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FRIDAY NIGHT finds you in the laundry room, shoving a week’s worth of clothes into a washing machine while half the campus gets ready for another party. you always do your laundry when there’s a party, because while everyone else is busy drinking, the laundry room is empty.
peaceful, predictable, no waiting around for 5000 years.
you toss a detergent pod into the drum and slam the door. your basket sits at the side while you take a seat on top of the spinning machine, untangling your earphones while the door opens. you don’t look up.
“huh,” they speak, “was starting to think you’d transferred.”
you freeze.
god, please no.
you look up.
will’s standing in the doorway with an overflowing laundry basket in his hands, looking almost surprised by your existence. the second your eyes meet, he grins.
you tuck a bit of your hair behind your ear, lowering your hands as you try to fight the blush. “i . . what? what are you talking about?” you play dumb, forcing a laugh.
ok, so what if you’ve subconsciously been going out of your way to avoid will after you kissed him? only by a little bit - it’s not like you’re taking massive repercussions just to avoid him.
did you cross the soaking, soggy, muddy grass in the middle of campus and ruin your sneakers because he was walking in your direction? maybe, but you were running late for practice anyway.
did you completely by coincidence, start switching up seats from your usual spot just for a change? yeah, ‘cause it seemed . . fun to do?
did you duck underneath the cheerleading table during the student involvement fair because you spotted his baseball cap weaving through the crowd? yeah, but you thought your earring had fell out at the same moment.
will has actually been . . an angel. he’s left you alone. he hasn’t pried. hasn’t seeked you out to hound you. it’s you — you think about him for even a second and you’re riddled with guilt, you hear him and your face flushes with embarrassment, you see him and your chest starts beating too fast and your stomach gets that weird tingly sensation like it did when his tong—
“you’re getting creative.”
he snaps you out of your daze. you blink, lost. “what . . what do you mean?”
“you’re avoiding me.”
his voice makes you straighten, although he’s smiling, gum smacking in his mouth. he has a navy hat on, some baseball team on it, matching his navy t-shirt. “i’m . . i’m not,” you try to play off. “i’ve been busy.”
“doing what?”
“just with classes and stuff . . cheerleading . . usual.”
“i haven’t seen you in class. i was looking for you.”
that makes your heart squeeze with guilt. you’re unfazed when he doesn’t show up to class, he’s missed a dozen classes due to hockey, whether college-related or some variant of international play - you get on with your day.
when you don’t show up one day, will’s brain is wracked wondering if everything’s ok.
“i’ve been every day,” you answer, and you have, you’re not lying . . . you’ve just been on the complete opposite side you usually sit on. “did you need something . . ? my file—”
he shakes his head while lowering his basket, placing it on the floor to opening a machine door. “i just . . wanted to make sure i hadn’t done something.”
you frown. “what?”
he shrugs one shoulder, slightly turning his back to you while he loads up his machine. “just figured i made you uncomfortable or somethin.”
the joking tone is gone.
it’s so matter-of-fact that it makes your chest tighten. “no,” the answer comes instantly as you shake your head. “no will, that’s not . . . no. you didn’t make me uncomfortable.”
he watches you closely, turning around to you. “you promise?”
“i promise,” you hold up your hands as if to prove you’ve got nothing crossed. you even uncross your legs. “you didn’t make me uncomfortable. i . . it’s me.” you confess.
you slump in your spot, like you can no longer carry the weight. “it’s just — every time i see you, i — i get embarrassed. i can’t believe i tried to kiss you and i’m so sorry for it. ‘n then i was scared in case you started telling people and if brad found out so i’ve had this god-awful anxiety all week, it makes me sick—”
will’s standing in front of you now, his brows furrowed as he moves his hands across like as if to cut you off. you do. “you’d think i’d tell people?”
you raise a shoulder. “. . well yeah, like i thought . . maybe you’d tell your friends.”
he just looks at you.
“and they’d joke about it . . .”
still nothing.
“and then someone would overhear . .”
he slowly shakes his head.
“or maybe you’d bring it up to brad.”
will’s brows furrow. “you think i’d tell brad?”
“—not in a cruel way,” you say quickly. “just . . because you two don’t like each other and . . i thought maybe you’d . . . rub it in or something?”
a long silence settles between you. will steps closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you’re no longer talking across the room. you can smell his signature scent better, cleanliness and something masculine. “i don’t really like brad.”
“i know.”
“but i like you a lot more than i don’t like him.”
you close your eyes and that, feeling like your heart could melt through your fingers.
he says it so casually, with no shame or embarrassment.
“why would i do something like that? at your cost?”
your throat tightens as he keeps going, and you have to lift your hand to get him to stop taking. “will—”
“—you really thought i’d use you to get at him?”
“n—no.” the word comes out small. “i don’t know what i thought i just . . was overthinking it every possibility,” you lower your head. “. hiding just makes the most sense.”
he smiles, but it’s smaller this time - softer. the one that kind of pulls at your heartstrings. “hey,” he says quietly, waiting until you meet his eyes. “you really don’t have to do all that.”
“what?”
“hide from me.”
the words aren’t teasing anymore, and his gaze holds yours in a comforting reassurance. “i hate to think you’ve spent a week changing where you sit or taking different routes, worrying every time you see me because you think i’m gonna make things weird.” he gives a tiny shake of his head. “i’m not.”
you look down at your hands.
“i haven’t told anybody,” he continues. “and i’m not going to. not my teammates. not my friends. definitely not brad. it’s nobody else’s business but ours, and if you don’t want anyone knowing, then that’s where it stays.”
ours.
it sounds weird coming from him and doesn’t something weird to your limbs.
“you don’t have to explain yourself to me, and you don’t have to spend every day trying to make sure we never end up in the same room,” his voice is warm now, almost comforting. “i’d rather you just be yourself . . ” he’s closer now, standing directly in front of you, your knees almost touch him. “i’d much rather get the version of you that argues with me that i’m not 6’1 in skates and tells me i’m annoying.”
you laugh a little, looking away from his blue eyes. “you are not 6’1 in skates.”
“‘course i am,” he inches closer, face full of fake arrogance although his voice is soft and teasing. it eases your nerves, loosens you a little.
“i . .” you laugh at yourself without any humour in it. “you’re right. i’m sorry, i’m just . . i’m a mess at the minute.” you place your head in your hands.
you don’t know why you assume will to be cruel like that. you know he’s not. maybe it’s a you thing: you have a hard time learning not every guy is brad. it’s instinct to assume they’re all the same.
will doesn’t hesitate to peel your hands from your face, standing almost between your legs if they had been spread apart a little more. “you’re not a mess, y/n.” his hand’s nonchalantly relax on your thighs, your bare thighs because it’s approaching 10PM and you’re dressed for bed in a plain oversized t-shirt while 90% of campus is at that 80s themed party tonight.
your gaze drops to his hands, how they blanket your thighs, the way fingers stretch farther than they seemed capable of around them. when you finally drag your eyes back to his face, he’s already looking at you.
“nobody knows. nobody will know,” his voice is low, like it’s meant only for you.
his hands shift again, slower this time, thumbs brushing absentmindedly against your skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “just you and me . . .”
you don’t mean to do it, you try to fight it - but you look anyway - you look at his mouth while he’s talking. pink lips moving, voice smooth like honey, soft in a way that doesn’t match how close he is standing. the sound settles under your skin, soft and slow, it warms every part of you until it feels like you’re physically melting.
your shoulders drop first, tension bleeding out of you in a way that makes you blink like you’ve just woken up.
it’s like the space between you starts shrinking on its own. “will,” you mutter, eyes dropping. “we—you’re too close.”
he huffs a quiet laugh at that. “too close?” his brow twitches, “after a week of not seeing me?”
you give him a look despite his teasing, but you still don’t move.
his lips tug in response, fingers sliding to the crease between your legs and torso, fingers curling around the back until he’s pulling you towards him. your breath catches before you can stop it, your eyes dropping eye-level with his neck. the smell of his aftershave hits you next, clean and sharp, drawing you closer to him.
“you’re telling me to move . . ” he murmurs, “but you keep coming closer.”
“’m not.”
“no?” his nose brushes yours, feather-light, enough to make your heart jump; your eyes close.
you don’t know what he’s saying anymore, your thoughts feel like they’ve been wrapped in cotton and you’re waiting for him to kiss you.
his nose grazes yours again as he leans in, slow enough to give you every chance to pull away, and when you don’t – he finally kisses you.
again.
the kiss is slow. unhurried, like neither of you has anywhere else to be.
somewhere between his hand finding your waist and your fingers curling instinctively into the front of his t-shirt, the noise you’ve been carrying around all week melts into silence, every anxious thought that had been ricocheting around moments ago simply fades.
will’s lips are soft. they’re gentle on yours. it’s so sweet it makes your ears ring.
when he pulls away, your eyes stay closed and you don’t dare move.
he kisses you again.
it deepens this time, his lips parting more gradually until his tongue slides against yours, warm and wet and tasting faintly of something minty. your arms come up to his neck in a mind of their own, tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. you can feel the smirk in his kiss.
he doesn’t let you breathe. it’s a kiss you’ve never experienced before; it sends tingles down your spine and makes your toes curl. you chase more.
will makes a breathy sound, lips pushing harder against yours as his hands tighten around your waist. he pulls your lower half closer to the edge of the machine until your knees bracket his hips and you grab his arm consciously. “will,” you hum breathlessly, his lips brushing yours. “we can’t—”
he cuts you off again, messily slotting his lips against yours.
the alarm bells in your mind silence with the the feel of his hands travelling back to your legs, caressing the top of your thighs, his thumb smoothing the inside of it. it makes your breath stutter; your brain short-circuit and thoughts turn to mush.
“will,” you say again between kisses, eyes closing with every stroke of his tongue massaging yours. it distracts you from the hand slowly making its way between your legs. “mmph—”
the sudden contact of will’s middle finger pressing against your clothed slit sends a jolt through your body; a high-pitched gasp past your lips. he continues to kiss you as you pull away, barely regaining consciousness as your hand snatches a hold of his wrist, stopping his hand from moving another inch. “will, will, will—” you whisper, trying to get him to stop.
he does. the second you whisper, he eases back, breaking the kiss gently between you. his eyes stay closed for a moment longer, forehead hovering yours, his lips glisten with saliva. his breathing is still uneven, his shoulders moving with each intake.
he doesn’t rush. he just lets you go, his nose brushing your cheek as if he’s giving himself a second before reality catches up.
“will . . .” your voice comes out embarrassingly small. you swallow. “i-i can’t.”
this time, he nods. slowly. like he’d already known that was coming.
it makes your chest hurt.
your eyes dart to the door, your heartbeat suddenly loud again.
you look back at him, eyes softening at the devastating sight: blond curls messily spread across his forehead, cheeks flushed pink from your intense makeout. “i’m sorry,” you blurt, gently easing his hand from your waist. he lets you. “i just—we shouldn’t’ve . . i shouldn’t have—”
he gives another small nod and takes half a step back. “i get it,” he says like he’s trying to spare you the conversation. “it’s cool.”
“no—” you trap him between your legs before he can step away anymore. “please wait.”
“it’s fine, y/n.” he unhooks your ankles over him.
“no will, wait, please,” you hop off the washing machine, ignoring the terrible ache down below as you try to get him to look at you. “it’s not you—”
“i know.”
“no but—”
he tries not to sigh. “y/n–”
“please don’t be weird with me.”
he pauses. he looks at you properly, confusion swirling in his eyes. “i won’t . . ?”
“don’t be mad.”
he looks back at you, brows knitting together. “i’m not.”
dismissive. matter-of-fact.
your chest only tightens. “no, but you are,” you insist quietly. “i can tell.”
“i’m not mad at you,” he establishes, furrowing his brows at the accusation.
“promise?”
he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, keeping his gaze on you. “yeah.”
you search his face for something, anything, that tells you he’s telling the truth. “i’m not going to avoid you,” the words spill out too fast, “not this time. i swear.”
his expression softens, eyes drifting to the floor, “you don’t have to promise me anything.”
“no but i do, i—” you don’t even know what to say. “can we just be the same? like, before?” your eyes are pleading as you look up to him. “i don’t want you to—” ditch me? leave me alone? ignore me? “i dunno, i’m — just—don’t change anything. we’re good.” you nod, smoothing the bottom of your shirt. “we’re good. you don’t need to—to disappear on me or—”
“disappear on you?” will perks an eyebrow at that, offended. “that’s you who does that.”
“i know, i know, i’m sorry. i won’t this time, i promise.” you cringe, cheeks flaming. “i’ll literally save you a seat on monday, i— we’re cool. we’re cool. this never happened.”
will raises his head in acknowledgment.
alright.
cool.
he nods. “yeah.”
it isn’t cold. it isn’t angry. if anything, that’s what makes your heart clench. he isn’t going to fight you on it or ask why, he isn’t going to make you feel worse than you already do.
he just accepts your response. “see you around.”
you take a step closer as he makes it to the door, basket scooped in his hand. “will—” you open your mouth, but nothing comes - because what are you even supposed to say?
you settle with a weak ‘i’m sorry’ and he gives another nod. “i know.”
and then he’s gone.
the second the door shuts, your chest caves. you drag a hand over your face.
idiot.
this never happened? why would you say that? that wasn’t what you meant. you feel even worse as you did before, and this time, you promised you wouldn’t avoid him.
