The hallway outside the Leafs’ practice rink smelled faintly of disinfectant layered over old coffee - the kind of clean that felt scrubbed in but never fresh. You adjusted the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder as you pushed through the double doors, and your sneakers making muted contact with the waxed floor. Morning skate had just wrapped, and most of the guys were already stripped out of their gear, scattered into whatever post-practice rituals they swore by. A few staff hovered near the trainer’s office, trading easy chatter, and you offered a brief nod in passing, keeping your pace unhurried.

You weren’t looking for him. Not exactly. But there he was.

William stood just beyond the glass doors to the players’ lounge, leaning casually, one hand raking through the damp waves at the back of his head as he laughed at something Elsa had just said. She stood close enough that her elbow could have brushed his if either of them moved. High-waisted black shorts, a navy knit tucked in with precision, and sunglasses perched on her head like they belonged in a magazine spread. Every piece of her looked intentional, from the gloss of her hair to the careful neutrality of her lipstick.

She clocked you first.

“Hey,” Elsa greeted, as she moved through the doors and towards you. Her was smile probably genuine, though polite on the surface, and balanced on that fine wire that always made you feel like you were being quietly assessed. “You just missed the highlight reel. William scored top corner.”

You smiled, matching her lightness. “Damn. Must’ve been the oat milk latte this morning.”

William turned at your voice, and his expression shifted almost imperceptibly - no sharp lines, no sudden flinch, just that softening you’d seen before. And the quiet recognition in his eyes felt like stepping into a familiar room.

“Hey,” he simply said, his voice warm, tinged with that rough, post-skate fatigue. “Didn’t think you’d be here today.”

“Client meeting downtown got rescheduled,” you shrugged lightly. “So, I figured I’d drop off those mock-ups for the social team.”

Elsa’s gaze flicked between you and William. Her smile didn’t waver, but something in her eyes sharpened, like a subtle, assessing glint, as though she was filing away every beat of the way you spoke to him, and how slowly he smiled back.

“I’m glad you stopped by,” William said softly while scratching the back of his neck. “You always make this place feel less depressing.”

“Well, I’ll pass that on to your interior designer,” you deadpanned teasingly.

Elsa then gave a soft, even laugh. “He’s not wrong. Hockey rinks aren’t exactly known for ambiance.”

You offered her a polite nod, but your eyes still found their way back to William - the damp curls falling against his forehead, the cling of his shirt in places that had no business holding your attention, and the flush of sweat that still lingered across his skin. He looked relaxed. Like nothing between you had shifted. Like nothing had ever gone unsaid.

“So…” you said, feigning breeziness, “you two are like dating now, huh?”

William blinked a few times before nodding gently. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, it’s going nice.”

“Nice,” you echoed, stretching the word. “That’s practically a love sonnet.”

Elsa’s lips curved, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Then, with a quick glance at her phone, she took a step back. “I’m going to make a quick call,” she murmured, already turning. “I’ll give you two a minute.” And then she was gone before either of you could answer.

You watched her disappear, then turned back to William, who was still watching you.

“Why did you say it like that?” he asked.

“What? I guess, I just think it’s a bit funny,” you said lightly. “I mean, you didn’t even mention her when you got back to Toronto. And suddenly she’s here. Just… Feels kinda fast, no?”

And that landed in a way that made his brows pull together ever so slightly - not anger, but the careful tightening of someone choosing his words, as he glanced down the hallway where Elsa had gone, then back to you.

“Sometimes you just know,” he said simply with a shrug.

The tone wasn’t casual, though. It was too measured, as if he were holding something back.

“Sure,” you said. “But do you?”

The question hung between you, unplanned and too bare, as you noticed the flicker in his jaw - like a twitch so small anyone else might have missed it. But you didn’t.

He didn’t answer immediately, just looked at you like he was re-evaluating something. Like maybe you weren’t playing anymore.

“I’m happy, alright,” he said at last, though it came out quieter than it should have. “It’s not that fast. People meet in all kinds of ways.”

“Yeah, of course,” you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, your voice light. “Who doesn’t love a summer romance?”

For a moment, it seemed like he might say something else. Or maybe he wanted you to stop before you made him. Either way, the silence fell too quickly, before Elsa returned a moment later, slipping her phone into her coat pocket.

“Sorry. Had to check on something for next week’s event.”

“No worries,” you smiled politely. “I just got a bit curious how the two of you met.”

“Oh, we met at a charity thing in Båstad,” she offered with a wide smile, glancing at William. “Not exactly romantic. Too many name tags and shrimp hors d’oeuvres.”

You huffed a light laugh. “Still… sounds a little like fate.”

William shot you a half-smile, maybe a half-warning, like the one he used when he wanted to change the subject without asking you to stop.

“So,” you said, breaking the tension, “you guys heading out soon?”

“Yeah, late breakfast,” William said swiftly, adjusting his duffel.

“Cute,” you teased, though the edge in your tone slipped through. “You’ve gone full domestic already.”

Elsa’s smile stayed even. “Oh, he’s the finest gentleman.”

You laughed, but it didn’t quite ring true. “I’ll take your word for it.”

William’s mouth then opened like he might add something- maybe a joke or an explanation, maybe even an apology - but you just stepped back before it could land.

“Well,” you said, brightening your tone, “I should get going. Enjoy your brunch. And congrats… on everything.”

Elsa nodded, smooth as glass. “Nice seeing you again.”

“You too.”

And then you turned, your shoes striking sharper than they should against the floor, bag sliding over your shoulder. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. You could feel it; the electric hum you’d left behind, the things unsaid thick in the air, and the way William had looked at you as you walked away.

Like something had shifted, and neither of you had the faintest idea what to do with it.

_

A couple of days later, the restaurant you found yourself at spoke money in the kind of voice you had to lean in to hear; low lighting that made every glass of wine look like a jewel, matte black cutlery with just the right weight, and textured linen napkins that could probably bankrupt a small café. You trailed Auston through the entrance, shrugging out of your coat and smoothing a hand over your dress before the hostess led you through the glow and murmur to a long, candlelit table reserved for the Leafs and their plus-ones.

The table was already alive - laughter pinging off crystal glassware, half-empty bread plates scattered like confetti, and someone halfway through a story about a missed connection in Finland. Sanna was a flash of red satin at the far end, Alice beside her with her ankle draped casually over her boyfriend’s. And William? He sat a few seats up from the middle with Elsa close enough that the angle of her shoulder almost mirrored his.

She wore a fitted black dress with structured shoulders, her lipstick just a whisper darker than her natural colour. Her hair was tucked behind one ear, posture perfect, the kind of beauty that made you think of gallery openings and knowing which wine to order without glancing at the menu. She looked like someone who never rushed, never spilled, and never got caught in the wrong light.

Perfect for him, you thought.

William then stood briefly when you approached, his eyes catching yours before he nodded toward the empty seat across from him.

“Hey,” he said, a soft smile in place, one hand resting lightly on Elsa’s shoulder. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”

“Fashionably late, as always,” you replied, smiling back as you slid into the chair beside Auston.

“We’re lucky,” Auston murmured softly, leaning close enough for his voice to hum against your ear, “we missed the small talk about buying pre-con condos in Scarborough.”

You laughed, grateful for the light joke, though you still felt William’s gaze until Elsa leaned into murmur something against his shoulder - the kind of private, practised intimacy that didn’t demand a response, only a presence.

And just a few minutes later, wine was poured, oysters ordered “for the table,” and conversation layered itself around you - hockey gossip, PR damage control, someone’s wedding plans in Tulum. As always, you played along, laughed when you should, while letting your knee brush against Auston’s under the table. But every so often your eyes strayed across the flicker of candlelight to where William’s fingers ghosted over the curve of Elsa’s wrist, or her hand rested casually on his thigh.

It didn’t feel… real. Not in the way it had once felt with you and him - whatever that had been. This looked perfect, curated, but hollow around the edges, like they were hitting marks only they could see.

You then excused yourself after the second round of drinks, clutch tucked under your arm as you slipped through the velvet curtain into the quieter hallway that led to the washrooms. The restaurant noise dimmed, replaced by a low thrum of ambient music and the steady click of your heels on polished floor.

You’d just finished drying your hands when the door swung open.

“Hey.” Elsa’s voice sounded, smooth and sweet, like still water in a glass.

“Hi,” you turned to see her step inside alone, the door closing with a soft seal. She didn’t head for the sink. Just crossed the space slowly, her gaze steady under the feathering of her lashes.

“So… Can I ask you something?”

“Oh,” you said surprised. “Uhm… Sure.”

She crossed her arms, not in an angry way, more like protection, as she hesitated with her words. But then found them with a soft, gentle voice.

“I need to ask... Are you in love with him?”

It landed light and lethal all at once.

Your mouth went dry. Opened, though nothing came out immediately. She wasn’t glaring. Wasn’t trying to rattle you. If anything, her expression was calm, almost sympathetic, like she’d already run the numbers and was just waiting for you to verify them.

“I—” You swallowed. “We’ve been friends for years,” you managed with a level of carefulness.

“That’s not what I asked,” she replied softly.

You held her eyes for a moment longer before dropping yours to the gleam of her nail polish, to the faint flicker of the fluorescent light.

“I’m not in love with anyone,” you finally admitted, almost in a whisper.

It wasn’t a lie. But not the entire truth either.

Elsa didn’t push though. She just nodded, as if confirming something she already knew.

“Okay,” she offered a gentle smile. “Well… still, you look absolutely beautiful tonight, by the way. That dress really suits you.”

And just like that, she turned, disappeared into a stall, and closed the door with quiet finality.

You stared at your reflection for a second after that. Your hair was still in place, lipstick untouched. But your face looked… altered. Like something had been peeled back.

As you returned back to the table, Auston swiftly leaned toward you, brow furrowed. “You okay?”

You simply nodded, taking another sip of your drink, before his hand then found your knee under the table, fingers curling in a way that made your pulse skip.

But when you glanced up, William was looking straight at you.

The noise of cutlery and conversation thinned into static, as his gaze dropped briefly to where Auston’s hand rested on your leg, then back to your face. Whatever passed over his expression, it was gone before you could name it, just as Elsa leaned in to him again, smiling at something you didn’t hear, and he didn’t really respond.

The rest of the night blurred; the questions you couldn’t answer, the warmth of Auston’s touch, and Elsa’s voice still echoing in your head.

Are you in love with him?

You told yourself no. But still your heart wouldn’t quite settle on it.

_

You knew it was a desperate move. Reckless even. But you needed it. Craved it.

The hall had emptied out to its bones, post-practice chatter long faded into the mechanical hum of dryers spinning somewhere deep in the belly of the building. Overhead, the fluorescents buzzed their quiet complaint, washing tile and steel in a pallid glow that made every edge look sharper than it was. The floor gleamed from the morning’s mop, but faint scuffs from blades and boots cut restless arcs through the shine. The air clung heavy; sweat, disinfectant, liniment oil, rubber, and that faint metallic tang that never really left you. A smell you carried home on your skin and in your hair whether you wanted to or not.

You kept your pace quick, your hand locked in Auston’s, his grip just a little too tight to be casual, your pulse already ticking toward the inevitable. Past the trainers’ hall, you glanced over your shoulder: empty. You checked again anyway. Instinct, now. Habit and suspicion had grown its own heartbeat.

He was already reaching for the door, fingertips brushing the handle like a man seconds from giving in. The hinges gave a small, reluctant creak, and then the click of the latch behind you landed low and final, the sound of a secret sealing shut.

The equipment room was quieter than you remembered, shadows softening the harsh strip-lights. Skates hung in paired rows along one wall, tongues sagging open like mouths mid-breath. Buckets of pucks sat in corners, sticks leaned in loose formation against industrial shelving, ready for the next war. Towels, sock tape, sweat-damp vests were stacked in careful, utilitarian order. It smelled like rubber soles and leather polish - like repetition turned into muscle and memory.

But right then, it didn’t matter. Not in that very moment.

Your inhale barely landed before Auston was on you, his hand sliding around your waist with that grounded, claiming certainty that always seemed to shut out thought, as he lifted you onto the physio table. His mouth found yours without prelude; all heat and teeth and breath stolen mid-gasp.

And you met him without hesitation, your hands flattening against his chest before curling into the cling of cotton, chasing the thud of his heart under your thumbs. His body pinned you fully, solid weight and intent, as if every inch of him had been built for this single moment.

“Fuck baby,” he rasped into your mouth, voice rough from practice and lust. “You’re all I thought about. All fucking morning.”

Your reply never made it out. You were already moving, fists in his shirt, shifting until his thigh slotted between yours. You didn’t mean to roll your hips - you just did - and the friction drew a sharp, broken sound from you.

He kissed you deeper, wetter, one hand cradling the base of your skull, thumb brushing that soft spot just behind your ear. The other dragged you closer, closing what little space remained until modesty had no chance. Your sweater hitched higher with each sweep of his fingers, just as you found the hem of his shirt, pushed until the cotton gave way, exposing warm, damp skin to your touch.

His mouth broke from yours to trace the line of your throat, teeth catching on heat-flushed skin. And when his tongue skimmed the place just under your jaw, your head tipped back into the shelving, a low moan slipping out unchecked.

“I almost lost it,” he murmured, breath jagged, voice scraping low against your ear. “In the showers. In front of everyone.”

The words struck deeper than they should have, heat coiling low in your belly, as his hand slipped down, past the waistband of your jeans, over the thin cotton of your knickers, and fingers pressing in just right. Your gasp broke free - sharp and unguarded, almost too loud.

It was reckless, messy, and laced with the awareness that someone could walk in at any second. But neither of you cared.

Not when his fingers moved with that unerring precision that pulled you higher and higher until pleasure burst, molten and unstoppable, leaving you shuddering against him.

Not when you felt the hardness of his member straining in his shorts before he unleashed himself in one swift motion, dragging your jeans and knickers down just far enough before pushing into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs.

And especially not when he drove into you, hard and unrelenting, until both of you tumbled over the edge together, breath spilling in heavy, uneven bursts.

You didn’t even hear the faint sound outside the door.

Didn’t notice the shadow pause – tall and broad - caught in the spill of hallway light. Didn’t see William standing there, still, and silent, the weight of him heavier than any noise. His gaze took in everything: the arch of your spine, Auston’s mouth at your throat, your fingers gripping tight into his shoulders as he pounded into you. He didn’t see the whole picture. But enough.

Enough to twist something hot and vicious in his chest. Enough to make his jaw clench and his stomach knot. Enough to know, beyond doubt, that it was real. That the sounds leaving your mouth weren’t pretend.

He didn’t knock or speak. Just turned away, sneakers striking the corridor in sharp, clipped beats - each step pulling him further from you, from whatever you’d been, from the version of himself that still believed he knew you.

Meanwhile, inside the close heat of the room, you didn’t feel the absence. Auston was still between your thighs, his fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns over your slick skin as you caught your breath. You whispered his name, part confession, part surrender, and he kissed you again. And again.

_

You hadn’t been expecting him. Not at that hour. And especially not with that look.

The knock was soft but certain, each tap spaced like he’d already decided how the conversation would go. And when you opened the door, William stood there as if caught mid-decision - hoodie pulled low, cap shadowing his eyes, and one hand in his pocket while the other flexed restlessly at his side. There was no smile. No easy greeting. Just a taut, unreadable stillness wrapped in the shape of someone you used to read without trying.

“Hi, you,” you said with a smile, though the words sounded unsure on your tongue.

His gaze swept over you, then past you into the apartment, before settling back on your face. “Can I come in?” he asked dryly.

And naturally, you stepped aside without asking why.

The air inside still carried the slow heat of the evening sun, trapped in the curtains, and softened by the faint breeze from the half-open window. You’d only switched on the corner lamp, its warm glow pooling low across the room. William stopped in the middle of your living room like a man who wasn’t sure if he’d arrived too early or too late, hands hanging at his sides, and posture heavy with something unsaid.

You then crossed your arms - not from cold, but from the ache that had already started to swell in your chest, as you stepped closer to him.

“Sorry, I was just—” you gestured to the couch, where your book lay open-faced and abandoned “—didn’t think I’d see anyone tonight.”

“Yeah… Uhm... sorry, I shouldn’t have come,” he said quietly.

But he didn’t move to leave. And you didn’t tell him to.

You then sat first, a deliberate act to close the distance, and after a moment’s hesitation he followed, sitting forward like gravity had grown heavier since he walked in.

The silence between you wasn’t the easy kind. It had edges, like it scraped. Like it was thick with the weight of days and the words you’d both been avoiding.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

The sentence cracked through the air like a snapped stick.

 “What?” You blinked.

“This,” he said, motioning vaguely between you, his voice low but steady. “The friendship. Or whatever it is now.”

Your throat tightened. “William—”

He then looked up, and there it was; the truth, plain and raw, sitting behind his eyes like it had been waiting for weeks.

“I saw you,” he said sharply yet almost sad. “With Auston. In the physio room.”

And just like that, the air in your lungs left all at once. You leaned back instinctively, as though the space between you could buffer the blow.

“Oh… well… uhm… I- I didn’t know you were there.”

“I know.” His voice didn’t change. “I didn’t mean to see it.”

For a moment you thought maybe he’d stop there, that he’d tuck the hurt away and give you the out he’d always given you. But then he met your eyes again, and his voice came rougher, stripped down.

“It felt like getting cut open with a dull fucking knife.”

You had no answer to that. Not one that wouldn’t break something further at least.

But then he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and fingers laced so tightly the knuckles had gone white.

“I’ve watched you look at him,” he admitted. “Watched you leave with him, sit next to him, laugh at things that aren’t funny. And I keep telling myself it’s fine, that you’re allowed to do whatever you want. And you are... But… I can’t be close to it like this. I can’t…” He shook his head. “It’s killing me.”

Your voice caught in your throat, yet you managed a soft voice. “What are you saying, Will?”

“I mean,” he said. “It bothers me… that he’s taken you like that. Away from me.”

And somehow that made the ache worse.

“I didn’t plan any of it,” you tried again. “It just… happened. It was just… fun.”

“I know,” he said, softer now. “But it still hurts. Like he’s stolen my… you.”

You then looked at him properly. Past the guardedness, past the restraint, to the ache that had been building all summer. It was the look of someone who’d been patient for too long, who’d bitten back too much, and now sat holding the weight of every unspoken thing.

And his next words came without edge, just simple truth.

“If this is going to keep happening… if you’re going to keep seeing him… I don’t think I can be around it. I can’t pretend I’m okay. Because I’m not.”

The quiet that followed settled like a verdict.

“I don’t want to lose you, Willy,” you whispered. “You know that.”

“Then stop.”

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a demand. It was more like a line in the sand.

Your heart twisted, your stomach turned, but somehow, you already knew your answer as you nodded gently.

“Okay.”

His gaze held yours for a beat longer, as though he expected you to take it back. But you didn’t.

When he stood, it was slow and cautious. And at the door, he glanced over his shoulder once more. Like the hurt was still there, but something else had changed, like the fog had finally cleared, leaving only clarity, however painful.

“Goodnight,” he said with a soft smile.

And then he was gone.

You stood there for a moment after, not crying, not raging - just absorbing the new shape of the quiet around you. And when your phone lit up with Auston’s name just minutes later, you let it ring until it stopped.

_

You hadn’t planned on telling him tonight. Not exactly. Not just one day later since William had shown up at your door.

But your feet had carried you here on instinct, and now you were standing in the lobby, buzzing yourself up, moving down the hallway you’d once walked with a rush of adrenaline - the thrill of secrecy, the hum of wanting - but tonight it just felt heavy.

The city outside had gone still, the kind of hush that comes after late-summer rain, though the air still clung damp and warm to your skin. Your heart wasn’t pounding from nerves, but from inevitability. And somehow you already knew how this would end.

Auston opened the door barefoot, shirtless, shorts hanging loose on his hips like he’d just rolled out of bed. His hair was a bit messy; curls still damp at his temples, and he looked tired. Or irritated. Or maybe just unsurprised.

“You coming in?” he asked, stepping back without a smile, before you stepped inside. And the door clicked shut behind you, locking the heat in.

His condo smelled like the same candle he always burned. The lights were low, only a floor lamp throwing gold across the living room, as he sank into the couch with the remote in his hand, flicking the TV on to something you didn’t even register. You stayed standing.

“I can’t stay for long,” you said almost quietly, which made his head lift.

Not entirely surprised. Not yet.

“I just… I need to say something. And I don’t want it to turn into a fight.”

He gave a short, humourless laugh. “That’s rich. You don’t want a fight, but you’re standing there like you’re about to cut my head off.”

You opened your mouth, but he didn’t even give you the chance.

“Let me guess,” he then said, tossing the remote onto the cushion beside him. “He finally said something. Or did he just give you that sad puppy look he’s so fucking good at, and now you’re here to ease your conscience?”

