#jw60

Crazy how quickly the workers at Scotia Bank arena can change it from being a hockey rink to a stadium that can sit 20,000 people in less than 24 hours. Tonight was your first concert in Toronto, one of your favourite cities to travel to. It was late November so it was freezing, but when Scotia Bank arena offers you a date to play, you take it.

Fame. What a fickle thing. If someone had told you 10 months ago you'd be playing a sold out show in Toronto with Maisie Peters as your opener, you wouldn't have believed them. You were super excited... and a little nervous. You had gained so much fame opening for Taylor Swift in your home city of London and the surrounding area and you were so so grateful for that experience. Working with Taylor taught you so much about performing.

Your first album, entitled Dear Diary, was focused on growing up and your first ever serious relationship with Milo Manheim, an actor. It was a hit everywhere. Then, you and Milo had a messy, yet private breakup, leading to your newest hit single, Good Graces. After going viral on a few social media platforms and word of a collab with Taylor Swift getting out, your publicist, Janine, pitched the idea of this tour.

Toronto wasn't opening night of your tour, though. You started in Manchester and played the first leg in the UK before releasing North American dates due to high demand. Toronto is the first night of that leg of the tour. And, boy, were you nervous.

It was almost 7 PM and you could hear the crowd screaming along with Maisie as she sang Not Another Rockstar, one of your personal favourites. It was the last song of her set and you were getting nervous. You have done this a million times, Y/N, you're fine, you say in your head. Its not a long show. Just go, sing, yap and finish. Finally, it is your turn to go on.

The crowd feels massive. So far, this is the biggest stadium you have sold out on your own. You hear screams and cheers and clapping as you walk out on stage in a simple white baby doll dress and matching white mary janes shoes. You take a deep breath, smile and wave. You bring your blue bedazzled mic to your lips and say,

"Hello, Toronto!!"

The crowd goes even crazier and the intro to The Story of Us starts playing. You sing your heart out trying to forget that you're actually performing. The loudest part of the song is "So many things that you wish I knew / But the story of us might be ending soon" and you smile so so big to hear all these people know the lyrics you wrote in your bedroom at 16 years old.

Your first set of the evening goes well, and you finish off with Generation Why, a favourite of yours. The crowd is hyped and you are ready to give your first little speech before your second set begins.

"Oh my goodness, you guys are so loud," you say smiling at the crowd and looking around to see all the faces of the people watching you. "Welcome to the Dear Diary Tour, everyone. I am your host tonight. My name is ANGL!". This makes the crowd cheer more and you scan the VIP tents. You find the booth with your friends, including Iris and William. You see a few more guys but you can't see their faces clearly enough to know who they are.

"I just want to thank all of you for being here with me tonight and taking time out of your busy schedules to enjoy my music with me. I'm very very proud of everything I have accomplished in the past year and I'm so excited to get to share some of that with you. Now I have a question," you cross your arms and tap on finger to your chin, pretend pondering. It was time for Good Graces, the newest addition to your discography.

"I'm from the UK and we like football there. What about you guys here in Toronto? Is it hockey?"

All of a sudden the crowd gets really loud and your backup dancers box you in as you quickly change into the bedazzled Woll 60 jersey you got from Leafs admin the night before. The intro to you latest single plays and you get really excited. Who did Janine pick??

For context, you have played in only European cities on this tour. However, you have a small segment where you ask an athlete from wherever you are playing to make a small appearance. Normally, they have been football players but because you are in Canada, you assume Janine picked a hockey player.

And then it starts.

When I love you, I'm sweet like an angel Drawin' hearts 'round our names and dreamin' of Writing vows, rockin' cradles Don't mistake my nice for naïve I don't waste a second, I know lots of guys You do somethin' suspect, this cute ass bye-bye

Like ooh, baby, you say you really like it being mine So let me give you some advice

Boy, it's not that complicated You should stay in my good graces Or I'll switch it up like that So fast, 'cause no one's more amazin' At turnin' lovin' into hatred

You sing and spin and bounce around the stage. The crowd energy is electric and you feel so at peace. A feeling you never want to end. Then, the second verse starts and see something move over by where Iris is standing in the VIP tent. That must be the guy Janine picked. You continue the second verse as normal before you point to the jumbotron and sing,

"Break my heart and I swear 'm moving on with your favourite athlete, shoot his shot every night."