-
the party buzzes around you.
people shout over the music, bottles clink somewhere in the kitchen, someone you’ve never met is laughing hard enough to fold in half. it’s chill for a saturday night. you stay tucked into brad’s side most of the night, fingers hooked loosely through his arm. you laugh when everyone else laughs, nod along to conversations you haven’t really heard.
you’re already moving when brad asks for you to get something for him.
you try to have a good time, you’ve had two seltzers to help you, but there’s a strange emptiness following you around all evening.
like something’s missing.
you don’t realize how often your eyes drift across the room until you catch yourself doing it again.
“babe, can you grab me another beer?”
“’course.” you grin, brushing a quick kiss against his cheek before disappearing into the kitchen.
it’s automatic, all of it - the way you lean against him when he pulls you in, play with the hair at the back of his neck while he’s talking to his friends - you’re attentive. sweet.
maybe a little too hard.
you weave through the crowd, muttering quiet apologies as shoulders knock yours from every direction. “sorry.”
“it’s fine.”
you step aside to let them through.
that’s when you see him.
will.
your heart stumbles so hard it almost feels painful.
he’s sunk into the corner of the sofa, one arm stretched lazily along the back of it. a girl sits tucked into his side, laughing at something he’s just said. another sits to his left, their knees touching.
your eyes stay fixed on them, unable to look away despite every part of you screaming to.
he says something that makes the one of the right laugh, and her fingers curl around the front of his t-shirt, collecting a firm grip – and your feet stop.
you watch him nod, lips pulled to the side in that smirk he does and you catch the way his eyes dip to her mouth.
your eyes could slice him.
don’t.
before your brain can make sense of what you’re looking at, will leans in, all confidence. she meets him halfway.
then it happens.
they kiss.
your brows raise and your mouth falls open before your brain has fully registered what’s going on.
he kisses her.
not accidentally.
not drunkenly.
deliberately.
for a second, all you can hear is the rush of blood flooding your head.
your entire body goes hot.
you watch like a complete weirdo, watching the way he slips his tongue in, the way his head moves to meets hers, the way his eyes remain closed and his hand rests on her leg.
something ugly flares inside you violently.
your whole body racks.
“babe?”
brad’s voice reaches you from somewhere behind.
you don’t answer.
you’re still staring.
still hoping, stupidly, that he’ll pull away.
“babe?”
you flinch at a hand brushing your elbow, so hard it almost startles you.
“what?” you bite.
brad blinks. “i just asked if you got my drink . .“
“well, i’m getting it, aren’t i?!”
his eyebrows raise, taken back by the tone. “alright . . .”
honestly, brad is at a loss these days. when he’s being an ass, you act a psycho, when he’s on his best behaviour and treating you good, you act a psycho.
“god!” you scoff, wrenching open the fridge harder than necessary.
“what’s wrong with you?”
“nothing.”
“doesn’t seem like nothing.”
“BRAD!” you shout this time, slamming the door closed with a flare in your eyes. “STOP talking to me.”
a couple of heads turn and brad raises his hands immediately. the look in your eyes is new.
“okay.”
guilt pricks at you for all of half a second when you hand him the can, because when you look up again—they’re still there.
heat surges through you all over again. you don’t even recognize the feeling.
“babe, chill out, alright? what happened?” brad’s voice is soft for once as he stands in front of you, blocking the view. he tries to be gentle. he says he’s been working on himself and you’ve noticed it.
you rip his hand from your side and storm off back to your spot, your whole body almost shaking with emotions you didn’t even know you possessed.
-
monday comes around when you’ve still got that furrow in your brow. the lecture theatre is already half full by the time you arrive, coffee in one hand, headphones still around your neck.
you scan the rows automatically whilst walking up the steps – and there he is.
will.
in your seat.
well, not your seat. your row.
he’s saved the chair beside him with his backpack, spotting you almost immediately. he lifts it onto his lap without a second thought.
“morning sunshine.” he says.
like friday never happened.
like saturday didn’t exist.
like two girls hadn’t practically climbed into his lap before midnight.
your jaw tightens.
“. . hi.”
you slide into the chair without looking at him.
the silence stretches. he doesn’t seem bothered by it.
“good weekend?”
is that a joke?
you just nod, keeping your head to the front. will lifts his in acknowledgment, sensing you’re not in a chatty mood.
“brad got asked to skate with us tomorrow,” he says after a while, looking over at you after he finishes taking notes off the slide.
that grabs your attention. you look up, barely meeting his eyes for a second, trying to sound interested. “he did?”
“yeah. jake’s got mono, leno’s concussed . . asked if he’d come by the rink tomorrow afternoon.”
you hum, typing on your laptop.
conversation = over.
he studies you for a second as you avoid his gaze, then shakes his head so subtly, you don’t see it.
something’s up.
you type while will scribbles notes. every now and then he fidgets in his seat, his elbow brushes yours, he stretches dramatically or readjusts his hat on his head and it slowly chips at your patience.
“will, quit smacking your gum.”
“will, your volume.”
“will,” you nudge his arm off your side of the desk. “your elbow.”
you try not to sound so quick with it, but you swear, he must be doing it on purpose. you’re laser-focused on the screen at the front of the room while he texts from next to you, and you can’t take it.
“oh my god, smitty! can you breathe through your nose?” your head cranks to him, unable to concentrate on anything other than the sound of his breathing next to you.
will pauses, mouth still open, glancing at you.
he shuts his mouth, not tearing his eyes from you.
ok.
five minutes later, after trying to be as mute as possible, he yawns.
you don’t even look up. “will.”
“huh?”
“why are you being so loud.”
he freezes. “ . . what?”
“seriously.” you grit your teeth.
will’s brows furrow. your attitude is clear as day to him now. “i . . yawned.”
“yeah. out loud. for everyone to hear.”
“i wasn’t aware there was another method?” he responds sarcastically, squinting his eyes at you.
“come up with one.”
his brow twitches. so that’s the mood you’re in today? he looks around theatrically. “anybody know how to yawn quietly?”
a couple of students glance over before returning to their conversations. will looks back at you. “you are in a mood.”
“i’m not.”
“could’ve fooled me,” he tilts his head, making your stomach flip. “seriously . .” he turns back to fix his notes, “tell brad to step his game up or something.”
you shoot him a look. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
he shrugs. “i don’t know. dude’s clearly slacking if this is what i’m dealing with on a monday morning.”
your jaw falls. “he’s not slacking in anything.”
“pfft. ok.”
“hey!” you snap, “what are you getting at?”
“nothing.”
“no say it.”
“i said nothing.”
“you’re implying something.”
“you’re hearing things,” he smiles at himself, tongue poking his cheek. it’s cute seeing you mad. it’s actually cute seeing you mad at him.
you don’t find it funny.
instead, you thump his arm with your fist.
“OW!”
“you’re an asshole.”
“that’s assault.”
“good.”
he rubs his bicep dramatically but smiles. “jesus.”
the professor begins wrapping up the lecture, peers already exiting the room while others are still packing their bag. you’re halfway through closing a document to get out of here when—
clap!
your laptop snaps shut, and you jump.
will’s already standing, one hand still resting on the top of it. “tell your boyfriend he owes the rest of us an apology,” he says, swinging his bag over his shoulder, and your brows furrow. “ . . he’s gotta be doing something wrong if this is the mood he’s sending you into class with.”
there he is again. picking at your relationship. acting like he knows everything.
you snatch your laptop back. “get off his back.”
will’s lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “you should try getting off mine.” he bargains, inching close to your face.
you open your mouth, but end up looking like a goldfish because you open and close your mouth ‘cause nothing comes out. too distracted by him getting too close in your face, the dimple on his cheek, how pink his lips are. he walks off, unbeknownst to the heat clawing at your body.
-
you spend the rest of the week going about your day as normal. you go to class, you go to practice, you’ve even been to the rink, watching brad who’s been filling in for defence. it’s surprisingly easy tuning out the annoying sound that is will.
or at least you pretend it is.
in group discussions, you pretend to write something super important in your notebook when he gives his input. you don’t look at him when he talks. if someone asks the group a question, you answer them all but him. you leave your earphones in through every lecture you share, even when nothing’s playing anymore. at the rink, you don’t even turn your head when he flies past on the ice a dozen times, barely allowing yourself to clap twice when he makes a good play because everyone around you does.
the anger starts to dull around the edges by midweek, as if being away from him has allowed you to cool down and realize it’s not that deep. that you’re overreacting and his little remarks are nothing out the ordinary from him. you almost ask him for his notes on a slide that went by too fast — almost.
until a girl in the row in front turns around and asks for a pencil.
will passes her one before you even comprehend what she says, and you watch the way they interact: the way she smiles up at him, how she says his name when she thanks him, the way he winks back in response.
suddenly, you’re staring at his side profile and you’re replaying the image of him slipping his tongue in some girl’s mouth.
“FUCK!” you unexpectedly say out loud, palms smacking your forehead.
people turn and look at you concerned, including will, who’s is more confused, but assumes, like everyone else, that it’s an answer you’ve answered incorrectly on your sheet as you look down at it.
it’s not. you’re just going insane. you swear. you swear, you’re going insane.
friday rolls around when you find yourself at the rink, running a little behind to meet brad after he pitched dinner and a movie at his place after you were both finished with practice. you texted him you’d be there in ten and he never answered, so made your way in to the arena anyway, only to be met with the sound of a single set of skates still cutting through the ice.
i already know who this is, you think to yourself, strutting over to the ledge.
will sees you when you come in, still shooting pucks in the net despite practice ending 10 minutes ago. he’s always the last off the ice. always putting in an extra shift.
he goes back to firing shot after shot, aiming for a different angle in the net until the person on the zamboni will have to force him off the ice. he doesn’t acknowledge you. you don’t acknowledge him.
you set your bag up on the ledge to dig through the clutter for your phone; a mess of makeup products, your sweaty uniform, a bra, loose change, hair clips, pom-pom strands and water bottles - it makes it harder then necessary.
by the time you pull it out, you don’t waste time in checking if brad got your message and call him instead - trying to block out the crack of each shot that echoes around the rink. “hello?”
“hey. what’s up?”
“where are you, i just got here. i’m standing in the box?” you glance around, trying to see if you can catch sight of him lingering in the tunnel.
“babe, i left like 5 minutes ago. i was gonna hang at jordan’s ‘til you were done practice?”
“i told you i finished the same time as you?”
crack.
your eyes follow the trail of the puck hitting the boards.
“i though you finished at 5:30? and by the time you get showered ‘n shit i was just gonna wait for you to call me . .”
“i finish at 5:00 and that’s including getting showered ‘n stuff.” you glance to the side in disbelief.
“oh.”
“oh?” you repeat. “will i meet you at your place or not?”
“look, just come to jordan’s. i’ll text you the address. i’ve already had a beer so you’ll have to come grab me anyway.”
“okay,” you huff, lowering your phone. “bye.”
“bye.”
you throw your phone in your bag, shoving the other things you had to take out back in when your favourite lipstick hits the ice with a ‘clack’ as it falls from the ledge and begins rolling further out.
past the blue line, past the face-off dot, until it finally comes to a stop almost dead centre of the rink.
you eyes immediately jump to will, the only one on the ice, who was watching it as well.
he’s smacking his gum (as always), and shrugs a shoulder while looking at you. “i’m not getting it.”
the bluntness makes you straighten.
you blink.
“you act like i don’t exist so,” he pulls a face like it’s something out of his control, turning back to his setup. “come get it yourself.” another crack of the boards deafens your ears.
you look back to the lipstick in the middle of the rink, then to the type of shoes on your feet.
ordinary sneakers. barely a grip on them with how long you’ve had them.
can you even walk on ice with regular shoes on?
you look at will to see if he’s being serious, but he’s too busy on stick work, not even sparing you a second glance.
you swallow nervously.
is he really gonna make you grab it yourself?
you contemplate how badly you really need it, considering you haven’t skated on the ice since you were 10 and at that, had a penguin skating aid to lean on.
you then consider the fact the zamboni will probably crush a perfectly good $25 lipstick into little tiny pieces if you do.
you also then consider the worst case scenario: what if it shoots out a tiny piece at somebody? and causes a total freak accident where blood is on your hands because you couldn’t be bothered to pick up after yourself? that gets you moving.
you set your bag down and tuck your hair back so it doesn’t block your view. you mutter something under your breath and step carefully through the open gate, goosebumps running along your legs.
the second the rubber mat disappears beneath your white nikes, your confidence goes with it.
your foot slides at least a foot.
you immediately grab the boards.
you hear him snort.
you ignore it.
with one hand clamped to the top of the boards, you shuffle forward awkwardly, feet barely leaving the ice.
god, how are you making it to the centre?
you make it a whole three steps before one foot shoots slightly ahead of the other when will sends another puck against the boards, making you jump and lose footing. “whoa!—” you catch yourself at the last second.
you quickly realize how terrifying and dangerous it is be on the ice during a game.
the boards rattle with you.
you continue inching forward, tiny steps at a time, looking no-where but the golden-like rectangle. it’s so slippy. the shooting has stopped so you assume will is watching you. you don’t wanna know how stupid you must look tight now.
stiff. jumpy. covered in goosebumps.
it’s so cold, your arms and legs suffering the most as they remain bare from the worn BC t-shirt and shorts you first got years ago. you’re convinced the shivering isn’t helping with your balance.
will watches, leaning lazily on his stick before setting it against the boards beside his helmet. then, with a couple of effortless strides, he’s gliding towards you, almost racing you without looking like he’s trying.
you refuse to look at him.
your eyes stay fixed on the lipstick.
just a little bit more . . .
you crouch carefully, every muscle in your body tensing as your fingertips hover inches away – when a pair of skates come into view and give a soft tap of the golden case, sending the thing gliding further on down to the right, a few more feet across the ice.
you freeze, mouth dropping as you look up to see will already drifting backwards.
“ . . . ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!”
“oh.” he looks theatrically around the empty rink. “you can see me?”
you stand in such a rush, stumbling, forgetting where you when his arm out stretches to catch you - and you hold on, closing the distance between you in two careful, clumsy steps, grabbing a fistful of the arms of his jersey. “you’re an asshole!”
“damn, i didn’t think you’d know it was me,” he continues with the joke, staring down at your face, “forgot my invisible cloak.”
“i’ve seen you all week, i’ve just been purposely ignoring you!” you snap, feeling smaller than usual as he towers inches above you in his skates.
“for no other reason than . . ?”
“for no other reason being you’re insufferable company and nothing but a pain in my ass.”
he rocks gently on his skates, taken aback but still finding it amusing. he loves when you swear. it’s surprisingly out of character. “gee . .” he tilts his head slightly, eyebrow twitching up, “guess brad’s still being a pussy and not eating yours.”
your face falls.
almost horror-like, as if you can’t believe he just said that.
you can’t believe he just said that.
your mouth hangs open.
nothing.
not a single comeback.
you just stare at him, heat rushing up your neck so fast it burns your cheeks. for once, your brain doesn’t have anything clever to throw back. just stunned, offended silence.
“you—” is all you manage, breathless with disbelief.
it isn’t even anger at first, it’s pure, stunned embarrassment.
you shove against his chest on instinct, creating space between you like distance might somehow undo what he’d just said. you can’t even bring yourself to meet his eyes. you just push him away, allowing him grin to himself while you twist on your heel to fetch your lipstick and go.
you make it just three steps in when your foot slips sideways and a squeak leaves you. “WHEUP!—”
your knees slam into the ice.
hard.
a cold thump echoes across the rink before your palms slap down after them, and the pain is immediate.
hot.
your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. you stay frozen on all fours, forehead bowed, your palms stinging against the freezing ice as your knees throb beneath you.
it hurts so bad.
the scrape of skate blades reaches you seconds later. “shit, hey—” a gloved hand appears in front of you. you bat it away without thinking. you can’t even tell him to leave you alone, a lump lodged too tightly in your throat.
he’s surprised. “y/n,” he says, his voice different. the teasing is totally gone.
instead, you turn your face away from him, swallowing hard, refusing to let him see the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes - whether from the pain or the embarrassment, you don’t know. you force yourself forward, practically crawling the first couple of feet before grabbing onto the boards with both hands. every movement sends another throb to your knees.
will watches, heart racing, the guilt pulling him down. he wants to throw himself down on the ice and break every one of his teeth if it would make you feel any better.
he stays where he is when you push through the gate without another glance, limping while picking up your bag.
he stands in the silence on his own, his eyes drifting to the abandoned gold tube sitting alone in the middle of the ice. he spots the little dots of blood from where you’ve cut your hands.
he throws his head back, sighing loudly.
why did he do that?
-
by saturday night, you’re exhausted. it’s ridiculous: the weekend’s barely started. your knees are still bruised, ugly shades of purple blooming beneath the skin. every time you kneel or bend them too far, they remind you exactly how hard you hit the ice.
you cried in the car. not because of will, because they hurt fucking bad – because the second the adrenaline wore off, every movement stung like a motherfucker. only for 2 minutes, because you had to go collect brad, and brad hated crying, or he hated dealing with it, rather.
date night hadn’t lasted long anyway. the first time you’d shifted in your place, you’d sucked in a sharp breath.
‘what’s wrong?’ he’d asked, giving you a weird look.
‘it’s nothing, just . . my knees’ you rolled your pyjamas up to show the violent bruising already coating them. brad’s brows furrowed. ‘what’d you do?’
that made you pause, because you didn’t know what to say. the instant will comes to mind, your immediate reaction is to deflect and deny when brad brings him up. ‘i don’t know.’
you knew it was the wrong answer the second you’d said it.
‘you don’t know?’ he repeated, staring at you.
‘well i . . i fell, what’d you think i did?” you chuckled nervously, settling on the lie you did it at practice. however, brad’s face hardens at your remark, and you don’t realize the damage you’re doing right now.
he squints his eyes. ‘you tell me — what were you doing?’
you can guess how it ended.
now, you’re catching up on laundry, again, because there’s a party and you offered to do katie’s now that she’s back at her boyfriend’s place. as always, it’s empty. chill vibes. you have one earphone in, listening to your 80s playlist you always play, thinking about the little bit of work you could catch up on when you get back.
you finish sorting another pile before setting your next basket down next you, opening the door to switch them out.
when you finish emptying the machine, you reach for the next basket - only to find the little glimmer of gold sitting on top.
your hand pauses.
your lipstick.
from the rink.
you stare at it for a second before turning around, met with will standing opposite side of the room at a machine.
he stands with his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants, his laundry basket next to him.
and all you can think is why — why does the sight of him tug at your heart?
you look back down at the lipstick.
it’s spotless, the scuffs are gone, there’s not a fingerprint on the metallic surface. he’s taken the time to make sure it wasn’t ruined before giving it back.
will’s loading up a machine when you look back at him, pressing buttons effortlessly before he turns around to lean against it, crossing his legs, his eyes focused on his phone.
you let out a quiet breath, turning back to your laundry.
you can’t seem to stay mad at him. you’re not mad at all when you block out saturday altogether, not when you know will is completely clueless to the situation - rightfully confused because he did, in fact, do nothing wrong.
you don’t even know what he did wrong. you just didn’t like seeing him with another girl, which is so strange to admit to yourself because you have a boyfriend . . . you like to think it’s because by seeing someone else look that excited to kiss someone made something uncomfortable shift in your own chest.
maybe it forced you to notice something your relationship had been missing for a while. that easy pull towards someone, that excitement, that thrill.
god, you don’t know. you still don’t know. it makes your head hurt when you think about it for too long. you just know it made you uncomfortable and you have to assume it’s somewhat an indication that your relationship is lacking in something. you want to feel what that girl felt. experience what she felt.
but you do know how she felt, you just don’t know what to do with the fact that it wasn’t with brad.
one thing is for certain is that it’s something for you to work on, not will. you’re mature enough to accept he did nothing wrong and he doesn’t deserve your cold shoulder while you try to figure out how to fix yourself.
you’re the fucked up one, not him.
will’s been nothing but sweet to you.
respectful.
familiar.
even though he had his tongue in another girl’s mouth.
FUCK!
why the fuck are you keep coming back to that, y/n?!
will glances up as you close your eyes and clench your jaw - and he immediately feels like he’s right back to square one.
stop thinking about it y/n. stop it. just focus on . . . laundry. you were doing laundry.
you steal a glance at him while picking up a shirt to fold, scanning him head to toe as if he’s gonna look any different from yesterday. he stays distracted on his phone, head dipped down. the only thing moving is his thumb, his fingers adjusting their grip every now and then around the phone. you swallow.
he’s so big.
tall! you mean tall. he’s still so tall even without skates.
he shifts, one leg holding most of him while the other relaxes, and you quickly look down, hoping you haven’t been caught studying him after ignoring him a whole week. he keeps one hand tucked under his armpit, the sleeves of his hoodie contracting against his forarms.
you divert your focus back to your dirty and clean clothes, the hum of the dryers being the only sound in the room. your music isn’t playing anymore, your earphones abandoned at the side.
he still hasn’t said anything.
ignore him. just ignore him, y/n, he literally can’t say anything without offending y—
“are you ignoring me now?”
the words leave before you can stop them . . and you can only own them once they leave, standing with a hand on your hip as your face frowns.
why did you just do that??
will looks at you confused, even glances around to see if you’re talking to anybody else.
“—‘cause i’m supposed to be ignoring you,” you continue, not knowing what you’re doing.
the fuck?
“i . . isn’t that what you want . . ?” will looks at you confused, tilting his head.
“i never said that?” you look at him like he’s not making any sense.
“oh, no i just . . assumed when you said . . i was insufferable company and you’d been purposefully ignoring me all week, that . . you wanted me to fuck off.”
oh yeah, you did say that.
still, it’s too late to back down now. “no . . ?”
will stares at you, mouth open, breathing without another thought in his head before shaking it off and turning his attention back to his phone.
you slouch, dropping your stance and backtrack. “ok ok, i’m sorry. i’m sorry, just — forget that. i’m sorry. i’m being annoying and . . gaslighting you to be honest. i don’t know what i’m saying.”
will slides his phone into his pocket then, giving you his full attention. “that’s the problem. if you don’t know, how am i supposed to know?” his tone pinches at your heart, because it’s gentle as always, despite your sense of frustration. “i’m doing what you asked, i gave you space and tried to keep things normal, and you . . wanted to rip my head off ‘cause i breathed too loud?”
“oh but will you always breathe loud! you’re a mouth breather,” your palm hits the washing machine like that’s an unfair reason to be mad.
he gives you a flat look.
you slump. “sorry.”
you do feel guilty, because he’s so right. the whole week, every stupid joke, every sarcastic comment, he’d been trying to get you back to normal – and you’d punished him for it.
“the rink yesterday, it was just me and you - i was messing with you ‘cause,” he shrugs awkwardly, “i don’t know. i thought it’d get you talking to me again.” then he pulls a face. “clearly misjudged that one.”
your eyes fall to the floor. “no, will—”
“—then you hit the ice and i can’t stop thinking about it. i felt like it was my fault. i shouldn’t have kicked it away again, i was just playing around, but . . i felt like an asshole after. it looked real sore. it looks real sore” his eyes dart to your purple knees.
“it is, but it wasn’t your fault,” you shake your head, “i probably would have fell anyway. i was storming off and forgot i wasn’t on normal ground.”
“did you cry?”
the equation surprised you. you debate telling him, your face straight. “yes . . . but because it hurt, not ‘cause of you . . ”
that still makes will’s stomach sick with guilt. he lets out a soft sigh. “look y/n—”
no, no what happened to gorgeous?
“—i don’t know what i did to make you mad, if i crossed a line, just tell me—”
“—you didn’t.”
“—ok but are you saying that because it’s true?” he looks back up at you. “or are you just saying it because you don’t want me to feel bad?”
“no! no i promise.”
“so why? why the bad attitude? why have you spent the whole week mad at me? are you mad at everybody?”
to be honest, yeah — you have been mad at everybody, and it’s all because of him.
but there’s no way in hell you’re telling him that.
‘i saw you kissing another girl and it ruined my weekend. more than it did when i caught my boyfriend staring at our waitresses ass on my birthday.’
you’d rather launch yourself into traffic.
“i . . i don’t know,” you rub your arm. you’re not used to this amount of communication. you’re also not used to having to think like this. usually sorry’s enough and you deal with whatever consequences that follow after.
will deserves more than that. “i guess i’m mad . . at myself. maybe. i don’t know. i just don’t like . . how i can’t think straight anymore. my head is so messed up. i don’t even know anymore. i don’t know. i don’t know what i’m doing.” your head falls into your hands with stress.
will’s expression softens almost immediately. he lets out a slow breath through his nose. “hey.”
you look up.
“i don’t want that.”
you frown.
“whatever’s going on in your head,” he gestures vaguely towards you. “i don’t want you feeling like you’ve got to force yourself into anything because of me.”
your chest tightens.
“if you’re fighting yourself over this . . . that’s not something i want to add to.”
“i’m not—”
he sighs, eyes stuck on you. “y/n, listen - there’s no hard feelings. if things were simple . . you’d probably know what you wanted. i’m not saying that to make you choose, don’t take it that way,” he holds his hands up, “i just . . i think you are happy in you’re relationship and i need to stop trying to get your attention, because it’s my interference that’s messing with your head.”
your heart sinks.
what?
“if me doing that means you spend the next week feeling guilty . . or confused . . or taking it out on yourself . . ” he shakes his head, “. . i don’t want that.”
your face falls.
oh no.
he notices your expression and immediately backtracks. “that’s not me trying to make this a thing,” he says quickly. “honestly. i’m just saying . . . maybe the best thing i can do is stop,” he gives another small shrug, his face offering a small, playful smile. “i’ll cool it with the jokes. stop trying to steal your attention. give you space, divert my attention on someone else.”
“no,” it comes out far too quickly, your face falling completely as you shake your head. “no, no, no,” you slip off the machine.
will watches you, face pulling in confusion as you approach him. “i have to—”
“no! no i—” you rush to him, hands instinctively grabbing his forearms as you almost collide. “i want your attention. i want you to annoy me, i—” your hands are on his face before you can even think, pulling him down to you. the kiss cuts him off completely.
you don’t even know what you’re doing.
all you know is that he’s saying the complete wrong thing and you don’t even want him to leave you be.
you don’t want that.
your lips collide forcefully, enough that will can sense your desperation.
you kiss him slow, lips lingering before taking a short second to part, just to breathe, before kissing him again.
hungrier.
will reciprocates this time, kissing you back. he takes a second to switch his hat backward, before his hands carefully place themselves on your waist and dips his head to meet you. you hum, melting against him.
he’s warm and soft and just as you remember him.
you kiss him harder, longer, like you can’t get enough, and quickly quicken the pace. you open your mouth, missing his tongue, missing him being up all close on you. tingles dance down your spine when you feel it, butterflies shooting around your stomach. “don’t ignore me,” you plea breathlessly, speaking between kisses, “don’t stop with your jokes . . and your teasing . . and–“ kiss “–your annoying breathing.”
a laugh escapes him, swallowed immediately by another kiss. “no?” -kiss- “you don’t want that?”
“no,” you kiss him back, needing him to stop talking.