Your spine went stiff. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s always been like that,” Auston shot back, pushing up from the couch, voice climbing. “You act like you don’t know who you want, but you’ve always known. You’ve just been too scared to fucking say it.”

“Don’t do that, Auston,” you warned, stepping back.

“What? Tell you the truth?” His laugh was bitter, jagged, as he started closing the space between you, his shoulders tight with barely leashed temper. “You think you’re doing me a favour ending this? Like you’re sparing me?”

“I didn’t come here to hurt you.”

“No,” he said, voice dropping into something rougher. “But you just fucking did it anyway.”

Silence stretched, thick and unsteady, as you swallowed hard, your pulse drumming in your ears.

“Please, Auston. I do care about you,” you then said softly. “But this… It wasn’t supposed to become anything real…”

His gaze locked on yours, unflinching. “Yeah, I know. And yet, it did, didn’t it.”

It wasn’t really a question. It wasn’t even a plea. It was a dare. And then he kissed you.

Hard, fast, and desperate.

Like maybe if he kissed you enough, it would change the ending.

You kissed him back for one reckless beat, because the pull was still there - the undeniable heat, the language your bodies had learned in secret. His hands gripped your waist, yours slid into his damp hair, and for a second you let it take you.

But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t enough.

So, you tore yourself back, chest heaving. “I can’t do this anymore.”

He didn’t move or blink. His hands just dropped slowly from your body.  And then he stepped away, picked up the remote, and hurled it across the room.

The crack against the wall was sharp and violent, making you flinch.

“Get out,” he said, his voice low but certain.

You didn’t argue. Your fingers shook as you just grabbed your bag, your head low as you crossed to the door.

And just as your hand closed over the knob, the smack of his palm hitting the wall behind you made the air jump in your chest, making you turn the handle and step out.

You didn’t look back, and he didn’t say your name.

But when the door slammed behind you, the sound rattled something deep in your ribs, like something that felt less like closure and more like a warning.

Because this didn’t feel like the end. Not really.

_

The air in the locker room hung thick; heavy with sweat, damp heat clinging to the walls, and the last thump of music still pulsing faintly from a speaker someone hadn’t bothered to shut off. A few guys were already in the showers, steam curling out of the doorway, meanwhile the rest lingered half-dressed, snapping towels, chirping, and cracking beers into protein shakes like it was still funny.

William sat slouched on the bench, jersey gone, undershirt plastered to his back. His head was down, fingers working absently at his skate laces, though his eyes were unfocused - somewhere far past the room, far past the noise.

And then the atmosphere cracked wide open.

Not louder. Just tighter.

Like static pulling every molecule toward the same point.

Auston walked in, helmet tucked under his arm, and sweat sliding down the curls stuck to his forehead. His jaw was set hard. His steps were deliberate. And aimed straight at William.

The noise in the room suddenly thinned. No one said a word, but all heads turned. Waiting.

“You fucking pussy. You didn’t want her when you had her,” Auston said, voice low but cutting straight through the haze. “But now you suddenly care?”

William looked up slowly, his spine snapping straight as though a blade had traced up the length of it as one skate dropped to the floor.

“You sure you want to do this here?” His tone was calm, but cold.

But Auston just gave a short shrug, stepping in closer. “I’m not the one sulking around like a pissed-off teenager all week.”

There was a short moment of a pause. But then William rose.

They were close in height, but the way they squared off shrank the space between them to nothing, as William’s gaze dropped, jaw tightening before he looked back up.

“You don’t know what I feel,” he said, each word measured.

Auston’s mouth tipped at the corner, but there was nothing soft in it. “You’re right. I don’t. Because you don’t say it. Not to her. Not to me. You just sit there acting like it’s nothing - until it isn’t.”

William’s shoulders twitched like he might laugh. Or swing. Instead, he simply stepped forward, closing the last inch of space.

“Why do you even care? You really think what you had with her was more than convenience?” His voice was tight enough to cut. “You think she wasn’t just trying to forget something?”

Auston’s nostrils flared. “At least I fucking did something. I acted and got her, while you were too busy doing nothing. And then you lost.”

And that twisted something inside.

William’s fists curled. His jaw locked as he inhaled like he was about to let it out as words - or not as words at all —

“Alright,” Morgan’s voice cut in, loud, stepping between them with his hands up. “Nobody’s throwing punches in their jockstraps. Save it for the ice.”

They didn’t move at first. But then Auston eased half a step back, and William sat down hard, elbows braced on his knees like he needed to keep himself tethered.

Morgan looked between them, muttered a sharp “Jesus,” and then turned away.

The silence that followed was thick enough to hear, as the guys went back to their bags, their phones, and their tape jobs - all pretending not to listen. But they’d all heard. They’d all seen.

Something had cracked. And no one in that room thought it was finished.

_

You knew it wasn’t just a casual hangout when his text lit up your phone: “Can I take you out for dinner? Like a date.”

Not coffee. Not just a walk. Not some lazy excuse to talk. A date. The word sat in your chest for hours afterward, delicate, and strange, like a snowflake that hadn’t melted yet - its edges sharp enough to catch the light if you turned the right way.

By the time you reached Nathan Phillips Square, the autumn evening had started to soften, the chill giving way to a cooler breeze that carried the faint scent of food trucks and city pavement cooling in the shade. The fountains sparkled under the golden light, strings of warm bulbs zigzagging above the open-air patios, and the noise of the day had mellowed into the hum of people lingering rather than rushing.

He was already there, unusually on time, leaning against the railing by the reflecting pool with two cold lemonades in hand. His shirt was rumpled in that way that suggested it had been ironed at some point, his hair just messy enough to make you wonder if he’d run his hands through it before spotting you. And when he saw you, his smile was small but warm and gentle, almost boyish - and it did something inconvenient to your stomach.

“You came,” he said with a light chuckle.

“You asked me to,” you replied, stepping close enough to catch the faint flush on his cheekbones.

He looked at you for a second too long before handing you one of the drinks.

“I was gonna pretend I didn’t know you liked lemonade,” he said lightly. “But I remembered.”

You smiled, pretending that didn’t flip your heart sideways.

You wandered the square together, the last of the daylight spilling gold across the pavement. The crowds thinned as you drifted toward the quieter end, past street performers packing up and a busker coaxing soft, slow notes from an old guitar. His arm brushed yours now and then, each touch sending a small ripple through you.

“I haven’t been down here in ages,” you said, sipping from the cup.

“You’re not missing much,” he replied with a half-smile. “But I guess it’s better with you here.”

And by the time you reached the edge of the square, the air had cooled enough to make the hair on your arms rise. He walked beside you down a smaller street, away from the noise, until you stopped outside a ramen bar tucked between a vintage shop and a closed florist, its steamed-up windows glowing amber from within.

A bell chimed when you stepped inside. The warmth wrapped around you instantly, like the faint scent of broth and ginger curling in the air. Only a handful of people were there - two girls laughing into their chopsticks at the counter, and a man hunched over his bowl in the corner like it might be his last meal.

You took a booth in the back, and he slid into the seat across from you, his hands curling around a cup of green tea he didn’t touch.

“It’s weird,” he then said after a little while. “Being here. Like this. With you.”

You tilted your head with a smile. “We’ve had dinner a hundred times before.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But not like this.”

You let the silence sit. Stirred your broth as you waited, allowing him to continue.

“I’m not good at this,” he admitted, his voice dipping lower. “But I’m trying… because I want to.”

You looked up to find his gaze steady though a little unsure. “What about Elsa?” 

William allowed the words to settle for a second.

“There is no Elsa… I mean,” he took a brief moment to breathe. “She was real but… I want to try this more than anything, y/n/n,” he said slowly. “With you and for real. Not just as your friend.”

It didn’t hit like fireworks. It landed quieter and weightier - like something you’d been waiting so long to hear that you weren’t sure how to hold it without shaking.

So, you simply nodded. “I do too, Willy.”

His exhale was soft, almost shaky, as the sound of someone unclenching.

“But… I must admit, it hurt a little,” you then added. “That it took this long.”

He didn’t try to defend himself. He just reached across the table and brushed his fingers over yours, tentative and warm. “I know. And I’m sorry. Sorry that it took… Auston, to wake me up.”

You let yourself feel it then. The ache, though a relief. The dangerous comfort of finally being chosen by the person you’d been choosing all along.

From that moment on, the conversation almost ran as smoothly as always.

Following dinner, as William walked you home, the night felt cooler, the sky deeper and speckled faintly with stars. His steps slowed the closer you got to your building, and yours matched his without thinking, as neither of you spoke much. Words felt too fragile to risk.

Then under the streetlamp, he paused. Gold light skimmed the line of his jaw, caught on the curve of his mouth. He was nervous. And you were too. But his eyes didn’t leave yours.

So, you didn’t wait for him to say anything.

“Do you want to come in?” you said quietly.

And when he said yes, you felt it all the way to your ribs, a beginning, at last.

_

It was quiet - the kind of quiet that didn’t just sit in the air but crawled under your skin, humming in your blood. The soft thud of the door closing. The click of the lock. His breath, steady but close enough that you could feel it ghost along your cheek. And yours, uneven and stalling.

Neither of you spoke.

Not when he shrugged out of his coat, the fabric whispering against itself. Not when your fingers found his, warm and sure, and you tugged him toward your bedroom like muscle memory. Except it wasn’t. Not like this. Not with the weight of something unspoken pressing into every step, every heartbeat, every inch between you.

Nadia wasn’t home – she’d made sure of that, which only made you feel the pressure a little heavier. Not in a bad way necessarily, but still, it was there.

The lights were low, the room bathed in the dim amber spill of the city through the blinds, striping the wall in soft shadow. He lingered at the threshold, one hand braced against the doorframe, watching you like he didn’t want to cross without permission. Like this moment meant too much to get wrong.

That’s when you turned to face him, the space between you taut.

“I want this, Willy,” you said, voice almost breaking with how true it was.

And something flickered in his expression – relief or awe, maybe both. He then crossed the room in two long strides, and when he kissed you, it wasn’t the kind of kiss you’d braced for. It wasn’t rushed or wild. It was deliberate and devotional. As if every movement was a map and he was memorising the borders of your mouth, every sigh he coaxed out of you something to keep, as his hands framed your face like you were glass, and he’d waited years to touch.

You leaned into him, fingers curling into the knit of his jumper. And the low groan he gave - half restraint, half surrender - seemed to rumble through your whole body.

Clothes then came away slowly, almost in slow motion, like you were unwrapping something fragile. Your shirt, his jumper, his hand skimming up your ribs before his thumb hooked into the waistband of your trousers. He hesitated, eyes searching yours as though looking for a reason not to. But you just kissed him before he could ask, like answering in a way words couldn’t manage.

He undressed you like it was a privilege. Every inch of skin revealed drew a darker look in his eyes, and when your bra slipped free, he made a sound so low you felt it in your stomach.

“God,” he murmured, almost pained. “You’re so beautiful.”

And you believed him - not because of the words, but because of the way his mouth moved down your chest, slow and reverent, his hands cradling you like he might lose you if he wasn’t careful. Meanwhile, the ache between your thighs only sharpened with every deliberate touch.

You gently pulled him down onto the bed, and he followed with a quiet obedience that was almost shy, his body fitting against yours like it had always belonged there, like it had just been waiting for the right moment.

There was no frantic urgency, no hurried fumbling toward release. Everything unfolded slowly, deliberately, with a kind of reverence that made each touch feel magnified. It was like discovering each other for the very first time - skin to skin, every inch of contact sending a warm ripple through you. Like when his fingers finally slipped between your thighs, they found you already aching for him, his touch unhurried as he explored your wetness. He eased into you with a careful patience, stretching you gradually, each movement deliberate, like he wanted to feel every subtle shift in your body. His thumb brushed over your clit in slow, steady circles, confident but gentle, like the rhythm coaxing pleasure without rushing it, letting it build in waves.

And when he finally slid into you for the first time, it was slow, deep, and unhurried. Not a conquest, not a claim, but an answer. A conversation that had been years in the making, making you gasp, nails dragging lightly over his back, and he stilled, his forehead pressed to yours.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice frayed at the edges. “You feel like—”

You kissed him before he could finish. Because you already knew.

He then moved with patience at first, each roll of his hips tuned to your reactions, your hands, and your breath. You wrapped your legs around his waist, tilting your hips to meet him, giving him everything without holding back. It wasn’t about dominance or proving anything. It was just the two of you - stripped bare in every way that mattered.

But patience only lasted so long.

The rhythm gradually grew sharper and needier. His teeth caught your bottom lip, his grip in the sheets tightening as you gasped his name into the hollow of his throat, your hand cupping his jaw like you needed the reassurance of his face in your palm.

“Let me,” he rasped. “Let me have you like this.”

You nodded, breathless. “You already do.”

And just like that, it undid him. His movements stuttered, then grew rougher, more desperate, his mouth crashing into yours with too many feelings for either of you to name. His fingers found yours and pinned them above your head, anchoring you there as if to keep you from floating away.

You came first - a moan filled with relief, shuddering, your body arching against him with a sound that made his own control fracture. And he followed just moments later, hips jerking, and his face buried in your neck as he said your name like it was a confession.

Afterward, he didn’t move, just stayed pressed against you, your legs tangled, his heartbeat loud beneath your palm. His breath slowed against your shoulder, warm and steady in a way that made you ache all over again.

And when he finally pulled back enough to look at you, his hair was a mess, his lips red, and his eyes soft in a way you’d never seen before. It wasn’t satisfaction. It wasn’t pride.

It was just peace.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, fingers still tracing idle shapes against your ribs.

You nodded, swallowing. “Yeah, more than okay.”

You then curled into him, your head under his chin, as his arm wrapped around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb stroked the nape of your neck in slow, absent circles, as you pressed a kiss to his chest, just over his heartbeat.

He kissed your temple like punctuation. Like he didn’t want to stop.

And then sleep found you knotted together like roots in soft earth.

Even as the edges of the night blurred into dreams, you knew this wasn’t a mistake, wasn’t a placeholder, wasn’t something to pretend away in the morning.

Late August, you lingered just outside international arrivals, pressing its warmth through the sliding glass doors every time they opened. Your back rested against a steel pillar, its coolness a steady anchor in the restless hum of the terminal. The floor was cold through your thin sandals, the muted scuff of luggage wheels and the low murmur of overlapping reunions wrapping around you like static. To your left, a family clutched balloons and a “WELCOME HOME” sign; to your right, a couple kissed like no one else existed. But you kept your eyes fixed on the doors, breath held just shy of deep enough to be steady.

He was late. Or maybe just not early - pure William timing. Still, your nerves had already started to coil low in your stomach, slow and insistent. You told yourself it was nothing. You’d seen him a hundred times before. He was your best friend. Your constant. This wasn’t new.

But when William finally emerged - rolling a single bag behind him, hair longer and sun baked into his skin, that familiar easy looseness in his shoulders - your stomach dropped anyway.

He didn’t spot you immediately. His gaze just skimmed the crowd from behind black sunglasses, white T-shirt clinging softly at the sleeves, the fabric worn in a way that made him look effortlessly comfortable. Something about him seemed… lighter than before. Less guarded.

And then he found you.

That smile hit like a jolt to the chest.

He then wove through the waiting crowd with an unhurried but certain stride, dropping the handle of his suitcase as soon as he reached you. His arms came around you fast, solid, and warm - the scent of sun cream and faint cologne catching in your hair. He pressed his face into your shoulder the way he always did when it had been too long, and you let yourself exhale fully for the first time all afternoon.

“Hi,” he murmured into your hair.

You held him tighter. “Hi.”

The hug lingered. Just a shade too long to be invisible. Just long enough that you felt it in your ribs. And when you finally stepped back, your fingers stayed hooked in the hem of his T-shirt for a beat before falling away.

“You’re so tan,” you said, eyes tracing his face. “You look like one of those European Instagram boyfriends.”

He instantly laughed, low and rough from the flight. “Guess the Riviera did its job.”

“You bring me anything?” You jokingly asked.

“Only unsolicited wisdom and some sand I’ll be finding in my bag till Christmas.”

You simply shook your head, grinning, and hooked your fingers through the handle of his suitcase. “Come on, lover boy. You owe me an airport coffee.”

“Even with jet lag?” he teased, one brow lifting.

“Especially with jet lag.”

-

The café was tucked into a bright corner of Terminal 1, faux marble counters gleaming under too-white lights. You ordered for him - no syrup and enough espresso to keep him upright - and then slid the cup across to him. He gave you that look, soft and a little searching, as he wrapped his hand around it.

“I missed you, y/n/n,” he said quietly.

Your fingers twitched against your own lid. “Missed you too, Will.”

You found a table near the window, away from the rush of rolling suitcases and sharp heels, before William dropped into the chair opposite with a sigh that carried all the weight of long flights and longer summers.

“So,” you asked, stirring your coffee without really needing to, “how was Saint-Tropez?”

He told you about the sea. The bread and wine. The neon swimsuits dotting the beaches. The way the water looked impossibly blue under midday sun. He talked about the old couples dancing in the street, Pablo overheating by noon and curling into shade, and Sweden too - slow mornings at his family’s cottage, paddleboarding on the lake, and his niece falling asleep on his chest during a nap.

You listened, letting his voice pull you into places you hadn’t seen this summer.

In return, you gave him work updates, Nadia’s latest gossip, and the story of your AC breaking during a client pitch, forcing you to present slides with sweat trickling down your spine.

You told him everything - except the part where you’d kept falling into Auston’s bed like it was the only soft place left to land.

But William watched you the way he always did when he thought you were holding something back, gaze gentle but fixed, as though comparing the person in front of him to some mental photograph he’d kept while he was gone.

“Sounds like you’ve been busy,” he said at last.

“Summer in Toronto,” you shrugged. “Always something, right.”

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Still… you seem different.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know. Just… off.”

You dropped your gaze to your coffee lid. “Maybe I’m just overheated.”

He nodded, but the pause that followed was just a fraction too long.

So, you nudged his foot with yours beneath the table, managing a small smile. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m broken glass.”

“I just missed you,” a faint smile ghosted over his mouth. “That’s all.”

“Well, I’m still here,” you said softly. “Like always.”

But even as you said it, you felt the weight of what you hadn’t told him. And in his eyes, you saw the outline of a question he hadn’t asked yet - a question you weren’t ready to answer.

_

The Yorkville patio was all pale rattan chairs and crisp white parasols, a carefully cultivated late-summer glow steeped in the scent of citrus sunscreen, expensive perfume, and something faintly floral from the planters lining the railing. Cutlery clinked delicately over plates of artfully plated French toast and omelettes that cost more than a week’s worth of groceries, and the air was carrying that languid, self-assured ease this group seemed to wear as naturally as their jewellery.

You were late - not disastrously, only by seven minutes - but late enough to draw a glance or two as you slipped between tables in your linen dress and oversized sunglasses hiding most of your face. Your sandals whispered against the stone floor, and you murmured a few apologies as Sanna waved you over from a table half-swallowed in sunlight.

“There she is,” Alice sang, leaning in to kiss your cheek as you took the empty seat. “Our elusive off-season girl.”

You summoned your breeziest smile. “Just trying to keep you all guessing.”

Around the table, the familiar players were in place: Sanna in a strapless satin dress only she would dare before noon, Gaby with her expertly undone waves and a Prada phone case that matched her nails, plus two WAG-adjacent fixtures you mostly knew through WhatsApp threads - one seeing a Marlie, the other perpetually “taking space” from a goalie in Vancouver.

Before you could even think about ordering, a server set down a mimosa in front of you, and Sanna smirked knowingly. “I figured you’d need it.”

You took a long sip, the cold fizz cutting cleanly through the thick August air. “Yeah… probably.”

“So,” one of the other women said, idly toying with her straw, “are we all just pretending we didn’t see the DeuxMoi post?”

Alice’s mouth curved. “Oh, we’re not pretending. We’re just being polite.”

You blinked over your glass. “What post?”

“Something about a certain Maple Leafs captain,” the girl replied, her voice laced with faux innocence, “and a very attractive woman spotted on the rooftop at Lavelle. Ring any bells?”

You almost inhaled your drink, while Sanna lifted a brow, perfectly sculpted. “So… is it true about you and Matthews?”

The pause wasn’t long, but it was sharp enough to feel. And every gaze at the table found its way to you.

But as per instinct, you just let out an airy laugh, brushing it aside. “God, you really believe everything you read?”

Alice tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Not denying it, though.”

You waved a hand, smiling like the whole idea was absurd. “Auston and I are friends. That’s it. Not a headline.”

“Mmm,” the goalie girl said, her mouth curving in a way that wasn’t quite a smile. “It’s always the ones who say that.”

A ripple of laughter then followed, glasses clinking, but the air somehow felt different - slightly denser, like static before a storm.