Your heart does a little dance when you see the man on the screen. Immediately, you recognize him. Joseph Woll. The goalie from last night. Tall, broad shoulders, dark hair and an intoxicating smile. He gives a little wave at the camera before smiling up at you. You can't help but smile back. The image on the screen changes back to you almost as it did the first time.

You continue the song, occasionally taking a glimpse over your shoulder to see if Joseph is still standing there at the barricade. He is, of course, watching you intently as you finish the song. You breathe heavily and take a bow, waving at some of the fans in the front row.

The rest of the show goes smoothly. You sing and dance and wave. Everyone loves it and you can tell. After you play your last song of the night, a few seconds pass. You look to your left and meet Joseph's eyes. He mouths, "Incredible," before walking off towards the VIP tent. Your cheeks are on fire again but that seems to just be his affect of you.

The concert is over and everyone is still clapping and cheering. Finally, you look out at the crowd and say, "Wow, thank you all so much. I have never felt more welcome in a city than I do here. You truly are such a polite nation. Thank you.". The cheering continues and you smile wide.

"Thats all we have for you tonight but I hope you enjoyed. I cannot wait to be back and see you all again very soon. I love you, Toronto. Goodnight!".

You blow one more big kiss and the curtain closes. Your shoulders drop and you hear someone call your name from behind you. You're rushed to your room backstage to get cleaned up but in the back of your mind, all you can see is Joseph Woll. And his smile.

You find yourself hoping this isn't the last time you see him.

*ur.angl has added a post*

Then someone else adds, “She’s leading integration across teams. Marketing, scheduling, player access. Everything routes through her.”

Something shifts, slow and unpleasant, in his gut.

He keeps his face neutral. He’s good at that. Goalies learn early how to betray nothing.

“Who?” he asks, because not asking would be worse.

They say your name again, more clearly this time.

The room does not tilt. No one notices anything. The meeting continues, dense with logistics Joseph usually tolerates rather than absorbs.

But suddenly every mention of coordination, access windows, media blocks feels personal.

You are here.

And you’ve been here for weeks already.

That’s the thing Joseph doesn’t understand yet — by the time he becomes aware of you, you’ve already built an entire working system around the Winter Classic. You’ve walked the site at dawn, breath fogging as you counted steps and sightlines. You’ve fought with broadcast reps about camera angles and with sponsors about logo placement. You’ve learned which city permits take days and which take months.

You are tired in the deep, marrow way that only comes from responsibility without margin.

The players are one variable among many.

Important, yes — but contained.

At least, they were supposed to be.

The first time you see Joseph again, it isn't dramatic.

It’s a Thursday morning walkthrough at the outdoor venue, half-constructed scaffolding ringing the space where the rink will be. You’re mid-sentence, explaining to a group of operations staff how the player tunnel will intersect with the media riser, when you glance up and see him standing a few feet back, hands in the pockets of his jacket, listening.

You do not stop talking.

You note, distantly, that he looks taller than you remember. Broader through the shoulders. More settled in his body, like someone who has finally stopped apologizing for taking up space.

You file the observation away and continue working.

Later — much later — you will think about how practiced that instinct is. How quickly you learned to compartmentalize him.

But for now, you finish your sentence, answer a question, redirect the group.

Only then do you look at him again.

Your eyes meet.

The recognition is mutual and immediate, but it does not bloom into anything visible. No surprise. No warmth.

Just a brief recalibration.

You nod once, politely, the way you would to any stakeholder you haven’t formally met yet.

Then you turn back to your clipboard.

Joseph stands there longer than necessary, unsure what he expected — a reaction, maybe. Some sign that he still occupies a different category in your mind.

He does not.

It makes sense, intellectually, why he’s in these meetings.

The Winter Classic isn’t just a game; it’s a narrative event, and the league is meticulous about who gets positioned where. Joseph is part of the team’s leadership group now — not in title, exactly, but in practice. A goalie’s schedule is a puzzle piece no one else can solve, and media obligations for a marquee event are heavy.