“why’s that?” he pulls away to look at you, smirk taking up his whole face. when you try to kiss him again, he pulls back
“because m—” you inch closer again, watching him look at you with amusemen, “my days would be boring without you,” you confess, trying to pull his neck back down to you.
will’s brow twitches cockily.
not that you can see, you’re too busy focused on his lips.
your whole body feels electric. that weird, foreign feeling back in your belly as you hands gravitate shyly down his torso, resting there, unable to look him in the eye.
“y’want me to keep annoying you?”
you nod.
“want me to keep calling you gorgeous?”
you look up at him at that, and nod again.
he perks a brow. “you think you’re gorgeous?”
you tighten your grip on the back of his neck and pull him back into another kiss before he can tease you again. “shut up will.”
will smiles, satisfied, and gives you what you want. he kisses you good, real good, so good you forget all about that disgusting, green jealousy that’s been following you about you all week.
his lips are soft but his hands are rough - dropping to your hips with a firm grip, he pulls you against him in a way that makes your nerves explode and brain short circuit.
“will,” you half-gasp when he instinctively picks you up, setting you down on a different machine. he steps in between your legs, your hands on his shoulders as your eyes widen as he settles in front of you. the pulse in your neck sky-rockets from the closeness, from the familiarity or his hands.
his eyes look dark, pupils blew out, but the familiar softness of blue still remains there comfortingly.
you smile into another kiss, melting against him as his tongue slowly crashing against yours. you don’t realize his hands brushing your legs, your knees that are battered - you don’t even flinch, that’s how gentle he is.
he places them flat on your thighs, large, paw-like palms soothing you with warmth and familiarity as they move up and down. your mind is already hazy when you move closer to him, inching forward in a rocking-like motion which brings will to a pause. his eyes look up from you legs, blue orbs boring into yours as his voices lowers.
“i need you to make a deal with me.”
“what is it?” you hook your arms around his neck, keeping him close.
“i need you to promise me you’re not going to go weird on me again,” his eyes scan your face, distracting you from his fingers slipping between your thighs.
“i—i won’t,” you stutter.
“y’promise?” his finger brushes your front again, making you jolt. “you promise me this is what you want?”
your mouth slowly falls open as will slowly begins to stroke you through your panties, his gaze locked on you.
you forget what he’s asking. “m—will.”
“tell me,” he looks down at you, standing tall and full of confidence. entire frame blocking you from anyone who could walk in.
“—i promise . . i promise this is what i want,” you moan embarrassingly, head dropping in shame.
fuck! what are you doing right now?
his fingers move slowly, feeling your hot slick begin to pool through the material, “want me to keep goin’?”
you bite your lip to conceal your noises, nodding frantically. “mhm.”
he pushes your knees further apart, spreading them while slowly lifting his hand to slide under the waistband on your underwear. when his hand comes into contact with your bare cunt, you flinch, legs closing from the touch, your eyes shooting to him for comfort.
he’s not looking at you though, soley focused on his hand buried in your shorts.
his middle finger slides through your folds, soaked immediately, your arousal no longer a secret. a sharp gasp escapes you, your mouth hanging open. he watches your face carefully while sliding his finger in, watching the way your lips part and your eyes blink in poor consciousness as you stretch around his finger.
fuck, feels so good already.
“oh my god,” you whine, legs trying to close. “will—”
“—shh,” he leans in and kisses you again, wasting no time in sliding a second finger, using his other hand to keep your legs open.
you moan loudly against his mouth, brows pinched together with unfamiliar pleasure while your focus slips. “hmmm—fuck.”
“this what you wanted?” he grins, pumping his digits into you at a steady pace. “this what you needed all week, gorgeous?”
you’re already clenching your thighs, trying to push them together again. “uh-uh—huh.”
he grins at your lack of speech, kissing your lips, endeared. “—and you’re not gonna ignore me after this, right?” his fingers work faster in you, moving them in coordination with how your body responds.
the moans and whimpers don’t stop flying from your lips.
“m—mhm!”
“tell me. tell me you’re not gonna ignore me.” he tries to hold your eyes.
“i—i—will!”
“you will?” he fakes concern, stopping his movements.
“NO! no i won’t! i’m not! please! please i’m not going to!” you cry, grabbing his wrist. “please! don’t stop.”
will’s smirk grows as he continues.
he watches you, the way your head tips back on the machine, the way your mouth hangs open the majority of the time. it’s like you don’t even know where you are right now, the idea of someone being able to walk in not even a concept in your mind.
you’re completely surrendered to him.
just him and his fingers shoved knuckle deep in you. “FUCK!”
you cry out, ears burning with the noise of your juices slicking.
your stomach clenches, your legs flinching as you feel an unfamiliar build grow more and more by the second. it scares you. “will, will, will—” you squeak, feeling his fingers curl at a particular spot that makes you feel like you need to pee. “will stop, stop—”
“what’s wrong, baby?” he breathes, trying to hide his confusion, the nickname going straight to your core. he knows your close - he can feel you clenching around him, it almost hurts. “you gonna cum for me?”
your eyes practically roll to the back of your head at his words, struggling to stay open with each dazed blink. “i—i-”
“it’s ok babe, just let go. that’s what i want you to do,” his voice is soft and gentle, contradicting the violation his hand is doing to your pussy.
he has you melted down to nothing.
your face pulls together as your whole body racks, your hand clutching his wrist for stability as you breathe frantically. “can’t i—i need, you need—”
“—you can, gorgeous. cum for me. cum right now,” his fingers speed up inside you, pumping frantically, squelching deafeningly. little weird stars dot your vision as your eyes lock on each other’s. those sweet, dark and dangerous baby blues.
the moment will’s thumb presses against your nerves, you’re a goner. your jaw goes slack, your eyes flutter and your legs thrash trying to pull away. a wet, gushing, drip-like sound rings in your ears as you cum. “WILL!” you sob, nails digging into his skin. will’s fingers don’t falter, not even as he drops his gaze to see the water-like liquid squirt out of you, dripping onto washing machine, splashing onto the floor.
“holy fuck.” he breathes, neck craning to the ground as you cry out. you try to cover your mouth with your arm, embarrassed by the noise leaving you.
your eyes find his, immediately giving you away.
he sees it - the surprise. the nerves.
the quiet panic of not understanding your own body. your own heart.
but he doesn’t laugh. doesn’t point it out.
doesn’t make you feel exposed.
instead, a gentle smile tugs at his lips, so warm it quiets every anxious thought in your head.
he grins at you like you just hung a medal around his neck. “good job, gorgeous.” he praises.
you can only look at him, face blooming, contorted as your body slowly finishes riding out it’s orgasm on his hand.
will’s fingers slow, remaining inside you.
your chest rises and falls as you look at will with an intensity he’s never seen before.
you refuse to look anywhere else but him.
for a moment, neither of you say anything.
it’s fine.
you’re just staring at each other, heavy breathing filling the silence.
partly because both of you can’t believe what just happened.
“i didn’t — done that before.”
will’s face falls into a soft amusement, his lips tugging at the sides. “you what?”
“i mean!—” you facepalm a second, eyes closing as you try to think of what you’re trying to say. “. . i’ve never done that before. i don’t even—was—was ‘at supposed to happen?” you gulp.
anxiety immediately begins to set in.
oh god, did you just pee?!
will’s chuckle drowns out any second-guessing as he inches close enough that your noses touch, his voice smooth like honey. “that’s the hottest thing that could have happened . . .” his hair tickles you, “can’t teach that.”
your face burns, chest still rising as you refuse to meet his gaze.
will slowly retreats his hand, apologising when he notices the furrow in your brows at the discomfort and emptiness. “sorry gorgeous.”
you wipe your sweaty palms on your thighs that even feel sensitive while your eyes find the door, a weird sinking filling your chest.
that was a really stupid thing to do.
you don’t regret it.
you look back to will, waiting for him to make a move while you wait for the embarrassment to rush in any second now. it always does.
instead, he holds out both his hands for you to take.
still catching your breath, you take them.
he smiles, steadying you as you slide carefully off the washing machine. your legs wobble, but his grip tightens instinctively around your hands.
your legs are like jelly.
once you’re steady, he lets go, but he stays where he is, in front of you, watching you tuck your hair behind your ear.
his eyes dart across your face, the soft glow to it whether from him or the heat of the small room. “you okay?” he tucks a strand you missed.
you nod, too embarrassed to speak. hardly able to look at him.
he senses it. “i hope you meant what you said.”
you freeze, head snapping to him. “what did i say?”
will lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his had with a little smile. “about you wanting me to keep annoying you . . paying you attention . .” he teases.
you give his shoulder a playful shove. he barely moves. “ok.”
“your days would be boring without me—”
“—ok will!” another pathetic shove, still feeling loose on your feet.
“alright, alright.” he’s laughing now, catching your wrist before you can push him again. “just making sure you remembered.”
“i do,” you say, pulling away. “and . . i meant it.”
he smiles. “good. i meant what i said too.”
“about what?”
“about how you better not be a weirdo and start hiding on me again,” he sways on his feet, hands shoved in his pockets. “i don’t want you feeling like you ever need to avoid me . .” your eyes soften, “. . or worry i’m gonna tell anyone. this stays between us. whatever it is we do . .”
your shoulders loosen without meaning to.
the knot that’s been sitting in your chest since the kiss finally begins to ease.
he notices the perk up. you smile. “okay . . cool.”
“cool.” he smiles back.
before either of you can say anything else, before you can stand any longer just looking at each other, the laundry room door swings open. “YO! will!”
it’s one of the guys from the hockey team.
he walks in carrying an overflowing basket, not a shirt on, a towel around his neck.
will steps back so naturally you’d almost think nothing had happened. “what’s up?”
“you here?” he nods towards the empty machine.
“nah, all yours.”
“sweet.” the guy glances between the two of you. “hey.”
“hey,” you answer, hoping your face isn’t still flaming. he bends down, beginning to sort his washing without another thought.
will reaches for his own basket, then looks at yours. “you heading back to your dorm?”
you nod.
“i’ll carry that for you.”
he says it as casually as asking what time it is, already lifting it before you’ve answered.
you can’t help the small smile that escapes. “thanks smitty . . ”
“don’t mention it,” he shoots you a wink. “just focus on getting up those stairs on your own.”
you give him a look, and somehow, with him carrying your laundry and teasing you exactly like before — it feels like nothing has changed.
Guys I'm really craving an extremely well-written, long, really angsty, fluffy, x reader fic with will smith hockey written in 3rd person with a sickeningly sweet happy ending UGH
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as the new nutritional coach, you’re tasked with the hefty burden of fixing will’s diet. will likes to please…most of the time.
wc: 6.0k
tags! nsfw, pitcher!will smith, mlb au, oral fem receiving, spit kink, infamous back video irl, will is annoying asf, none of this makes sense, probable baseball inaccuracies, catcher!macklin (dynamic duo in every universe), not proof read, tons of dialogue, wsh is in love with you and his love language is making treats <3, kind of open ending I gave up lol
Will Smith is one of the best rookie pitchers in Major League Baseball.
It’s rare for someone so young to be taken out of the minors, but he was drafted straight out of high school, deemed too good a prospect to fuck around in college ball. So it wasn’t much of a surprise when a Shark’s reliever got injured at the beginning of the season, and the only player who could fill his shoes was Will.
It was just surprising how well he fit in. He wasn’t phased when the second batter he’d ever faced off against hit a home run. Then he went on to only allow two runs on base before he closed the game out two innings later. He’d go on to say in the post-game interview that it was his infield that played well that night, but everyone who was a Sharks fan went to sleep buzzing that they finally had a competent pitcher. One that wasn’t a thousand years old, one who wasn’t simply there to end their career after the better teams were done with them, because the Sharks were never an organization deemed capable of anything.
Except now. They’ve got Will, and Macklin, who, well, only got a few months in the minors before getting thrown in the big boy’s locker room, the sounds of Spanish and Japanese and English all mixing into one and freaking him out.
It’s why Mack clung to Will, only two years his senior.
They were cute. Their diets, however, were not.
Macklin was excusable. He was eighteen, nineteen in a couple of months, and you had worked with him then in spring training. He had been used to eating his mother’s cobbler pies and stuffing his face with whatever he could get ahold of. He had a good metabolism. He was malleable and took every piece of information you gave him with big, intense eyes, like he wanted to absorb it all, to be his best.
He confided in you the things he ate that his ever-so-strict father didn’t know about. So you smiled and gave him better snack options to satiate his growing body.
Will Smith, on the other hand, had the worst diet you’ve ever seen.
Not like alcohol, or anything, because you’ve had to have conversations about that with some players. No. It was the oddest thing.
He didn’t eat enough. He wasn’t eating enough protein from whole foods. He was addicted to protein shakes. He was consistently eating less than his teammates of the same stature.
And that day, in the second week of the season, when you finally were able to get an appointment with him because he was such a last-minute addition to the roster, he smiled, talking about all the desserts he makes. Copious amounts. His sugar intake was twice that of the other guys.
He didn’t look like it either—look like he ate brownies and banana bread four days out of the week, you mean. His words you’re quoting. He said it while grinning too, happily telling you the things he made for his triple-A team the past two years, and how he’d have to start doing the same with the guys here.
Which was so confusing.
You had pictures of him shirtless. It was part of tracking their performance throughout the season. He was all muscle, curves melded from strength, and tan, but that last part didn’t matter at all, obviously. Moving on.
He was leaner than the pitcher league standard. In short, he was too skinny. Too susceptible to injuries for anyone’s liking.
He threw like hell, though. Some guys just had phantom strength, and maybe he was one of them, chocolate chip cookies and all.