You kept the conversation moving - talked about work deadlines, Nadia’s latest dating misadventure, a Lisbon bachelorette trip, and a vague rumour about someone on the team ghosting a model mid-vacation. But every so often, you caught it: another flicker of a look in your direction, like they were quietly lining up pieces of a puzzle you hadn’t meant to leave lying around.

So, when the topic shifted to pre-season wardrobes and whether bucket hats had officially died, you excused yourself for the bathroom, holding your poise steady as you crossed the shaded interior.

Inside, the air was cooler, the hallway dim enough to make your skin pebble. You lingered at the sink, washing your hands longer than necessary, while staring at your reflection under the unforgiving light. The gloss on your lips looked too precise. Your eyes looked like you’d been awake too long. And there was something in your face you didn’t quite recognise.

Just then the door clicked open, and Sanna slipped inside, letting it close softly behind her. Arms crossed; she gave you a look that was all quiet precision. “Okay. Are you going to tell me what’s actually going on?”

You turned, managing an even voice. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” she leaned against the counter, eyes narrowing just slightly, “I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re dodging something.”

You dried your hands slowly, paper towel rasping under your fingers. “It’s not a big deal.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Sleeping with Auston Matthews is a big deal. Especially for you.”

A flinch betrayed you, small but not invisible. And Sanna caught it. Her tone softened a notch. “Is this about Willy? Are you just… distracting yourself?”

You then met her eyes, but finding no judgement there - only the kind of steady attention that made you want to fold and spill everything. Which was exactly why you wouldn’t.

So, you smiled lightly. “Have you tried the lemon ricotta pancakes? They’re ridiculous.”

Her mouth curved, not quite amused. “You always change the subject when you’re hiding.”

“And you always corner me in bathrooms.”

“Some habits stick.”

You both laughed for a moment, though hers held more weight than sound.

When you stepped back onto the patio together, the light had shifted, lengthening the shadows across the table. And you felt it immediately - that subtle tilt in the air, the way a story begins to move, not in headlines, but in murmurs.

You slid back into your seat, took another sip of your drink, and smiled like none of it mattered.

But it did. And you could already feel the whisper starting to grow teeth.

_

William slipped back into your orbit like the gap had never been there. Like the weeks and continents between you were nothing more than a long blink you’d both opened your eyes from at the same time.

It started the way it always did - one text turning into coffee, coffee turning into workouts, workouts into playlists, grocery runs, and lazy early evening walks with Pablo and Banksy. He’d carry both leashes in one hand, the handles swinging against his wrist as if he’d been born to juggle them, while his other hand cradling a takeaway cup or an energy drink.

You fell into it as naturally as breathing. The easy rhythm of shared smiles over terrible pop remixes at the gym. The way he wordlessly tossed you your usual protein bar when you forgot to eat before lifting. The exchange of Reels - yours poking fun at the off-season grind, his in the form of breathless voice notes complaining about his trainer between sets.

One morning, you both ditched driving entirely and took the 501, sharing a single pair of headphones while arguing about which remix of a The Weeknd song was better. Another afternoon, you brought him an iced latte in exchange for him hauling a watermelon back from the market, muttering about “free labour” while you called him a Swedish pack mule. Twice, he stole your sunglasses and declared they suited him better. Both times, you pretended to disagree.

But underneath the familiar cadence, something was… altered.

Not glaringly. Just in the margins. The way you sometimes reached for your phone mid-conversation, then let it drop into your lap instead. The slight lag in your replies some mornings. And the laugh that reached your mouth but didn’t always travel to your eyes.

William noticed. Of course, he did. He always noticed things quietly - collecting them like stray coins, waiting until the pile in his palm was too heavy to ignore.

And one night at his place, it finally tipped.

You were cross-legged on the floor in front of his coffee table, half-watching a low-budget documentary neither of you cared about, Sugo’s containers open between you. Pablo snored from behind the couch, the air smelling faintly of beer, pasta, and the laundry detergent William always used. His legs were stretched out, one bare foot nudging yours every so often like he couldn’t help it.

You were picking through the last of the pasta when his voice cut through the easy hum.

“You’ve seriously changed.”

No warning. No preamble. Just that.

You looked up mid-bite. “Wow. Waited until the last meatball was gone to tell me?”

“I’m serious,” he said, smiling faintly but not taking it back. “Not in a bad way… just different. Like something happened while I was gone.”

Your mouth opened, closed, then curved into a smile instead. “I told you, I got older. And wiser.”

But he then tilted his head, eyes narrowing in that way that always made you feel like you were being held up to the light. “That’s not what I mean.”

You laughed lightly. “You don’t think I’m wiser?”

“I think,” he said slowly, “you’re dodging the question.”

A little knot tightened in your chest, and you dropped your gaze, letting the TV’s flicker fill the silence while you chewed deliberately, then swallowing slow.

“I’m fine, Willy. Just work stress. Same old.”

“Right,” he said, leaning back. “Same old… but you keep checking your phone like it owes you an apology.”

The jab landed, even if it wasn’t sharp, and you froze for a fraction of a second. And he caught it. He always caught it. But he didn’t press. He never did. He just watched you, steady and patient, as if time was on his side.

“I’m allowed to be different, aren’t I?” you said, softer this time. “Maybe I just missed you.”

That softened something in his face, as he blinked and then smiled crookedly - the kind of smile that always tugged too tight in your stomach. “I missed you too. But that’s not it.”

Pablo let out a groan in his sleep, shifting on the hardwood, while William reached forward to gather the empty cartons, brushing a few crumbs off your knee with his knuckles in a thoughtless, familiar gesture.

And you felt it then - the ache. That magnetic pull that always made this part with him feel too easy. The shadow of the version of you who once let herself imagine more. The weight of the truth you couldn’t bring yourself to drop between you in this soft, leftover night.

You exhaled, pushed your cutlery into the empty carton, and said, “So… has Alex started fantasy league scouting yet, or is he waiting for the Leafs to disappoint him first?”

William leaned back again, his grin finally returning. “He’s already got a spreadsheet. It’s terrifying.”

You laughed, and just like that, the thread loosened. You then helped him clean up, teased him about his too-long hair and the suspicious oat milk in his fridge, and William let the conversation drift away.

But when he walked you to the door later, his palm found the small of your back - brief, warm, and grounding, just like it used to - and you caught him watching you. The same way he had before he left for Europe.

Like he knew you were keeping something from him. And like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted you to tell him.

_

The scent hit you first; rubber, eucalyptus, and that unmistakable tang of clean sweat - seeping into your lungs the moment you stepped out of the back corridor of the Ford Performance Centre. It was the same every time: familiar enough to ground you, sterile enough to remind you you didn’t quite belong here. Your sneakers made soft, hollow echoes against the polished floor as you rounded the corner toward the media room, tote bag pulling at your shoulder, and the hard edge of your lanyard badge tapping rhythmically against your sternum. You were only meant to be here for a drop-off - one quick hand-off of edited media files to the social team before heading out again.

In theory, it should’ve been a blink-and-you’re-gone errand. In reality, timing had other plans.

“Yo, look who it is,” someone called out, the voice riding that post-practice high where everything could be spun into a joke.

You glanced up just as a pack of them came around the bend - Domi, Robertson, and a couple of the new guys, fresh from the dressing room. Their hair clung damp to their temples, skin still flushed from drills, and the faint fog of steam clinging to them like they’d just stepped out of the sauna. They smelled like muscle rub and effort, and a towel hung loosely around Max’s neck as he grinned and began walking backward in that restless, showman way of his.

“Didn’t think we’d get to see Matthews’ late-night cardio partner this early in the day.”

It landed with the sharp sting of something disguised as light-hearted, the kind of banter that had no business carrying the weight it did.

So, you froze, just for a second, before your mouth found the script. A dry, effortless laugh that felt like it scraped something raw on the way out. “Only if your definition of cardio involves Netflix and ignoring texts,” you tossed back, flicking your hair over your shoulder like the barb had barely grazed you.

They laughed – quick and shallow sounds. Then one whistle, a muttered “savage.” The kind of noise that tried to smooth over a moment that had already gone brittle.

And then you saw him.

William was at the water station just down the hall, arms folded, and the corner of a towel hooked into the collar of his grey team tee. He hadn’t looked up when you first walked in. But now, something in his stance changed - like steel pulled taut beneath the fabric.

At first, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His gaze just stayed on the group, sharp enough to cut through the space between them. And the laughter seemed to falter, just slightly, before his eyes found you.

And there it was - the next shift. Not outright anger, but something heavier, more difficult to parse. Confusion, maybe. Disappointment even. And threaded beneath it, something unnamed that lodged in your chest so fast it stole the air from your lungs.

You wanted to say something. Anything. But your mouth stayed useless, and he gave you no time to catch up.

Without a word, he simply dropped his towel onto the bench, unscrewed his water bottle like it was the only thing worth holding, and walked past you with steady steps.

You stayed rooted in the aftershock, heartbeat tripping into your ribs, and the echo of his footsteps pulling something low and tight in your stomach. And you knew, without needing to check your phone or hear the words aloud –

Whatever this thing with Auston had been, it wasn’t a secret anymore.

_

You knew something was wrong the second he didn’t suggest coffee first.

William had sent just one text that morning - casual, and almost clipped: walk later? No emoji. No follow-up. And now here you were, moving side by side along Queen West, threading through the heat-hazy crowd beneath a sky bleached bone-white, and the air thick with the weight of a storm that hadn’t arrived. The light was flat and heavy, catching in the glass shopfronts and shimmering off melting asphalt. And the air smelled faintly of sunscreen and exhaust, of pastries baking somewhere you couldn’t see.

You’d started at Trinity Bellwoods, skirting dry patches of grass and clusters of half-empty picnic blankets, then drifted west past thrift stores with ironic names, their window mannequins posed in wrinkled linen and absurd sunglasses. A busker strummed a steel guitar across from a café where powdered sugar collapsed over fruit tarts, the scent spilling out into the street.

Conversation had flickered and faded - small talk about camp schedules, the mess of his delayed Stockholm flight, his determined attempt to like a new oat milk brand. You both smiled and laughed in the right places, but it all felt thinner than it used to, like tracing the outline of something you’d once coloured in without thinking.

Every so often, there was a flash of the old rhythm – like the way he tilted his head when he asked about your new running route, or how he handed you his water bottle without needing to be asked. Your fingers brushed when you both reached for the same lamppost to lean on at a crossing, and it should’ve meant nothing, yet you felt it.

Still, there was space between your words now. A silence that used to be comfortable felt heavy, stretched like the air before lightning.

And when he suddenly stopped walking, you almost didn’t notice, momentum carrying you a step ahead before you turned back. He was watching you, hands tucked into his pockets.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

It wasn’t unexpected or harsh, but it wasn’t soft either. Just quiet, the way someone speaks when they already know the answer but needs to hear it from you.

“Tell you what?”

His brow moved slightly – not in anger, not quite sadness, but a kind of puzzled hurt that was somehow worse. “About you and Auston.”

The words landed low in your stomach, sending heat crawling up your neck. Guilt, irritation, and maybe shame – all of it crowding your chest at once. You glanced down at the pavement where a spill of pink smoothie had dried sticky, then across the street to a mural of two foxes curled together in violet and gold.

“Because I didn’t know how… or what it was,” you said at last. “Still don’t.”

He nodded gently. “Try. Please.”

Your throat felt tight. The truth wouldn’t come out clean, it might bruise something between you, and you weren’t sure which of you would carry it longer. “I didn’t want to lie to you,” you murmured. “So, I just… didn’t say anything.”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “You think that’s better?”

“I think I didn’t know how to explain it,” you said swiftly, rubbing your arm. “I honestly don’t even know why it started.”

William didn’t rush to answer. He just looked at you with that quiet, steady way of his, every flicker of tension in his mouth and eyes telling you more than his voice ever would.

“But why him?” he asked finally, a bit softer. “I mean, is it even serious?”

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. “It’s not… anything. Not like that.”

“But something,” he said rather to the point.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because yes, it was something. Something combustible and wrong in all the right ways. But not safe. Not explainable to the person who had once known you better than you knew yourself.

Adjusting your bag strap, you then stepped forward. “I never wanted to hide anything from you, Willy. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” he said after a pause, his steps slower now. “I just thought… you’d tell me sooner.”

A boutique window flashed a neon sign that read Your Future Looks Hot, and you almost laughed at the absurd timing. Almost.

“I didn’t want you to think less of me,” you admitted, voice low.

And that made him stop again, surprise flickering across his face. “Why would I think less of you?”

You gave him a small, crooked smile. “Because I don’t even know what I’m doing. I’ve never done something like this… especially not with someone on the team.”

“Sure, but… You never had to have it figured out to tell me,” he said quietly. “You can always tell me anything. You know that.”

The words stayed with you, sharp and warm in equal measure, while you both just stood there for another long second before resuming your pace - still side by side, not touching, carrying the kind of silence that wasn’t empty anymore, but full.

And above, a faint rumble of thunder rolled in from somewhere unseen. Like the air said rain was close, even if the sky hadn’t opened yet.

_

The air felt familiar in ways you couldn’t quite name - maybe it was the faint tang of rubber and sweat baked into the boards again, that lingering, institutional scent no amount of Zamboni passes could erase. You stood along the north-side glass, tablet balanced in one hand, your gaze flicking between the mock-ups of rink boards on the screen and the live movement on the ice.

It was nothing special. Just a closed training session - no fans, no press, only front-office staff, PR, conditioning coaches, and a handful of you from the marketing team to check seasonal sponsor placement and demo a new AR camera feature scheduled for mid-season. A formality and a box to tick.

You told yourself that was all this was.

But then Auston skated past. Broad shoulders framed by a loose jersey, the hem snapping lightly with each stride, making your throat tighten - not because he looked especially good (he always did) but because the last time you’d seen him, he’d kissed you against your front door like he needed it to survive, like your mouth was oxygen.

Now, he was grinning at something on the ice, tapping his stick against Morgan’s shin pads, wearing that lazy smirk that made it impossible to tell if he was tired or just enjoying being the one everyone else adjusted to.

You tried to focus on the ice. On your co-worker’s finger pointing to render placements on your tablet. On the parts of the job that required no thought. But when the lines changed and Auston glided to the bench, and his eyes found you through the Plexi.

He smirked, of course he did, and as he passed the barrier, he murmured something low, something only for you, quiet enough to be private but sharp enough to make your face warm.

You laughed. Light and unguarded. The kind of laugh that slipped out before you had the sense to stop it.

And that’s when you saw him.

William.

Still on the bench, helmet tilted back, chinstrap loose, and his eyes fixed directly on you.

You froze for a second, but he didn’t. He didn’t blink, didn’t glance away, didn’t even bother to mask the fact that he’d seen the whole thing.

The ache in your chest arrived slow and familiar. Not anger in his expression, no, not jealousy either. It was worse. Disappointment, threaded with a kind of quiet knowing. The kind that said he’d already filled in the blanks without needing to hear a word.

You flicked your gaze back to Auston. He was crouched by the Gatorade cooler, talking to an equipment guy, and completely oblivious to whatever had just shifted. Maybe nothing had changed for him.

But William…

William was still watching you like you were no longer in reach. Like you’d stepped somewhere he couldn’t follow.

Your stomach knotted. You lowered your eyes, adjusted the tablet in your hands, forced your voice steady as you nodded at a mock-up of the sideboards. Your co-worker kept talking, completely unaware, while everyone else kept moving. Only William had noticed.

And by the time you looked again, he was skating, fast and clean, his shoulders set hard, not a trace of softness left in them. But you felt it, the drop in temperature, the quiet shift you couldn’t take back.

It stayed with you long after practice ended.

Even as you packed your bag, smiled in the right places, and made polite small talk on the way out of the arena, the image clung to you: William on the bench, eyes locked on yours like a question he’d already stopped expecting you to answer.

And the truth you hadn’t said still hanging there - heavy, unshatterable, and cold as glass.

_

You felt it the second you stepped onto his balcony - the first real bite of the end of August in the air, sharp along the edges, threading cool fingers through the concrete warmth leftover from the day. The city stretched below in a muted pulse, like a heartbeat heard through denim, slow and steady. Streetcars slid past without hurry, their low rumble weaving between the occasional flash of high beams disappearing into side streets.

You tugged his hoodie tighter around yourself, sleeves bunched into your fists, curling into the corner of the worn patio sofa like you’d been there before. Auston had lit one of those overpriced wood-wick candles - probably a gift from someone who knew him well enough to guess but not well enough to realise he rarely lit candles - and the flame cast shifting shadows over his face, catching the line of his jaw every time he moved. He sat beside you, one arm behind you along the back of the sofa, and a drink sweating between his fingers.

Neither of you had said much since you arrived. It wasn’t uncomfortable silence - never was with him - but there was something under it tonight. Something unspoken and heavy enough to lean on.

“I can’t believe he knows and still won’t say a word,” you said eventually, eyes fixed on the skyline.

Auston didn’t pretend not to know who you meant. His mouth pressed into a line as he exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck.

“William.”

You nodded; the name thick on your tongue.

“Well,” Auston said after a beat, leaning back slightly, “he hasn’t punched me yet, so…”

You gave a short, brittle laugh, one that cracked in the middle and didn’t quite land, as he then angled his head toward you. “Was it that Domi comment?”

You nodded again, slower this time. “Yeah. And the look on his face… it wasn’t even angry. Just—” you hesitated, “—hurt. In a way… I’m not even sure why.”

Auston’s gaze lingered on you before he said, “Well, you could’ve told him.”

“Yeah… I know.”

A breeze then curled along the hem of your shorts, cool against the skin of your thigh where it brushed his. He smelled faintly of laundry detergent and fresh cotton, like he’d just washed his bedding and every hoodie he owned. It was familiar in a way that settled something in your chest. But there was always a static to him too - something that kept you slightly on edge, never quite able to relax even when you wanted to. Especially when you wanted to.

Auston then shifted toward you, knees brushing yours. “So… what do you want now?”

The question landed between you like a weight - too heavy for the balcony, too big for the narrow space you’d built out of avoidance and half-truths. You stared at him. At the faint crease between his brows, the shallow scratch along his jaw - skate guard, maybe. The way his lips parted slightly, like he wasn’t breathing, just waiting.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you just leaned in, and kissed him.

It wasn’t entirely gentle. It wasn’t exactly careful. It was a surrender in the shape of a collision - hot, messy, and threaded with something almost desperate. His hand caught the back of your neck, anchoring you as you deepened the kiss, your fingers curling into the cotton of his T-shirt. He tasted like beer and something more complicated, something you didn’t want to name.

Moving closer to him, your hips then shifted against his, friction sparking sharp and quick.

“Bedroom?” he murmured; voice low against your mouth.

But you shook your head. “No. Here.”

His gaze darkened slightly. “Okay.”

And just like that, you stripped your hoodie without hesitation, letting the night air skate over your bare skin. His followed, his hands suddenly everywhere - waist, spine, hips, thigh - his mouth finding the slope of your throat before trailing lower. He licked and bit like he wanted to rewrite something. Or maybe bury it.

And you let him.

Let him pull your shorts down your legs, let him lift you into his lap, let him fill you up there on the worn cushions, stars lost somewhere above while the hum of the city filled the quiet spaces between gasps.

It was fast at first. Then slow. Then faster again, as if neither of you could decide whether this was about urgency or endurance. Your legs trembled under his grip, your breath catching in sync with his, your mouth pressed into the crook of his neck to muffle the sounds that slipped through.

He didn’t speak much this time. Just watched you with an intensity that felt like searching - like he was still waiting for you to answer a question you hadn’t.

And when your orgasm hit, you came with your back arched, nails dragging red down his biceps, just before he followed with a low, strained groan, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, and arms locked tight around your waist like he was holding you in place.

You stayed tangled there for a moment, your breathing slowly evening out. His hoodie was tossed somewhere to the side, your thigh twitching faintly against his as his hands smoothed lazy circles into your lower back.

Eventually, he kissed the crown of your head, and maybe you should’ve said something. Something honest. Something explaining. But instead, you just closed your eyes and let the night stretch, pretending it could last forever. Even though you knew it wouldn’t.

_

It had been over a week. The longest stretch you and William had gone without speaking - not a text, not a call, not even the lazy streak of a Snapchat reply at 2 a.m.

The venue itself looked like it had been plucked straight from a Pinterest board and dropped into downtown Toronto. Strings of warm fairy lights hung in clean, deliberate rows overhead, casting the kind of glow that made everyone’s skin look softer. Low jazz hummed beneath the polite murmur of conversation, blending with the clink of glassware and the occasional burst of laughter from a corner table. The silent auction was the room’s centrepiece - sleek and smug, its glossy brochures fanned out just so, QR codes catching the light every time someone leaned in to scan them. Cucumber water sweated in tall glass pitchers, untouched by the people who had come for champagne. This was the pre-season at its most polished: curated smiles, strategically unbuttoned collars, and every player togged up in sport coats and pristine sneakers.

