lauren

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⬩➤ LAUREN. nineteen, she/her, sweet with a hint of spice, canadian enthusiast but not canadian.

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⬩➤ NAV LINKS

who i write for

masterlist

request are open

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Romanticising everything because reality never feels dramatic enough.

hughes!family x fem!reader

“Okay, wait,” Julie laughs, pointing across the set at Mila. “I need to know the lore here because everyone online is obsessed with you and Quinn.”

Mila immediately groans, covering her face with her hands. “Oh my God.”

“No, seriously,” Cat jumps in. “People think you two are like this mythical childhood friends-to-lovers couple.”

“We kinda are,” Mila admits through a laugh.

Julie leans forward dramatically. “How long have you actually been together?”

Mila blinks.

“That’s… complicated.”

Cat immediately starts laughing. “Oh no. He’s one of those guys?”

“He’s SO one of those guys,” Mila says instantly. “Quinn has literally never formally asked me out.”

Julie stares at her. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious!” Mila laughs. “Like, there was no official moment. We just sort of… kept existing together.”

“So how did this happen?” Cat asks.

Mila tucks her legs underneath herself on the couch, smiling already like she knows she’s about to expose him publicly.

“Our families lived near each other growing up, so I was always at the Hughes house,” she explains. “And Jack and Luke were like my actual little brothers. Luke still calls me his sister.”

“That’s adorable,” Julie says.

“It was chaos,” Mila corrects immediately. “Constant chaos. Mini sticks in the basement, Ellen yelling at everyone, Jack breaking things every five minutes—”

“Sounds accurate,” Cat laughs.

“And Quinn was always just…” Mila pauses, smiling to herself. “There.”

“What does that mean?” Julie asks.

“He’s not loud about stuff,” Mila says. “Like, Jack’s super expressive, Luke’s emotional, but Quinn’s just quietly there all the time. You don’t even notice he’s taking care of you until, like, three years later.”

The girls laugh.

“No, genuinely,” Mila insists. “I’d mention something once in passing, and he’d remember it forever. Like, I told him sophomore year that I hated driving in the rain, and after that he would just show up. Didn’t matter where I was.”

Julie visibly melts. “Stop.”

“I’m serious,” Mila says, laughing. “He’d literally text me, ‘I’m outside.’ No explanation. And then act annoyed that I thanked him.”

“That is the most Quinn thing I’ve ever heard,” Cat says.

“And honestly, I think I accidentally became the Hughes family emotional support system at some point,” Mila adds with a laugh. “Like, Luke would call me when he was spiraling about hockey stuff because he always felt like he had to keep up with his brothers.”

Julie’s expression softens. “Aww.”

“He’d get really in his head,” Mila explains. “Especially when he was younger. He’d be like, ‘What if I’m not as good as them?’ which is insane because he’s Luke Hughes.”

“Right,” Cat says.

“But growing up with Quinn and Jack is intense,” Mila says. “So we’d sit in his room for, like, two hours, and I’d have to convince him he didn’t need to prove himself every five seconds.”

“That’s actually really sweet,” Julie says.

“And Jack?” Mila laughs immediately. “Jack only came to me for girl problems.”

Cat bursts out laughing. “Of course he did.”

“No, because he genuinely thought I was some relationship genius at sixteen,” Mila says. “He’d burst into my room like, ‘Mila, be honest, what does it mean if she used a period in her text?’”

Julie doubles over.

“And then he’d ignore every piece of advice I gave him,” Mila continues. “One time I told him very clearly not to send this girl a dramatic paragraph at midnight, and he did it anyway.”

“How’d that go?” Cat asks.

“She blocked him for, like, three days.”

The couch erupts.

“And somehow that became my fault,” Mila says through laughter. “‘You should’ve stopped me harder.’”

“That is SUCH sibling energy,” Julie says.

“And Ellen loved it because she said I was the only person who could get all three boys to communicate like actual humans,” Mila adds. “Which honestly might still be true.”

“And he’s always been weirdly protective,” Mila continues. “When we were kids, Jack convinced me to climb onto the garage roof one summer because apparently we were ‘testing parachutes.’”

Julie immediately starts laughing.

“We were using trash bags,” Mila says flatly.

“Oh my God.”

“And I got stuck because I was terrified to jump down, so Quinn climbed up there, sat beside me for, like, twenty minutes, and was like, ‘You don’t have to jump if you don’t want to.’ Meanwhile, Jack’s yelling from below that we were ruining the experiment.”