When you first met him that day, backwards cap on, blonde hair sticking out the back and sides, chewing gum extremely loud, he had the composure of someone older, infinitely more experienced. Maybe some people would describe it as cockiness, but that didn’t fully ring true to you.
He was still erratic on the edges. His fingers thumped on the armrest across from you. He assessed your office with a lazy look that was anything but.
“You look pretty young for this, you know?” he says on your second meeting a week later, and all you can focus on is the obnoxious pink bubblegum in his mouth. His teeth were pretty. His lips dark pink and always wet.
“Same goes for you,” you reply, flipping through your binders and coming up to his, which was practically empty.
“Thanks,” he grins. He was annoying. He took his hat off for a second, running his hand through his blonde hair, before placing it back. “‘Preciate it.”
“So,” you start, professional, “how are we managing that sugar intake?”
He huffs out a laugh. You told him to cut back this week. “It’s less, I think.”
“You’re making those meals I told you to?” You can only survey his breakfasts before morning practice and his pre-game dinners when he’s at the ballpark. You can only control so much. You were seriously at a massive disadvantage getting him after spring training. You swear, when you talked to the triple-A nutrition team, they laughed when you asked about Will, like he was some lost cause. How he was getting through the cracks of a major, profitable sports organization, you can’t figure out.
“Yeah, I’m a pretty good cook.”
“Are you? Most of the guys need their girlfriends to—“
“Nah, I can work a stove.”
“Okay,” you blink, a little taken aback because he cut you off so fast. It was merely a suggestion…“I want you to keep at it. Build a little bit more muscle mass, and we can get your fastball up to a 97.”
He nods, like he doesn’t fully believe you, like he will not take this seriously.
“You actually have to listen now, Will. Did you bake anything this week?”
“Made my family chocolate chip cookies, but I only had one, I swear.”
You can’t tell if he’s smiling so hard because he’s lying or because he loves himself so much or because he thinks literally everything is a joke.
“You sure?”
His face turns pink. “Of course. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
You notice the glint of his silver chain peeking out over his compression shirt. He had an easy day today: resting to pitch on Sunday. The thing about him was that he was such a liability. He was designated reliever, and the head coach limited him to one game a week, if that. They were so worried about busting up his arm, all this media pressure about him, that it meant he spent a lot of time resting. A lot of time to bake, he had said, it gets boring.
You squint your eyes at him. “Really?”
He smiles, settles back in his chair, “Never, coach.”
It really shouldn’t have sent a rush of electricity up your spine. The other guys call you that because they have no clue how to name you. Sometimes it’s miss, or ma’am, because they’re older than you, but Will…Will says it intentionally, slowly, like he wants you to react to it. You shake your head. You want him out of your office.
“One pound this week, okay? Pete’s gonna get your weight before we go down the coast on Monday.”
“I’ll exceed your expectations,” he jokes, pushing up and off the chair.
—
Sometimes, you like to go out and watch the outfielders catch in the morning. Sometimes, it’s the bullpen warming up on the grass. Usually, this is a nice way to get sun, being cramped in an office 24/7 and all.
But Will is there now, obviously. The first thing you can hear is his gum smacking between his teeth. He’s fidgeting with Mack’s bat, one white gloved hand against gold skin, the other he’s holding between his arm and body, and his hat is actually put on the right way for once. He’s talking with the younger one at the dugout, and Mack seems content with Will stealing his things, like it happens too often to get fussy about. Will probably hadn’t hit since he was fifteen years old, but he still liked to be an annoyance in practice.
“Hey, coach,” Will says first, his head turning as he hears a new pair of feet on the grass.
“Hi!” Mack says, all enthusiastic. His hair flops awkwardly to the side, face red, but it’s always red.
“Hi, guys,” you say, opting to look at who is batting instead of either of them. That’s what you were there to do anyway. “Has Will been sticking to his diet, Mack?”
“Uhhhhhhh,” Mack’s head vigorously swivels between the both of you, like he doesn’t know if he should lie, even if he’s already made it obvious with the hesitation.
“I take that as a no.”
“Hey! Mack, shut the fuck up. I’ve been sticking to my diet. I’ve gained two pounds. You know that.”
“Yeah but we had banana bread last night. Sorry.” His head falls, like he’s committed some grave mistake. Will shoves him in the side.
“Less sugar. I swear, I made it with like a tablespoon of sugar. It was like, organic or some shit. With walnuts.”
You hum, not looking at the frazzled blond next to you. Eklund just hit a home run. “That’s good then.”
“Yeah, Celly, you’re so stupid.”
“It’s not my fault that you—“
Will strikes the boy with his own wood bat.
“I’m going to go now.” You say, trying to remove yourself from the argument you seemingly created. “Good job, Will.”
“Oh,” he straightens himself out. Mack is holding his forearm in pain. “Thanks, coach.”
You give him a curt smile, watching Eky bunt a slow pitch before you turn and leave.
—
You catch him eating sour gummies in the hallway. He’s waiting for Mack to come out of the locker room.
“Oh fuck,” he says, trying to put them behind his back but you’ve already caught him.
“In the hallways?” You ask, one eyebrow quirking up.
“Quick carbs. I swear. We’re about to go to lift.”
You study him for a second. He’s wearing a sleeveless tank and white sneakers. His nose is pink from being caught. His hair falls over his forehead quite nicely.
But he’s wearing these thin gray shorts, and you catch a glance at his dick print. You didn’t even— you weren’t even trying to look for one. It was just there. You know they wear cups all the time, but he’s not wearing one now, and that’s possibly worse.
“Oh. You got caught, Smitty.” Mack emerges from the locker room, and suddenly you remember where you are. It felt like you were the one being caught.
“Okay. I believe you.” You say to Will after a moment, face hot, twirling your ID lanyard between your fingers.
“I’ll, uhm, choose something better next time.”
“Have to go,” you say, not responding, muttering about paperwork, brushing past Will as you leave. You need to get ahold of yourself.
—
Will Smith brings cookies to your office on Monday mornings now.
So he’s ‘not tempted’ he says each time.
“You can stop buying the ingredients,” you always say, and he shrugs you off, some lame excuses running off his tongue. You could tell he likes to give gifts, so you don’t think much of it. He was giving baked treats to his teammates while he thought you weren’t looking. You knew though.
He never says they’re for you specifically either, just that he made too many, even if he’s at your door eight o’clock sharp every Monday.
—
You find yourself once again, on the border of outfield, right by the bullpen. You spotted one of your coworkers who takes care of the field, and now you’re chatting it up with her, watching a couple of the guys lob balls and fuck around. It’s three hours before a game, and none of them are in their uniforms yet. It’s sweltering hot in San Jose.
And the bane of your existence is there too. He hasn’t noticed you yet. It’s not weird, really, a lot of the staff members flow in and out, walk the length of the stadium, trudge through the stupid shenanigans the guys pull in the cemented corridors. There are a lot of coaches and personnel and whatnot.
And you like baseball, and you’ve grown to like a lot of the players. Obviously not Will Smith, though.
You notice, as you talk to your friend, two players grabbing a huge water jug from the bullpen. You don’t click two and two together until they’re right up behind Will, heaving it over their heads and then—
He’s drenched. There was no time for him to react. It soaked his warm-up shirt, making it cling to his body.
“That’s not good,” your friend says. Yeah, definitely not.
He wipes the water from his face and runs a hand through his wet hair. You hear him cursing, but you’re too far away to know the exacts, can’t read his lips because he’s facing away from you. You watch in slow motion as his large hands find the back of the collar, dragging it up and off his body. The water sticks and shimmers and makes his olive tan pop. His back muscles flex, and the dip of his spine is so…pretty. His body was thick. It’s a buzzy thought knowing you helped him get that way—stronger, more toned. He’s got new fat around his hips. He fills out his white pants better.
He flicks beads of water off his hair as he shakes his head like a golden retriever.
He turns, just the smallest bit, and sees you there, hand over your mouth, and grins. It only lasts for a second until he’s turning back to his teammates, laughing, but he knew you were there. Truly mortifying.
—
“You stalking me or something, coach?”
“Excuse me?”
“The other day,” he goes on, and waits for you to fill the silence. You don’t. You tried very hard to burn that image of his back out of your mind. You tossed and turned in bed, counting sheep, imagining distant, faraway lands that Will Smith could not venture to, but alas, it was no use. You remembered it, vividly. “Did you tell them to do that?”
“What? Of course, not. No. I was just there when it happened.”
“Right.” He sits across from you, in the chair, like he always does. “Am I doing good?”
You don’t follow.
“Do I look bulkier? I’ve gained a lot of muscle. What do you think?”
“I saw your recent body comp photos.” You say, ignoring the insinuation that you looked for long enough at his bare back to gather information. What a stupid thing to think, Will. “Yes, you’re following everything well. I’m impressed.”
“I can follow commands, you know. I’m good at that.”
“Except for when I caught you eating candy.”
“Except for that.”There’s a pause. “You sure I haven’t gained too much? I’ve got these love handles now—“
“You look a lot more like your teammates, Will. That’s good. We don’t want you getting injured.”
He shifts in the chair, tapping the armrest anxiously. “If you weren’t my coach,” he starts, cheeks pink, hair messy, “what would you think?”
“But I am your coach.”
He shakes his head. “What were you thinking when you saw me then?”
“That…that you’ve been eating the things I’ve been telling you to.”
“Yeah? That’s it?”
You nod, eyeing him, really, really, not wanting to let this go further. If you fall, you won’t ever be able to get back up.
He’s always noticed the way you take a millisecond longer to answer him compared to his teammates. How you look at Mack like a child, but then look at him and get all fussy and defensive, even through your professional jargon and demeanor. He picks up on lots of cues. He’s pretty smart like that, even though he denies it.
He’s wanted you from the moment he stepped into your office the second week of the season. He almost thinks it’s unfair, how whenever he eats, whenever he cooks those horrible healthy meals, he has to think of you.
He’s noticed when your eyes trail down, how you stutter over a word when you usually speak so clearly. He has terrible dreams about fucking you in your office, about kissing you until you shut up about his diet and all the nuances of new data and research that he couldn’t care less about.
“Okay,” he agrees, and some of the tension eases. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
You gawk.
“Got to go, coach.”
“You’re lucky, Will Smith.” He turns, sees you lean back in your chair, arms crossed over your chest, staring right back at him. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“That’s all I needed to hear.” That big, bright smile is permanently plastered on his face. You frown.
—
He comes in after a game. It started in the early afternoon, so it’s not too late, not too weird that Will Smith, the star rookie pitcher, has hung around. He didn’t play either. He came just to ask a question about a new meal you had given him to make, nothing serious.
You find yourself having a productive conversation, like, about nothing and everything. He’s quite charming in that he can reel you in. He’s a good talker.
“It’s just so disgusting—all the spitting.” You say, “I mean, I know why. It’s the body producing a thicker protein—“
He groans out loud. “I don’t understanddd. The words are too big.”
“I haven’t even said anything remotely confusing.”
“You know I’m a little slow, coach.”
“Come on, don’t say that.”
“I like it when you’re nice to me.” He says, totally out of the blue. Your brows furrow. “You look really pretty tonight.”
“Thank you?” You question, sitting up a little straighter, fixing your hair because you don’t know what to do with your trembling fingers. “Totally unprofessional though, Will.”
“Forgot,” he replies, eyes dark, “you’ve seen me with the press. I’m kind of bad at that.”
“Well, thanks, Smitty. You’re being awfully open today.”
He beams when you use his nickname. You’ve never done that before.
“I’m doing good, right?” He asks you this every time you meet, like he thinks you’ll change your mind, like he needs the reassurance that he’s sticking to your plan, that he’s making good progress. But lately, you think the phrase might have multiple meanings.
“Haven’t seen you eating candy, so I think yes.” You smile at him, and his heart bursts open.
“Sometimes I wish you weren’t my coach, you know.”
You’d be offended if you didn’t know exactly what he meant.
“Go get a girlfriend, please. You’re starting to think this is something else—“
“It’s real. You know it is.”
“You’re—“ your voice falters, looking over him again. His mouth forms a tight line as he watches the way you shift uncomfortably. “Go home, Smitty. It’s late.”
“Is it your bedtime?” He jokes. You glare at him.
“Go get laid.”
“God, you’re so fucking hot telling me what to do.”
You burn, electric shocks like warning signals shooting down every limb, every nerve ending in your body.
“Will.”
“Yeah?”
“I want you to go home and fuck some other girl. Forget about me, okay?”
He curses and stands up because you’ve given him direct orders.
“When can I have you?” He places his palms on your desk, leans over so his hair falls in his eyes, and he’s only a few inches from your face.
“You want to get me fired, huh?”
“You’d only get fired if they caught us.”
“That’s reassuring,” the sarcasm thick in your voice.
“When you talk about your stupid micronutrients and solubility and whatever the fuck you talk about, I just want to bend you over this desk.”
“You don’t pay attention to any of what I say?” You veer away from the atomic bomb he’s just detonated.
“Only the important things.”
You huff, looking sideways. You’re pushing your legs together, warm.
“Open your mouth.”
“What?” You peer up at him, confused. He just tilts his head and repeats the phrase, slower this time.
And you find yourself doing it. You swear, you blacked out, some other evil force took hold of your brain and made you part your lips, slack your jaw. He grins, eyes darting over your face.
He leans down, and you see his cheeks moving, a string of saliva falling from between his lips, and it lands right in your waiting mouth. Your eyes go wide, but you let this all happen. It had to be a dream. You’ll wake up soon, surely.