You were tucked near the balcony rail with a sparkling rosé in hand, condensation from the stem sliding down to dampen your fingers. The air inside was warm - early September warm, where humidity clings but doesn’t quite smother - and the scent of perfume, cologne, and faintly overripe florals clung to it. You’d chosen a pale green midi dress, the kind of shade that could look either expensive or accidental. You didn’t pick it because it suited the mood – though coincidentally enough it did - but because it was one of the few things in your wardrobe that didn’t carry a memory you weren’t ready to wear tonight.

And then, as if pulled by some quiet thread, he found you.

“Hey,” William said, his voice low enough to skim under the rest of the room’s noise.

You turned to find him standing there; shirt collar open, summer still sunk into his skin, and that familiar amber-eyed softness catching in the fading light from the balcony doors.

That’s when you saw her.

She was half a step behind him, a tall stranger dressed in midnight silk - a sleeveless jumpsuit that flowed in clean, uninterrupted lines down to pointed heels. Her hair was the kind of deep, reflective brown that only comes from either perfect genetics or expensive upkeep, cut to graze her collarbone in a precise, almost architectural line. Her nails were bare and glossy, and her lipstick a whisper of rose. She looked like someone who organised her spice rack alphabetically, who paid her bills early without reminders. Effortless, but never accidental.

“Hi,” she said, stepping forward with a smile that felt rehearsed, though not insincere. “I’m Elsa.”

Her handshake was cool and firm.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you returned, steady even as your pulse gave itself away in your neck.

“Elsa’s a new friend I met over the summer,” William said, glancing between you both.

“Right,” you nodded lightly. “Makes sense, of course.”

Elsa tilted her head. “And you work in… branding?”

“Marketing,” you corrected with a small smile. “Mostly mixed campaigns.”

Her eyes swept briefly over your dress. “Well, you’ve clearly got an eye for fashion. That colour’s gorgeous on you.”

“Thanks,” you said, letting out a quick laugh. “Zara’s clearance rack.”

Elsa was beautiful. And though her smile didn’t falter, something in it felt like it had an agenda. Like she was making mental notes you’d never see.

“So,” she added casually, “how do you know William?”

The question was light, but it still landed with the weight of something sharper.

“Oh… well, I used to work with the team,” you said after a beat, giving a small shrug. “And we’ve been friends ever since.”

Elsa’s eyes held yours for a second too long before she nodded. “Ah. Right, hockey’s such a small world. Everyone knows everyone.”

“Yeah, exactly,” you offered a friendly smile. And then the conversation drifted from there, though the undertow lingered.

William didn’t flinch, but you noticed the subtle way his hand rested against the small of her back as they turned toward the drinks table. You noticed how easily he laughed at something she murmured, the sound carrying just enough to reach you, and how she tilted her head toward him like they’d already mapped each other’s mannerisms.

You looked too long, then forced yourself not to.

The rest of the evening blurred into polite loops - introductions to people whose names slipped instantly through your memory, half-listened conversations about pre-season training, the muted drama over jersey redesigns. You let it all wash past you, sipping slowly, nodding when it felt necessary.

Later, you drifted back to the balcony rail, phone in hand for cover, as the breeze had picked up, brushing the hem of your dress against your knees. The city sky had turned lavender at the edges, melting into a deeper blue.

From the corner of your eye, you caught them again. William and Elsa, in easy proximity, talking to a man you recognised from the league’s sponsorship department. Her arm found his, resting lightly. And his hand returned to her waist without hesitation, fingers grazing the curve of her hip.

It wasn’t for show. It was instinct.

And when William’s gaze flicked your way, you looked away first. Not because you were jealous - at least not in the sharp, obvious way - but because there was an ache there you didn’t want him to see. The quiet, undeniable knowledge that someone you used to know down to the marrow was learning a new rhythm. And worse, that it looked good on him.

So, you just tipped back the last of your wine, smiled at no one in particular, and told yourself you didn’t care.

_

The gym was half-empty, still in that in-between hour before the regulars rolled in. The clang of metal on metal rang sharp against the concrete walls, bouncing off the mirrored glass in the corner. William’s shirt clung to his back in dark patches, sweat beading along his temple and sliding down the side of his jaw as he powered through another clean. His grip on the bar was white-knuckled, shoulders coiled like a spring.

Alex then leaned against the squat rack nearby, arms folded, watching without comment until the plates hit the floor with a heavy, final thud.

“Something’s eating you, bro,” he said at last in Swedish, his tone low but deliberate. “Want to stop pretending it’s your shoulder?”

William rolled his neck, exhaling hard. “I’m fine.”

But Alex just raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? ‘cause you’ve been lifting like you’re trying to sweat out a demon.”

Grabbing his towel, William then swiped it across his face, eyes fixed on the floor. “Just pre-season stuff. Camp’s been—”

“Don’t.” Alex straightened, stepping closer. “Don’t give me the fucking media-polish answer.”

There was a pause, broken only by the faint whir of the ceiling fan and the distant bass from someone’s headphones, as Alex cracked open his water bottle, the sound oddly loud in the quiet.

“Come on, man. You’ve always liked her,” he said finally. “So, just tell her, alright.”

William didn’t look up.

“Or don’t,” Alex went on with a shrug. “But don’t drag some random girl into it just to make a point.”

William’s gaze then lifted, sharp. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure,” Alex’s mouth quirked in a humourless smile. “So, it’s just a coincidence that the second she’s a little too close to Matthews, Elsa shows up on your arm looking like a walking press release?”

A muscle flickered in William’s jaw. “It’s not about Auston.”

But Alex held his gaze, unblinking. “Yeah, it is. You’re pissed. You’re hurt. You didn’t say anything, and now you’re watching her be with someone else.”

William’s hands flexed at his sides, jaw tight, and eyes darting toward the bench press like he’d rather be under the bar than under his brother’s stare.

then Alex’s tone softened, though not by much. “You’re not cool about it, bro. You’re just scared.”

And that silence was answer enough.

“You want her?” Alex stepped in, clapping a hand to William’s shoulder with a firm squeeze. “Do something. Otherwise, let it go before you hurt someone else trying to prove you’re fine.”

William gave him a side-eye, frowning. “When the fuck did you become the clever one of us when it comes to dating?”

“Ever since my older brother called me out for all the stupid shit I used to pull,” Alex replied with a crooked grin.

You’d known, even before you answered his text the next morning, that if this thing had any chance of functioning – without wreckage – you’d need boundaries. Loose ones, maybe. Ones written in sand, not ink. But still, something.

So, when Auston messaged, casually fishing for round two, you countered with a suggestion: ground rules. A quick conversation to set terms. To keep things clean and simple.

It was his idea, after all, the Friends-with-benefits arrangement. Or so you claimed.

The knock came just as you were drying your hands from washing the last of the dishes; low and steady, like whoever was on the other side had no doubt you’d open.

You didn’t check the peephole. You didn’t need to.

As you opened the door, Auston was leaned casually against your doorframe, smug as sin, one shoulder pressed to the wall and his eyes already halfway down your legs. His sunglasses were perched in his hair, his shirt grey and threadbare and tight in a way that wasn’t accidental.

“Really?” you said, already arching a brow.

“Miss me?” he asked, voice a little too warm for someone who was supposed to be just fun.

“No,” you simply lied, stepping aside anyway, before he walked in like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like it was his couch, his city, his game. And maybe, lately, it kind of was.

You shut the door behind him, too aware of the way your thighs still ached from the first time you’d let him ruin you. He caught the shift in your gait, because of course he did, and shot you that crooked smirk that made you want to slap him or climb him. Or both.

“Sore?” he asked, voice low and teasing.

“From the gym, yes,” you said dryly.

 “Sure,” he simply laughed.

You then flopped onto the couch, crossing your legs with too much intention. “I have ten minutes before I go back to pretending, I have self-respect. Want something cold?”

“Yeah. You,” he said, deadpan.

You rolled your eyes, but still stood, retrieving two glasses of iced ginger beer from the kitchen. When you returned, he’d taken your seat, arms spread, legs wide, like he was daring you to call him out for it.

You sat next to him, facing him while folding one leg under yourself as you passed him a glass.

“To new beginnings,” he then said, lifting his drink.

You smirked. “To rules we’ll probably break before dinner.”

Still, you clinked glasses.

The napkins were just props. A stupid attempt to keep the conversation clean. You both knew how this ended. But that didn’t stop either of you from leaning into the bit, when you unfolded one and clicking a pen dramatically.

“Okay,” you began. “Ground rules.”

Auston leaned back casually, watching you with half-lidded eyes like this was just foreplay – which might have been.

“No expectations,” you said, writing it down like it mattered.

“No jealousy,” he added quickly, picking up a pillow and tossing it behind his head.

“Clean exits,” you said, and he nodded.

“No sleepovers.”

You raised a brow. “Says the man who once passed out on my chest and drooled on my bra.”

“Allegedly,” he murmured.

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes. “Attempted sleepovers.”

He then tapped his glass thoughtfully. “No gifts.”

 “Define gift,” you tilted your head.

“Anything wrapped. Anything that says, ‘I was thinking about you outside of when I’m inside of you.’”

“Deal,” you snorted. “No presents. No Sunday mornings. No toothbrushes left behind.” You paused, and then smirked. “And absolutely no catching feelings.”

“That’s the first one we’re breaking,” he chuckled, but also spoke too softly.

Your eyes then met in the summer lights filtering the living room, as his knee bumped yours. The silence thickened, stretched, and the air felt suddenly humid in your apartment, like the heatwave outside had slithered in under the windowsill.

You stared at him too long. And he stared back like he liked it.

“So,” he then finally spoke, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible, “we’re agreed?”

You tilted your head slightly. “Yeah. We’re—”

But you didn’t finish. Because the kiss came like a slip, messy, uninvited, and impossible not to follow through with. Your pen hit the floor. And so did his glass, sloshing against the coaster. Your knees brushed harder as he leaned over the space between you and kissed you with that unbearable slowness he pulled out when he wanted to undo you inch by inch.

You sighed against his mouth. The way he tasted like lime and ginger and definitely trouble. And by the time he pulled you to your feet, your drink was long forgotten, and your sundress was already halfway up your thighs.

He didn’t ask for permission. And you didn’t care.

You just stumbled back onto the rug, your back hitting the floor with a soft thud as he followed you down, bracing himself on either side of your hips.

“You’re such an asshole, Matthews,” you muttered, breath caught halfway in your throat.

“True,” he murmured, moving back slightly and pressing his mouth to the inside of your knee.

Then your thigh. And then even higher.

You said his name in a breathless whisper, in a warning. But he just grinned against your skin.

“Say it again,” he whispered seductively, but didn’t really give you the chance, before he dived into your core like a prayer. Like he had no time. Like he was trying to memorise the way your breath hitched when he licked with passion and intentionally across your clit. His hands held your hips steady, thumbs pressing into the flesh like he had a right to be there.

You weren’t quiet. Not with him. Not when his mouth was moving like that – soft and devastating and practiced. You bucked against his tongue, but he didn’t stop, didn’t ease up, didn’t smirk like he usually did. He just stayed focused, low groans vibrating through your skin as he pulled you closer to the edge with every pass of his mouth.

Needless to say, you came hard. Fingers buried in his hair, back arching off the floor, moans echoing through the room.

And still, he didn’t let you go. Didn’t break the tension that snapped like a livewire between you. He simply just slowed down and eased you through the pleasure.

When he finally kissed his way back up your body, he didn’t even say a word. Just lay beside you on the rug, letting you catch your breath, sweat cooling between your skin and the floorboards.

You turned your head, pressing your face into his shoulder, lips barely grazing the curve of his collarbone.

“And that’s how you seal the deal,” he chuckled darkly.

The napkin list was still crumpled beside you. Sweat-smeared and long forgotten.

_

It began with the heat.

Toronto in mid-July, thick with humidity and sun that clung to your skin like it had nowhere better to go. The kind of heat that slowed everything - traffic, tempers, even the air in your lungs. The kind that made the city feel swollen, close to bursting if anyone dared to move too quickly.

But Auston never slowed down. He never had.

Sometimes you didn’t even make it past the door. A knock, that infuriatingly confident smirk, and then his mouth was on yours - and your back pinned to the wall just inside his condo, the cool drywall barely enough to keep you from floating away. His hands were decisive, sliding under your top, tugging your shorts down, lifting you like it took no effort at all - because to him, it didn’t.

It slipped into a rhythm. Almost ritual.

You’d arrive. He’d open the door. And then, everything would dissolve.

-

One Wednesday, he was mid-game when you instead just walked in - headset on, barking half-laughing insults at some poor guy in Vancouver about lag and bad aim. You even didn’t wait for him to finish. You simply just dropped to your knees between his legs, your fingers brushing up the inside of his thighs until he looked down at you.

Surprise flickered for only a second before his smirk returned – slow and knowing, like a challenge. He didn’t even bother muting the mic.

So, you took your time. Pressed your lips to the waistband of his shorts. Nuzzled just enough to make him twitch. Then, without warning, you wrapped your mouth around his member - already thickening in your hand - heat and suction drawing a sharp breath from him.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, one hand tightening on the controller. “Yeah—I’m—uh—here.”

You ran your tongue along him in a slow, deliberate stroke, curling around the sensitive underside before taking him deeper. Hollowing your cheeks, you worked him with the kind of devotion that left no room for doubt.

A sound slipped from him, low and strained. “Just - lag,” he told Mo through the headset, voice cutting tight around the words. “Bad connection.”

But you didn’t let up. Not when his fingers tangled in your hair, not when his hips jerked slightly forward, not even when he swore under his breath and finally hit mute. Head tipping back, jaw clenched, his chest rose and fell unevenly as you coaxed him to the edge.

And when he came, you tasted his load – salty and warm - swallowing as his breathing slowed. You then sat back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and simply smirked up at him.

You loved seeing him undone like that. Loved knowing that you could pull the Auston Matthews apart piece by piece- just as easily as he did to you.

-

Later that week, you were bent into his freezer, searching past half-melted ice cubes for a popsicle, when you felt him step up behind you; bare skin pressed to your back, warm and solid, the heat of him sinking straight through your shirt. Before you could turn, he spun you easily, your shoulder blades meeting the counter, his palm sliding down your side in a slow, claiming drag. And then he hooked a hand under your thigh, lifting and spreading you like you weighed nothing at all.

Your breath caught, a startled gasp barely forming before he was already dropping to his knees on the cold tile, the chill of it a sharp contrast to the blaze of his mouth when it found your core - hot, open, and relentless.

One hand clamped tight to your hip, anchoring you, while the other splayed across your stomach, the weight of it steady, almost reverent, like he wanted to feel the pound of your heartbeat through his palm. The popsicle slipped from your fingers, hitting the floor with a dull, forgotten thud.

You barely noticed. Couldn’t.

Because there were no words. No preamble. No careful lead-in. Just raw, unfiltered need and every nerve in your body sparking to life under his touch.

-

One night, you rode him on the couch, knees braced against the cushions, the flicker of the TV painting your skin in shifting light as muted hockey highlights rolled in the background. His hands gripped your thighs, fingers sinking deep into soft flesh like he couldn’t get enough of the feel of you. His head tipped back, mouth parted, eyes glazed in awe, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. You moved slowly at first, savouring the pull and press of every inch, then faster - finding that rhythm where the sound of skin meeting skin filled the space, drowning out even the faint hum of commentary you weren’t listening to anyway.

He whispered your name over and over, each time softer, more strained, until his whole body tensed beneath you, and he came with a low, shuddering breath.

-

Other times, it got a little too close to domestic. Like when you were at the stove, apron askew across your chest, hair knotted high to keep the heat off your neck, half-focused on something simmering in the pan. He’d come up behind you without a word, one arm curling around your waist as the other slid between your thighs, fingers slipping under your shorts like he already knew what he’d find.

“You’re dripping,” he’d murmur into your ear, his voice smug and low, the words curling down your spine. “And it’s not from the steam.”

You’d come so quickly – messily - before the water even thought about boiling.

-

The shower was a different kind of cruelty. He wouldn’t kiss you right away there. Not at first. Just pressed you against the cold tile, water streaming over your shoulders in hot rivulets while he knelt, mouth and fingers working in unhurried tandem until your legs shook and your nails dug half-moons into his wet hair. You’d cling to the showerhead like it might keep you standing, head tipped back as he dragged wave after wave out of you.

He never rushed. Never faltered. He’d watch you unravel like it was his favourite show, eyes locked on your face even as your body trembled under him. And when he finally rose to kiss you, it wasn’t gentle - it was consuming. Like drowning. And you let yourself sink into it.

-

But it wasn’t always just heat and sweat and filthy words. There were the in-between moments, too.

Like when you’d pull on one of his hoodies - always oversized, the sleeves swallowing your hands, and the hem brushing your bare thighs - and curl up on his couch. You never asked if he noticed you taking them, and he never asked for them back. You’d just wear them, drink water from his mug, and scroll through your phone like it was nothing at all.

Once, you were lying in bed beside him, the room dim and quiet, when he asked out of nowhere, “What’s your favourite dog breed?”

“What?” You blinked at him.

“Just curious,” he said with a small shrug, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Why?”

He then turned to you, smiling faintly, his gaze soft in a way that made something shift in your chest. “I think about getting another sometimes.”

-

Then another night, the air had finally eased from its punishing weight, the heat no longer pressing down like a hand on the back of your neck. He carried two drinks out to the balcony, condensation beading down the glasses, the ice shifting softly with each step. You wore one of his hoodies - again – and nothing beneath it, the hem brushing bare skin as you curled into the chair with your legs slung over his lap.

The city unfolded beneath you; glass towers catching the last flare of daylight, distant car horns drifting up like background noise, the pink-gold haze of sunset bleeding into the skyline.

He started talking about Arizona.

About the summer he broke his arm rollerblading down a hill near his childhood home. How he’d told his mother he’d tripped on a rock, but really, he’d been trying to impress a neighbour girl, hit the curb wrong, and went flying. She hadn’t even been looking.

You laughed - sharp and sudden - like the sound had been pulled straight from your lungs without permission. But when you looked back at him, you realised he wasn’t laughing with you.

That was when you felt it, the shift. The way his hand went still against your thigh. The way his eyes stayed on you a second too long. And when you met his gaze, your smile faltered.

Because he wasn’t looking at you like a man planning his next move or deciding how to get you off before the ice in your drinks melted. He was just… looking. Like he was memorising you. Like the weight of whatever he was feeling was something he didn’t know where to put.

You reached for your glass, then stopped, setting it down instead. Pulled the hoodie tighter around you, like you could shield yourself from the sudden change in temperature that had nothing to do with the weather.

“I should go,” you said quietly, already unwinding your legs from his lap.

And he didn’t argue. Didn’t try to pull you back. Just nodded and followed you inside.

At the elevator, he leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes flat but not unkind.

“See you soon,” you offered, voice thin in the narrow hallway.

“Yeah.”

The doors then closed between you with a hiss, sealing him on the other side.

That night, you pressed your forehead to the elevator wall, letting the cool metal leech some of the heat from your skin - but not enough. Because he stayed with you. In the cling of his hoodie against your bare chest. In the memory of his still hand. In the ache low in your body that wasn’t just about lust anymore.

You told yourself this was just the summer heat, a passing distraction. Something you’d look back on and laugh about. But your chest told you otherwise. It beat like he took something with him every time you left.

_

You couldn’t quite put into words the shift that had happened, the second something in you tipped over and refused to come back. One moment, Auston was exactly what he’d always been: arrogant, smug, irreverently cocky, and the kind of man you’d sworn you’d never waste another ounce of energy on. And then, without warning, you were aching for him. Craving him with a hunger that felt less like attraction and more like compulsion, sharp-edged and intoxicating in a way you didn’t trust. Craving him enough to lie to the people who’d known you for a long time, just for the chance to disappear into his bed for a few stolen hours.

The rooftop was all shimmer and strain under the early August sun, heat pressing down until the edges of the afternoon went hazy. Glassware caught the light too greedily, ice melting too fast, pale hydrangeas wilting just enough to make the florist cringe, and the air was thick enough to ruin any pretence of “effortless.”

You sat wedged between Chloe and Raya - your friends from undergrad, both now PR freelancers who wore designer sunglasses without irony and could order cocktails in three languages. You loved them. But today, in your strappy sundress and borrowed patience, you didn’t feel like you belonged to their world either.

“So, then this client wants a rebrand and a wedding hashtag,” Chloe was saying, spearing an olive from her Aperol spritz with surgical precision. “Like, babe, pick a delusion.”