“That is SUCH sibling energy,” Cat says.

“And Quinn carried me down the ladder because I was crying,” Mila admits through a laugh. “Then he yelled at Jack for an hour.”

Julie presses a hand to her chest. “That’s actually really sweet.”

“He used to do stuff like that constantly,” Mila says. “Like, one winter I wiped out skating on their backyard rink and split my lip open, and Quinn literally tried to fight a twelve-year-old because he thought someone pushed me.”

Cat wheezes. “He’s insane.”

“He’s deeply insane,” Mila agrees. “But only quietly.”

“And he’s so secretly clingy,” Mila continues. “People think he’s super detached, but he’s not with people he loves.”

Julie gasps. “I KNEW IT.”

“No, because tell me why this man acts like he hates physical affection,” Mila says dramatically, “but if we’re sitting on a couch, he has to be touching me somehow or he gets grumpy.”

Cat is already dying laughing.

“I swear to God,” Mila continues, “if I get up for more than ten minutes, he’s like, ‘Where are you going?’”

“That’s a husband,” Julie says immediately.

Mila points aggressively. “THANK YOU.”

“So when did you realize you were in love with him?” Cat asks.

Mila goes quiet for a second.

Not embarrassed.

Just thoughtful.

“I think it happened so slowly I didn’t notice,” she says honestly. “Because he was always my person before he was my boyfriend, you know?”

Julie nods softly.

“And honestly, everyone else figured it out before we did,” Mila laughs. “Jack used to get so annoyed because Quinn only listened to me.”

Cat snorts. “That tracks.”

“No, like, it was bad,” Mila says. “Jack would ask Quinn to do something ten times, and Quinn would say no every single time. Then I’d ask once, and he’d immediately do it.”

“Terrible for team morale,” Julie jokes.

“Luke still uses me against him,” Mila says. “‘Mila said you should answer my texts.’ And Quinn folds instantly.”

Cat wipes tears from her eyes. “I’m obsessed with this.”

“And Quinn’s so competitive,” Mila continues. “Like, weirdly competitive about me specifically.”

Julie raises an eyebrow. “Explain.”

“This is so embarrassing for him,” Mila says, grinning. “Okay, one time in Vancouver, I was talking to one of the trainers after a game for maybe five minutes. Completely normal conversation.”

“Oh no,” Cat laughs already.

“And Quinn literally skated over while still in partial gear just to stand there.”

Julie screams.

“I’m not kidding! Didn’t say anything. Just stood beside me silently.”

“That’s psychotic behavior,” Cat says through laughter.

“And later I was like, ‘What was that?’ and he goes—” Mila drops her voice into a painfully accurate Quinn impression. “‘I dunno. He was talking to you for a long time.’”

The entire couch erupts.

“That is a man DOWN BAD,” Julie says.

“He’d die before admitting it, though,” Mila replies immediately. “Like, genuinely die.”

“And how did the Minnesota trade affect things?” Cat asks more gently.

Mila’s expression softens instantly.

“I think that was the first time I saw him genuinely overwhelmed,” she admits. “Because Vancouver became home for him. And those last few months there were really hard.”

The room quiets a little.

“He was carrying everything,” Mila says carefully. “The pressure, the media, the captain stuff, trying to hold the team together when things kept going wrong. And Quinn internalizes everything. Like, if the team loses, he genuinely thinks it’s his fault somehow.”

Julie nods sympathetically.

“There were nights he’d come home after games and barely talk,” Mila continues softly. “Not because he was angry at me or anything—he just looked exhausted all the time. And he hates letting people see that.”

“That’s heartbreaking,” Cat says quietly.

“And Vancouver loved him, but I think sometimes he forgot he was allowed to just be a person there,” Mila says. “Everything felt so heavy by the end.”

“So when the trade happened…” Julie prompts gently.

“He called me before anyone else,” Mila says. “And I could hear how stressed he was trying to act calm about it.”

“Aww.”

“And the first thing he asked me,” Mila says, smiling a little, “‘was if I’d still move with him.’”

Julie physically grabs her chest.

“And honestly?” Mila laughs softly. “Minnesota changed him in the best way.”

“How so?” Cat asks.

“He’s lighter now,” Mila says immediately. “Like, genuinely lighter. He smiles more. He leaves the rink at the rink now instead of carrying it home every night.”

“That’s huge,” Julie says.