They need his availability mapped precisely: practice windows, press slots, recovery time. They need his buy-in for promotional material, interviews, behind-the-scenes access.

So he sits at the table while you speak.

He listens while you outline timelines that intersect with his life in ways he’s never had to think about before.

You don’t look at him when you talk. You don’t soften your language. You treat him like a professional asset with specific constraints.

It is both fair and unbearable.

From Joseph’s side, the distance feels intentional.

He watches the way you command the room, how people defer to you without question. You’ve always been capable, but this is different. This is authority sharpened by experience.

You don’t fidget. You don’t hedge.

You are not the woman he remembers waiting on his couch, trying not to ask if he’d be home for dinner.

He tells himself this is proof he did the right thing.

That he stepped aside and let you become this.

But the thought offers no comfort.

The days settle into a rhythm that includes both of you whether you want it to or not.

Morning check-ins. Afternoon revisions. Late-night emails when something shifts unexpectedly. Your name appears in his inbox more often than it should, always attached to something logistical, always impeccable in tone.

Hi Joe — per our discussion, attached is the updated media schedule reflecting goalie-specific recovery needs. Let me know if there are conflicts.

He reads too much into the neutrality. He reads too much into everything.

Once, after a long session, someone jokes about how seamless coordination has been.

“You can thank her,” the league rep says, nodding at you. “She’s been keeping all the plates spinning.”

Joseph looks at you then. Really looks.

You’re tired. He can see it now — the slight tension in your jaw, the faint shadows beneath your eyes. The knowledge lands heavily in him.

You used to look like that because of him.

The promo shoot is not the breaking point — but it is the first visible fracture.

Outdoor shoots are chaos. Weather shifts. Light changes. Schedules compress. Everyone is cold and irritable.

Joseph is already annoyed when he steps onto the ice platform, skates crunching against temporary flooring. He hates cameras on principle; hates the way they ask him to perform ease when focus is his currency.

You’re there, headset on, hair pulled back, already fielding questions.

“Joe,” you say, voice steady. “We’re going to need you to hold position for a second.”

He does.

You adjust lighting angles, talk through framing, correct someone gently but firmly. You refer to him in the third person even while standing ten feet away.

“He’s getting shadowed on the left. Can we compensate?”

It shouldn’t matter.

It does.

Afterward, when the crew disperses, the cold seems sharper.

“Do you ever get tired of pretending I’m not here?” he asks.

The question slips out before he can stop it.

You look at him, surprised — not offended, not angry. Just caught off guard.

“I’m not pretending,” you say carefully. “I’m working.”

“I know. I just—” He exhales. “You don’t have to freeze me out.”

Something tightens in your chest.

“This isn’t freezing you out,” you say. “This is me doing my job without confusing it with… something else.”

“With us,” he says.

The word lands between you, heavy and dangerous.

You don’t deny it.

“There is no us Joe,” you say, quietly.

He nods, like he expected that.

Like he deserves it.

What follows is not one fight, but many near-misses.

Moments that almost become conversations. Silences that stretch too long. Old habits tugging at the edges of restraint.

You catch him watching you sometimes, his expression unreadable.

He catches you flinching when someone mentions partners or long-term plans.

Neither of you names it.

The night the truth finally surfaces, the stadium is empty — not just quiet, but hollow. The kind of silence that amplifies thought.

You’re alone at a table, schedules spread out, trying to solve a problem that shouldn’t exist. Joseph approaches slowly, as if afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast.

“You always liked it when it was empty,” he says.

You don’t look up. “I liked things that made sense.”

“Did I ever?” he asks.

The question is softer than you expect.

You close your eyes.

Joseph doesn't expect you to answer him.

That’s the thing about finally asking the question you’ve been carrying for years—you prepare yourself for silence, for deflection, for a polite refusal that confirms everything you already believe. He braces for that, for the way you might straighten your shoulders and say something measured and final.

Instead, you let out a slow breath.

“Yeah,” you say. “You did. Until you didn’t.”

