Instead, you were standing near the wall in a long coat, hands folded around the strap of your bag, talking softly to one of the staff members. You had a calm little smile on your face, your voice barely carrying over the noise of families, kids, players, and arena workers moving around after the game. You looked elegant without trying to be. Gentle, but not fragile. Reserved, but not uncomfortable.

Cole was the first one to notice Juraj notice you.

One second, Juraj was practically yelling at Kirby about a missed pass, his hair still damp from the shower, his suit jacket open, hands flying dramatically as he reenacted something from the third period. The next second, his whole face changed.

It was immediate.

His mouth shut. His shoulders relaxed. The volume of him dropped so suddenly that Kirby actually turned to see what had happened.

Then Juraj saw you glance toward him, and he smiled.

Not his usual huge, cocky, ridiculous grin. Not the grin he wore after scoring or after successfully annoying someone. This one was softer. Smaller. Almost private “Hi,” he said when he reached you.

The guys froze, because Juraj had just said “hi” like he was afraid of startling a bird.

You looked up at him and smiled, your eyes warming in a way that made his entire posture shift toward you. “Hi,” you answered.

“How was the game?” he asked, voice low, Arber’s head snapped toward Cole so quickly it was a miracle he didn’t pull something.

Cole mouthed, “What the hell?”

Juraj didn’t notice them. Or, if he did, he didn’t care. He leaned down slightly, not crowding you, but close enough that you didn’t have to raise your voice. “You okay? It was loud in there today.”

You nodded. “I’m okay. It was fun.”

“You sure?” he asked, eyes scanning your face carefully. “You looked tired before.”

“I’m just a little sleepy.” His expression softened even further. “We go home soon, yeah? I just have to talk to media for five minutes.”

“You don’t have to rush.”

“I want to,” he said simply, behind him, three of his teammates looked like they had just witnessed a magic trick, Kirby leaned closer to Cole and whispered, “Is he whispering?”

“That is not Juraj,” Cole whispered back, Arber narrowed his eyes. “Maybe she drugged him"

You heard that one, your eyes flicked past Juraj’s shoulder, amused but shy, and Juraj immediately turned around with a glare so sharp it could have cut glass “Don’t be weird,” he snapped, and there he was again, loud and familiar. “Say hi like normal people.”

Cole lifted both hands. “We didn’t do anything.”

“You were looking stupid.”

“We are stupid,” Kirby said. “But that’s not the point.” Juraj rolled his eyes, then turned back to you, and his voice dropped again like someone had lowered a dial inside him. “Sorry. They are embarrassing.”

You smiled a little. “They’re fine.”

“No, they are not.”

That made you laugh quietly, and Juraj looked so pleased with himself that Cole had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing too.

It only got worse from there.

Or better, depending on who was asked.

The more the team saw you together, the less sense you made and the more obvious it became that Juraj was an entirely different species around you. He was still himself, technically. Still loud with the guys, still dramatic, still capable of turning a simple story into a full performance with sound effects. But the second you entered the room, something in him softened.

He never grabbed you suddenly. Never threw an arm around your shoulders the way he did with teammates. Never shouted your name from across the room unless he genuinely had to. If he saw you before you saw him, he approached carefully, like he didn’t want to overwhelm you. When he touched you, it was always with a small warning first—a hand hovering near your back before settling there, fingers brushing yours before he took your hand, his head dipping toward you so he could ask, “Can I?” before kissing your forehead if other people were around.

It confused his teammates to no end.

One night, after a team dinner, Juraj was in full form. He was laughing too loudly, leaning across the table to steal fries from Cole’s plate, arguing with Arber about something completely pointless, and telling a story that involved him nearly knocking over a lamp in his apartment. He was impossible. Huge and loud and grinning, his voice bouncing off the restaurant walls.

You were sitting beside him, quiet, listening with a small smile as he spoke. Your hand rested in your lap, fingers loosely curled around a napkin. You hadn’t interrupted once. You didn’t seem annoyed, exactly, but you did look a little tired from the noise.

Kirby noticed at the same time Juraj did.

Juraj had been mid-sentence, one hand in the air, when he glanced down at you. Something in your face made him pause “Too much?” he murmured.

The table went silent, not because the question was dramatic. Because none of them had ever heard him check himself that quickly. You looked up, surprised. “No. You’re okay.” his eyebrows drew together slightly. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you said softly. Then, after a second, you added, “Maybe just a little loud.” Cole choked on his drink, Juraj didn’t even pretend to be offended. He just nodded seriously, leaned back in his chair, and said, “Okay. I be quiet.”

Arber stared at him. “You’ll what?” Juraj pointed a fry at him. “Shut up.”

“You? Quiet?”

“For her, yes.” You looked down, trying not to smile too obviously, but Juraj saw it anyway. He always saw you. That was the thing nobody understood at first. He could be in the middle of chaos, surrounded by noise he had probably created himself, and still notice the smallest change in you. If you got overwhelmed, if you got quiet in the wrong way, if your smile became polite instead of real, Juraj caught it immediately.

He didn’t always know what to do with everyone else’s emotions. He could be blunt, impulsive, too intense. But with you, he was careful. Not because he thought you were weak. Because he knew you gave the world your calm, and he wanted to be the one place where you didn’t have to spend all your energy maintaining it.

At the restaurant, he lowered his voice for the rest of the night. Not completely, because he was still Juraj and miracles had limits, but enough that the guys noticed. He leaned closer when he talked to you. He checked whether you wanted dessert before ordering. When someone across the table asked you a question and three other conversations were happening at once, Juraj noticed the way you hesitated, then turned to the table and said, “Wait, let her talk.”