“And he finally lets himself have a life outside hockey,” Mila continues. “In Vancouver, he was so locked into responsibility all the time. In Minnesota, he started breathing again.”

Cat smiles. “That makes me emotional.”

“It made me emotional,” Mila admits. “The first month there, he kept apologizing for sleeping in because he finally wasn’t stressed all night.”

“Oh my God.”

“And now he’s obsessed with normal things,” Mila says, laughing. “He goes grocery shopping for fun. He has favorite coffee shops. He takes the dog on walks without getting recognized every thirty seconds.”

Julie grins. “Free Quinn.”

“Literally,” Mila laughs. “Like, this man discovered peace and became unbearable about it.”

“And the thing is,” Mila continues quietly, “Quinn’s not good with words. Like, at all. He’s terrible at talking about feelings.”

“Very hockey man of him,” Cat says.

“Exactly,” Mila laughs. “But he says things in other ways.”

“Like what?”

Mila smiles into her coffee cup before answering.

“He memorizes my schedule.”

The girls immediately go silent.

“He sends me weather updates if I’m flying somewhere,” she continues. “He replaced the coffee machine in my apartment once because I said mine made weird noises. He listens to every interview I do even though he pretends he doesn’t.”

“That’s insane,” Julie whispers.

“And every single night before bed,” Mila says, laughing softly now, “he goes, ‘You good?’”

“Aww.”

“Every night,” she repeats. “No matter where he is.”

Cat wipes under her eyes dramatically. “I fear that man loves you more than oxygen.”

Mila grins immediately.

“Oh, absolutely. But if you asked him directly, he’d somehow deny it.”

“And what would Quinn say if he watched this episode?” Julie asks.

Mila doesn’t even hesitate.

“He’d text me, ‘Why are you talking about me so much?’”

The girls burst out laughing.

“And then?” Cat asks.

Mila smiles knowingly.

“And then he’d ask what time I’m getting home.”

Julie groans dramatically. “Okay, yeah, I’m done. That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Actually sickening,” Cat agrees, pointing at Mila. “You two are ruining it for the rest of us.”

Mila laughs, hiding her face again. “He’s gonna hate that I said all this.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Julie says. “But that’s what makes good content.”

“Exactly,” Cat adds. “Quinn Hughes, if you’re watching this, we know you’re obsessed with her.”

“He’d literally turn this off after thirty seconds,” Mila says through laughter.

“Still counts as a view,” Julie replies instantly.

The three of them laugh as the cameras begin to pull back.

“Alright guys,” Julie says, smiling toward the camera, “that’s all for today’s episode.”

“Make sure you like, subscribe, leave a comment about your favorite Quinn and Mila moment—”

“And bully Cat into finally answering dating questions next episode,” Mila cuts in.

“Absolutely not,” Cat says immediately as everyone starts laughing again.

current works:

🏒 golden between us — 35.9k reads

📸 through the lens

🤍 love after boston

🔒 private, not secret (new baby)

there’s just something about writing slow burn tension, media chaos, locker room banter, and “we can’t do this” relationships that keeps me going

if you like:

* hockey romances

* fake dating / secret relationships

* found family

* angst with a happy ending

* golden retriever boys

…my wattpad account is probably for you <3

macklin celebrini x fem reader

summary: in which two 19 year old prodigies become the world’s favourite obsession after they start dating. every race, game, and interview turns into headlines, edits, and nonstop speculation about them. but behind all the noise, they’re just two teenagers trying to hold onto each other while living at full speed.

everyone thinks the pressure would break them.

because how could it not?

macklin celebrini — nineteen years old, already rewriting history in the nhl. the fourth teenager ever to hit forty points in twenty-seven games or fewer, standing beside names like Wayne Gretzky, the kid who grew up idolising him now captaining Canada men’s national ice hockey team at worlds like he was born for it.

and then there’s you.

nineteen. formula one’s first female driver in eighty years. the youngest woman to ever win a grand prix. the youngest to win her home race. the girl who dragged herself into a championship fight and finished second while the entire grid watched in disbelief.

every headline calls you both a phenomenon.

every interview ends up asking about the other.

every single one of your friends refuses to stop making edits of the two of you to trending audios.

the media loses their minds anytime macklin is seen in the paddock wearing your team hoodie, or when you show up to his games hidden under a sharks cap that doesn’t fool anybody.

because somehow, the two biggest teenage stars in sports are dating each other.

and the worst part?

you’re both disgustingly in love.