Raya’s laugh was quick and knowing. “I pitched a collab last week to a wellness founder who makes vagina-scented candles. Her whole pitch deck was in Papyrus.”

You laughed too - real, for a moment. They didn’t know hockey beyond “the hot one” and “the other hot one,” but they knew you from before, from outside. They’d seen you make mistakes and survive them, had poured you into cabs and into beds, had fed you greasy noodles after heartbreaks.

And then Chloe leaned in from across the table, the sun glancing off her diamond studs, her manicured hand shading her phone screen as though protecting it from the heat. “Did you guys see that hot Swedish player’s trip photos?” she asked, her voice lilting with gossip’s easy pleasure. “His hair in that saltwater should be illegal.”

Jaclyn chimed in without missing a beat, her tone theatrical. “He looks like the lead in some moody European indie film. The kind where he’s painfully kind until he ruins you in bed and vanishes before sunrise.”

Someone sighed. Someone else giggled into their rosé.

But you didn’t. You just lifted your mimosa instead, letting the cold rim press against your mouth, hiding in the slow sip. It was easier to let them paint their versions of him, romantic and disposable, while you kept the truth locked behind your ribs.

Because yes, you missed William. Of course, you did. That part didn’t need to be said. But you weren’t about to confess - not here, not to them- just how much. Or what you’d been doing these last few weeks to try to scrub the shape of him from your skin. Or, more accurately, who.

The conversation then slid on without you - destination bachelorettes, Capri versus Turks & Caicos, a split debate over sustainable swimwear and Dior bikinis, someone telling a horror story about a laser facial gone wrong on the same day as a red-eye. The chatter dulled at the edges, distant, like you were hearing it underwater.

And then your phone buzzed.

Zamboni Brain 🐒: Bored yet? My bed misses you.

Your pulse jumped a little, but you didn’t move at first. Just let your thumb hover, tracing the edge of the screen. Chloe was in the middle of tearing apart a beige wedding palette—“commit to the neutrals or get out”—but your focus narrowed to the weight of that rectangle in your lap.

The second buzz came quicker.

Zamboni Brain 🐒: Come over.

Zamboni Brain 🐒: You know I’ll make it worth it.

Your stomach gave a slow, traitorous twist, heat pooling low, heavy, and insistent. You then nodded vaguely at something Raya said about the unforgivable sin of bad brunch lighting, reached for your clutch, and lifted the phone to your ear like it was work calling and not the man who had been in your head - and under your skin - for weeks.

“Hey,” you murmured, pitching your voice for believability. “Yeah. No, that’s fine. I can jump on now - just send the link.”

Jaclyn tilted her sunglasses down enough to give you a sympathetic look. “Work again?”

You smiled faintly. “Always, right?”

You leaned in to kiss Chloe’s cheek, muttered something about deadlines, and then headed for the stairs instead of the elevator. You needed movement. You needed air - what passed for it in Toronto’s August, thick and sunburned.

Because you weren’t walking toward a meeting. You were already picturing the weight of his front door in your palm. The way his eyes would drag over you when he opened it.

-

The blast of air conditioning hit you first - sharp, and almost shocking after the heavy, syrupy heat outside. Auston always kept his condo colder than yours, the chill carrying that faint mix of detergent, clean linen, and something darker like spiced cologne still clinging to the air. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the world instantly, as though you’d stepped into a separate climate altogether.

He was already there, leaning against the kitchen island like he’d been waiting for the exact second you walked in. No shirt, low-slung blue shorts hanging loose on his hips, and damp curls pushed back off his forehead, skin still warm-flushed from a shower or maybe a workout. That familiar smirk was curved at his mouth, but beneath it sat something slower and heavier, like a heat that didn’t need announcing.

“Client emergency?” he then asked, voice edged with mockery, brow lifting in amusement.

You didn’t bother answering. You just crossed the space between you in quick, deliberate strides and caught his mouth with yours – hard and fast, like you were punishing him and yourself in equal measure.

He didn’t even flinch. He just caught you with one arm banded tight around your waist, pulling you in until you could feel the full weight of his chest against yours. The other hand was already dragging the hem of your sundress upward, fabric gathering fast in his fist until it bunched high around your hips. His mouth moved against yours with the kind of hunger that stole air, his breath hot, and teeth scraping briefly over your lower lip as he walked you backward without breaking the kiss.

The bedroom doorframe grazed your shoulder, then the edge of the mattress met the backs of your thighs. You didn’t stumble or hesitate. This wasn’t about thinking. This was about wanting - and right now, you wanted him like he was the only thing in the room worth touching.

By the time your back hit the mattress, clothes were discarded, and his hands were everywhere. Skimming up your thighs, gripping hard at your hips, sliding up your ribs in a slow, possessive drag. One palm cupped the side of your neck as his mouth worked lower, leaving heat and open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone before closing around your breast. You gasped when he sucked, sharp enough to pull a sound out of you, his teeth grazing before he soothed the sting with his tongue like an unspoken apology you knew he didn’t really mean.

The first time he made you come was with his fingers - two sunk deep, curling just right while his thumb circled your clit in relentless strokes, his mouth grazing your neck as he murmured how good you sounded, and how much he liked it.

The second was from his mouth alone, his head buried between your thighs, arms locked around you to keep you still as he licked you through every shiver and gasp until you were shaking and half-pleading.

Your nails scraped across his shoulders, catching on muscle, pulling him closer until there was no space left. You murmured something pointed against his jaw, a challenge in the shape of a whisper, and his low growl vibrated against your skin. That crooked grin returned just before he pushed into you, slow and deliberate, the stretch deep and perfect. Your fingers clenched in the sheets, hips tilting to take more.

“Fucking missed this,” he breathed, voice low and rough, punctuating it with another slow thrust that made your legs tremble. “Missed you.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You just arched into him, mouth falling open on a sharp inhale when he rolled his hips deeper, hitting that spot that had your eyes fluttering shut.

And the third orgasm came with him back inside you, this time from behind, his chest warm against your back. One hand tangled hard in your hair, tilting your head just enough for his mouth to find your shoulder. The other gripped your hip as he drove into you with steady, unyielding rhythm.

You came with a soft, startled cry, shuddering as his groan spilled hot against your skin, your name torn from his throat like he couldn’t hold it in.

Just as he climaxed too.

_

You couldn’t sleep. Not really.

Your skin still carried the heat of him, stretched out over unfamiliar sheets that smelled faintly of that citrus-sharp note from his cologne - the same one now ghosting along your own throat. The air conditioner hummed low overhead, steady and even, but it couldn’t compete with the thrum in your chest. One arm lay draped over your eyes, but you weren’t resting. You were just… waiting. Though for what, you didn’t know.

You thought he’d already fallen asleep, until you caught the sound of his voice. Muffled at first, then clearer as you listened, the words threading through the slight crack in the bedroom door.

“Nah, it’s nothing serious… just fun and casual. She doesn’t mean anything to me, really…”

The syllables seemed to hang in the air, light as ash, floating for a moment before the weight settled – sharp and uninvited - into the hollow beneath your ribs.

“She’s cool about it,” he added, his low laugh catching like static. “No drama for once.”

You sat up slowly, like sudden movement might knock the room off its axis as the mattress creaked under your shift. Your bra was a tangle near the foot of the bed. On the floor, your phone lay face down beside your sandals, screen empty, no calls and no messages. No William. Just that faint glow from the moonlight spilling between the blinds.

You then got dressed without sound. There was a mirror beside the closet, but you didn’t look at it. You didn’t want to see your face with your stomach clenched tight, your chest aching in a way that felt both too familiar and not familiar at all. You just smoothed your dress, shoved your hair back, and then stepped out.

He was still talking on the phone. Still laughing. His voice didn’t even hitch when you crossed the kitchen, didn’t change when you reached the door. And he didn’t see you leave.

Your apartment felt cooler than usual when you got back - like the air had shifted in your absence. You dropped your keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, kicked off your shoes, and padded to the kitchen without turning on the lights.

A soft glow slipped under your roommate’s door before it cracked open, and you poured yourself a glass of red wine - something dry, bold, and too heavy for the hour - then curled into your usual corner of the couch. One leg tucked under, the other stretched lazily across the cool fabric.

“You good?” Nadia’s voice floated over, warm in an oversized t-shirt, hair flattened from sleep. She padded across the room and sank into the opposite cushion without waiting for an answer.

You hesitated before giving a noncommittal shrug. “Peachy.”

She arched a brow. “Peachy doesn’t usually come with cabernet at midnight and your ‘not-a-breakup’ playlist.”

“It’s not a breakup playlist,” you said, faint smile tugging at your mouth. “It’s just… moody.”

“Mmhmm.” She tilted her head. “So, what happened?”

You sighed and passed her your phone. The screen lit with William’s face - sun-kissed and laughing, Pablo tucked under one arm, the lake burning gold behind him, firelight catching in the messy strands of his hair.

“Oh,” Nadia murmured, softening. “Last summer?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

She scrolled - William in a hoodie on the dock, half-asleep in a hammock, holding a flaming marshmallow like it was the end of the world. All drenched in that particular light that made even mistakes look romantic.

“You still have feelings for him?” she then asked, pausing on a mid-leap Pablo.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I miss the way it felt. That summer. That version of him. Of me.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just handed the phone back, then took a sip of your wine, wrinkling her nose. “God, this tastes like a regret in a bottle.”

You let out a tired laugh, grateful for it.

“So…” she said slowly, “is this about him… or the other one?”

You stayed quiet for a moment. Because it wasn’t really just about William - not entirely. It was about the space he kept leaving unfilled, the version of him you never quite got to keep.

You glanced at her. “Do you ever feel like you’re always almost being chosen?”

 “Wow. Zero warning,” Nadia blinked.

“Sorry,” you said with a crooked smile. “It’s the wine.”

She then poured herself a splash without fuss. “Yeah. I’ve felt that. Like I’m the girl they practise intimacy with before they go give it to someone else for real.”

Those words landed too close.

“But hey,” she then added, nudging your foot, “at least we’re not stuck with guys who wear shark-tooth necklaces.”

“The bar is low,” you said with a light laugh.

“The bar is subterranean.”

Silence then settled again, easy, and unforced. And somewhere outside, a siren whined.

“I left Auston’s place without saying goodbye,” you said finally. “He was on the phone, talking about me like I was a good time. Casual. Like I was in on the joke.”

Nadia’s mouth tightened. “That’s rough.”

“I didn’t expect it to hurt.”

“You didn’t expect to care,” she said gently. “But you do.”

You nodded, fingers tightening around the stem of your glass. “And I don’t know what that says about me.”

“It says you’re human,” she swiftly replied. “And maybe you’re ready to want more than just heat and chaos.”

You didn’t answer, just topped up both glasses.

“You know what I think?” she then added, settling a bit deeper. “You deserve someone who doesn’t have to be convinced you matter.”

Your eyes prickled, but you didn’t cry. You just pulled the blanket over both your legs.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

“Always.”

And so, you sat there in the quiet hum of the apartment, wine half-full, heart a little emptier, wrapped in the kind of love that didn’t vanish when the heat faded.

Somewhere across the city, Auston was probably asleep.

And somewhere across the ocean, William was probably laughing.

But here, in your apartment, you were just trying to remember who you were when no one was watching.

-

It was almost midnight the next night when the knock came.

Not the buzz from downstairs. Not a text. Just one low, deliberate rap - too measured to be casual, too quiet to be angry. You were curled on the couch in an oversized T-shirt, wine long gone warm on the coffee table, and the TV muted in the background as you scrolled absently through your phone. Nadia had gone to bed a while ago, and you couldn’t remember the last time you’d moved.

Then came the second knock. Slower and more certain. And then you knew.

You opened the door before your common sense could get there first. And there in the hallway, Auston stood, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, one palm braced on the frame like he wasn’t sure if the door might disappear. There was no smirk, no lazy lean. Just his eyes - dark, heavy, and unreadable in the low yellow light.

“I didn’t like how we left it,” he said simply.

You crossed your arms, the hem of your T-shirt brushing bare thighs. “Didn’t we leave it exactly how you wanted?”

His jaw ticked. “No. Cause you didn’t”.

Silence stretched between you like elastic, one wrong move away from snapping. You leaned into the frame, studying him - uneven stubble shadowing his jaw, hands now restless at his sides.

You should have told him to leave. But instead, you stepped back. And he stepped in without hesitation.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the air shifted into that slow, dangerous pull you hated as much as you wanted.

You didn’t even look at him when you asked, “What are you doing here, Auston?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You scoffed. “Because your bed was cold?”

“Because I think I fucked something up.”

The words made you freeze slightly. Not an apology, but not a joke either. So, you turned and searched his face for the smirk, the escape hatch he always took - but it never came.

You then walked toward the living room, putting a bit of space between you again. “You said it was casual. That I got it.”

“And I thought you did.”

You turned again to face him. “Don’t put that on me.”

“I’m not,” he said, stepping closer. Too close. Too warm. He smelled like fabric softener and soap and something that lived in your sheets long after he left.

“I heard you,” you whispered. “I don’t matter to you…”

His jaw flexed. “I know.”

“And I shouldn’t care… but it made me feel like just another one of your many sluts.”

“I know,” he said again, softer this time, the sound catching in your throat.

“Then why come here?”

He dropped his gaze, exhaling slow. “Because I missed you. Because… you’re not just one of them. You matter.”

And just like that, something in you snapped. The ache, the humiliation, the bruised pride you’d been swallowing down - it all broke the surface, and you shoved your hands against his chest. “You don’t get to show up and say that. You don’t get to treat it like nothing and then—”

He caught your wrists. Not rough, just steady. And then his mouth was on yours.

The air collapsed. His kiss was hot, open, and urgent, pulling you closer until your hands curled into his hoodie and your heels left the floor. His arms locked under your thighs, carrying you as your back then hit the wall, his hips pressing into yours in a way that felt like a promise you couldn’t trust but still needed.

“I hate you,” you breathed against his mouth.

His smile ghosted across your lips. “I know.”

And then he simply carried you to the bedroom.

This time, the sex wasn’t a game. No smug taunting, no power play. Just slower touches, heavier silences, as he peeled your T-shirt off like it had no right to be between you, his mouth travelling down your sternum and over your stomach, before settling between your thighs.

His tongue was deliberate and focused, while his hands held your hips like he was keeping you there. You came with a small, broken gasp, fisting the sheets, and your body arching into his mouth until it all blurred.

Then his fingers. And then him.

When he slid inside you, he groaned into your neck like it hurt, like the wanting had been an open wound. You locked your legs around him, nails dragging along his shoulders, letting him move deep and slow, each thrust landing like something he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud.

Neither of you spoke. The only sound was breath, skin, and the faint creak of the mattress. You didn’t even notice you were crying until his mouth brushed your jaw and tasted salt. He didn’t comment. Just kissed you again.

The tension didn’t vanish - just dulled, softened into something that felt less like a fight and more like uneasy truce. And Hours later, when you yawned, he glanced at the clock.

“Want me to go?”

_

The next morning unfolded in syrupy slowness, sun pooling across your kitchen in broad, golden stripes that slipped through the blinds and painted lazy patterns over the counter. The air smelled faintly of coffee and leftover Thai, layered with the last trace of the citrus candle you’d forgotten to blow out the night before.

You sat barefoot at the island, one knee hooked over the other, mismatched pyjama shorts peeking from under a loose tank top, hair scraped into a half-hearted bun that was already loosening. The kettle clicked behind you, the sound a gentle reminder that the day had started whether you were ready for it or not.

Auston was by the fridge, squinting against the light like it was too loud. His hair stood in unruly peaks, a t-shirt slouched over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal biceps inked in pale morning shadow. The hem hung awkwardly at his hips, and there was something about the sight - him in your kitchen, half-put-together - that felt right only if you didn’t overthink it.

“Why is your Brita so loud?” he asked, almost to himself, pulling out a soda instead of water.

You shrugged. “It’s dramatic. Like the rest of us.”

He let out a low huff, leaning on the far side of the island as his gaze slid over the counter, the tangle of takeout boxes, then lingered on your bare legs tucked beneath you. The fizz from his can cracked the quiet.

For a while, the soundtrack was small: the hum of traffic, utensils scraping cardboard, the faint drip from the coffee pot. You didn’t speak much. But every so often you caught him watching you - not sharply, not like he was trying to figure something out, but softly, as though you were a paragraph he wanted to reread.

And midway through his stolen leftovers, his voice cut through the quiet.

“Hey,” he said, not looking up. “Can I ask you something?”

You glanced at him, chewing slow. “Sure.”

He ran his thumb along the soda tab, eyes fixed somewhere near his plate. “Do you ever think about that night? The one we almost kissed?”

Your fork froze mid-air, the moment landing between you like static, invisible but humming. You could’ve deflected - made a joke, shifted the subject - but you didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said after a brief moment. “Sometimes.”

He nodded gently, like he’d known but needed to hear you say it.

You then studied him in the half-light; t-shirt skewed, hair a mess, bare feet against your kitchen tile, morning spilling over the side of his face like it wanted to keep him for itself.

“What made you think of it?” Your voice had softened without your permission.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just… I think I wanted to kiss you then. And I think I’ve wanted to again every time since.”

The breath you let out felt like it had been sitting in your chest for months. “Then why didn’t you?”

He then met your eyes, gaze steady, almost apologetic. “Because I was an idiot. Or I thought maybe you wanted someone else.”

You didn’t confirm. Didn’t deny. Because both answers would’ve been true.

The quiet stretched - not awkward, just delicate - as you stirred your noodles without tasting them. “So, what is this, then? Regret or second attempt?”

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before then returning to yours. “I don’t know yet.”

And somehow, the honesty felt heavier than any grand confession.

You didn’t push him. Just slid your takeout toward him in a wordless truce. And in the unhurried rhythm of breakfast, he reached over and brushed something from your cheek. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was an excuse. But his fingers lingered, and you didn’t move away.

The first Monday of the offseason felt like waking up after a fever dream. No alarms, no puck drops, no frantic refreshes of playoff stats on your phone. Just soft sunlight slipping in through the blinds and the quiet hum of your apartment building adjusting to the new season – one without hockey.

You sat cross-legged at your dining table in a navy blazer that still smelled faintly of dry shampoo and vanilla body spray, scrolling through your inbox like it owed you something. A half-empty coffee cup trembled slightly on the glass surface every time you moved your mouse. You weren’t late for anything, but your body hadn’t caught up to the fact that the adrenaline was over. There were no more games. No more watch parties. No more standing in the hallway outside a locker room pretending your heart wasn’t breaking right there under fluorescent lights.

William had flown out the day after cleanout. South of France first – something about a friend’s birthday, maybe, or maybe just the freedom of the Mediterranean – then back to Sweden to regroup, reset, recharge. He’d texted from Saint Tropez, a photo of a croissant the size of a small dog. You’d sent back a gif of Julia Roberts in Eat Pray Love crying into pasta. He’d laughed.

Now, you were back in the boardroom. The land of icebreakers and Q3 projections. Pivot tables instead of power plays. You still wore your media pass lanyard sometimes out of habit, fingers brushing your neck where it used to rest. But the only rink you saw now was the condensation circle from your iced Americano on the office counter.

The group chats had gone mostly quiet. Stephanie was posting pictures from Mykonos, all breezy linens and Aperol Spritzes in glowing golden hour. Tessa was in the Maldives, tagging her husband in stories of stingrays and spa treatments. A few of the other girls had gone completely dark; the kind of silence that meant tears or tequila, probably both.

You weren’t on a beach. You were staring down a slide deck about TikTok strategy for a brand that still used Comic Sans in their email signatures.

That night, after pretending to be invested in a quinoa stir-fry and replying to work texts you could’ve ignored, you padded barefoot onto your tiny apartment balcony with a glass of white wine clutched in one hand and your phone in the other.

The sky above Toronto was streaked in that late-June blue that meant nothing was urgent. The air smelled like grass clippings and exhaust, the city running slower now that the Maple Leafs weren’t in it anymore.

Nadia joined you a few minutes later, dropping into the weathered patio chair beside you in oversized joggers and a hoodie that might’ve once belonged to an ex. She clinked her mug against your glass – white wine, a bit warm now, sloshing in what should’ve been a coffee cup that read Hot Girl With Anxiety.

“Mismatched mugs always hit harder,” she said, propping one foot up on the railing.

You smiled faintly, eyes still on your phone.

William’s Instagram story played on loop. A slow pan over water in Southern France, sunlight skipping like stones across the surface, then him; shirtless, laughing, beer in hand, sitting on a dock with his feet in the water. Pablo sprawled beside him. A perfect summer moment, filtered in gold.

He looked so relaxed. So far from everything.

Your thumb hovered. You didn’t message him. Just let the loop restart, quiet and endless.