The command was loud enough to make everyone stop, then he looked back at you, voice soft again. “What were you saying, baby?”

Your cheeks warmed slightly. “It wasn’t important.”

“It is important.”

That was another thing, Juraj treated everything you said like it mattered. Even when you were quiet. Especially then. If you spoke in a group, he listened like you had just given a press conference. If you mentioned wanting to try a bakery across town, he remembered. If you said a certain song annoyed you, he skipped it forever, even if he liked it. If you admitted you were nervous about meeting people, he positioned himself beside you the whole time, not hovering exactly, but steady enough that you never had to search for him.

The team teased him constantly.

At practice, Cole started calling him “inside voice” whenever you were around. Arber once pretended to faint when Juraj gently took your coat from your shoulders without making a joke. Kirby told him he looked like a golden retriever trying not to scare a cat. Juraj took all of it badly, loudly, and with several creative insults.

But he never denied it.

Not once.

One afternoon, after a brutal practice, you came to pick him up from the rink. You had texted him that you were waiting near the players’ entrance, and Juraj, still flushed from skating, practically barreled out of the locker room with his bag over one shoulder “Hey!” he shouted down the hallway at no one in particular. “Move, I have plans.”

“With your quiet little girlfriend?” Cole called after him, Juraj turned around and pointed at him. “Don’t call her little.” Cole blinked. “That was the part you took issue with?”

“She is not little. She is normal. I am big.”

“That’s actually fair,” Kirby said, Juraj ignored them and pushed through the door, but the moment he saw you waiting near the entrance, looking down at your phone with your coat buttoned up and your hair tucked behind one ear, his pace slowed. The door shut behind him. The cold air rushed in. You looked up.

His face changed again “Hi, baby,” he said, so gently it almost didn’t sound like the same man who had just shouted at half the locker room.

You smiled. “Hi.” he stopped in front of you, careful not to crowd you with his equipment bag. “You waited long?”

“No. Just a few minutes.”

“You should have stayed in the car. It’s cold.”

“I’m okay.” He frowned, already reaching for your hands. “Your fingers are cold.”

“They’re always cold.”

“I know. That is why I worry.” You let him take your hands between his, his palms warm from the lingering heat of practice. He rubbed his thumbs over your knuckles, focused, almost stern about it, like warming your hands was a responsibility he had been personally assigned. You watched him with a soft expression, and for a moment, neither of you seemed aware of the door opening behind him.

Unfortunately, his teammates were very aware of both of you.

Cole, Kirby, and Arber stepped out just in time to see Juraj bend his head and blow warm air gently over your fingers.

Cole stopped walking, Kirby made a noise that sounded like pain, Arber whispered, “No way.” Juraj’s head snapped up. “What?”

Cole pressed a hand to his chest. “That was beautiful, man.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re like a romance novel.”

“I said shut up.” You tried to pull your hands back, embarrassed, but Juraj held them a little more securely and looked down at you at once. “No, no, don’t. They are idiots. Ignore them.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” you said, though you obviously were, Juraj softened. “You sure?”

You nodded, he looked back at his teammates. “Go away.” Kirby grinned. “We’re going the same direction.”

“Go different direction.”

“That’s not how parking lots work.” Juraj made an irritated sound, but he shifted his body slightly, blocking you from the worst of their teasing without making it obvious. His hand settled at your back, light and protective. Not possessive. Just there. A quiet barrier between you and the noise.

That was when Kirby started to understand.

It wasn’t that you balanced Juraj by being the opposite of him in some neat, cliché way. It wasn’t as simple as loud boy, quiet girl. It was that Juraj, who so often moved through the world like everything would make room for him, had learned to make room for you. And you, who could easily disappear into the background if people weren’t paying attention, somehow held every bit of his attention without trying.

You didn’t need to fight for space with him.

He gave it to you.

The full realization came during a team event a few weeks later. It was one of those charity nights that required suits, photos, small talk, and far too many people packed into one beautiful room. Juraj loved parts of it—the teammates, the kids, the fans, the joking around. You liked supporting him, but events like that drained you. Too much noise, too many strangers, too many people expecting you to know how to respond immediately.

You handled it well, like you always did. You smiled when introduced. You answered questions politely. You stayed close to Juraj but never clung to him. To anyone else, you looked perfectly fine.

Juraj knew better.

He noticed your hand tightening around your glass. Not shaking. Not visibly nervous. Just holding it a little too firmly. He noticed that your answers were getting shorter. He noticed that you had stopped leaning into his side and were standing very still, like you were trying to become invisible.

He was in the middle of talking to two sponsors when he paused.

“Excuse me,” he said, surprisingly polite, and turned to you. His hand touched your elbow gently. “Come with me?” You glanced at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You were talking.”

“I am done talking.” One of the sponsors laughed, probably thinking he was joking, Juraj was not joking. He guided you away from the main room, not rushing you, not making a scene. He found a quieter hallway near the side entrance, where the music was muffled and the air felt less heavy. Only then did he step in front of you, ducking his head slightly so he could see your face.

“Breathe, baby,” he murmured “I’m fine,” you said automatically “I know you are fine.” His voice was steady. Soft. “But you don’t have to be fine with me.”

That almost broke you, your eyes lowered to his tie, your fingers still wrapped too tightly around the glass. Juraj noticed and carefully took it from your hand, setting it on a nearby table. Then he held out both of his hands, palms up, waiting. Letting you choose.