the kind where macklin still gets nervous before your races even though you’ve stood on podiums more times than he can count.

the kind where you watch every canada game from the garage with your engineers screaming whenever he scores.

the kind where he kisses your helmet before every race “for luck” and pretends it’s not superstition.

the kind where your worlds win interview gets interrupted because somebody in the media room spots him waiting for you in the hallway and suddenly nobody cares about hockey anymore.

or

connor bedard x reader

warnings: angst ending in comfort

summary: in which connor bedard loses two teammates, gains the weight of leadership, and almost pushes away the one person still standing beside him.

the trade happens at 11:37 a.m.

you know the exact time because your phone buzzes three times in a row while you’re standing in the kitchen.

group chat.

twitter notification.

sports alert.

the headline makes your stomach drop.

colton dach traded.

the captain gone too.

you stare at the screen for a long moment before locking it.

because you know what that means for Connor Bedard.

the door opens two hours later.

connor walks in like the weight of the entire city is sitting on his shoulders. practice bag slung over one shoulder, hat pulled low.

he drops the bag on the floor.

“hey.”

“hey.”

you try to read his face but he’s already walking past you toward the living room.

the tv turns on.

sports coverage.

trade analysis.

you hover in the kitchen for a minute before following.

“i saw the news.”

connor nods once, eyes fixed on the screen.

“yeah.”

you wait for him to say more.

he doesn’t.

“did you talk to them?”

“yep.”

the clipped answer makes your chest tighten.

“what did they say?”

he exhales sharply.

“that they’re packing.”

you blink.

“connor”

“what do you want me to say?” he snaps suddenly.

you freeze.

he never snaps at you.

“nothing,” you say quietly. “i just”

“everyone keeps asking,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “media, teammates, coaches… now you.”

your stomach sinks.

“i’m not the media.”

“doesn’t feel that different right now.”

the words hit harder than he probably intends.

you cross your arms instinctively.

“i’m trying to check on you.”

“i’m fine.”

“you’re clearly not.”

connor laughs once, sharp and humourless.

“wow, thanks.”

“that’s not what i meant.”

“then what did you mean?”

the tension in the room suddenly feels like it’s pressing against the walls.

you take a breath.

“you lost two people you’re close with. you’re allowed to be upset.”

“i said i’m fine.”

“and i don’t believe you.”

his jaw tightens.

“maybe you should.”

“maybe you should stop pretending.”

the words slip out before you can soften them.

his head snaps toward you.

“pretending?”

“yeah.”

“you think i’m pretending?”

“you’re shutting everyone out.”

“i’m not shutting everyone out.”

“connor”

“i just don’t want to talk about it right now!”

his voice echoes in the apartment.

silence follows immediately.

the kind that makes your ears ring.

you swallow.

“i’m on your side.”

he runs a frustrated hand over his face.

“i know.”

but he doesn’t sound convinced.

“then stop pushing me.”

your chest tightens.

“i’m not pushing you.”

“it feels like it.”

“because i care!”

the words come out louder than you expect.

he looks at you like that’s the problem.

“i just walked into a locker room that feels completely different,” he says, voice tight. “two of the guys i leaned on the most are gone and everyone’s suddenly looking at me like i’m supposed to fill that space.”

his hands gesture helplessly.

“i’m twenty.”

his voice cracks slightly on the last word.

“i’m still figuring this out.”

you soften immediately.

“i know.”

but he’s still wound tight.

“do you?” he says quietly.

that one hurts.

“of course i do.”

“because it doesn’t feel like it.”

your eyes sting now.

“i’m literally the one person here who isn’t asking anything from you.”

connor’s shoulders rise and fall with a heavy breath.

“i know.”

the fight drains out of his voice as quickly as it appeared.

he sits down heavily on the couch, elbows on his knees.

“i just… don’t know how to deal with this.”

the anger in your chest dissolves.

you walk over slowly.

“you could start by not fighting me.”

he lets out a tired huff.

“fair.”

you sit beside him.

for a moment neither of you say anything.

then

“dach texted me,” he murmurs.

“what did he say?”

connor stares at his phone in his hands.

“‘don’t let them make you captain too soon. you’re too young to deal with that crap.’”

a small laugh escapes you.

connor’s mouth twitches.

but it fades quickly.

“it just feels like everything’s changing really fast.”

you slide your hand over his.

“i’m still here.”

his fingers tighten around yours immediately.