Nadia watched you watching. “You miss it?”

You didn’t answer right away.

“I miss the noise,” you said finally, softly. “Even though I pretend I don’t.”

She nodded, her tone light but not unkind. “You’ve been back one week and you’re already emotionally doom scrolling like a widow.”

You snorted. “Too soon.”

“Too accurate.”

You set your wine down on the little table between you, letting your head fall back against the railing. The metal was cool against your skin.

“It’s weird,” you admitted. “Everything else kept going. Work, the subway, espresso machines. But it’s like… something paused. Like I’m waiting for the next faceoff and forgetting there isn’t one.”

She glanced at you. “It’s because you care. And you won’t say it out loud.”

You shrugged. “He’s in Europe. I’m here. There’s nothing to say.”

“That’s a lie.”

You ignored her, reaching for your wine again, sipping slow. The glass was warm now, the edge smudged with lip gloss.

The sky was darker than it had been ten minutes ago. One of those slow dusks that pulled itself over the city like a blanket, gentle and unhurried. You watched the planes blink across the horizon. Someone on the street below was playing music; low, old R&B. It floated upward like perfume, softening everything it touched.

“I miss him too,” you said eventually, barely above a whisper.

Nadia didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

You sat there in the stillness, two girls on a balcony in a city that moved too fast, holding space for something neither of you could name.

And somewhere across the ocean, William smiled for someone else’s camera. But you couldn’t stop wondering if he missed the noise too.

_

Saturday had it out for you. Or maybe it was just karma, catching up to punish you for every half-sincere salad you’d promised your body this week and then ignored. Either way, the sun was punishingly hot, the kind of thick, oppressive heat that made the air feel heavy even in the shade.

You’d underestimated it – again – and decided that walking to the supermarket for a “quick errand run” would be a refreshing start to the weekend. Spoiler: it wasn’t. And now, with your arms aching from overstuffed grocery bags and sweat slicking the back of your neck, you were finally tapping your card at the self-checkout, praying the machine didn’t judge you for the number of overpriced snacks you’d just purchased.

All that was left now was to get home.

Easier said than done.

It happened fast. One second you were balancing a paper bag full of overpriced organic groceries against your hip, fishing in your tote for your phone. The next, the bottom gave out with a soggy gasp, and you were watching your dignity roll away in all directions in the carpark.

Apples bounced under the adjacent SUV with gleeful precision. A carton of oat milk tipped sideways into a suspicious puddle. A rogue cucumber skittered toward the storm drain like it was fleeing the scene of a crime.

You froze mid-step, blinked down at the wreckage, and sighed. “Fucking perfect.”

You were dressed for invisibility. Bike shorts, an oversized university tee you’d probably slept in twice this week, and your hair scraped back into a claw clip that was doing its best against humidity. You hadn’t even bothered with mascara. This was supposed to be an errand run, not a public spectacle.

And of course, that’s when you heard it.

The unmistakable crunch of rubber soles on asphalt. A slow clap of sneakers dragging toward you, casual and infuriating.

“Wow,” came a familiar voice, low and amused. “You always this graceful or just saving it for special occasions?”

You didn’t even have to look up to know. But you did anyway. Slowly.

Auston fucking Matthews stood a few feet away, sunglasses on along with a baseball cap, an iced coffee in one hand, a gym bag slung over his shoulder like a prop in a lifestyle shoot. His curls were still damp at the edges, probably from a post-lift rinse. His white tee stretched in all the wrong places – meaning all the right ones. And of course, he was smirking.

You gave him a long, deadpan stare. “Don’t you have fans to terrorise or golf courses to haunt?”

He took another step closer, letting his shadow fall over a now-bruised peach. “Maybe I’m on a secret mission to rescue damsels in distress.”

“Damsels with a degree and a reusable tote, thanks,” you muttered, crouching to gather what remained of your dignity – and your groceries.

He followed suit, squatting beside you. “Are you seriously trying to pretend you don’t need help?”

“I don’t need –” You paused as he reached under a parked sedan to retrieve a lemon. “Okay, maybe I need a little help.”

Auston picked up a banana and gave it a lazy toss in the air, catching it without looking. “So, what I’m hearing is: I’m your hero now. This is the origin story. You’ll name your firstborn after me.”

“You know what you are?” you said, snatching the banana from his hand. “A walking collection of ego and Lululemon. You’re not a hero. You’re a well-dressed raccoon.”

He laughed. “A sexy raccoon, though.”

“Debatable.”

You stuffed the surviving produce into your now half-ripped bag, shooting him a sideways glance. “What are you even doing here?”

“Gym’s next door,” he said with a shrug. “Stopped for coffee. And fate, apparently.”

You rolled your eyes and stood, brushing grit from your thighs. “Thanks for the save. I’m good now.”

“Sure, you are,” he said, still holding your oat milk. “Except you only have one questionable bag. And half your groceries look like they went through a bar fight.” He nodded toward the parking lot. “Come on. I’ll give you a lift.”

You hesitated. “That’s not necessary.”

“It’s not,” he agreed. “But it’s fun to watch you try and say no when you clearly want to say yes.”

You exhaled hard through your nose. “You are—”

“—irresistible?” he offered. “Yes. Come on.”

And somehow, against all your better instincts, you followed him.

His car smelled like cedar and leather and the faint ghost of whatever cologne made girls hand over their phone numbers in less than five minutes. You climbed into the passenger seat with your arms crossed and your spine straight, determined not to relax.

He tossed your groceries in the back, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the engine with the kind of confidence only reserved for people who knew they looked good parallel parking.

“Seatbelt,” he said, flicking his sunglasses down. “I drive fast.”

“Of course, you do.”

The silence in the car was brief. Too brief.

“So…” Auston said, one hand on the wheel, the other fiddling with the AC dial. “You’re running errands alone now? No William to carry your kale and tell you you’re perfect?”

You shot him a look. “Wow. You waited a whole thirty seconds before bringing him up. A new record for your jealousy.”

He grinned. “It’s not jealousy if it’s just observation.”

You shook your head. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet,” he said, voice low and warm, “you’re sitting in my car. With your thighs on full display and your lip gloss smudged just enough to make me think about kissing you.”

Your breath caught. You looked out the window.

“I’m letting you drive me,” you muttered. “That’s it.”

“That’s where it starts,” he said. “The damsel lets the raccoon drive her home. Next thing you know, we’re sharing toothbrushes and arguing about throw pillows.”

“God forbid,” you said, but your voice betrayed you, light, almost laughing.

Then he glanced at you at a red light. “You always this feisty, or is it just with me?”

“Just with you.”

“Lucky me.”

You tried not to smile.

The rest of the ride passed in a blur of jabs and glances. He made a crack about your playlist when your phone auto connected. You insulted his choice in sneakers – again. He told you your neighbourhood had “hot girl energy” and you said it was probably just your aura contaminating the GPS.

When he pulled up in front of your building, the engine hummed low. You reached for the groceries in the back seat, but he beat you to it.

“Chivalry,” he said, grinning. “In case you forgot what that looked like.”

You took the bag from him at the front steps. “You’re not that charming, Matthews.”

He stepped back, sunglasses still on, hands in his pockets. “No. But you’re still watching me walk away.”

You opened your mouth to deny it. But then closed it again.

Because you were.

You watched as he strolled back toward his car, broad shoulders rolling easy under his tee, head tilted like he could feel your eyes on him.

And just before he opened the door, he glanced back over his shoulder.

You didn’t look away fast enough, making him smirk. And then he got in, before the car peeled out slowly, disappearing down the street.

You exhaled as your heart was hammering louder than it had any right to on a Saturday afternoon.

You stood there a minute longer than you should have, your arms full of oat milk and bruised apples, your chest full of something far more dangerous.

God, you hated how much you wanted to see him again.

_

It was after midnight when your phone lit up again.

You were curled up in bed, tucked beneath your duvet in a hoodie that still smelled faintly like campfire from last weekend’s cottage trip. The apartment was quiet – Nadia long since knocked out on the couch, one sock half-off and a wine bottle cradled against her like a stuffed animal. The fan hummed softly, a low whir that filled the space between silence and sleep.

You picked up your phone, thumb already moving before your brain caught up.

Willy 🐶: [photo]

Pablo, fast asleep on a wooden dock, his chin resting on his paws, ears twitching as if dreaming. Behind him, the lake stretched out like silk under a wakening sky, soft pink clouds reflected in the stillness.

Willy 🐶: He hasn’t moved in an hour. Think he might actually be part seal.

You smiled, sinking deeper into your pillow as you typed.

You: confirmed. seal energy. send more evidence.

You: i’m showing this to his Toronto vet as proof of retirement eligibility.

The three dots danced, disappeared, returned.

Willy 🐶: you’re evil

Willy 🐶: but also he’d retire with you in a heartbeat. bring snacks and he’s yours forever.

You grinned, chest warming in a way you weren’t sure how to hold.

You: sounds like someone else i know

The typing bubble appeared, paused, vanished. Then reappeared.

Willy 🐶: rude

Willy 🐶: but accurate

Willy 🐶: show me your night

Willy 🐶: my morning’s too peaceful

You snapped a photo without moving, lifting the camera just enough to capture the chaos on your bedroom floor; the half-eaten sushi tray, the scented candle flickering dangerously close to a stack of unopened mail, and in the hallway beyond, Nadia asleep on the couch. One arm dangled off the edge, clutching a bottle of rosé like a baby bottle. A bag of crisps was wedged beneath her neck like a pillow.

You: domestic bliss

You: we’re thriving

You: please send help

William sent a laughing emoji. Then another photo, this one of the sky outside his window. The sun was just starting to rise, casting golden light across the wooden floor. A cup of coffee sat on the windowsill. You could just barely make out his reflection in the glass; messy hair, bare shoulders, and sleepy eyes.

You swallowed.

Willy 🐶: mornings here are slower

Willy 🐶: miss you around

That one sat for a while.

You stared at it longer than you meant to, the words blurring slightly against the light from your screen.

He wasn’t trying to be dramatic. It was just him. Simple and honest. Always steady. The kind of text that didn’t ask for anything and still made your chest ache like it was missing something it hadn’t realised was gone.

You: same

You: send me a sunrise again tomorrow?

There was no answer, not right away at least. Then the three dots appeared. Disappeared again. So, you waited. He was probably already getting up and ready.

You placed the phone beside you on the pillow, flipping to your side with a sigh. The sheets were warm, the air smelled faintly of lavender laundry detergent and leftover takeout, and for a second, it should’ve been enough.

But curiosity – or something meaner – tugged at you.

So, you opened Instagram.

Scrolled. Just a quick look, right?

Auston had liked your bikini photo. The one from three days ago; sunburnt shoulders, sunglasses, and hair still wet from the lake. You hadn’t posted it for him. Not really. But there it was. His name in the sea of hearts.

austonmatthews liked your photo.

You stared at the notification like it was an echo.

Typical. He never missed a beat when it came to timing. Like he knew the exact second William felt far enough to slip through the cracks.

And then your phone buzzed again.

Zamboni Brain 🐒: sweet dreams, Princess. don’t do anything i wouldn’t fantasise about.

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t close the app either.

Because the truth was, you really missed the noise. Even if it came wearing expensive sneakers and a dangerous smile.

_

You needed air. Fresh, real, slightly-too-humid Toronto air – and not the kind pumped through office vents or swirled into wine bars filled with fake laughter and even faker eyelashes. So when your friend offered up her golden retriever for the afternoon –“He needs to run, and I need to sleep off a hangover” – you said yes before she even finished the sentence.

Now here you were, standing in the middle of the off-leash zone at Trinity Bellwoods, a tennis ball in one hand and a panting, grinning dog at your feet. Your oversized sunglasses were slipping down your nose, your hair was half-wet from the heat, and your sports bra was already clinging uncomfortably to your back under the threadbare tank you’d thrown on.

But still. It was good. Grounding, even.

You wound your arm back and tossed the ball. The dog – Hank, apparently – shot forward with all the grace of a caffeinated toddler. You laughed under your breath, tracking his fluffy blur as it bounced past a couple groups of lounging strangers, past a kid trying to bribe a corgi with a granola bar, and –

Right toward him.

At first, you didn’t register it. Just a tall figure in a grey tank top, crouched down with one hand out, sunglasses reflecting the streaks of late afternoon light. But then he looked up.

And of course, it was Auston.

The universe just had a sick sense of humour, you thought.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t call your name. Just smirked, tossing the tennis ball up once, catching it easily as Hank dropped to the grass at his feet and panted in triumph.

So, you made your way over slowly, already bracing.

“Starting to think you’re stalking me,” he said casually, lobbing the ball into the air again, sunglasses still in place, tank top sticking to his abs while showing the art of his tattoos and glinting bracelets.

You scoffed. “Right. I plotted a whole day around randomly colliding with your ego.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst plan you’ve made,” he replied, lips twitching.

You bent to ruffle Hank’s ears. “He brought me here. So, you can blame him.”

Auston knelt briefly to scratch behind Hank’s ears. “Good dog.”

You tried not to smile, but it tugged at your mouth anyway.

And as he straightened slowly, pushing his cap back, curls flattened slightly from the weight of it, he smiled. “You look hot.”

Your brows lifted. “Wow. So creative. Do you say that to all the women with dogs and under-boob sweat?”

He tilted his head, grin deepening. “Only the ones who post bikini photos midweek.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it gave you a head a little rush. “Seriously?”

He shrugged, completely unbothered. “Bold choice. Bet the DMs were a mess.”

“They were. Mostly people asking where I got the suit. And one guy who offered to Venmo me rent.”

“Classy,” Auston chuckled, brushing invisible dirt off his thigh. “I was gonna offer season tickets and a hot tub.”

You stared at him. “Are you flirting or trying to win a lawsuit?”

He just laughed.

And then there was a pause, soft and unsaid, as the late afternoon light slipped a little lower. You both watched Hank and Felix, Auston’s dog, chase the tennis ball in circles like it owed them money. A breeze kicked up, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

“Seriously,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “Are you just everywhere now? Shouldn’t you be on a yacht somewhere sipping champagne.”

“Hmm… nah, I live in this city,” Auston said, shrugging. “I mean. I’ve seen my family at home already so. I just go outside sometimes. You should try it more.”

“I do go outside,” you said, gesturing. “See? This is outside.”

He then stepped closer, that grin turning lazy. “So… if I take up a part-time job at your local grocery store, that wouldn’t be weird?”

You smirked. “Only if you stop stacking the oat milk.”

Another beat passed before he picked up the tennis ball and tossed it toward Hank and Felix again, the dogs galloping happily after it. Then, without looking at you, Auston said, “How’s Sweden?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Beautiful, apparently. Very blue.”

He nodded. “Willy send you the beer dock pic?”

You huffed a laugh. “He did. Pablo was passed out like he’d just defended his dissertation.”

“Guy’s living the dream,” Auston murmured. “Lake, dogs, cold beer. No cameras. No noise.”

You didn’t say anything. Because yeah. It was the dream. But it also felt… far. Like William had floated off into some golden part of the summer you couldn’t touch.

But you simply nudged Auston’s arm with your shoulder. “Jealous?”

“Of the dog or the lake?” he asked.

You arched a brow. “You tell me.”

He looked at you then, and the moment slowed, just slightly. The grin was still there, but something else flickered underneath it. Something quieter. A beat that almost felt like honesty.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Some days I miss the noise. Some days I don’t.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just watched Hank trot back, tongue lolling, tail wagging like it had its own agenda.

Auston then bent to take the slobbery ball from his mouth and, and before you could stop him, tossed it again.

The sun slid lower. The breeze curled a little stronger. And beside you, Auston stood just close enough for the fabric of your sleeves to brush every time you shifted.

You let the silence stretch again. Because maybe it was better this way.

Maybe it was safer, just talking about dogs and lake water and bikini posts and jokes that veered too close to flirty without ever touching the centre of it.

But still. The air between you crackled just slightly. And neither of you pretended not to feel it.

Not really.

_

You’d told yourself you were ready. That it was time. That surely, out there in the wide expanse of Toronto, someone existed who didn’t come with playoff stats and locker room superstitions.

So, when your neighbour’s friend, Ben, or maybe Brad, you already half-forgot, asked you out over shared elevator small talk and a laugh about stolen Amazon packages, you said yes.

Why not?

He was tall enough. Decent looking in that non-threatening, clean-cut way. Wore shoes that matched and smelled faintly like something fresh from Sephora, not sweat-soaked Reebok. He didn’t know who scored the game-winner in OT last spring. Didn’t speak in chirps or carry the weight of a city’s expectations on his back.

He was just the distraction you needed.

The restaurant he picked was trendy, Yorkville sleek, all white leather booths and mirrored panels, with curated jazz humming low enough to be pretentious. You arrived in a simple black dress and small gold hoops, hair slicked back, trying to feel sharp instead of weary.

He was already seated, fiddling with a cocktail menu like it was a puzzle. His smile was warm, teeth perfectly straight. And he stood when you approached. Gentlemanly kind.

And yet… it landed with a thud inside you.

You tried. You really did.

But every time he spoke, your mind wandered. His voice lacked that gravelled undertone you were used to. He didn’t lean forward when he talked, didn’t tease, or challenge you. His compliments were generic; You look great tonight, wow. He said it like a script. And you found yourself longing for someone to call you a menace instead. Or maybe even… Princess. God help you.

“So anyway, crypto’s been kind of nuts lately,” he said between sips of a negroni. “I got in early on Ethereum, but I’m watching the altcoins now. The volatility’s wild, right?”

You blinked at him. “Totally. Wild.”

He launched into an explanation about market fluctuations and blockchain strategy that sounded like he was pitching you a side hustle disguised as financial advice. You nodded politely, twirled your straw, and then thought about Auston’s hands. Goddamn it.

By the time your appetiser arrived, some overpriced tartare that looked like abstract art, you were already calculating the fastest route home. So, you excused yourself halfway through the plate, muttering something about a work call you’d forgotten.

And Ben-or-Brad didn’t seem too surprised.

Then back in your apartment, your makeup was still perfect, your earrings still in, your shoes still pinching slightly as you stood in the middle of your kitchen and stared at nothing.

You poured a glass of wine. Then, without letting yourself overthink it, you picked up your phone.

You: Guess you were right about the intern standards.

It only took a minute.

Zamboni Brain 🐒: Told you. We don’t do basic.

You let out a quiet, rueful breath. Of course, he was just waiting to say I told you so.

You: Still doesn’t make you special.

There was a pause. A longer one this time. Long enough to make your thumb hover over the delete icon, to start typing a follow-up and then stop.

Then the screen lit up again.

Zamboni Brain 🐒: Doesn’t have to. You already think I am.

You stared at the text. Cheeks flushing before you could stop it. Before you could decide what you should feel.

So, you didn’t answer.

But you left your phone on your pillow when you climbed into bed that night, screen still glowing. Like maybe you were waiting for another message. Like maybe a part of you wanted it.

And maybe, just maybe, that part of you wasn’t as small as you’d hoped.

_

The rooftop was already sweating by the time the second DJ started his set; late afternoon sunlight pooling like honey on every glinting glass, clinging to the backs of exposed necks and champagne flutes. You adjusted your sunglasses with one hand, smoothing your hair with the other as a trio of influencers nearby tried to synchronise a boomerang in front of the sponsored step-and-repeat. One of them shrieked when the wind caught her napkin-skirt, another cackled. It was all par for the course.

You smiled, the client-facing one – charming, capable, endlessly polite – and made a mental note to grab another bottle of sparkling water for the exec hovering by the branded popsicle cart. Your dress was fitted, effortless. Light blue silk that clung in just the right places. You’d gone with gold jewellery and a low heel. Professional but hot. Smart but suggestive. You knew how to balance a look when the crowd included photographers and C-list celebrities on loan from agency lists.

This was your world, even if it didn’t always feel like home. You navigated it like muscle memory now; smile, nod, introduce, laugh, pivot.

You’d just gotten off a quick call with the catering team, emergency refill of the vegan sliders, when you felt the shift.

Not heard it. Not saw it. Felt it.

That little ripple that pulled the air taut.

Because then, of course, he was there. Again.

Black tee stretched across his shoulders, sunglasses perched too perfectly on the bridge of his nose, curls shaped like he’d barely bothered to towel off after whatever workout or beachside gym visit, he’d squeezed in before strolling into your client’s event like he belonged there.

Auston fucking Matthews.

He really is everywhere, you thought.

You spotted him across the patio just as one of the PR girls clocked him, her jaw visibly dropping before she muttered something to a friend and disappeared into the crowd like a shark drawn to blood. And it didn’t take long. He moved slowly, fluidly and deliberately without trying too hard – charming every person he passed, shaking hands with guys in pastel shirts who clearly wanted selfies, deflecting offers of cocktails with a flash of his grin and a shake of his head.