After a second, you placed your hands in his “There,” he whispered. “Better?” You nodded once. “I just needed a minute.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t have to leave with me.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Juraj.”

“What?” he said, but there was no bite in it. “I want to. You think I want to talk to people more than I want to stand here with you?” You let out a quiet laugh. “You like talking to people.”

“Yes. But I love you.” The words came so easily from him. No performance. No drama. He said it like it was obvious, like it explained everything.

You looked up at him, your expression softening, and Juraj’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand “I know I am a lot,” he said after a moment, voice lower. “I know I am loud and annoying and sometimes too much. But I don’t want to be too much for you.”

“You’re not too much for me.”

His eyes searched yours “You’re different with me,” you added quietly. “But I don’t want you to think you have to change who you are.”

“I don’t change,” he said. “I just… I don’t know. I take care. With you, I take care.”

Your throat tightened a little, inside the main room, someone laughed loudly. A camera flashed near the doorway. Juraj didn’t look away from you “You make me calm,” he admitted, almost like it embarrassed him. “Not boring calm. Good calm. Like I can stop fighting everything.”

You squeezed his hands. “You don’t always have to be the loudest person in the room.” he gave you a tiny smile. “But I am very good at it.”

“You are.”

“And you love me.”

“I do.” His smile grew, but he kept himself quiet, like this moment was too delicate to ruin with teasing. He leaned down slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted. You didn’t. His lips touched your forehead, warm and gentle, and he lingered there for a second before pulling back.

Unfortunately, he had chosen the hallway directly next to the side entrance, which meant half the team had seen enough to become unbearable.

Cole appeared first, holding a tiny plate of appetizers and wearing the expression of a man who had just discovered premium gossip “Oh,” he said. “So this is where the emotional support giant went.”

Juraj closed his eyes. “Go away" Arber stepped beside Cole. “No, no. We are learning.” Kirby nodded solemnly. “It’s educational.”

You covered your mouth, hiding a smile, Juraj looked at the three of them with deep betrayal. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Cole said. “You’re too soft now.”

“I am not soft.” All three of them stared at him, Juraj’s hand was still holding yours carefully. His body was angled in front of you, protective without being overbearing. His voice, even while irritated, was quieter than usual because you were right beside him. He looked like a man trying to deny the sky was blue while standing under it.

Arber lifted an eyebrow, Juraj huffed. “Okay. Maybe for her.”

That made you look up at him, he looked down at you, and his expression softened again despite himself. “Only for her.”

Cole made a wounded sound. “That’s actually disgusting.”

“It’s cute,” Kirby corrected “It’s confusing,” Arber said. “But cute.”

Juraj rolled his eyes, but he didn’t let go of your hand.

From then on, the team stopped asking how the two of you had gotten together as if it were some impossible mystery. They still teased him, obviously. They were hockey players; emotional maturity only went so far. They still called him “gentle giant” when you were around and pretended to lower invisible volume knobs whenever he spoke to you. They still acted shocked every time Juraj said “please” in a soft voice or carried your bag without making a big announcement of it.

But they understood.

They understood when they saw him in the family lounge after games, sweaty and exhausted, crouching slightly so he could hear you better over the noise. They understood when he stopped mid-rant because you touched his wrist. They understood when he texted you before postgame media so you wouldn’t wonder where he was. They understood when he never mocked how quiet you were, never pushed you to be more outgoing, never treated your reserved nature like something he needed to fix.

And they understood when they saw you with him, too.

Because you loved Juraj as he was. You never tried to make him smaller. You never looked embarrassed when he laughed too loudly or told the same story with too many gestures. You just touched his arm when he got carried away, smiled when he looked at you for reassurance, and gave him the kind of peace he didn’t seem to know he needed until he had it.

One night, after a win, the team was gathered around in the lounge again. Juraj had scored, which meant he was impossible. Loud, glowing, energized, retelling his goal with so much drama that half the room had heard it twice already. You sat on one of the couches, watching him with quiet amusement, your coat folded neatly over your lap.

“And then I shoot, right?” Juraj said, using his hands to demonstrate. “But it’s not just shot, it’s like—”

“Like a normal shot,” Cole interrupted, Juraj pointed at him. “You are jealous.”

“Of what? Your volume?”

“My skill.”

“Debatable.” Juraj opened his mouth to argue, then glanced at you. You were smiling, but tired, your head resting lightly against the back of the couch.

His entire argument vanished, he turned away from Cole mid-sentence and walked over to you. “You ready to go home?” You blinked up at him. “You don’t have to leave yet. You scored.”

“So?”

“So you’re happy. Celebrate with them.”

“I celebrated.” He crouched in front of you slightly, lowering his voice. “Now I want to go home with you.” Your expression softened. “Juraj.”

“What?”

“You can stay.”

“I know.” He smiled. “I don’t want to.” Behind him, Cole whispered loudly, “Whipped.”, without turning around, Juraj raised one hand and gave him the finger.

You laughed, surprised and quiet, and Juraj grinned like that sound was better than the goal.

He stood and helped you up, careful with your coat, careful with your bag, careful with you. Not because you would break. Because you mattered. Because he knew his own strength, his own volume, his own chaos, and with you he wanted every part of himself to be gentle first.

As you walked toward the exit, his hand rested at the small of your back. The room behind you was still loud, full of laughter and teasing and someone calling after him, but Juraj didn’t look back.