“i know.”

this time, he actually sounds like he means it.

after a moment he leans his head against your shoulder.

quiet.

exhausted.

“sorry i snapped at you,” he mutters.

you rest your head against his.

“sorry i pushed.”

he nods slightly.

outside, traffic hums through the city.

inside, the apartment finally feels a little less tense.

connor squeezes your hand once more.

“i’m really gonna miss them.”

you squeeze back.

gold looks good on you

jack hughes x reader

warning: bit chaotic but mostly fluff

the arena is still roaring.

it’s the kind of noise that doesn’t feel real like the whole world is vibrating. flags everywhere. cameras flashing. teammates shouting over each other as they pile onto the ice.

and right in the middle of it all is Jack Hughes.

number 86. helmet off. hair damp with sweat and melted ice. a gold medal hanging around his neck that keeps catching the arena lights.

olympic gold.

you’re standing at the edge of the rink with the other families, hands shaking around the railing.

not because you didn’t believe he could do it.

you’ve believed in jack hughes since you were twelve years old and he was skating circles around every kid at the local rink.

but seeing it happen is different.

someone beside you nudges your arm.

“he’s looking for you.”

and he is.

through the crowd of players and staff and cameras, jack’s eyes land on you immediately.

they always do.

his whole face softens when he spots you, like the win didn’t fully land until he saw you there.

he skates over, breathless and smiling.

“did you see that?” he laughs.

you wipe under your eye quickly.

“no actually. missed the whole thing.”

he grins, the same boyish grin he’s had since you were kids.

“damn. guess i’ll have to win another one.”

a gate opens and families start stepping onto the ice.

jack skates back toward you again slower this time.

and you notice it instantly.

he’s nervous.

“you okay?” you ask when he stops in front of you.

he nods, rubbing the back of his neck.

“yeah. yeah, i just… hold on.”

some of his teammates are starting to gather behind him, whispering and nudging each other.

you frown slightly.

“jack”

he suddenly takes the microphone someone hands him.

the arena quiets a little when people realise something’s happening.

jack glances at the crowd, then back at you.

his voice is a little shaky at first.

“uh… hi.”

a few laughs ripple through the stands.

“this probably wasn’t part of the broadcast plan,” he says, glancing up toward the cameras, “but i figured… if i was ever gonna do something terrifying in front of millions of people, tonight seemed like a good night.”

more laughter.

you’re already suspicious now.

jack looks at you again, and his voice softens.

“i’ve been dreaming about playing in the olympics my whole life. i mean that literally — i used to talk about it so much when we were kids that she would tell me to shut up about it.”

you laugh through your tears.

“i did not—”

“you absolutely did,” he grins. “you said if you had to hear the phrase ‘team usa’ one more time you were gonna lose it.”

the crowd laughs again.

he shifts the gold medal in his hands.

“but the thing is… she was there before any of this.”

his gaze doesn’t leave yours.

“before the draft. before the nhl. before any of the noise. she was there when i was just a kid at the rink who thought the olympics were the coolest thing in the world.”

your chest tightens.

“she’s the reason i kept believing i could actually get here. every bad game, every injury, every moment where i thought maybe i wasn’t good enough… she was the one telling me i was.”

the arena has gone quiet now.

jack laughs softly.

“she also told me when i was being an idiot. which happened a lot.”

“still does!” someone yells from behind him.

jack points back without looking.

“not helpful.”

then he looks back at you.

completely serious now.

“i got to live one of my biggest dreams tonight.”

he touches the medal.

“but the best thing that’s ever happened to me isn’t hockey.”

your breath catches.

jack takes a step closer.

“it’s you.”

the crowd makes a collective awww sound.

“you’ve been my best friend since we were kids, my girlfriend since we were sixteen, and the only person who’s ever made this whole crazy life make sense.”

then he laughs softly.

“and i figured… if i’m already having the best night of my life, i might as well try to make it the best night of yours too.”

he drops to one knee.

the arena erupts instantly.

cheering, yelling, sticks banging against the ice.

jack opens the ring box, looking up at you with the most nervous smile you’ve ever seen.

“so,” he says, voice a little breathless now.

“will you marry me?”

you don’t even hesitate.

“yes.”

he laughs, relief flooding his face as he stands and pulls you into a hug.

the crowd cheers louder.

his teammates are losing their minds behind him.

jack slides the ring onto your finger, then presses his forehead against yours.

“gold medal,” he murmurs.

you smile through tears.