You turned away. Or tried to.

“Didn’t peg you for the name-tag type,” came the low voice at your side, casual as anything, but charged like static.

You didn’t even flinch. “Didn’t peg you for literate.”

He let out a soft laugh, eyes skimming your neckline just long enough for you to notice. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You really shouldn’t.”

Auston tugged his sunglasses down a fraction, revealing the full weight of his stare. “You always this sharp at work events?”

“Only when uninvited guests show up in graphic tees and ego.”

He looked down at his shirt, then back at you. “I’d argue this is minimalist. And your client’s on my team’s board. Technically, I’m a plus-one.”

You gave him a once-over. “You look like a cautionary tale for PR nightmares.”

“You wound me.”

You raised your drink, lips brushing the straw. “Not yet, Matthews.”

He then stepped closer, crowd buzzing around you like white noise, but all you could feel was the slow, smug heat radiating off of him.

“Nice heels,” he murmured, glancing down. “How many influencers had to die for those?”

You arched a brow. “Coming from a man who probably moisturises with La Mer and lies about it, that’s rich.”

His grin turned sharper. “You watching my skincare routine now?”

“No,” you said. “But I know a high-maintenance energy vampire when I see one.”

“Funny,” he said. “Most people call me charming.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth twitched. Goddamn it. You hated how easy it was. How his teasing always walked the knife’s edge of flirtation and defiance. How it made your blood fizz.

He held your gaze a moment longer, then said, more softly, “You look good today, princess.”

Your heart beat a few times, traitorously loud. But you didn’t let it show.

“Don’t you have a harem to attend to?” you asked, gesturing toward the ring of girls a few paces behind him, dressed in curated chaos, all side-eye, and glossy lips.

“They’re fine. I’m exactly where I want to be. Besides, you know what you looking like that does to me, remember?”

The air between you sharpened.

“Jesus,” you muttered, turning slightly away, but his voice only followed.

“Come on. If I asked you to leave right now with me… would you?”

You froze for a second. Not because of the words. But because of the way he said them. Low and confident. Not a dare this time. Not just a line.

A question.

So, you straightened your spine.

“If you’re trying to intimidate me, it’s going to take more than a cocky smile and hockey hands.”

He smiled. Slowly. Then stepped in even closer; close enough that you could smell the soap on his skin, something sharp and fresh beneath the heat of the day.

“Bet you won’t call my bluff.”

You tilted your chin, eyes narrowing. “You want me to call it.”

“I dare you to.”

And just like that, the balance shifted. Again.

Because this wasn’t just tension anymore. It wasn’t about control or the game you’d both been playing. It wasn’t even about the people around you, pretending not to watch from the corners of their eyes, holding their breath like you might shatter something sacred.

It was about you and him. About whatever lived in that charged, magnetic space that had been sparking between you for months – maybe longer. Something that didn’t quite have a name but kept pulling you closer, whether you wanted it to or not.

You told yourself you just wanted to win. That it was just another round of push and pull, another flirtation you’d outlast. But the truth pressed deeper than that; like a stubborn part of you wanted to call his bluff just to see if it was one. Or if there was something real waiting underneath.

So, you drained the rest of your drink, slid your clutch beneath your arm, and met his eyes with a steady smirk. “Alright then. You’ve got five minutes to make this worth it.”

His brows lifted, a flicker of surprise breaking across his face – but only for a second. Then that slow, dangerous smile curled at the edge of his mouth, the kind that felt like you’d just buried the puck in overtime, glove-side, top shelf.

And the rules?

They didn’t bend.

They shattered.

_

You didn’t say a word on the elevator ride up – not when he keyed in the floor, not when you passed a couple walking their dog who gave you both a look like they knew exactly what you were doing, not even when the hallway lights flickered overhead like some half-hearted warning sign as you stepped deeper into a moment you’d seen coming for far too long.

His place opened up like a spread in a design magazine; clean lines, soft lighting, muted earth tones offset by sharp black metal and dark leather. It smelled like him, like bergamot and cedar and expensive cologne layered over something simpler, something clean and quiet and barely lived in. Like he was a guest in his own space or like he curated this entire place for nights exactly like this.

He gestured toward the kitchen, offered a drink like it was habit, like some muscle memory of hospitality. But you shook your head, still standing by the door with your arms folded, knowing why you were there and what you weren’t going to pretend about.

Auston didn’t press. And he didn’t pour anything either.

The silence just settled between you, not awkward, not cold – just heavy with tension that shimmered like static, thick enough to taste. You watched each other with that charged stillness, a push-pull waiting to ignite, as if one of you just needed to breathe the wrong way and everything would tip.

And then he stepped closer.

“Thought you might flake,” he said quietly, and the way his voice dropped – rough around the edges, almost careful – made your stomach tighten.

“You don’t know me that well then,” you replied, barely above a whisper, and he smiled; small and sure, like he already knew exactly how this night would end.

And just like that, the kiss came fast. No warning. No soft glide of curiosity. Just heat. Mouth on mouth, teeth and breath and impatience.

Your back hit the wall with a dull thud, and your fingers clawed into the front of his shirt, tugging, anchoring yourself as his hands claimed your hips, your ribs, your hair. He kissed you like it had been building in him for months, like he was angry at how badly he wanted you, and it only made you match him – kiss for kiss, bruise for bruise.

You broke apart only long enough to stumble toward the bedroom, shedding layers with every step; his shirt, your dress, the tension you pretended didn’t exist. Your bare skin met cool sheets as he pressed you down, his mouth never far, his hands mapping every inch like he was starving.

He was rough, but not careless; his lips dragging down your throat, teeth catching your collarbone, tongue circling a nipple until your breath hitched and your hands found purchase in his hair. You wanted him everywhere. You wanted to own this moment, to match his cocky bravado with heat of your own.

So, you rolled him onto his back, straddled him with a slow confidence, and the look he gave you – dark eyes and parted lips, a bead of sweat at his temple – nearly undid you. You dragged your fingers down his chest, over his abs, to the waistband of his briefs, and he groaned, low and guttural, as you kissed down his neck.

The condom was already found and ready for use, and so were you – every nerve sparking with need. You sank onto him slowly, gasping at the stretch, and his hands gripped your hips like he couldn’t decide between pulling you down or letting you take your time. You moved with purpose; slow, then fast, testing him, testing yourself, chasing the high of his moans and your own pleasure curling tight in your stomach.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice wrecked and eyes squeezing shut as you rolled your hips harder, grinding down against him with purpose. Your palms flattened on his chest, feeling the way his heart stuttered beneath your touch, the way his abs tightened when your bodies met just right. His fingers slipped between your thighs, finding your clit with maddening precision, moving in tight, devastating circles like he already knew every inch of you.

It was everything you’d imagined in the dark hours of too many nights alone - his sounds, his hands, the stretch of him inside you, the way your name sounded when it fell from his lips in a breathless curse. It felt too good. Too right. Like something you shouldn’t want but craved anyway.

He was too good with his hands, and he knew it. Knew exactly how to toy with that aching knot of nerves until your breath hitched and your thighs began to tremble. But this wasn’t about slow build-up, wasn’t about edging or restraint. This was about release. About heat and hunger and all the tension that had been simmering between you for too fucking long.

And when he pushed you - his thumb pressing down just right, his voice in your ear like sin - you shattered. You came hard, sharp, and sudden, a cry ripping from your chest as your body bowed forward, spine arching, muscles locking around him.

He caught your mouth with his, swallowing the sound, kissing you like he couldn’t help it, like he needed it. Then, without a word, he flipped you beneath him in one smooth, hungry motion. His hands gripped your thighs, dragging you down the bed, and he drove into you again, deep, and desperate, every thrust making your back lift off the mattress, your fingers claw at the sheets, your breath splinter into pieces.

There was no hiding in it. No space to think. Just heat and rhythm and the reckless, dangerous way it felt to finally give in.

It was relentless. It was filthy. It was honest.

His name left your lips again and again, a mantra broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and his low, panting curses. He chased his own release with deep, punishing thrusts, and when he finally came, it was with a groan pressed into your shoulder and a shiver that rippled through his entire body.

You lay tangled in silence, your heart beating too fast, your body still trembling.

Then he pulled back gently, slid off the condom, tossed it toward the bin, and flopped beside you with one arm tossed behind his head.

Neither of you said anything, not for a few minutes.

Eventually, he just turned his head, flashing a satisfied smirk.

“Guess I’m not all talk, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You just sat up, reached for your dress, and pulled it over your head in one smooth motion. His eyes followed your movements, lazy, curious, and quiet.

You then found your underwear, slipped them on, and smoothed your hair with one hand before grabbing your bag from the floor.

He stayed where he was, head tilted, and watching.

“Night, Princess,” he said, softer than expected. “This was fun.”

“Night, Auston,” you offered a soft smile, before you left without looking back.

And he didn’t stop you. Didn’t call after you.

The air inside Scotiabank Arena shimmered with anticipation—the kind that sunk into your skin and stayed there. Toronto pulsed with it in spring; like the whole city tilted toward the rink, holding its collective breath for the puck to drop. Playoff energy wasn’t subtle. It buzzed through every seat, spilled out onto Bremner Boulevard, and wrapped itself around your shoulders the moment you walked through the doors.

From the suite level, everything glittered a little under the lights. Jerseys swarmed the stands below, towels waved in slow unison, and the playlist pounded in rhythm with your heartbeat. You leaned against the glass, white wine cooling your fingers as you watched the players take the ice for warmup.

William Nylander was easy to spot. Even in a sea of navy and white, he moved differently; fluid and unhurried, like the game bent around him instead of the other way around. You watched the subtle way he shifted his weight, adjusted his gloves, flicked his hair back with one gloved hand. It hit you, the familiar twist behind your ribs. It always did.

“Tell me why a manicurist would actively try to make my fingers look like a cautionary tale?” Stephanie Marner’s voice cut through your thoughts, warm and dramatic as ever.

She held out her hand, freshly done, and gave you a look that could’ve melted the ice three storeys below.

“They’re not that bad,” you said, lips twitching.

“They’re offensive,” she said flatly, before sighing and plucking a strawberry from the charcuterie board. “And it’s a crime because I even tipped well.”

Next to her, Tessa Virtue offered a calm smile and passed her a napkin. “You asked for edgy. Maybe she thought asymmetry was part of the brief.”

“I meant edgy-feminine, not post-apocalyptic. There’s a difference.”

You laughed quietly, tucking a foot beneath you as you turned back toward the ice. This world – the WAG suite, the wine, the commentary on cuticles – it had become second nature. These women were polished and public, each fluent in the language of pro-sports chaos. And while you’d never officially dated an NHL player, you’d been orbiting this world long enough to feel like furniture.

The honorary member. Not in it, not quite outside it either.

Your day job couldn’t be more different. The spreadsheet-and-slide-deck rhythm of corporate marketing didn’t leave much room for the breathless roar of playoff hockey. Still, you straddled the two lives with practiced ease: meetings by day, arena by night. It wasn’t lost on you how few people really understood both.

Tessa reached for a grape and glanced sideways at you. “Long day?”

You nodded, sipping your wine. “Client pitch. Had to explain Gen Z engagement metrics to a boardroom full of boomers.”

She winced. “And survived?”

“Barely. But I used the phrase ‘influencer pipeline’ with a straight face, so that’s something.”

Stephanie giggled. “That deserves hazard pay.”

Meanwhile, down on the ice, William slid to a stop near the bench and leaned into the boards. He was talking to Auston Matthews, you could tell by the way his shoulder shifted with laughter. Auston’s grin was easy to spot even from up here; cocky, sharp-edged, the kind that made your skin prickle without permission.

And then your phone buzzed in your coat pocket; a message from your roommate.

Naddie ✨: don’t get drunk and marry a hockey player tonight pls 🥂💅

You smirked and typed a quick reply.

You: no promises. if auston proposes during intermission i’m saying yes. then fleeing the country with his black card.

Naddie ✨: tell william he can cry in swedish at the wedding 💔🇸🇪

You laughed quietly to yourself, pocketing the phone. But your gaze drifted back down, landing on William again. His expression was focused, chin tucked slightly, brows knit. You recognised that look. It meant he was already inside the game, even if warmup was still clocking down.

You exhaled slowly, trying not to read too much into the way he moved. Or the fact that, just before skating off, he glanced up into the crowd. Into your direction.

“Someone’s thinking hard,” Stephanie said softly.

You blinked, startled. “Me?”

She gave you a knowing smile. “You.”

You waved her off, but the tug in your chest stayed exactly where it was.

The puck hadn’t dropped yet, but for you, the game had already started.

_

Four years ago, you’d been twenty-three, freshly caffeinated and over-eager, clutching a lanyard that still smelled like laminate. Your first week interning at MLSE had been a blur of onboarding meetings, Google Calendar chaos, and sitting through brand strategy presentations you barely understood. You hadn’t even meant to be near the Leafs’ offices that day. You were just supposed to drop off a stack of pre-season merchandise samples to the equipment team.

That’s all.

But when the elevator doors opened early, stalling somewhere between floors, you found yourself face-to-face with William Nylander.

He’d stepped inside mid-phone call, looking every inch the golden boy; sweaty post-practice hair pushed back, hoodie tugged low, a pair of Beats slung around his neck. You hadn’t even registered who he was until he smiled at you and gestured toward the elevator buttons.

“Main floor?” he’d asked. His accent had startled you. Soft, lilting. You nodded dumbly and pressed the button.

He ended his call with a clipped “later,” then turned to you. “Are you with MLSE?”

You’d held up your badge like it was some kind of proof of survival. “Intern. Marketing.”

He grinned. “You look terrified.”

“I am,” you said honestly.

And then… he laughed; loud and unapologetic. “It’s not that scary. Just a lot of suits pretending to know things.”

That was the beginning. The accidental elevator encounter that turned into more.

Within weeks, you were running into William regularly. Always around the practice facility or at internal events. Sometimes he’d linger a few minutes after a promo shoot, chatting about whatever; Spotify recommendations, Swedish candy, how annoying it was to find good tacos in Toronto. He was kind. Easy. And most importantly, no big ego.

Naturally, you grew a crush on him fast. But just as quickly as your friendship bloomed, your crush had faded. Into something more meaningful.

And then there was Auston.

The opposite in every way.

You’d met him at a launch event; players and staff packed into a rooftop patio for sponsor cocktails. Auston had spotted you near the bar, laughing with a colleague. You’d clocked the attention instantly, felt it before you even turned around. And when you did, he was already halfway into a smirk.

“You new?” he asked, eyes skimming down and back up with deliberate slowness.

“I’m an intern,” you replied, coolly sipping your ginger ale.

“Dangerous,” he said. “The interns are always the hottest.”

“And the most likely to report HR violations,” you shot back.

He’d laughed, tipping his drink in mock-surrender. “I like you already.”

That was the thing with Auston Matthews. Every moment with him was some kind of challenge. A push, a dare, a provocation wrapped in expensive cologne and denim jackets. He flirted like it was his first language, and you responded because – God help you – it was fun. He’d corner you in hallways, steal your pens during meetings, text you memes when he shouldn’t have had your number.

And once – only once – you’d come dangerously close to doing something about the tension.

It had been late. A team party. The kind where people filtered in and out of a player’s condo until the room smelled like tequila and pizza grease. You were in the kitchen, leaning against the fridge, when Auston wandered in behind you.

“You always this bossy in heels?” he murmured, hands braced on either side of your hips.

You didn’t answer. Just turned, pressed your back to the fridge, and let the silence thicken.

Then his eyes dropped to your lips. “Say no.”

But you didn’t. Not even the slightest.

His mouth had just brushed yours… before someone pounded on the wall – loud, fast, unmistakably annoyed.

“Matthews! Get your ass over here. Beer pong’s up.”

He groaned, forehead still resting against yours. “I hate my friends.”

You shoved him gently. “Go play. Maybe someone will let you win.”

You didn’t kiss. But you didn’t forget, either.

Now, back in the present during first intermission, you felt your phone buzz again, tucked low in your purse.

You slid it out discreetly and opened the message… from Auston. Of course.

Zamboni Brain 🐒: still calculating metrics or just admiring the view from up there?

You smirked, before another message followed immediately.

Zamboni Brain 🐒: let me know if you need help running numbers. pretty sure your heart rate spikes when i’m on screen

You rolled your eyes and locked the phone. Typical. Even mid-playoff game, the man couldn’t help himself.

“Someone’s amused,” Stephanie said from her seat.

You raised your glass and said nothing. But you couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips as you turned back to the ice.

Because no matter how long ago that night had been, how far you’d supposedly moved on, part of you always remembered the way it had almost felt to give in to him.

Almost.

_

The night air was crisp, in that way Toronto spring nights often were; fickle and indecisive, one minute flirting with summer, the next brushing up cold against your collarbone. You tugged your coat tighter around yourself as the leash tugged forward, Banksy trotting ahead like he owned the entire waterfront path. Pablo lagged slightly behind, nose glued to a patch of grass, tail wagging like a metronome.

William laughed softly beside you; hands stuffed into the pockets of a well-worn grey hoodie. “You’d think they’d burn off more energy on the ice than this.”

You glanced at him, eyes catching the pink flush in his cheeks – not from embarrassment, just wind. “They’re dogs, not forwards. They don’t need post-game recovery. They just want to sniff every tree in Ontario.”

He smiled at that, chin dipping a little, and for a moment it felt like everything paused. The city noise in the distance, the occasional car, the rhythmic slap of waves against the rocks – all of it dimmed.

You loved these walks. Not just for the dogs or the fresh air, but for what they allowed him to be. Not Number 88. Not a headline or a highlight reel. Just Will.

He nudged you gently with his elbow. “Thanks for coming.”

You rolled your eyes. “You say that like I don’t show up every time.”

“Yeah, but still.”

You glanced at him sideways. “Is this your subtle way of saying you’re emotionally dependent on me?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Maybe. But if I admit that, you’ll start charging me therapy rates.”

You smirked. “Oh, I already do. You’re just paying in Uber Eats and dog hair.”

He laughed, the kind of laugh that warmed the space between your ribs, the kind that reminded you, uncomfortably, that this wasn’t normal. That this wasn’t what most people did with their guy friends.

But it was easy. Too easy.

Later, after Pablo finally finished investigating a bush like it held state secrets, you both leaned against the low stone wall facing the water. The CN Tower blinked gently in the distance, casting reflections that shimmered across the black lake surface.

“You ever think about quitting?” you asked, half-murmured, as you took a sip from the lukewarm coffee, he’d brought you earlier.

William’s brows lifted slightly. “Hockey?”

You nodded. “Just… walking away from the whole circus.”

He tilted his head, eyes scanning the skyline. “Sometimes. Not seriously. But yeah. On the bad days.”

You looked at him then. “What would you do?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Open a little coffee place. Maybe in Sweden. Surf in the mornings. Walk the dogs in the afternoon.”

“You’d run a café?”

“Why not?”

You grinned. “You can’t even commit to a consistent latte order.”

“True,” he laughed. “But I’d hire someone to make the drinks. I’d just name the place something cool and pet the customers’ dogs.”

You bumped your shoulder against his. “You’re such a softie.”

He glanced at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Only for you.”

Your breath caught, just slightly. But before you could respond, a voice called out from behind you.

“Hey, future parents! Name the dogs after the kids yet?”

You turned to see Simon Benoit jogging past with his wife, who waved playfully. You couldn’t help but laugh, raising your cup like a toast. “Only if our firstborn is named Banksy.”

William made a strangled sound beside you, cheeks flushing as he looked anywhere but directly at you.

“Relax,” you said under your breath. “It’s not like I’m picking out wedding colours.”

He gave you a sidelong look, eyes narrowed in mock challenge. “Not teal. That’s all I ask.”

You grinned, and the moment softened again. Because it was always like this. Close, but never crossing. Charged, but never claimed. You’d trained yourself to walk that line like a tightrope; never leaning too far into hope, never quite ready to let go of the ease.

And as the walk wrapped up and you both headed back toward your neighbourhood, Pablo trotting confidently ahead with Banksy for company, William spoke again, voice lower now.

“You know you’re one of the only people I can actually be like this with, right?”

You looked over at him, not entirely trusting yourself to say what you wanted to say.

So instead, you kept it light. “Because I have an advanced degree in Dog Psychology and hockey-player banter?”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Because you see me.”

You felt something twist inside you. You hated how easy it would be to fall into that space – to reach for his hand, to say me too. But instead, you nudged him playfully again.

“Well, let’s not get all sappy. Save the vulnerability for a playoff loss.”

He laughed and shook his head. “You’re the worst.”

You smiled. “And yet here we are. Every time.”

Back at your building, as he bent to unclip the leashes and give both dogs a quick pat, he looked up at you one last time.

“Get home safe?” You smiled.