He leaned down slightly, speaking only for you “You hungry?”

“A little.”

“I make you something at home?”

“You’re going to cook after a game?”

“Yes.”

“You can barely stand.”

“I am strong.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I scored.”

“You did.” He smiled, pleased. “You saw?”

“I saw.”

“Good.” His thumb brushed lightly over your back. “I always play better when you watch.” You looked up at him. “That’s not true.”

“It is true.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No.” He bent closer, his voice dropping into that soft tone that still made his teammates stare when they heard it. “I like knowing you are there. Makes everything… quieter.”

For a second, you didn’t answer. You just looked at him, this loud, explosive, impossible boy who somehow held your heart with the gentlest hands.

Then you leaned into his side, just enough for him to feel it, Juraj smiled and adjusted instantly, slowing his steps to match yours.

Behind you, the Canadiens were still laughing, still teasing, still pretending not to understand, but Juraj understood.

You were quiet where he was loud. Careful where he was impulsive. Calm where he was fire. And somehow, instead of canceling each other out, you made space for each other to exist exactly as you were.

To everyone else, it looked impossible.

To Juraj, it was simple.

The world could have the loud version of him.

「 SJS 」 ⋯ MACKLIN CELEBRINI ⌣ 🔮

Macklin and you had just finished training together. Since it was a day off for both of you, you had decided to go to the gym together, and for the sake of convenience, you had decided to go home to shower and change instead of doing so in the locker room. Now parked in the garage and still covered in a thin layer of sweat, Mack looked at you with intoxicating intensity. "You're turning me on so much Y/n, that's the same face you make when you suck me off." At those words, you turned around immediately to look at him, aware that, due to the effort you had made, you were still red and slightly out of breath. Without even giving you time to react, he was grabbing you by the back of your neck and pulling you toward him to kiss you hard. You could feel his teeth colliding with yours and his tongue desperately trying to explore your entire mouth. It didn't take long for you to let out little moans and call his name between breaths. "What's up, baby? Are you going to be nice to me and show me the wonders you can do with that little mouth of yours?Let's get inside baby, you're going to suck my dick just like you know that I like"

「 SJS 」 ⋯ WILL SMITH⌣ 🔮

As usual after the game, Will and you had stayed behind in the stands, greeting his family and talking to some fans who approached him to ask for autographs and photos. That day, a group of boys who were about your age had waited their turn and, while they waited, they struck up a conversation with you, telling you how much they admired Will and that they had been following the Sharks since they were little. He hadn't seen it that way, of course, being at a distance where he couldn't hear what they were saying, jealousy had crept in when he saw how at least three or four boys wouldn't stop talking to you, and his tension had remained until you got in the car to go home together. You had obviously noticed, you knew him too well, so gently touching his arm before he started the car, you asked him if everything was okay. "You were having fun with those guys, weren't you?" You looked at him in disbelief and asked him what he was talking about. "Earlier in the stands, those guys who asked me for a photo, you were talking to them a lot." You couldn't believe what Will was saying; he wasn't usually jealous. You felt his hand rest on your leg and slowly move up your inner thigh. "Answer me, Y/n." You still couldn't formulate a response. You didn't understand where this side of Will was coming from. With his other hand, he leaned slightly toward you and grabbed your face so you would look at him. "I bet you did it on purpose to make me jealous." «No» it was the only thing you could say, even though it came out with a sigh when you felt your boyfriend's cold hand slowly slip into your pants. "No? Are you sure?" You felt him reach your center and press lightly, which made you involuntarily close your legs and let out a small, almost inaudible moan. "Damn, you're dripping wet. Do you like it so much when I touch you like this?" You nodded as his fingers moved faster and faster on your clit. "It makes you so horny when I touch you here, knowing we could get caught. You're such a slut." For the second time since you had been left alone, you turned your head toward Will again, this time with surprise; he had never called you names like that before. You felt the sensation in your pussy intensify, and Will realized that he had made you even hornier. "Mhmm, so my good girl likes to be called that, huh?" Without warning, he suddenly pulled his hand out of your pants, causing you to groan and simply beg Will to continue. "If you like me calling you a slut so much, let's hurry home so I can fuck you like one."

「 CHI 」 ⋯ CONNOR BEDARD⌣ 🔮

You were so bored waiting for Connor to come home. He had already told you that he would be late because practice had gone on longer than expected, but after trying hundreds of things to entertain yourself, you had come to the conclusion that you had to do something to get Connor to hurry up. And that's what you did. You started innocently by sending him a couple of photos of some new clothes you had bought, trying to make your neckline look more revealing. He replied to your messages saying you looked beautiful, so the next thing you did was show him several of the options you had for the Chicago Blackhawks gala you were attending at the end of the week. The dresses you were considering were all tight-fitting, and you knew that would put Connor on notice. «Can't you wait until I get home?» he asked, to which you replied « no, there's something else I want to show you» It didn't take you long to change and put on the new lingerie set you had bought. It wasn't anything excessive, just a pretty set with some lace, but you knew it drove Connor crazy. You took several photos, one in front of the mirror where your whole body could be seen, another on the bed pointing at your ass, which was completely visible, and the last one without your bra, covering your tits with your hands. You saw how the message changed to "read" and with a little giggle you waited for your boyfriend's reply, but what came in was a call from him. You picked it up and, pressing the phone to your ear, you said an embarrassingly quiet "Hello." "Now you're embarrassed, eh? You're so mean, baby. Listen carefully to what I'm going to say." Without needing to, you nodded slowly. Connor couldn't see you. "You know that vibrator you keep in the bottom drawer?" You interrupted him in surprise. "How do you kno—" "Shut up, you little slut. You're going to get it and start getting ready. You like to play so much, so let's do it. When I get home, I want you to be in bed naked, on all fours with your ass in the air waiting for me. Do you understand?" Breathing erratically, you answered yes, and Connor hung up, saying it would take him twenty minutes at most to finish. You were wetter than you'd like to admit, and as you were getting ready to do what he'd asked, a new message came through: «I want a video of you using that vibrator»