“It’s gross, huh?” He says. You swallow it, sputtering, coughing into your arm because it tickles your throat and also because this is the most humiliating thing you’ve ever done.
“It’s so disgusting.” You say, voice small, head spinning, even though you swallowed him without complaint. “Not—not tonight, Will.”
He pouts, eyes never leaving your lips.
“Go cool off. You’re not thinking straight.”
“You aren’t either, coach.”
“Yeah, but I’m the smart one here, remember?”
“Fuck, you just let me spit in your mouth. I think I’m in love with you.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Give me a kiss. Just one,” he pleads, eyes big, his palms never leaving the surface of your desk. He’s still leaning over. His back must hurt.
You meet his lips for a chaste kiss. You only just touch him, and it’s more like a middle-school-esque, first-time-ever kiss, but it sends Will crazy. He watches you lean back, all small, bending down to grab your work bag and stuff things away.
“Leave before someone finds you, you hot-shot.” You say, and the nickname should make him feel embarrassed because you try to say it in this teasing lilt, but he’s overjoyed. He leaves with a big smile on his face. You’re so fucked.
—
“You should really start bringing these to your girlfriend.”
“You know I don’t have one.”
He comes in on Monday morning, like usual. A cute plastic bag with a bow wrapped around it in hand. Inside are ten cookies stacked on top of each other.
“Just making sure,” you say. He places the bag down in front of all your paperwork, nods, takes a second longer to look at you, then tells you to have a good week, like he always does.
—
It’s 11:32 at night.
You hear rapping at your door, loud, hurried.
“Coach?”
You don’t recognize the voice at first. You have a lot of men saying things to you all day, and the voice is muffled a bit through the heavy hotel room door.
You aren’t up for visitors, and for a split second, you think it might just be another assistant coach there to ask you about what they’re eating for lunch tomorrow or something, but there aren’t many people who call you coach. You slink out of bed, pausing the show you were watching, and peek through the hole. Your stomach drops.
“What the hell are you doing?” You say through the door, your heart thumping loud in your chest. Out of all people, you did not expect Will Smith to be here, to be so bold. A million questions are swirling in your head. How did he know where your room was? Is he trying to actively get you fired? Is this some fucked up prank between him and Mack?
“Please just let me in, before someone sees.” He’s looking to his left and right, his cap low on his face.
You hesitate for a second. Even though he’s worried about the consequences, it doesn’t seem like he’ll budge if you ignore him. It’s better to just talk to him inside. Maybe you’ll get to slap him. That sounds nice.
He slides past you, bringing his hand up to help you close the door. His eyes immediately lock on you. He’s clad in a gray sharks hoodie and black sweatpants. His little hair wings are coming from his hat like a cute accessory.
“Wow.” Is all he says. You flush. You’re just wearing an oversized sleep shirt and scrunched-up socks, which is such a stark deviation from what he normally sees you in. He knows slacks and pretty sweaters because your office gets so cold with the AC blasting all day long.
“Why—how—where—?” You try to get one coherent thing out, but it all jumbles up. Any sort of confrontation you were going to say dies on your tongue.
“Hi,” he grins, turning his head to look at your room. You instantly flush. It was a mess, with your suitcase half-unpacked and things scattered on the floor and your thong….
“You need to get out of here,” you plead.
“I like what you’ve done to the place.” He walks further in. His gaze tracks down to your thong, lying beside your bed. You try to kick it under with your feet as you follow close behind.
“Will, whatever you think happened the other week—it just—nothing happened, okay?”
“Are you acting out cause you liked it so much?” He sits down on your bed, smiling, taking you in. He’s never seen you like this, and he feels like he needs to savour it.
“You’re breaking a dozen rules right now.”
“Answer my question.” He’s not angry. His face is monotone. He looks up at you, his hands bracing his knees. He takes his cap off. His hair is loose, curly blond streaks framing his face, just how you like it.
“I think you’re a freak.”
“Then what are you?”
You groan, crossing your chest and going around the side of the bed to pick up your bags of snacks and haphazardly placed clothes.
“I seriously didn’t plan this whole thing. Just…an urge. I only saw your room number by accident on a sheet of paper and I—I was going to message you on instagram after last week, but I chickened out.”
He’s shifted more on the bed so his thigh rests on it, half his torso turned in your direction. You make eye contact.
“That’s good. You’re getting better at fighting your temptations.”
“I’m really not. Came to see you.” He deadpans, looks down at your bare legs.
“Are you going to leave?”
“Why would I?”
You frown at his teasing voice, deciding not to respond. You tidy all the loose things instead.
“I know you want me.”
“Yeah, right. No offense, Will, but I can get my needs satisfied elsewhere.”
“Is elsewhere a person, or an object?”
You stutter around sounds. “Will, stop. That isn’t funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke. I’m curious.” You huff at that, literally stomping your leg on the ground because he’s starting to piss you off.
“You’re pitching tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“So you really shouldn’t—you should be asleep or something. Sleep is as important as nutrition—“
He groans, falls back on your bed like it’s his. His lips were wet from his tongue darting out, his blond hair splayed across the white bedding. He looked way too good. It wasn’t fair.
“Your bed is better, and Mack is annoying me.”
“How is that my issue?” You are mortified that he’s bringing up a teammate. It forces you to remember who you are in relation to him, how wrong this all is.
Will stares at the ceiling. “I have this…superstition.”
“Oh god. What is it?” You’re still at the edge of the bed, standing over him. Your voice is filled with anxiety.
“I need to—uh—eat a girl out before I play. Makes me pitch well, I think.”
Silence fills the room. “You think?!”
“Well, I know.” He turns his head, his cheek resting on the plush comforter. He blinks slowly at you.
“And there weren’t 500 other women in the metropolitan area that you could prey on?”
“We got in late,” he whines, “and Mack’s being all annoying because coach critiqued him hard, so he doesn’t want to go out.”
You shake your head and give him this incredulous look. “I don’t even know what you’re asking of me.”
“‘Course you do. You’re smart.”
“Absolutely not. I’m not doing that.”
“Come on,” he sits up, scoots closer to you. You’re unconsciously pouting your lips in frustration, your arms across your chest, guarded. “I want to thank you for all the work you’ve done.”
“A ‘thank you’ is perfectly fine, actually.” Your body is so hot, nerves tingling all throughout.
“Can I confess something?” You slowly nod your head. You’re too deep into this now. “When you told me to go home and find someone else, I couldn’t bring myself to. Can’t stop thinking of you.”
“You’re lying.” You move away, settling at the top of the bed, the furthest away you can get. Your body is pressed up against the headboard.
“I’m a bad liar. You’d know if I was.” He fucking crawls over to you. His hands land on the bedding on either side of your bent legs. He’s eye level to you, so much closer than before. “I need to play well tomorrow.”
“I can’t--“ your voice falters. This man, this pretty boy athlete, is begging to make out with your cunt. It sounds a lot better than what you had planned for the night—absolutely nothing. He leans in closer, eyes locked on your lips that are surely quivering under his gaze.
“Can I change your mind, baby?” Your head moves to nod before you can think it through. He’s kissing you, soft and tender, and his large hand is gripping your bare thigh. “I won’t ask for anything else.” He moves down to your jawline, pressing his lips all over. “I’ll be good for you, then I’ll go.”
He’s so odd. One second, he’s cocky; the next, he wants praise. He does it often in your office innocently, and it must have something to do with wanting to please everyone around him, but trying to mask it.
“Y-yeah,” you agree, “be good for me.”
He beams at those words. He’s got extra pep in his step, his pupils dilating. He finds the hem of your shirt and lifts it up slowly to expose your pretty skin. You lift your hips unprompted. He smiles at your boy shorts. They cling to your skin. You look so small pressed into the bed like this. Your shirt gets pushed up under your breasts, but he doesn’t strip you fully.
“When do you wear those?” He turns his head to look down at the floor, where your thong lies.
“No panty lines under my pants,” you answer, teeth between lip.
“You wear thongs at work?”
“It’s not—it’s not weird, Will.”
“I know it’s not, but that…wow.” It looks like he’s thinking about all the outfits he’s seen you wearing at work, wrapping his head around the concept of just a strip of fabric underneath while he sat across from you, unknowingly.
You slap his arm lightly. “Are you gonna do this or what?”
“Yeah—yes.” he falls in place, his mouth kissing up the inside of your thigh. He drags his fangs over your sensitive skin, and it already has your toes curling.
“This is only because of your superstition,” you say, more to yourself than him, as he pulls your shorts down.
“Of course.” He’s dumbstruck. You’re so pretty.
You didn’t expect the rookie to ever be good at this. Young men like him never are. They fumble around for a few minutes before they decide it’s been long enough. Though Will is a pretty talented person, all things considered, so you should have known.
You should have known he’d spit on your cunt. He lets the saliva fall from his mouth, and you watch the whole thing. It’s so disgustingly hot. He runs his rough fingers over your folds, mixing your wetness and his spit together. You’re already jerking your hips up.
Will grips you like you’ll fly away, latching onto your pussy and rarely coming up to breathe. He spreads you out with two fingers, pulling and sucking and kissing you in all the right places. He knows when you need more, knows when you’re feeling overwhelmed because your hand in his hair tugs harder, your thighs around his head trembling.
“So sweet, like candy,” he mutters against you. He’s out of breath, gasping for air. His pretty blue eyes blink slowly up at you. He has one of your legs on his shoulder now, heel digging into his muscular back. The other is spread wide, almost falling off the edge of the bed.
How embarrassing—you can’t put it into words—how humiliating of him to compare your sex organ to the sugary things he consumes. It sends your brain into a spiral. You run your hands through his locks, and he smiles, lips wet with your slick. “I knew you’d like it.”
“Shut up.”
And he listens, licking a long stripe down your center. He laps at all your wetness, groaning softly when it starts to get everywhere. It gets on his cheeks, coating the pink blush around his face, then on your thighs and into the bedsheets. You feel his pointer finger prodding your entrance, and you gasp, your body tightening up at the pressure. He stops his assault on your clit. “Ya have to relax, baby.” That nickname, again.
You nod, quiet sobs through your closed mouth. You’ve been trying to be as quiet as possible. The walls are thin. He’s making it one of the hardest things you’ve ever done.
Will lets you squirm around his fingers, watching the way you writhe against the pillows. He’s already thinking about when this is over, when he has to make the treacherous journey back to his room, and how he’ll explain to Mack the reason he was gone. He hates that thought.
He adds his tongue and it’s blinding white pleasure. His fingers curl forward, brushing that spongy part inside of you as he sucks your bundle of nerves. It really isn’t long before you’re crumpling under him, just a total wreck. You say his name as you do, and he’s never been more pleased with himself. He made the girl he’s been pining after cum. He kisses all over your legs, up between the crease of your hip and thigh, around your belly button. You’re panting as you come down, and whine when his fingers leave you. Will looked a mess. His eyes were blown out, his hair a mess from your death grip. This was the best he’s ever looked.
“Was it good enough for you?” He asks, lips and cheeks glistening with your arousal.
“What do you think?” You close your eyes. Your body was slumped into the bed, unable to really move.
“Need you to say it.”
“F-fine. It was really good, Smitty.”
He sighs dreamily, squeezing your thighs one last time before he gets up out of bed. The creak of the springs makes your eyes open. You ache. You don’t want him to go. “Don’t—“ you hear yourself say. You feel like your body is somewhere else, but your voice is in this room. He looks at you, expectantly.
“Yeah?” Your eyes are still a bit blurry, but you notice the subtle movement of his hands over his crotch, how he adjusts himself in his black sweats. Maybe it would be easier to hide on anyone else, but you knew he wasn’t particularly small. You saw his dick print that day, and even soft, you could tell. Jesus Christ.
You can’t get yourself to say ‘stay’, so instead you resort to, “I can help you, too.”
“Hmm, you’re tired, coach.”
“No, no, I’m not.” You try to lift yourself onto your forearms, but you kind of fail and fall back into the pillows. He laughs.
“I have to get back.”
You nod. You see him turn to the bathroom, the light turning on. He comes back out with a towel. He doesn’t have you all over his face anymore.
“This can’t happen again,” You say as he cleans you up.
“We will see.”
“I’m serious.” He shimmies your shirt down so it covers you again. He grins because he knows in his heart of hearts that it’s not true.
“You’d better play well tomorrow, or I’ll….I can’t think right now.”
His fingers pet through your hair for a brief moment. It shocks you, how tender it is. “I’ll play good, don’t worry.” It happens quickly; your door is opening and closing, and he’s gone.
Before you fall asleep, you turn over to check your phone on the nightstand and notice your thong isn’t there on the floor anymore. Your heart hammers loudly in your chest, thinking about Will with your underwear in his pocket, going back up the elevator to sleep in his twin bed next to his best friend, still hard.
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also i’m just gonna say as someone who haaaaaated nick in the handmaid’s tale i think garth is a significantly more interesting and endearing character
ik im on the minority but i need the writers to give me daisygarth. im so sorry i swear i tried with agnesgarth but they're not giving what i thought they were going to give; idk if its just the actors not having romantic chemistry or the writers not doing their job developing their relationship but its not working.
daisy and garth have so much chemistry and i know that the writers are doing something with them bc that scene in ep 5 when he got closer to her and she got all nervous???? garth did that like 5 seconds before the commanders started leaving that room. he deadass just got close to her bc he wanted to. then when she's asking how he's going to get out of his marriage with becka and he explains that he never expected love in the way she's referring to, all while his eyes flickered between her eyes and lips?? there was a vibe and daisy felt it too, that's why she had to look away. and then ep 9 when his voice and eyes go all soft because he was worried sick for her???
im sorry agnesgarth but youre BONES. i think garth does care about agnes because she's such a sweet girl but not #likethat and agnes is not in love with him lets be honest she doesnt know him at all. he's just a fantasy.