“and you didn’t even fall during the speech.”

he grins.

macklin celebrini x reader

warnings: fluff

the town sign still creaks in the wind.

it always has.

you notice it the second macklin slows the car, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other resting on the centre console like he’s trying very hard not to reach for your hand every five seconds.

“that’s it?” he asks, squinting out the windshield. “your hometown sign looks like it survived the great depression.”

you laugh. “it probably did.”

he hums like that checks out.

small towns aren’t exactly his thing. you grew up somewhere where everyone knows your mum, your dog, and what you got on your maths test in year nine. macklin grew up around rinks and cities and people who only recognise you if you’re wearing a jersey.

but he still came.

four hour drive. one overnight bag. zero complaints.

“you nervous?” he asks.

“about what?”

“meeting the entire population of your childhood.”

you shrug. “they already stalk your instagram.”

“great,” he mutters. “love that.”

you reach over and squeeze his hand.

“you’ll survive.”

⸻

your parents’ house looks exactly the same.

white siding. the flower pots your mum refuses to throw away. the windchime on the porch that sounds like every summer evening you ever had growing up.

macklin grabs the overnight bag before you even open your door.

“ready?” he asks.

“no.”

“cool,” he says. “let’s go.”

you barely make it up the steps before the door flies open.

your mum.

then your dad.

then the loud overlapping chaos of you’re home! and look at you! and is that him?

macklin handles it better than expected.

he shakes your dad’s hand like he’s meeting a coach before a game. hugs your mum when she pulls him in. says ma’am and sir like the polite canadian boy he is.

you’re watching the whole thing fondly when another car pulls into the driveway.

your sister.

and more importantly

“ralph!”

a small blur of six-year-old chaos launches out of the backseat.

your nephew barrels straight past you.

straight toward macklin.

“hockey guy!”

macklin freezes.

you bite your lip.

ralph skids to a stop in front of him, staring up like he’s just discovered santa claus plays in the nhl.

“do you fight people?” ralph asks immediately.

your sister groans. “oh my god.”

macklin crouches down, serious as anything.

“only when necessary.”

ralph nods thoughtfully.

“cool.”

⸻

the afternoon turns into the kind of day that feels like it was pulled straight out of a memory.

your dad fires up the grill. your mum fusses over everyone like she hasn’t seen you in ten years. your sister sits at the patio table with lemonade while ralph runs laps around the garden.

and somehow

ralph decides macklin is his new favourite human.

“you gotta see my hockey stick!” he declares.

macklin glances at you.

you shrug. you’re on your own.

five minutes later they’re in the backyard.

ralph drags out a tiny plastic net that looks like it’s been through at least three winters.

“you stand there,” ralph orders.

“yes sir.”

you sit on the porch steps, chin in your hand, watching.

macklin drops to one knee so he’s at ralph’s height while the kid explains the rules of very serious backyard hockey.

“okay,” ralph says. “you’re the goalie.”

“got it.”

“i’m the best player.”

“obviously.”

ralph beams.

the first shot misses the net by at least three feet.

macklin still dramatically falls sideways.

“nooo,” he groans.

ralph screams with laughter.

you feel something in your chest squeeze.

because macklin doesn’t look like an nhl star right now.

he looks like a boy playing street hockey with a kid who thinks he’s the coolest person alive.

and he’s fully committing.

“again!” ralph yells.

“bring it.”

another shot.

another exaggerated save attempt.

another dramatic collapse into the grass.

you hear your mum laugh softly beside you.

“he’s good with kids.”

you swallow.

“yeah.”

across the yard ralph has climbed onto macklin’s back like he’s a jungle gym.

“you gotta give me a piggyback if i score five!”

“five?” macklin says. “that’s steep.”

“i already scored two!”

macklin sighs dramatically.

“alright, deal.”

you watch them for a long moment.

ralph eventually does score five. macklin carries him across the entire yard like he weighs nothing while ralph narrates his victory to the neighbourhood.

and somewhere in the middle of it

you realise something.

⸻

later that evening the house is quieter.

your sister and ralph left after dinner. your parents went inside to clean up.

the sky is turning that soft summer blue.

you’re sitting on the porch steps again when macklin drops down beside you.

he smells faintly like grass and barbecue smoke.

“you’re thinking,” he says.

“uh oh.”

“yeah,” he nods. “you get this face.”

“what face?”

“the i’m having a life revelation face.”

you bump your shoulder into his.

“you were good with ralph.”