「 NYR 」 ⋯ MATT REMPE⌣ 🔮

It was the middle of summer and it was extremely hot. Being on vacation and having the whole day to yourselves, Matt and you spent your time going from the pool to the sofa and then to bed, repeating this routine for the few days you actually had to do nothing. There was only one thing you missed, and that was sex. With the heat, anything more than a quickie or sporadic touching turned wherever you were into a sauna and made you both tire faster than normal. It was something you had already discussed and agreed to do only if you were desperate. And now, lying by the pool sunbathing while Matt was swimming, he was desperate. "It's torture to see you in a bikini all day and not be able to fuck you whenever we want." Little by little, you sat up a little and, lifting your sunglasses slightly, you replied, "Matt, my love, technically you can fuck me whenever you want, it's just that it's very hot, but you're free to do so." At that, he had gone to one end of the pool and gotten out, grabbing one of the chairs nearby and sitting down in front of you, making you raise an eyebrow, wondering what was going through his head, he told you "Okay, if it's that easy for you... why don't you spread those legs that keep driving me crazy and start touching yourself while I watch?" Without much else to say, you did as he asked, spreading your legs wide enough to be comfortable and starting to pleasure yourself, pulling your bikini aside to give him a perfect view of what you were doing. After several minutes, Matt began to touch his erection over his swimsuit, and shortly after, he said again, "Damn, flip over and lift your ass, I'm going to eat that little pussy, I can't take it anymore."

「 MTL 」 ⋯ ARBER XHEKAJ⌣ 🔮

Arber kept pushing inside you, the constant, frantic, hard pace he was going at making it impossible for you to stop moaning loudly. You repeated his name like a mantra, no longer knowing where to hold on. The sheets weren't enough, and his back must have been covered in your scratches by now. "That's my girl, you like it like that, don't you? Letting me fuck you this rough" You were completely unable to form a whole sentence, so when you tried to answer him, only broken words came out. "Damn I'm really fucking you dumb, aren't I?" Without warning, Arber turned you both around so that now you were on top of him. He sat up a little on the bed so he could lean his back against the headboard and grabbed your ass with his big hands while he spanked you and moved his hips against yours, making his dick slide in and out nonstop. "Come on love, ride me. I want to see your tits bouncing. Put on a show for me."

「 MTL 」 ⋯ JURAJ SLAFKOVSKY⌣ 🔮

The Montreal Canadiens casino night was turning out to be a blast, at least for you and Juraj. It was much better than you could have hoped for. Being able to talk to the other girls, greet your boyfriend's teammates, and, incredibly, be introduced to dozens of executives was much more fun than you could ever have imagined. Juraj couldn't take his eyes off you, and every time he had to tell someone your name and that you were his girlfriend, he did so with his head held high, showing you how proud he was that you were his girl. He couldn't stop touching you either. If he wasn't caressing your lower back with one hand, he had your hand intertwined with his, and if that wasn't the case, he found a way to feel your skin, giving you little caresses on your arm, brushing your hair away from your face, or grazing your bare shoulders. Later that evening, when all the presentations were over and you were just enjoying yourselves, Juraj had come up behind you, wrapped his arms around you, and whispered in your ear, "You look so beautiful in that dress, I can't wait to get home and take it off you." You slowly turned toward him with a smirk on your lips and raised an eyebrow, replying, "You can't even stay still for one evening." He shrugged and smiled back at you, saying, "Don't play innocent now. I'm sure that if I put my hand between your legs, your little pussy will be so wet, just the way I like it." «Try it» you replied, nodding your head toward the bathrooms, and in less than a second, he began to guide you toward them.

his hand had brushed yours, tips of your fingers grazing, though juraj never made the first move. no, he’d waited for you to interlink your fingers, and make a small joke when you finally crossed that bridge tentatively cemented between the two of you.

“you are eager, hey?” he’d teased, though the tips of his ears had turned pink. you’d scoffed a laugh and moved closer into his side, and that was it. juraj was addicted to your touch.

weeks turned into months, and as the two of you became more familiar, the affection became more frequent. you’d snuggle on the sofa, juraj would pepper your face in sleepy kisses during early morning wake up calls, and most importantly? you’d taken to tracing loops and swirls onto his back with your fingertips, knowing that same gesture worked to soothe you every single time. 

put simply, you've spoiled him. and now, you have to suffer the consequences of your own actions.

facing away from you, juraj is currently scrolling through his phone, making soft humming noises now and again as if to remind you that he's still there, still needing attention. and though the warmth of your boyfriend's skin beneath your fingertips is fairly pleasant, a slight stiffness begins to settle in your fingers, and you pause your motions, flexing your fingers before laying your hands on your stomach. 

juraj turns his head with a speed that’s almost startling, snapping his neck to look over at you, the stupid meme he'd been looking at on his phone all but forgotten in light of your supposed betrayal.