“Always.”

And then he was walking away, hoodie pulled up, leash in hand, as Pablo glanced back once before trotting beside him.

You lingered in the doorway a second longer than you needed to. Because evenings like this made it harder and harder to pretend you weren’t already halfway his.

_

The rooftop was buzzing, the kind of low-key celebration that didn’t feel like a party but still smelled faintly of champagne and ego. Spring had stretched its arms out properly now; warm enough that no one needed jackets, cool enough for the breeze to dance through the heat of the day.

You leaned back against the patio railing, half-listening to Stephanie describe a wedding venue tour disaster in Muskoka, while your eyes scanned the crowd. The WAGs were in fine form tonight, dressed in sleek lines and soft fabrics, wine glasses full and laughter effortless. The Leafs had won again, made it to round two of the playoffs, and the mood in the city was bright enough to be dangerous.

William had stuck close to you earlier, the way he always did. Easy touches on the small of your back. That lazy smile when you teased him about his post-game media answers sounding like they were generated by ChatGPT. He’d only stayed an hour before claiming exhaustion and an early practice. Alex had left with him, muttering something about pre-workout and FIFA.

So now, you stood at the edge of it all, half in, half out.

That was when you felt him.

You didn’t even need to turn around. Auston had a presence. Like a magnetic shadow stretching too far across the floor. Like a smirk you could hear.

“You looked bored,” he said, low near your ear. “Thought I’d do my civic duty and fix that.”

You glanced sideways, not hiding your eye-roll. “I didn’t realise teasing women counted as civic duty now. Did the mayor approve that?”

He smirked, stepping beside you, his gaze unapologetically sweeping you from head to toe. His curls were still damp from a shower, the sleeves of his black tee pushed high up his arms, exposing those ridiculous tattoos you hated admitting you liked.

“You look good tonight,” he said simply.

You arched a brow. “I always look good.”

Auston chuckled. “True. But tonight’s different. You’ve got that smug post-win glow. Or maybe it’s the wine. How many glasses?”

“Enough to tolerate you. Not enough to kiss you.”

His eyes flicked to yours. “So, you’ve thought about it.”

You stared at him; lips parted with a laugh that didn’t quite come. “You really don’t get tired of hearing yourself talk, do you?”

“Nope. Especially when you let me get under your skin like this.”

You shifted slightly, letting your back press more firmly into the rail. “I’m not your type.”

He tilted his head. “What’s my type?”

“Disposable. Obsessed. Probably tall and blonde. Definitely addicted to validation. Most likely got fake boobs.”

Auston’s grin spread slowly, the kind that meant trouble. “And here I thought you were the obsessed one. You’re always around.”

You stiffened just slightly. “Excuse me?”

“You know,” he said, his tone casual but the look in his eyes anything but, “with Willy. Always right there. At the games. The team stuff. Birthday dinners. Walks with the dogs. Bet you know his Chipotle order and his skincare routine.”

You turned to face him fully, arms crossing over your chest. “He’s my best friend.”

“Sure,” Auston said, stepping closer as his voice dropped. “But if I kissed you right now, would he still be?”

The space between you collapsed. Just enough to feel it. The heat, the tension, the stupid magnetic pull you always denied existed. He smelled like aftershave and mischief, his eyes too dark in the evening light, mouth just parted enough to be a problem.

Your breath caught for a second too long. You hated how good he was at this. How much he knew it.

So, you just smiled – slow and saccharine – and said, “You’d never survive it.”

Auston’s gaze dropped to your lips. “Try me.”

And for one stupid second, you thought about it.

You really, actually thought about it.

But then Stephanie called your name from across the patio, her voice slicing clean through the moment. So, you stepped back, though Auston didn’t move.

Then you picked up your drink and gave him a mock toast. “Careful, Matthews. You flirt like you’re looking for consequences.”

He grinned again, but this time there was something behind it. Something tighter. “Maybe I am.”

You didn’t let yourself react. Didn’t let yourself wonder what it meant.

Instead, you turned and walked back toward the group, your pulse thudding in your throat like a drumline.

Because flirting was one thing.

But this? This felt like a line was being drawn; and for the first time, neither of you were pretending not to see it.

_

The Nylanders occasionally stayed in a loft-style condo that felt more Scandinavian than Toronto – minimalist furniture, soft linens, and subtle, curated lighting that made everything look more expensive than it probably was. The kind of place that smelled faintly of white wine and expensive laundry detergent.

William had texted earlier that his family was in town and that his mother insisted you come to dinner for his birthday. You hadn’t even hesitated with your answer.

Camilla opened the door with a warm smile, her arms open for a hug before you’d even stepped inside.

“There’s our girl,” she said, pulling you in. “Looking very corporate and very late. What happened to casual Friday?”

You laughed, shaking off your coat and leaning into the familiar scent of her perfume; rose and something slightly powdery. “Marketing crises don’t care about weekends. I came straight from the office.”

“Well, your seat is right next to William,” she said with a wink. “He’s been pacing.”

“He has not,” William called from the kitchen, where he stood barefoot, slicing lemon into a jug of water like he’d been born for domesticity. His hair was still damp from a shower and his hoodie had faint bleach marks on one sleeve. It should’ve looked ridiculous. It didn’t.

You caught Alex’s eye across the room. He grinned knowingly, already holding up a glass of red wine for you. “Don’t let her steal your thunder, bro. Birthday boy needs attention.”

William just rolled his eyes but smiled when you crossed over to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Happy birthday, trouble.”

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice low and warm. “You’re the only one I wanted to see.”

You looked away too quickly, but your cheeks had already given you away.

Dinner was loud, affectionate chaos. Michael Nylander told stories about playing in Sweden, mostly ones that embarrassed both his sons. Camilla refilled everyone’s wine glasses at a suspiciously steady pace. You were nestled between her and William at the table, trading plates and stories, your laughter so often overlapping with his it started to feel like music.

At one point, Camilla leaned over and brushed your hair back behind your shoulder. “I still think you two would have the most beautiful children.”

You nearly choked on your sip of wine. William laughed – awkward and blushing – and Alex just smirked across the table.

“Jesus, Mamma,” William muttered, ears pink.

“I’m just saying,” she said innocently. “Some things just make sense.”

When the evening began to wind down, and the dishwasher hummed quietly in the background, you slipped your shoes on by the door. And as per routine, William walked you out.

The air had cooled again, soft breeze brushing against your bare legs. Your Uber was two minutes away, headlights in the distance already making their way down the street.

“You okay?” you asked softly, glancing sideways at him.

He nodded, shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets. “I am now.”

You smiled. “Tell your mum thanks for the matchmaking attempt.”

“She’s relentless,” he chuckled, then paused. “But… she’s not wrong.”

You blinked up at him. “About what?”

William just looked at you; eyes searching yours. Something unsaid pressing between your ribs like a weight. He stepped a little closer, and his hand reached up slowly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips brushed your cheek in the process.

“I mean, we’ve always been good together,” he said softly. “Haven’t we?”

Your heart skipped.

But before you could say anything, your Uber pulled up with perfect comedic timing. Headlights flashed and the driver leaned over to unlock the doors.

You looked at him, a little unsure. “Will…”

But he simply smiled faintly. “It’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

You hesitated for half a beat too long, but then nodded. “Yeah. See you.”

And as the car pulled away, you watched him in the rear-view mirror – still standing under the lights, hands in his pockets, and eyes on you.

_

If the first round of the playoffs had been adrenaline and celebration, the second was teeth-clenching tension. Every shift felt heavier. Every press conference more clipped. And every conversation with William just a little more distant.

You noticed it in the way he stopped texting back as quickly, or how he barely smiled when you dropped off coffee after practices. Not that you blamed him. The pressure was everywhere now – papers dissecting every line change, social media calling for someone’s head after each turnover.

You stood outside the practice facility one overcast morning, iced americano in one hand, paper bag of his favourite pancakes in the other. He emerged last, hoodie pulled low, hair damp and face unreadable.

You held the coffee out toward him like a peace offering. “Fuel. With an extra shot of espresso and less self-loathing, hopefully.”

That earned a tiny smile. “You’re a saint.”

“Tell the media. I want it on record.”

He took a sip, eyes closing for a moment. “God. Needed that.”

You didn’t push him to talk. Just walked beside him down the path by the lot, letting the silence settle in. You knew he was the type who’d open up when he was ready, not before. But eventually, he sighed.

“We should’ve closed it out in Game 4.”

You bumped his shoulder gently. “You’re not Atlas, Will. You don’t carry the whole damn team.”

“Feels like I do.”

You stopped walking and turned to face him. “You don’t have to be perfect. No one’s asking for that.”

His eyes met yours then, and something in his expression cracked, just for a second. “I just want it so bad.”

You nodded, heart twisting. “I know. I do too.”

Later that night, you were back at the arena, sitting nervously in the suite with your usual group. Game 7 was brutal. Every pass felt like life or death. You could see William on the bench, jaw tight, hair curling slightly with sweat under his helmet. He looked tense. He looked tired.

You didn’t cry.

Not during the third period, even as the clock bled down and the crowd’s hope went with it. Not when the final horn sounded and the air inside Scotiabank Arena shifted from tension to stunned silence. And not when William skated to centre ice with his head down, jaw clenched, offering half-hearted nods to the opposing team as they celebrated with wild, open mouths.

But your chest ached like something sacred had been torn.

You stood just outside the locker room, near the wall with the framed black-and-white photos of Leafs legends, your media pass lanyard sticking damply to the back of your neck. The hallway smelled like melted ice and body spray and something bitter, like loss. Teammates passed by in suits, some still damp-haired from the showers, others stone-faced and silent. It was always like this after elimination, muted chaos. Sharp words whispered behind closed doors. Equipment bags thudding against concrete. Cameramen tiptoeing around grief.

William emerged after nearly forty-five minutes. His dress shirt was wrinkled. His tie hung undone around his neck. His eyes – always so clear, so calm – were glassy, rimmed in red. But when he saw you, his whole body seemed to exhale.

“Hey,” he said quietly, voice rough like he hadn’t used it in a while.

You didn’t say anything. Just stepped into his arms.

His hold on you was tight. Not desperate, not performative, just… real. Grounding. One of his hands curled around the back of your neck, the other pressed firmly to the small of your back like he was trying to memorise the way you fit against him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“For what?” you asked, pulling back just far enough to see his face. “You left everything on the ice.”

He gave a short, bitter laugh. “It wasn’t enough.”

“It never feels like enough,” you said gently. “But it was.”

You didn’t say I’m proud of you, even though you were. You didn’t say you’re still my favourite, even though that was true too. You just let your fingers brush over his knuckles, watched his mouth twitch like he wanted to say more but couldn’t.

But then… Auston’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Well, well. Don’t cry, Princess. You’re still their favourite.”

You turned to find him strolling past, suit jacket thrown over his shoulder, shirt sleeves rolled up. His curls were damp, framing his face in soft waves, but his expression was all edge; dark eyes, a smirk that didn’t reach them. He looked as tired as William but wore it like armour.

Your brows lifted. “Didn’t realise this was a comedy club.”

He stopped a few feet away, tilting his head. “Just making sure you’re keeping morale up.”

William stiffened beside you. You felt it, the way his shoulder tensed under your hand, the way his posture shifted, almost imperceptibly, into something guarded.

You gave Auston a once-over. “I’m sure morale will skyrocket when you take your shirt off for your social media.”

His mouth curved. “Jealous already?”

“Of what? The attention? Or the effort it must take to make everything about you?”

That made him chuckle, low and quiet. He gave William a nod, something almost respectful, then turned and walked down the hallway.

You let out a breath as William looked at you.

“Why do you let him get to you?” he asked softly.

“I don’t,” you said, lying through your teeth.

He didn’t push it. Instead, he just squeezed your hand once, gently, before releasing it.

“I’m heading home with Alex. Need to shut off for a bit.”

You nodded. “You should. You need it.”

He paused like he wanted to say more. But then just gave you a small smile and turned away, disappearing into the noise and shuffle of the hallway.

_

The bar was dimly lit and familiar, like a worn-in hoodie you only pulled out after heartbreak. It wasn’t trendy or exclusive, but it was theirs; a quiet haunt tucked in between a corner pho shop and an overpriced florist, just far enough off King Street to keep the crowds at bay. The kind of place that knew the usual orders and never asked too many questions.

The team had flooded in gradually. The energy was off, half-hearted smiles, beer clinking more from habit than celebration. No music could drown out the weight of a season cut short. Everyone was trying, but it was like laughter had a curfew and grief was drinking for free.

You stuck close to William at first, seated beside him in one of the high-backed leather booths that always smelled faintly of bourbon and lemon cleaner. His shoulder brushed yours every now and then as he leaned forward to greet teammates, his cologne mingling with the scent of wood polish and fried bar snacks.

You ordered whiskey, neat. He raised a brow. “Big night?”

You shrugged. “I don’t want to taste anything sweet.”

That made him smile, small and wry.

There were flickers of old stories, warm remembrances passed around like shots. William reminisced about a road trip to Tampa where he’d forgotten his passport. You reminded him how you’d been the one to pick it up from his apartment, only to find his dog Pablo chewing on a practice jersey.

“Still swear he knew it was cursed,” William said, grinning.

“He’s smarter than you,” you replied.

“Don’t I know it.”

His laugh was quiet but full, and you found yourself staring for a beat too long. His eyes softened when they met yours, and for a moment, just one, there was silence between you that didn’t feel empty.

But then the door creaked open, and the room shifted.

Auston Matthews strolled in like he hadn’t just lost a season. Like confidence was stitched into the lining of his coat. His dark curls were damp from a shower or the rain or maybe just the effortlessness of being him. He wore a dark tee under a half-zipped bomber, rings flashing as he held up a peace sign to the bartender, who already knew what to pour.

He spotted you almost immediately.

And he didn’t hesitate.

Auston cut through the crowd like gravity answered to him. And when he reached the booth, he leaned on the wood with one hand, drink in the other, smirk curling at the edge of his lips.

“To the MVP of emotional support,” he said, voice rich with amusement, “always there with a pep talk or a piercing jab.”

You raised your glass, arching a brow. “You forgot sarcasm. That’s my best play.”

He clinked his glass against yours with a wink. “And humble, too.”

William didn’t say anything at first. He just sipped his drink, eyes flicking from you to Auston and back again.

Auston then pulled up a stool at the end of the booth. The three of you sat in a triangle of tension, the conversation twisting around shallow jokes and guarded glances. Eventually, someone from the team pulled William away – Alex, nodding toward the exit with a look that said enough for both of them.

Then William turned back to you. “You good?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Go rest. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He hugged you tightly. “Promise.”

And then he was gone, disappearing into the door’s swing and out into the night.

Auston watched him go, swirling the ice in his glass. “You always let him go first?”

You gave him a look. “You always wait till someone else leaves to make your move?”

His grin deepened. “Maybe I like a challenge.”

You finished your drink in one swallow and stood. “I need the bathroom.”

“Sure,” he said, watching you go. “I’ll be right here, Princess.”

The hallway was dim and quiet, the music from the bar muffled by layers of brick and plaster. The women’s bathroom was tucked all the way at the end, past a flickering wall sconce and a vending machine that hadn’t worked since the year the Leafs lost in five to Columbus. The walls were painted that washed-out charcoal shade every dive bar loved; just enough to make you feel like anything could happen here, and no one would notice.

You took your time at the sink, fingertips braced on the chipped porcelain, cool water running over your wrists. The bathroom reeked faintly of lemon cleaner and cheap perfume, and still it was better than the noise outside. You stared at your reflection in the scratched mirror. Lips a little swollen from whiskey, cheeks warm. Your skin glowed faintly in the dim overhead light, and your eyes… you couldn’t quite place the expression staring back at you. A little flushed. A little wild.

You dabbed water along your collarbone, then at the back of your neck, trying to cool down, trying to shake off the buzz that wasn’t just alcohol. You thought about how William had hugged you goodbye, the quiet comfort of his touch, the unspoken promise in it. And then, inevitably, your thoughts veered. Swerved. Straight into Auston.

The way he’d looked at you when he walked into the bar. The smirk. That slow, assured saunter like he already knew where the night was going. The way he’d toasted you with that arrogant little glint in his eye, like he owned the room; and maybe you too, if he wanted.

You exhaled slowly, drying your hands on the rough paper towels, then pushed open the bathroom door.

And to your great surprise, there he was.

Leaning against the wall across from you, one boot pressed flat against the baseboard, arms folded like he hadn’t moved in ten minutes. His drink was gone, abandoned somewhere, and his eyes were trained on the door like he’d been waiting just for this.

Just for you.

You stopped short, chest tightening, a small flicker of something dangerous blooming low in your belly.

“Seriously?” you said, brow raised, trying for casual.

But Auston didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. His gaze just dropped deliberately, trailing down the length of you, legs to lips, and then back up, slow and heavy.

“You ever wonder,” he said, voice low and even, “why it’s so easy for you to look at me like that?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Like what?”

“Like you want to bite me and run away at the same time.”

That pulled a breath from your lungs, sharp and startled. You gave a little laugh, nervous, disbelieving. “Jesus.”

Then he pushed off the wall, taking one step toward you, then another, until there was barely a foot between you and the heat of him crowded your skin. You could smell the smoke from his cologne, the faint tang of bourbon still lingering on his breath.

“It’s always been like this,” he said, quieter now. “Since that first week. Since you told me off in front of the whole PR team and I couldn’t stop thinking about how good you’d look riding me.”

Your stomach dropped. Heat flared up the back of your neck. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah,” he said, cocking his head, “but I’m not wrong.”

You should’ve left. You should’ve turned around and walked straight back into the bar. But your feet didn’t move. Not when he was looking at you like that. Like you were a dare he couldn’t stop chasing. Like you were the thing he wanted to ruin himself with.

So, you opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to laugh, maybe to say something smart and distancing; but he reached out first.

Fingers brushing yours, slow and measured. Then his hand closed around yours, firm but not forceful. Deliberate. He brought your palm down, pressing it against his crotch – the hard and unmistakable outline of him through his jeans.

You inhaled sharply.

“This,” Auston murmured, his lips brushing close to your ear, breath hot and trembling. “This is what you do to me.”

Your mouth went dry. The pressure of his body beneath your hand, the undeniable heat pulsing beneath denim; it was maddening. He didn’t move. Didn’t grind into your touch. Just let you feel it. Let you decide what to do with it.

Your hand stayed there longer than it should have. Your fingers curled slightly, reflexively. And he exhaled, the sound rough and low and far too pleased.

You felt your spine go rigid with restraint. Every part of you on fire.

But then you pulled your hand away, fast but not jerky, and stepped back. No words. No witty line to salvage your pride.

You just turned, heels clicking against the scuffed tile, your pulse ricocheting inside your chest like it was looking for a way out.

Behind you, Auston didn’t follow. Didn’t call your name.

But you could feel him still, like static in your bloodstream, like the echo of something inevitable.

And God, you hated how much of you wanted to turn back.

_

You pushed the front door open with your hip, keys still clutched in your hand, the quiet click of the lock following behind you like punctuation. The hallway was dark except for the soft blue glow of the kitchen light; left on, as always, by Nadia in case you stumbled in drunk or heartbroken. Or both.

You exhaled slowly.

Your heels came off first, tossed haphazardly by the shoe rack. Then your earrings, slipped off and dropped into the ceramic dish near the mirror. You padded across the hardwood in bare feet, muscles aching, head full.

Nadia’s door was cracked open just enough to hear her gentle breathing. You smiled faintly and pulled it closed with care as her text from earlier echoed in your head: Don’t get drunk and marry a hockey player tonight pls 🥂💅. If only she knew how close that line skated to something heavier tonight.

Your room welcomed you with its usual quiet warmth; white sheets, soft lamps, a vanilla candle burned low on your dresser. You peeled off your clothes, tugged on an old t-shirt, and climbed into bed without bothering to brush your hair. You were still carrying the scent of whiskey, sweat, and something distinctly Auston-shaped.

The room was silent, save for the occasional honk or low engine hum outside your window. You pulled the duvet up to your chin, letting your body melt into the mattress, but your mind wouldn’t settle.

That moment in the hallway played on repeat.

The heat of his breath. The weight of his stare. The way your hand had lingered just a second too long.

And the way you’d walked away anyway.

But then your phone buzzed on the pillow beside you. The light lit up your face.

Willy 🐶: Got home safe? Thanks for being there tonight. You always are.

Your chest gave a small, soft squeeze. You could practically hear his voice in those words, low and careful, the way he always sounded when he was tired but trying not to show it. You pictured him curled up in sweats at Alex’s, probably eating cereal out of the box and pretending to be fine. He always texted you after games. Always made sure you knew he’d noticed you were there.

You smiled, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

But then came another buzz; a new message.