“thank you,” he says solemnly. “i gave my all to the plastic hockey league.”

you laugh.

but then you look at him.

really look.

and the words slip out before you can overthink them.

“you’d be a good dad.”

macklin goes very still.

not uncomfortable.

just surprised.

“you think so?”

“yeah.”

you stare out at the quiet street you grew up on.

kids riding bikes. someone walking their dog. porch lights flickering on.

“i used to think this town was the most boring place on earth,” you admit.

“yeah?”

“yeah. i couldn’t wait to leave.”

“and now?”

you glance over at him.

his hair is messy from ralph climbing all over him. his sleeves are pushed up. there’s grass on his jeans.

and he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the world.

your chest feels warm.

“now i kinda get it.”

“get what?”

you gesture vaguely around.

“this.”

“the windchime?” he guesses.

you roll your eyes.

“no, idiot.”

he grins.

“so explain it to me.”

you hesitate.

then you say it.

“someday… i think i want this.”

he tilts his head.

“this as in…?”

“a house like this.”

“kids running around.”

“a loud dinner table.”

you shrug softly.

“a sweet husband.”

macklin’s eyebrows lift.

“sweet husband, huh?”

“don’t let it go to your head.”

he leans closer.

“too late.”

you smile.

“and maybe a couple cute kids.”

“couple?” he repeats. “plural?”

you laugh.

“relax, i said someday.”

he’s quiet for a second.

then he nudges your knee with his.

“you know what ralph told me earlier?”

“what?”

“that if i marry you i have to come to all his hockey games.”

you blink.

“he said that?”

“very serious about it.”

you grin.

“so… did you agree?”

macklin looks at you.

soft.

warm.

completely certain.

“yeah,” he says. “i think i did.”

your heart does that stupid flutter thing.

and for a moment you can almost see it—

future summers. backyard hockey. little kids with messy hair and macklin’s smile.

a life that looks a lot like this porch.

and somehow…

as well as update my masterlist

Man child (updated).

original is here

The closing ceremony lights are still burning in your eyes.

Fireworks. Flags. Confetti stuck in your hair.

Gold medal sitting heavy against your collarbone.

The women’s final had been days ago. You’d already done the press cycle. Already smiled through the “how does it feel?” questions.

But now the men have won too.

And suddenly the internet remembers a clip.

Jack laughing.

“Yeah, we’ll have to invite them too.”

It’s circulating again. Slowed down. Zoomed in. Captioned.

You’re in the mixed zone after the closing ceremony when a reporter catches you.

“Now that both teams have gold, how do you feel about the comments made earlier this week about inviting the women’s team to the White House celebration?”

The cameras lean in.

You don’t hesitate.

You don’t soften.

You adjust the mic.

“Honestly?” you say calmly. “All I want to say is stream Manchild by Sabrina Carpenter.”

The reporter blinks.

“I’m sorry?”

You shrug slightly.

“Specifically the line ‘I choose to blame your mom.’ That’s been on repeat.”

Collective gasp from the media scrum.

Because earlier that morning, when asked about her sons’ comments, Ellen Hughes had smiled diplomatically and said:

“Boys will be boys.”

You tilt your head slightly toward the cameras.

“We don’t need invitations,” you add. “We earned our seat.”

And then you walk.

—

By the time you’re back in the Olympic Village, you’re trending.

Clips of the interview are everywhere.

ESPN debates whether it was “shade.”

TikTok calls it iconic.

Twitter calls it a civil war.

You post anyway.

First TikTok: black screen, white text.

“imagine if i was a man.”

Audio: The Man by Taylor Swift.

Caption:

“Just thinking.”

Second post?

You aggressively lip-syncing to “Goddamn, man-child” from Norman Fucking Rockwell! by Lana Del Rey.

Caption:

“No invitation required.”

Instagram?

A photo of the women’s team on the podium. Gold medals. Flags behind you.

Caption:

“We were here first.”

—

The men release a PR statement about “respecting all athletes.”

You don’t respond directly.

You just post one more thing:

A slow pan of your gold medal on your nightstand.

Audio: the chorus of Manchild fading in.

On screen text:

“some jokes aren’t jokes.”

—

When asked the next day if you regret your comments, you smile.

“No,” you say. “If someone feels uncomfortable, maybe they should ask why.”

And somewhere, in a very quiet hotel room, a certain trio of NHL golden boys realise that this time?

frat boy will x frat girl reader

part 1

Will chose the restaurant.