“ah?”

you can’t help but laugh at how affronted juraj sounds, and your clear amusement at his suffering only causes him to frown deeper. thick brows furrowed, he’s all but pouting at you now, eyes darting pointedly between your face and your hand as if demanding you connect the dots.

you’re suddenly reminded of a puppy being refused pets, and you wouldn’t be surprised if the man started nosing at your hand in a spoiled demand for you to continue petting him.

“i’m cramping,” you laugh, shaking your hand out before lightly grazing your nails over his shoulder blade. “give me a sec, would you?”

juraj shivers, lashes fluttering, and produces a satisfied hum as he settles back down. half of you is tempted to scratch at him, punish him for being greedy with little red indents across the tan skin of his back. the other half of you recognises that he’d likely enjoy that, and so you decide against it.

“five more minutes,” you stipulate. “then we swap.”

six minutes later, juraj is out cold and snoring, mouth half open and phone barely still clutched in his grasp. you press a kiss to his bare shoulder before wrapping your arms around him, clinging to him like a backpack as you settle in for the night yourself. 

alexander turcotte

alex doesn’t even realize he’s in trouble until you say it. Not Alex, not Turcs or babe—but very calmly, very deliberately: “Alexander Turcotte.” He freezes mid-sip of his drink like a kid who’s just heard their mom use their government name. Slowly, he looks at you over the rim of the cup, eyes wide and suspicious. “Okay,” he says, already laughing, “what did I do?” You just shrug, completely innocent, repeating it once more because it’s so funny watching his shoulders sag in dramatic defeat. “I’m sorry,” he says before you can even answer, grinning as he steps closer. “Whatever it was. Please don’t say my full name again. That’s terrifying.”

cole caufield

You open the takeout bag, already knowing something’s wrong before you even check. No fries. You look up slowly and say, very calmly, “Cole Caufield.” He’s mid-unboxing his own food when he freezes, eyes darting to the bag and then back to you. “Oh no,” he laughs, immediately guilty. “I forgot the fries, didn’t I?” You don’t even answer verbally—just nodding your head, and he’s already standing up, grabbing his keys. “I’ll go back,” he says quickly, grinning like he’s bargaining for his life. “I’ll get extra fries. Large ones. Whatever you want. Just—please—don’t say my full name again. That felt way worse than any penalty.”

jack rowden hughes

Jack’s chirping Luke from the other side of the room, smug grin firmly in place, when you cut in without raising your voice at all. “Jack Rowden Hughes.” The effect is immediate. Jack stops mid-sentence, blinking like he’s just been iced by something way scarier than a defenseman. Luke looks between you two, trying not to smile. “Whoa,” Jack says, holding his hands up, already laughing. “Okay, that’s unfair. You can’t use my full name like that.” You give him the look and tell him to be nice, and he sighs dramatically before ruffling Luke’s hair. “Fine,” he mutters, grinning anyway. “I’ll stop. But next time you say my government name, I’m telling your mom.”

jamie drysdale

You come home exhausted, shoes barely off before you notice the soft glow of candles down the hall and the familiar smell of your favorite food. Jamie appears in the doorway, a little shy, hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie. You smile, overwhelmed in the best way, and quietly say, “Jamie Drysdale.” He laughs softly, cheeks pink. “That bad, huh?” he asks, stepping closer and brushing his thumb over your hand. You shake your head, heart full, telling him it’s perfect—he’s perfect. He leads you toward the bathroom where the tub is already steaming with bubbles, music low, everything warm and safe. “You had a long day,” he says gently, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I just wanted to take care of you.”

juraj slafkovský

You jolt awake to yelling from the living room, some very intense Slovak mixed with English echoing through the apartment. Groggy and unimpressed, you shuffle out of the bedroom and say it once, flat and quiet: “Juraj Slafkovský.” He whips around like he’s been caught red-handed, eyes wide before he immediately mutes the TV and shuts the game off completely. “Oh—sorry, sorry,” he says, rushing over and pulling you gently back toward the bedroom. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He presses a quick kiss to your forehead, sheepish and soft now. “I’ll make you coffee, yeah? And I won’t yell anymore. Promise.”

luke warren hughes

You open the fridge already suspicious, and then you see it—your leftovers, gone. You don’t yell. You don’t even sigh. You just turn toward him and say, very clearly, “Luke Warren Hughes.” He freezes with the empty container still in his hand, eyes widening in horror. “I—I was gonna tell you,” he blurts, immediately guilty. You raise an eyebrow, and that’s all it takes. He’s already grabbing his jacket and keys. “Okay, I’ll go,” he says quickly, half-laughing. “I’ll get you more. Fresh. Hot. Better than before. Please don’t use my full name like that again—I feel like I just disappointed the whole family.”

matthew rempe

The door barely clicks shut before you’re on your feet, eyes immediately finding the split lip and the fresh stitches above his eyebrow. Your voice comes out soft but shaky when you say it—“Matthew Rempe.” He stills, shoulders dropping, all the fight draining out of him at once. “Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer, careful, like he doesn’t want to scare you. “I’m okay. Promise.” You cup his face gently anyway, thumbs brushing over the bruises, and he leans into your touch with a sigh. “I know it looks bad,” he says quietly, forehead resting against yours, “but I’m here. I made it home. That’s what matters.”