YOU’D WROTE IT DOWN on your page as an idea, leaving it to sit while thinking up alternatives as well as. the team didn’t need megabucks, but enough money to cover updated music licensing, choreography fees, and part of the travel costs for an upcoming competition. so, practice ended up turning into a full team discussion about ways to raise money fast.
most of the ideas thrown around were either too expensive, too complicated, or realistically never going to happen. somewhere in the middle of it, you’d half-jokingly suggested a cheer car wash along with a bunch of other ideas, not thinking anyone would actually take it seriously.
coach did.
she liked that it was cheap to set up, easy to advertise around campus and something people would actually show up for. by the end of practice, she assigned groups, told you to get posters designed and printed by the end of the week, and said she expected everyone to have cash boxes, supplies, and enough publicity sorted for saturday morning.
what was supposed to be a throwaway suggestion suddenly turned into your responsibility.
so here you were, refilling everyone’s buckets of clean, soapy water, standing in a pair of tiny, unbuttoned denim shorts, a white shirt tied in a knot above your belly button, the sleeves rolled up. freshman and sophomores of the team held a bake sale inside while juniors and seniors were left with the car wash.
it wasn’t so bad, you’d actually laughed a lot with the girls. the sun was out, you had music playing and a lot of the cars you were cleaning had women in the driving seat. you recounted the cash in the tin box tucked safely under the table, feeling happy and on on track with the progress.
the cars don’t stop. another rolls in as you close it, a pair of young guys in some old truck, and you point them to the left to take tasha’s group while kayla’s finish up.
you’re halfway through scrubbing the hood of some jeep when you feel it before you see it.
the familiar, irritating presence lingering somewhere nearby.
“sheesh,” a whistle cuts the air, “this should be illegal to watch for free.”
you slowly turn around.
“looks like you’ve found your calling gorgeous - secured that future of yours.”
you inwardly growl as he winks at you.
“i didn’t know they let the retirement home out for the day.”
“didn’t know freshmen were allowed off campus unsupervised,” you stare at him flatly. “what are you doing smitty?”
“came to support the elderly.”
you roll your eyes and turn away.
he smiles, chewing on gum in his signature relaxed, handsome, comfortable manner. “you know,” he says, eyeing the line of cars, “freshmen would’ve finished this whole lot by now.”
“ha—ha.”
“probably would’ve made more money too.”
that gets your attention. “excuse me?”
he shrugs innocently. “fresh faces, more energy . . . less wrinkles, y’know.”
you run your tongue over your teeth irritably. “then why don’t you go support them?”
“i support all women,” he says solemnly.
you ignore him, going back to cleaning the car beside you.
he hops the fence, coming closer, still at a distance but now on the same side. switching his hat from the front to back, he speaks again, “so what time’d you get home from the party? think i last saw you when i was leaving at uh . . 3AM.”
“oh, you’re on fire today, smitty,” you reply dryly, refusing to look at him. “was it definitely me you saw or one of your little fangirls you bumped into?”
“nah, left with her.”
your head snaps toward him before you can stop it.
he catches it instantly.
and god, he looks pleased with himself.
you hate the smirk he shoots you even more when he doesn’t follow it up with i’m joking.
you swallow, looking back at the car. “nice. blonde or brunette?”
“both.”
he doesn’t see you react but he sees your movement stutter as that god-awful narrative pops into your head. “jeez, smitt, you sound like you could do with a cooling off,” picking up the hose next to you.
“you offering to get me wet?”
your hand falters, face dropping. he laughs proudly.
2-0.
you turn back toward the jeep before he sees the the small burn in your face, dragging the sponge across the windshield harder than necessary. “you know,” he says from closer now—too close, again—“i’m actually surprised brad let you do this.”
you pause, looking over your shoulder. “why wouldn’t he?”
he shrugs a shoulder. “whole lotta guys staring at his girlfriend in tiny shorts . . feels like something he’d crash out over.”
“he doesn’t care.”
“he cared when i was talking to you fully clothed.”
“that’s just ’cause it’s you,” you scoff, scrubbing harder.
a beat follows.
you realise after you’ve said it.
will’s ego practically inflates in real time. “oh it is, is it?”
cold water blasts across his shirt, darkening the grey fabric instantly, droplets catching across his jaw and cheekbones. he jerks back half a step, laughing under his breath, one hand coming up too late as water hits his stupid, sculpted face.
you lower the hose, trying not to smile.
will smirks, wipes a hand slowly over his mouth and takes a step closer. “missed a spot.”
“yeah, your face,” you turn back around, resuming the car.
“no, the windscreen, actually. on the car you’re supposed to be cleaning? instead of me?”
“sorry, you looked a little dirty.”
“oh i’m filthy.”
he doesn’t see your blush, but he sees your pause, already guessing the face you’re pulling.
you continue to scrub harder as he approaches, slowly sauntering over, watching you.
“oh yeah, right there gorgeous, that’s the spot—”
“WILL!” you bark, turning around, furiously wiping the strands of hair from your face. “quit it.”
“or what?”
he sees you reach for the hose and bolts — racing you for it but you pluck it up quickly and spray him directly in the face, a sharp burst of water catching him across the mouth and chin. only for a quarter of a second, because he’s on you, his hand closing around yours on the trigger, firm enough to stop the spray instantly as his body crowds yours. it pushes you back against the side of the truck with a startled breath, his body cowering yours.
you hold a breath.
you can feel the weight of him everywhere — the heat coming off his soaked shirt, his thigh pressed against yours, the sharp rise and fall of his breathing from running. you can smell him everywhere, the mix of musky cologne and clean cotton of t-shirt; a curl of his hair tickles your cheek as you both wrestle for the nozzle.
he’s looking at you as water drips from his mouth down to his chin, falling off in droplets. “trying to drown me?”
his voice is low but amused - face way too close to yours.
you stare, transfixed on his soaked chin, the pink of his lips. when they slowly break out into a smug smile, you blink back and fight for the nozzle again, dropping your gaze.
“give me it.” you tug.
“no.”
“give it!”
his grip is solid though, you can feel the strength in his hands every time you try to pull away.
“use your manners.”
your face flares instantly.
the solid press of his arm against yours is enough to move you; he’s taller, stronger, completely impossible to shove away properly. your stomach flips in a way you immediately resent as you continue to fight for the handle. “let go!”
“are you gonna behave? or do i need to confiscate it?”
you growl.
you stare at him.
he stares back.
you suddenly become hyperaware of everything - your hands trapped under his, his upclose and heavy breathing, the water dripping onto your skin from his chin - the way his eyes stare into yours.
you let go of the hose first, heart racing, avoiding eye contact as he finally eases back a step. you grab the sponge again quickly, turning back toward the jeep before he can say anything else.
your face still feels hot. your pulse still won’t calm down properly.
“didn’t th—”
“—go annoy somebody else, will,” you cut him off sharply.
his voice comes closer again instead of further away, “but i prefer annoying you—”
“will.”
“what?”
you turn this time, expression tighter, less playful. “seriously. go away.”
that catches him slightly off guard, just enough for the smugness to fade around the edges. “you’re mad.”
“no,” you say quickly. “i’m working.”
“you’ve cleaned the same window four times.”
“has anyone ever told you to shut the fuck up in your life?!”
“OOO!” he chuckles deeply, eyes widening, “she is mad!”
“oh my god, smitty, go away,” you groan, turning back to the truck with an exaggerated roll of your eyes, they almost go into your head. “seriously! go to your hockey duties! or bother one of the freshmen throwing themselves at you! literally anything else!”
“which one?” he calls lazily behind you. “the blonde or the brunette?”
you squeeze your eyes shut for a second, not even in the mood to look at him. “i’m serious, will . . leave. me. alone.”
“alright, alright,” he says, hands lifting in mock surrender. “didn’t realise we were fighting for real now . . .”
“we’re not fighting,” you snap, “i just want you to leave me alone.”
“alright, fine, i’ll leave you to get back to work . . washing the car . . even though you’re doing what window wipers are for . . .”
you ignore him this time, focusing harder on the sponge in your hand, dragging it over the window in slow circles while his footsteps crunch against the pavement behind you.
“actually,” he continues, voice carrying across the lot, “pretty sure it looks dirtier now than when it got here. maybe you should get on top and scrub the whole thing instead of just the glass—”
you still don’t acknowledge him.
that’s when you feel it.
a sharp blast of freezing water splashes across your back from several feet away, soaking straight through your shirt. a shocked gasp leaves your mouth before you can stop it, your whole body jolting as the cold clings instantly to your skin.
a few girls giggle. one of the hockey boys practically folds over.
you turn slowly, the look on your face eligible to kill a man.
you look like you’re ready to throw him in the ocean after tying a cinderblock to his ankle.
“whoops — was aiming for the hood, you know, since you can’t clean the rest of the car. forgot you juniors have weak, fragile bones and can’t move much.” he grins, mischief twinkling in his eyes. no remorse at all.
you stare at him.
he keeps digging himself deeper. “i’ll let you know if the bake sale goes any better,” he adds, setting the hose down. “hopefully less of a boner killer than this car wash.”
boner killer?
something hot and offended flares straight through you, offended. competitive. irritated - mostly because of the complete nerve of him.
fine.
you’d show him boner killer.
without breaking eye contact, you hook your fingers beneath the hem of your soaked shirt and pull it over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it into the bucket beside you.
the reaction is immediate.
will’s grin flickers.
not fully gone — but weakened, like his brain finally short-circuited.
because the bikini top underneath shouldn’t really be surprising at a cheer team car wash, and yet somehow, the entire atmosphere changes anyway.
will’s eyes trail as you turn up the volume on the radio, that 80s rock song sounding, pour some sugar on me while the blond’s jaw loosens.
you dip the sponge back into the bucket slowly before climbing onto the truck’s side step, then into the trunk then onto the roof itself, your knees pressing into the warm metal. you lean forward slightly with your legs spread, scrubbing the top of the roof, one arm slowly moving back and forth as soap suds slide down the glass in thick white streams. you scrub in long, deliberate strokes. “like this, smitty?” you ask, looking at him. “that better for you?”
his throat bobs hard when he swallows.
you keep going.
slow movements. steady scrubbing. water foaming between your fingers, bubbles splatting onto your chest, dampening the loose strands falling from your ponytail. “right there? that the spot?”
his throat moves when he swallows.
and he just stands there.
completely still.
watching.
the image is already burning itself permanently into his brain and he knows it.
suddenly the loudest guy in the parking lot has absolutely nothing to say.
“don’t you have a bake sale to get to? some freshman to annoy?” you scrub the space between your legs, arms subconsciously pushing your tits together.
his throat bobs slightly before he finally answers. “y—yeah.”
“then why you still standing here? thought this was a boner killer?”
“it—it is.”
“then why are you still here? still looking at me like that?” you smile, shooting him a wink. he catches it, surprisingly, considering his eyes are either watching the movement of your wrist or the rise and fall of your chest.
you drag the sponge slowly across the windshield again, suds foaming thick beneath your hand before spilling down the front of the truck in white ribbons before hopping down, into the trunk and out again, wiping it along as you walk until you circle the hood.
you dip the sponge back into the bucket again, soap foaming thick around your fingers as you squeeze the excess water out slowly. “go on,” you say lightly, not even looking at him yet. “off you go.”
he lets out a quiet laugh through his nose, still trying to recover some kind of composure. “you’re loving this now.”
“loving what?” you ask innocently.
you circle around the front of the truck, dragging the sponge across the hood in long strokes. suds spread across the glossy black paint while water drips steadily over the edges, splashing around your ankles.
will’s eyes follow automatically.
he watches the movement of your body as you lean further across the hood, the arch in your back as your legs stretch, you even lift one to reach a spot, the denim scrunching. they cover fuck all with you bent over like that. he can get a glimpse of your perky little ass perfectly, the denim stretched over it. his throat runs dry, as he envisions that tight, little— “seriously, smitty,” you hum, “don’t let me keep you from your very important hockey duties . . or little girlfriends waiting for you . .”
“r–right,” he nods slowly. “yeah . . hockey girlfriends . .”
you bite back a smile at how off-balance he suddenly sounds, because this is the same guy who spent the last ten minutes running his mouth nonstop.
you rinse the sponge again before pointing vaguely away from you with it, flicking a few droplets in his direction. “go on then,” you tease. “scurry off.”
“scurry?” he repeats, offended.
“mhm.”
he breathes a weak laugh, “i don’t scurry.”
“you should start, ‘n go clean those eyes of yours.”
“clean my eyes?”
you look him up and down slowly before smiling sweetly. “yeah. you haven’t blinked in five minutes.” you pick up a different hose, shaking it in your hand, “need a rinse?”
he shakes his head, trying to tear his eyes away by taking a step back. he should really be at the rink.
you smile, already focusing back on the job, trying to ignore the fact your heart’s still a bit too loud for your own liking.
“you needa come with a warning label, captain.”
you don’t get it, you try to ignore it if anything, but it’s the tone of his voice that gets you, like he’s always won while he walks off. “ . . . what does that even mean?”
he turns just enough to look at you properly, grin widening. “means you got a habit of making people pretty wet around here.”
heat creeps up your neck instantly.
you shake your head at him, “you literally can’t say anything . . ”
“i got you drippin’, baby?”
baby?
drippin?
you hate the way it flares in your chest - makes your throat hitch, your stomach drop.
you don’t turn around, because you can already feel your face threatening to give you away. you try to ignore him.
when you do sneak a glance, he’s already walking off, looking over his shoulder with that same, stupid grin — still soaked.
summary: will smith is getting tired of the teams constant teasing about his love life, so, he starts a fake relationship with the athletic therapist intern, Elizabeth Brooke. the only problem? she has no clue she had been roped in to dating him.
masterlist
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Elizabeth Brooke loved her job.