The words are not sharp. They are not thrown. They land with the quiet certainty of something you have already made peace with.

Joseph pulls out the chair across from you without asking and sits. The scrape of metal against concrete sounds too loud in the empty stadium.

“I didn’t know how to be what you needed,” he says, because it is the only honest thing he has left.

You finally look at him then. Really look. And something in your expression shifts—not softening, exactly, but deepening. As if you are finally allowing yourself to see him as he is now, not as the man he was when everything ended.

“I never needed you to be anything else,” you say. “I needed you to let me in.”

The words settle between you, heavy and precise.

Joseph stares down at his hands. He has replayed the breakup so many times that it has become a fixed object in his mind, immutable. He has always seen himself as the one who made the hard but necessary choice. The adult decision. The responsible one.

But now—now he wonders how much of that was fear dressed up as discipline.

“I thought you were pulling away,” he says quietly. “You were tired all the time. Distracted. You stopped asking about my games. About… us.”

You give a small, humorless smile. “I stopped asking because every answer felt like a reminder that I wasn’t part of it.”

“That’s not true.”

“It felt true,” you say firmly. “And when something feels true long enough, it starts to be.”

Joseph swallows.

“You never told me,” he says.

You tilt your head. “Neither did you.”

The symmetry of it is almost cruel.

After that night, nothing is resolved—but everything is different.

You don't suddenly become close. You don't fall back into old rhythms. If anything, the air between you grows heavier, charged with words said and unsaid.

But there is a shift.

You look at him more now. Not often, not openly—but enough that he notices. Enough that he starts to feel the old awareness stir, tentative and dangerous.

The Winter Classic looms closer, and the pressure ratchets up accordingly. Schedules compress. Meetings multiply. Your days bleed into nights, and your emails become shorter, more direct.

Joseph notices when you start forgetting to eat.

He notices because he remembers what that means.

Once, after a late-night walkthrough, he finds you sitting alone in the temporary operations trailer, staring at a spreadsheet like it might bite you.

“You should take a break,” he says, gentle.

You look up, startled, caught off guard by his presence.

“I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue. He just sets a protein bar on the table between you and leaves.

You don’t touch it until he’s gone.

The night before the Winter Classic, the stadium is lit like a promise.

You stand at the edge of the rink, watching final preparations unfold. Tomorrow, this place will be unrecognizable—full, roaring, alive. Right now, it is quiet in a way that feels sacred.

Joseph finds you there.

“You did this,” he says, awe slipping into his voice despite himself.

You shrug. “I coordinated it. A lot of people did the work.”

“You held it together,” he says. “I’ve seen how this kind of thing falls apart.”

You glance at him. There's no deflection in his expression. Just respect.

“Thank you,” you say.

The moment stretches. Tomorrow presses in on both of you—the game, the cameras, the culmination of months of work.

“After this,” he says carefully, “will you disappear again?”

The question is quiet. Vulnerable in a way you’ve never heard from him before.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I’ve learned not to promise things I can’t guarantee.”

He nods. “I’d settle for honesty.”

You meet his gaze. “So would I.”

The game is everything it’s supposed to be.

It is spectacle and chaos and precision layered together until the seams disappear. The crowd roars. The cameras roll. Everything you planned unfolds almost exactly as intended.

You watch from behind the scenes, headset pressed to your ear, heart pounding—not with fear, but with something close to pride.

Joseph plays well. Focused. Calm. You see him during warm-ups, during breaks, during moments when the weight of the event threatens to crack through his composure.

And you realize, with a quiet certainty, that you never wanted him to choose between this and you.

After the stadium empties, after the last trucks pull away and the lights dim to a dull, exhausted glow, Joseph finds you again.

Not because he planned to. Not because he knew what he was going to say.

Because the night is too quiet, and the silence presses in on him until he can’t breathe.

You’re still in your coat, still wearing your headset even though it’s powered off, standing near the tunnel like you don’t quite know where to go now that the thing you’ve been holding together for months is finally over.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod automatically. Then stop yourself. “I don’t know.”

Something in your voice breaks him open.