mathew michael paul barzal

He’s pacing the kitchen, rambling a mile a minute about practice, the traffic, the ref who definitely missed a call—when you cut in softly, “Mathew Michael Paul Barzal.” He stops dead. Slowly turns to you. “Why did you say all my whole name?” he asks, trying not to laugh but already losing the battle. You just smile sweetly, arms crossed, and he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, okay,” he says, grinning. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I’m sorry for yet, but I feel like I should be.” He steps closer, bumps his forehead to yours, and adds quietly, “Please don’t ever say my full name like that again. I swear it shuts my brain off.”

nico hischier

He thinks he’s being funny—waiting just out of sight, perfectly still, until you walk past. The second you do, he pops out with a quiet “Boo,” and you jump, heart racing. He’s way too proud of himself after it—standing there grinning like he just won something when you jump and yelp. You turn on him immediately, pointing a finger and saying, half-laughing, half-offended, “Nico Hischier.” That just makes him laugh. “Oh come on prinzessin,” he says, hands up in surrender, eyes bright. “You scare so easy.” You swat at his arm and repeat his name again, and he cracks completely, pulling you into a hug. “Okay, okay,” he chuckles into your hair. “I deserve that. But admit it—you love me anyway.”

quintin jerome hughes

You’re scrolling TikTok on the couch when you suddenly sit bolt upright, eyes wide. “No way,” you mutter, then look straight at him and say, very clearly, “Quintin Jerome Hughes!” Quinn barely has time to look confused before you shove your phone in his face—fans screaming, edits flying, the words HE GOT DRAFTED plastered across the screen. “You found out from TikTok?” he asks, stunned, laughing at the same time. Jack loses it immediately. “That’s insane,” he says, leaning over Quinn’s shoulder. Luke just grins, proud and smug. Quinn rubs his face, still smiling in disbelief. “I was gonna tell you,” he says weakly, and you just shake your head, laughing. “I cannot believe I had to learn this from strangers,” you say, and Jack adds, “Yeah, man—getting full-named for that one was deserved.”

trevor John zegras

You’re watching the clip on your phone when the front door opens, and you look up just in time to see the faint bruise blooming on his cheek. You don’t yell. You don’t panic. You just say it—soft but loaded: “Trevor John Zegras.” He winces like you actually hit him. “Okay, yeah,” he says quickly, dropping his bag. “Before you say anything—it wasn’t that bad. First fight. Kind of happened.” You cross your arms, unimpressed, and he sighs, stepping closer with a sheepish grin. “I know, I know,” he adds, quieter now. “But hey—I’m fine. Promise. And… I kinda won?”

william andrew michael junior nylander altelius

"Dude is so whipped" Cole says as he watches Juraj take your shoes off for you at the end of the black tie event.

"Like you would think she hung the moon and stars the way he acts around her" Arber says.

"In his eyes she has" Nick says, "That's true love boys."

They watch as Juraj gets your shoes in one hand and makes sure your okay walking barefoot before he carries your purse. You go say bye to Cole's girlfriend, so Juraj comes up to say bye to the boys.

"We're headed out" Juraj says.

"You need some help with your things there Juraj?" Kaiden asks

"What?" Juraj asks

"You have your hands full, need some help?" Cole asks

"No I've got it" Juraj says.

"Your so whipped" Arber says.

"Your not any better dumbass" Juraj replies.

"Woah he's got some bite to him" Kaiden says.

"She's his first love let him be" Nick says.

"Aww but chirping him is more fun" Cole literally pouts.

"Being nice is even better" you jump in.

"Hey Y/N" Cole says.

"Hey boys you done here?" You ask, "Juraj and I have a date with the couch and a movie so if you'll excuse us."

"Of course have fun" Nick replies.

"Told you I could get us in," he says, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Pool's all ours."

The city spreads out below, a carpet of lights that makes your breath catch. The rooftop pool glows a soft blue, water rippling gently in the warm night air.

"It's beautiful up here," you whisper, slipping off your sandals and dipping your toes into the water. "Perfect temperature."

Juraj's already shrugging off his hoodie, revealing his toned torso. "Race you in?" he challenges, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Not fair," you laugh. "You've got a head start."

Before you can protest further, he's in the water with a splash that reaches you even at the edge. You watch him surface, dark hair slicked back, water droplets tracing paths down his chest.

"Coming in or just going to watch all night?" he calls.

Slowly, you peel off your cover-up, leaving you in just your bikini. Juraj's eyes follow your movements, his gaze appreciative and warm.

"Beautiful," he murmurs as you slip into the pool.

The water envelopes you, warm and silky against your skin. You swim toward him, closing the distance until you're floating just inches apart.

"Told you it'd be better than watching Netflix," he says, his hands finding your waist beneath the water.

"Much better," you agree, letting him pull you closer until you're straddling his lap, chests pressed together.

The city lights create a halo around his head and for a moment, you just look at him, really look at him. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the slight bump in his nose from who-knows-what hockey incident, the intensity of his gaze.

"What?" he asks softly, thumb stroking your side.

"Just… this is nice," you say. "Being here with you."

His smile widens. "I like being here with you too."

He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that starts gentle, sweet, but quickly deepens. Your fingers thread through his wet hair as his tongue explores your mouth, tasting of chlorine and desire.

One of his hands slides up your back, deftly untying your bikini top. It floats away somewhere in the pool, but you barely notice as his mouth trails down your neck, nipping and sucking at sensitive skin.

"Juraj," you breathe as his lips find the hollow of your throat. "Someone could see us."

"Let them look," he murmurs against your skin. "They're just jealous they're not up here with someone as beautiful as you."