Which you immediately considered suspicious behavior.

“You look nervous,” you said as you stepped out of the car.

“I’m not nervous,” said Will Smith, adjusting his jacket like this was Game 7.

“You made a reservation three weeks in advance.”

“That’s called preparation.”

“That’s called fear.”

He gave you a look but opened the door for you anyway.

The place was low-lit, expensive, and absolutely not frat-coded. Which almost threw you more than if he’d taken you somewhere loud and reckless.

“You clean up nice,” you admitted.

He smirked. “You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

Inside, a few heads turned — because of course they did. NHL players didn’t exactly blend into the background. A couple at the bar whispered. A phone subtly angled in your direction.

You leaned closer to him as you walked.

“You picked somewhere public on purpose.”

He glanced down at you. “I don’t hide.”

That landed differently than you expected.

You sat across from each other, menus in hand like this was a negotiation.

“So,” he said casually, “what are the rules?”

“You’re the one who called it a competition.”

He leaned back. “Alright. Best story wins. Worst one pays.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Why?”

“You’re an NHL player. You have built-in content.”

He smiled slowly. “You’re Tyler Toffoli’s niece. You grew up around chaos.”

Touché.

“Fine,” you said. “But no hockey stories.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Scared?”

“I want original material.”

He laughed. “Okay. Non-hockey.”

Dinner started light — teasing, small talk, controlled energy. But somewhere between appetizers and mains, the edge softened.

He told you about being sixteen and moving away from home. About pressure. About people deciding who you were before you figured it out yourself.

“You lean into the frat thing,” you observed.

“It’s easier,” he said honestly. “If they expect chaos, they don’t look for anything else.”

That was… not what you expected.

You folded your hands on the table.

“And what’s under it?”

He looked at you for a long second.

“Someone who hates losing,” he said. “But not as much as he hates being underestimated.”

Your chest tightened slightly.

“I don’t underestimate you.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “You challenge me.”

Your turn.

You told him about being “Toffoli’s niece” before being your own person. About always feeling like you had to be sharp first, soft second.

“Competitive defense mechanism?” he asked.

“Something like that.”

He smiled faintly. “Makes sense.”

There wasn’t a scoreboard anymore.

No crowd.

No commentary from Jack Hughes in the background.

Just the two of you.

When dessert came, he didn’t even look at the menu.

“You pick,” he said.

“That feels like a trap.”

“It’s not.”

“You surrendering?”

He tilted his head.

“Temporary truce.”

You chose something dramatic and split it without asking.

He didn’t argue.

When the check came, you both reached for it at the same time.

Your fingers brushed.

Neither of you pulled away immediately.

“I think I won,” he said softly.

You raised an eyebrow. “Based on?”

“You’re not trying to beat me right now.”

That made you pause.

“You’re not either,” you replied.

He held your gaze.

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

There it was again — that shift.

Less chaos.

More intention.

Outside the restaurant, the air felt quieter than the party had.

“So,” he said, hands in his pockets, “what’s the verdict?”

You pretended to think.

“You didn’t embarrass yourself.”

“That’s high praise.”

“You didn’t make it about you.”

He nodded once. “And?”

You stepped closer, just slightly.

“Scoreboard’s complicated now.”

He smiled slowly.

“Good.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

A beat.

Then—

“Are we telling the group chat?” he asked.

You laughed.

“No.”

Jack Hughes would absolutely ruin this.

Will walked you to your car but didn’t open the door yet.

“I meant what I said,” he added. “About the challenge.”

You searched his face.

“I’m not going easy on you,” he said. “But not because I want to win.”

“Why then?”

“Because I think you’re worth playing for.”

Your heart betrayed you first this time.

You recovered — barely.

“You’re still down one,” you reminded him.

He leaned closer, just enough to make your breath catch.

“Then I guess I’ll have to stay.”

And for the first time since the party—

BOSTON BRUINS

⬩➤ fraser minten

COLORADO AVANLANCHE

⬩➤ cale makar

play free maple mayhem

CHICAGO BLACKHAWKS

⬩➤ connor bedard

shadows of comparison

⬩➤ frank nazar

⬩➤ colton dach

PITTSBURGH PENGUINS

⬩➤ sidney crosby

maple mayhem

MINNESOTA WILD

⬩➤ quinn hughes

you don't get to be oblivious 2 you don't get to laugh about this man child part two gold around my neck

⬩➤ brock faber

⬩➤ matt boldy