“Come with me,” he says, before he can overthink it.

You hesitate. “Joe—”

“Just to talk,” he says. “Please. I can’t do this halfway anymore.”

You look at him for a long moment. He doesn’t try to soften the desperation on his face. He lets you see it.

Finally, you nod.

His place feels unfamiliar in a way that hurts.

You’ve been here before—so many times—but now it’s cleaner, quieter, stripped of the clutter you once left behind without realizing how much space you took up. You stand awkwardly in the doorway, hands tucked into your sleeves.

“I didn’t mean to bring you here,” he says. “I just—this was the only place I could think.”

“It’s fine,” you say. “I didn’t want to go home yet either.”

You sit on opposite ends of the couch at first. Like strangers. Like people pretending they don’t know exactly how the other takes their coffee, how they curl when they’re tired.

Hours pass without either of you noticing.

You talk.

Not carefully. Not strategically.

You talk about the year after the breakup—how empty it felt, how each of you assumed the other had moved on because that hurt less than imagining they hadn’t. You talk about the nights you almost reached out. The texts you typed and deleted. The resentment that grew in the absence of answers.

“I thought you stopped loving me,” you say at one point, voice barely holding together. “I thought hockey finally mattered more than I ever could.”

Joseph’s head drops into his hands.

“I thought you were already gone,” he admits. “I thought I was clinging to something you were quietly letting die.”

You stare at him. “I was waiting for you to fight.”

“I didn’t think I was allowed to,” he says. “I didn’t think you wanted me to. I didn't think you wanted me.”

The words sit there, devastating in their simplicity.

Sometime near dawn, exhaustion wins.

You don’t even remember who moves first—only that at some point you’re closer, knees touching, shoulders brushing. Then your head is against his chest, his arm heavy and careful around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he breathes wrong.

You fall asleep like that. Not as a decision. As a surrender.

But morning is cruel.

Light spills through the windows, exposing everything the dark made softer. You wake stiff and disoriented, Joseph’s arm still around you, his chin resting against your hair.

For a moment, it feels like nothing ever broke.

Then reality snaps back into place.

You sit up abruptly. “This was a mistake.”

Joseph blinks awake. “What?”

“We can’t just—fall back into this,” you say, standing, pacing. “Talking all night doesn’t fix what happened.”

“I know that,” he says, pushing himself up too. “I’m not pretending it does.”

“But you still don’t get it,” you say, frustration rising. “You always decide what’s best without asking me.”

His jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“It is,” you snap. “You did it then, and you’re doing it now by acting like closeness means resolution.”

“I’m not,” he says sharply. “I’m saying I want to try. With you. Not for you.”

“You already tried,” you say. “And you left.”

“I let you go because I thought you wanted out,” he fires back. “Because every time I reached for you, you pulled away.”

“Because you were already gone,” you say, voice breaking. “I was lonely in a relationship with you.”

Silence crashes down between you.

Joseph steps closer, eyes bright with something desperate and unresolved.

“I was scared,” he says. “Scared I’d ruin you. Scared you’d wake up one day and resent me for choosing this life.”

You laugh bitterly. “So instead you chose to hurt me first.”

“I didn’t want to lose you,” he says.

“You did,” you whisper.

He’s right in front of you now. Too close. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the tension vibrating through both of you.

“I don’t know how to do this perfectly,” he says. “But I know I don’t want a life where I keep walking away from you.”

Your chest aches.

“You don’t get to say that now,” you say. “You don’t get to undo two years with a confession.”

“I’m not undoing it,” he says. “I’m standing in it.”

Something in you finally gives.

You step into him, hands fisting in his shirt, not gentle, not careful.

“Then stand,” you say. “Don’t disappear. Don’t choose for me. Don’t make me feel like I’m something you have to sacrifice.”

His hands come up, framing your face, like he’s asking permission even now.

“I choose you,” he says. “With all of it.”

The space between you collapses.

The kiss is not soft. It’s not polished. It’s desperate and uneven and full of everything you never said, mouths crashing together like the only language left.

When you pull back, breathless, foreheads pressed together, nothing is solved.

But nothing is silent anymore.