His praise sends a thrill through you and you arch into his touch as his hands explore your body beneath the water. Fingers tease your nipples, rolling and pinching until you're writhing in his lap.

"Feel good?" he asks, though he already knows the answer.

"So good," you gasp as his mouth closes over one breast, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak.

Your hands explore too, tracing the hard planes of his chest, the defined muscles of his arms, the trail of hair that disappears beneath his swim trunks. When you palm him through the fabric, he groans against your skin.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Keep doing that and I'm not going to last."

"Who says I want you to last?" you tease, but your voice is shaky with need.

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through your entire body. "Naughty girl."

In one fluid motion, he lifts you, turning you both until your back is pressed against the pool edge. His mouth finds yours again, hungry and demanding as his hands work to remove your bikini bottoms.

When they're gone, his fingers explore your slick folds, teasing and stroking until you're bucking against his hand.

"So wet for me," he murmurs. "All this from just a little kissing?"

"Shut up and touch me properly," you demand, which only makes him grin.

"Bossy," he tsks, but obliges, sliding two fingers inside you as his thumb circles your clit.

Your head falls back against the cool tile edge as pleasure builds, waves of it washing over you. The city lights blur as your eyes close, focusing only on the sensations Juraj is creating.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice husky. "Let go for me. Want to feel you come around my fingers."

His words are your undoing. You shatter with a cry that echoes across the rooftop, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash through you.

Before you've completely recovered, he's lifting you again, setting you on the edge of the pool with your legs dangling in the water. He positions himself between them, looking up at you with dark, hungry eyes.

"Perfect view from here," he says, leaning forward to taste you.

His tongue replaces his fingers, licking and sucking with an expertise that has you seeing stars. Your hands tangle in his hair as you grind against his mouth, chasing another orgasm.

"Juraj, please," you gasp. "Need you inside me."

He pulls back just enough to speak. "Patience, baby. Want to taste you properly first."

And taste you he does, until you're trembling and begging, your second orgasm building fast and intense. When it hits, you're louder this time, not caring who might hear.

As you come down from your high, Juraj stands, shedding his trunks in one quick motion. His cock springs free, hard and ready and you lick your lips in anticipation.

"Turn around," he commands gently. "Hands on the edge."

You obey, presenting yourself to him as he positions himself at your entrance. The city lights glitter below, but all you can focus on is the feeling of him slowly pushing inside you, stretching and filling you completely.

"Fuck," he breathes, stilling once he's fully seated. "So tight. So perfect for me."

"Move," you demand, pushing back against him. "Please."

He starts slow, shallow thrusts that gradually deepen until he's pounding into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin mingling with your moans and his groans.

"Look at the city," he pants, his rhythm never faltering. "Enjoy the view, baby. All those people down there have no idea what's happening up here."

Your eyes focus on the glittering skyline as he continues to thrust, the contrast between the distant, impersonal city lights and the intimate, passionate moment overwhelming.

"Such a good girl for me," he praises, one hand wrapping around to find your clit. "Taking me so well. Love how you feel around my cock."

His dirty talk combined with the stimulation on your clit pushes you toward another orgasm. You can feel yourself tightening around him, your body preparing to let go again.

"That's it," he encourages. "Come with me. Want to feel you come all over my cock."

His words send you over the edge and you cry out as pleasure crashes through you again. He follows moments later with a guttural groan, spilling inside you as his thrusts slow.

For a moment, you both stay still, breathing heavily as you recover. Then Juraj gently pulls out, turning you to face him and pulling you into his arms.

"Amazing," he murmurs against your hair. "You're amazing."

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who…

Is so hard from foreplay that he accidentally cums the moment he slides inside you, then turns red and gets so embarrassed he nearly cries

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who…

Earns your forgiveness for cumming too fast by eating you out with such ferocity he gets lightheaded because he hasn’t properly come up for air in thirty minutes

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who…

Begs and whines when he doesn’t get his way, then acts like a cocky little brat the moment you give in to him

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who…

Enjoys cleaning up the room after sex because he gets an ego boost seeing the drenched bedsheets

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who…

Has a hidden album of photos of you to jerk off to on roadies.

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who…

Wears your hickeys like a badge of honour

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who…

Hopes his teammates ask about said hickeys, and does the most to make sure the marks you left are out on display in the locker room…love bites, nail scratches and all.

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who...

Decides if he wants to be a top or bottom based off of how well his hockey game went

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who...

Is able channel the adrenaline of a big win into making your knees shake from overstimulation the moment he gets home.

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who...

Is also able to lay down and take whatever you give, wanting nothing more than to be your own toy for personal pleasure, especially when you're mad at him.

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who...

Wants to be babied

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who...

You can't quite figure out because one night he's degrading and praising you, and the next night he's begging for you to give it back to him...

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who...

Thinks his girlfriend might very well be a goddess, and treats her as such even if he messes up sometimes...

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who...

Gets giddy over a blow job

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who...

Is too impatient to take you to the bedroom after a road trip, so he just bends you over the kitchen counter

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who...

Forces you to look at him as he fucks you stupid.

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who...

Thinks it’s unfair when you force him to look at you when you fuck him stupid (he doesn't believe in double standards)

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who…

Would share you with some of his teammates if that's what you wanted.

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who…

Ironically, will punch another dude for looking at you too long. His horniness and possessiveness are in constant states of tension

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who...

Likes being called a good boy after he's played a bad game

Juraj Slafkovsky is the kinda guy who...

Tells you how lucky he is to have you after you two have sex <3