Even on the days when the locker room smelled like sweat and sports drink, and she had to politely dodge flying tape balls and chirps from players who still hadn't fully grasped what "I'm working" meant.
Still, working as an athletic therapy intern with the San Jose Sharks for the second season in a row was a dream. She was gaining hands-on experience, earning school credit, and learning from some of the best in the league.
And most of the guys were great—loud, chaotic, but respectful. She was "Ellie" to everyone, or sometimes "Brooke," and every now and then "kiddo" when they felt particularly big-brotherly.
She mostly kept her head down, made her friends at the university nearby, and avoided any unnecessary attention at work.
Which is why she completely missed that she'd been fake-dating Will Smith without knowing it.
—
"Bro, just admit you're lonely," Macklin teased from across the locker room, taping his stick lazily. "You've been here three months and haven't gone on a single date."
Will rolled his eyes, lacing up his skates. "I'm not lonely."
"Then who's the mystery girl you're always texting?" someone else chimed in. "Or are you just playing Candy Crush?"
Will, flustered and unbothered at the same time, shrugged. "I'm uh- dating someone."
That shut them up for half a second.
Mack squinted. "You're what now?"
"Dating someone," Will repeated casually, hoping it would blow over.
It didn't.
"No way," Mack said, grinning like a shark (the metaphorical kind). "Who?"
Will panicked.
"She, uh... " he said, thinking fast. "Dark hair, brown eyes, quiet. Like—super sweet. You probably don't know her."
He thought that would be vague enough.
Unfortunately, it wasn't.
Mack's eyes lit up. "Noooo. You're dating Ellie?"
Will froze. "...What?"
"You literally just described her. Brown eyes? Quiet? You mean Elizabeth Brooke?"
"I—" Will started, but Mack cut him off.
"No way. She's way too nice to date you. That's, like, morally illegal."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Will asked, offended on behalf of himself and his imaginary girlfriend.
Right on cue, Ellie walked past the locker room, clipboard in hand, her soft smile aimed at the group like it always was—polite, sweet, almost shy. She gave a small wave.
The guys waved back.
"Dude, she's, like, adorable," one of them said. "You are not dating her."
Will, now far too committed to back out, stood up with unnecessary confidence. "Bet?"
Before anyone could respond, he jogged after her.
Ellie didn't flinch when he matched her pace down the hallway. She glanced up and smiled, recognizing him instantly.
"Hey," she said. "Need something?"
Will casually slung an arm over her shoulder. "Just walking my favourite AT to work."
She laughed, confused but not uncomfortable. "That right?"
It wasn't totally weird. The guys teased her like this all the time. She was the "little sister" of the staff, the one they all claimed to protect while also making fun of her coffee order and stealing her snacks.
So she didn't think much of it when Will walked her all the way to the recovery room, arm still resting lazily around her shoulder, chatting like they did this every day.
When they reached the door, he dropped his arm and flashed her a grin. "Catch you later, Brookie."
And with that, he turned on his heel and walked straight back toward the locker room.
Back at her station, Allan, one of the athletic therapists, raised a brow as she passed.
"What was that about?"
Ellie blinked. "What?"
"With Will."
"Oh. I dunno. He's just being nice?"
Allan gave her a look but didn't press it.
Ellie shrugged it off and returned to the charts, not knowing that Will had just created a very real problem for himself.
Because now, officially, everyone on the team thought Elizabeth Brooke was his girl.
And she had no clue about it.
⸻
Will should've let it die.
He should've said he was kidding, or made up a name, or pulled a full "you wouldn't know her, she goes to another team."
Instead, he watched Ellie from far away, calm and clueless, and turned back to the guys like he hadn't just made the worst spontaneous decision of his rookie season.
Mack raised an eyebrow. "So, she's your girlfriend."
Will crossed his arms. "Yep."
"She doesn't act like your girlfriend."
"She's private."
"She didn't even blink when you walked up to her outta nowhere and slung your arm around her like you were in a movie."
Will shrugged. "That's just how we are."
The guys all gave him the same look: We do not believe you, rookie.
"Alright," Mack said, grinning like this was the best entertainment he'd had all month. "Guess we'll keep an eye out. See how you two lovebirds act around each other."
Will blinked. "Why?"
"Just curious," Mack said. "Always fun to watch young love bloom."
Will gritted his teeth. He was so screwed.
Over the next week, things got... complicated.
He started getting asked way too many questions.
"Did you and Ellie meet here or before camp?"
"Does she like sushi or burgers better?"
"Wait, so are you guys, like, exclusive-exclusive?"
And worst of all: "When's she coming to dinner with the team?"
Will dodged. He weaved. He deflected with the skill of a man who had watched every season of Survivor and thought he could make it on the island.
But then there was Ellie—existing peacefully in her little bubble, smiling at him in the hallways, complimenting him on his stickhandling during practice, handing him water bottles like she wasn't accidentally the co-star in his elaborate charade.
She was the worst fake girlfriend.
Not because she was bad at it. She was great at it actually.
But because she didn't know she was one.
—
"You've been acting weird," she said one afternoon, handing him a compression wrap.
Will choked. "Weird? Me? I'm literally the least weird person in this room."
"There's only two of us."
"Exactly."
She narrowed her eyes, amused. "You're deflecting."
He fumbled. "I'm mysterious."
"You're twitchy."
"Hey, how's school going?!"
Ellie blinked at the hard subject change but let it slide, going off about her upcoming exams and a group project she was 99% sure would be the death of her.
Will nodded, listening but also sweating internally because why was she so nice? And why did pretending to date her feel so weirdly natural?
He needed a plan.
He needed to keep the lie alive long enough for the team to drop it—and definitely without Ellie figuring it out.
Which would be easy.
Right?
Right.
⸻
Will knew the guys were watching.
It started subtly—Macklin Celebrini lingering a bit too long by the gym entrance, pretending to scroll through his phone. Then William Eklund conveniently choosing the treadmill with the perfect vantage point of the therapy room. Even Tyler Toffoli, usually indifferent to locker room gossip, seemed to find reasons to be nearby whenever Ellie was around.
The pressure was mounting. Every time Will caught one of them glancing over, he felt the need to up his game.
During a routine stretching session, Ellie was demonstrating a new technique. Will leaned in closer than necessary, nodding intently, his arm casually brushing against hers. He could almost feel Macklin's gaze burning into his back.
"You're really getting the hang of this," Ellie said, her voice warm and encouraging.
Will smiled, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder. "Well, I have a great teacher."
Ellie laughed softly, a sound that always managed to ease his nerves. She was so genuine, so effortlessly kind, and completely unaware of the silent battle Will was waging.
As the days went on, Will found himself seeking her out more frequently. Not just to keep up appearances, but because, truthfully, he enjoyed her company. They'd share lunch breaks, discussing everything from her university classes to his rookie experiences. He'd offer to help her carry equipment, their fingers brushing occasionally, sending unexpected jolts up his arm.
One afternoon, as they were organizing therapy bands, Ellie tilted her head, studying him with those deep brown eyes.
"I've noticed you've been around more lately," she said, a hint of curiosity in her tone.
Will's mind raced. He couldn't exactly tell her the truth—that he'd accidentally started a rumor about them dating and was now trapped in his own web of lies.
He flashed his most disarming smile. "Just love seeing my favorite girl!"
Ellie chuckled, a light blush coloring her cheeks. "You're such a goof, Will."
She returned to her task, leaving Will both relieved and increasingly aware of the warmth spreading in his chest whenever he was around her.
After a week of subtle surveillance, Macklin decided it was time to confront the situation head-on.
During a lull between practice drills, he approached Ellie, who was organizing medical supplies on the sidelines.
"Hey, Ellie," Macklin began, his tone casual but his eyes sharp with curiosity.
She looked up, offering her usual friendly smile. "Hey, Macklin. What's up?"
He leaned against the table, arms crossed. "So, the team's got a reservation this weekend at that new steakhouse downtown. Are you and Will coming together?"
Ellie's brow furrowed slightly, clearly puzzled. "Will and I? Together?"
Macklin nodded, watching her closely.
She hesitated, searching for the right words. "Oh, um, Will and I haven't really discussed plans yet. But if he's going, I'm sure we'll figure something out."
Macklin studied her for a moment longer before offering a satisfied nod. "Alright, just checking. See you there."
As he walked away, Ellie shook her head slightly, muttering to herself, "That was odd."
Unbeknownst to her, Will had been within earshot, heart pounding as he listened to the exchange. Ellie's innocent response had, miraculously, managed to maintain the facade without her even realizing it.
He exhaled a silent sigh of relief, mentally thanking Ellie for being her sweet, oblivious self. For now, his secret was safe.
⸻
"Hey," Ellie said casually, poking her head into the workout room where Will was finishing post-practice stretches. "Macklin said you and I were going to that steakhouse dinner together?"
Will's entire body froze mid-stretch like he'd been caught committing tax fraud.
"Uh—what?" he asked, voice suspiciously high-pitched.
Ellie raised a brow, laughing a little. "You good? You look like I asked you to do my calculus homework."
Will scrambled for a response. "Uhhh... I mean, yeah, yeah. We're going together. I—I think I said that because we live close to each other? So like... rideshare logic?"
Ellie blinked. Then smiled. "Oh! Yeah, I guess that makes sense."
Will let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Crisis averted.
"So," she added, tilting her head, "what time are you picking me up?"
Will's brain short-circuited again, but he somehow managed a grin. "Seven work?"
"Perfect!" she chirped, then turned to leave with a little wave.
He collapsed back onto the mat, hands over his face. "I am in so deep," he muttered to himself.
That Night – 7:25 PM
The Sharks were already seated inside the sleek, dimly lit steakhouse, tucked into a long table with just enough elbow room for their egos. Players and WAGs alike had shown out—suits, dresses, full glam. The waiters were clearly a little overwhelmed by the sheer size of the reservation.
Macklin Celebrini sat at the far end, nursing a soda and keeping a suspicious eye on the entrance. William Eklund beside him leaned back just far enough to peek into the lobby. They were both very ready to witness Will Smith's downfall.
Then the front doors opened.
And there they were.
Will, in a crisp navy button-up, hair actually brushed for once. And Ellie, in a soft yellow dress that made her look like literal sunshine, paired with wedges and a tiny purse. Her hair was pulled half-up, and she looked so perfect it physically pained Will.
What really caught the boys' attention, though, was the parking lot performance.
From their seats, they had the perfect view of Will jogging around to open the car door for her. They watched as she stepped out, a little hesitant in her wedges, arms wrapped tightly around herself against the San Jose chill.
Then—the move.
Will noticed instantly, rubbing the back of his neck before casually slinging an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side as they walked.
They couldn't hear what he said—but her head tilted up, cheeks pink, and she let out a giggle so soft and pretty it made half the table blink in unison.
Inside, Will leaned in. "Sorry, I'd give you my jacket if I had one, but I don't think the restaurant would be thrilled if I showed up shirtless. So... this'll have to do."
When they finally made it to the table, the group greeted them with a flurry of side-eyes and smirks.
Will, clueless, helped Ellie into her chair and pulled his in beside her like it was no big deal. Ellie greeted everyone like she always did—smiling, polite, a little shy.
Most of the guys exchanged a glance like, Oh. This is real.
Except Macklin, who squinted across the table like a man on a mission.
And Eklund, who whispered, "They're either dating or he's really good at improv."
"Something's off," Macklin muttered.
Will clinked water glasses with Ellie like he hadn't been spiraling all week and very much was about to choke on his Caesar salad.
He shot a glance at her, still laughing at something Toffoli had said, and smiled despite himself.
Fake girlfriend? Maybe.
Unintentional real feelings? ...Yeah, possibly.
But for tonight?
He'd take the win.
⸻
Will was going to combust.
He'd made it thirty minutes into the dinner without incident, which was practically an Olympic-level achievement considering Macklin and Eklund were sitting directly across from him, analyzing his every breath like it was game tape.
Ellie, for her part, was just being... Ellie. Sunshine in a yellow dress, sipping water with two lemon slices like always, laughing at all the right moments, completely unaware that she was currently the centerpiece of Will's accidental soap opera.
She hadn't noticed the extra chair pulled just a little closer to his. Or the way he'd kept an arm draped over the back of hers like it was no big deal. Or the way he kept glancing at her like she was a live wire and he had no business being this close to it.
And then—it happened.
In the middle of the meal, with conversation buzzing and forks clinking against plates, Ellie reached over without looking and gently wiped a smudge of sauce from the corner of Will's mouth with her thumb.
Just. Like. That.
Not a second of hesitation. Like it was the most casual thing in the world.
Will practically short-circuited.
"Uhh—" he choked, blinking rapidly as she returned to her conversation with Henry Thrun like nothing had happened.
His eyes darted across the table. Macklin was staring at him with a raised brow and suspiciously slow sip of water. Eklund looked like he was watching an interrogation scene from a crime show.
Will swallowed. Kept his cool. Pretended he didn't just die a little inside.
Ellie leaned toward him a moment later, brushing her arm against his, and without thinking, Will rested his arm casually along the back of her chair again. This time, it wasn't even a strategic move—it was grounding. He needed it to survive.
Then Cat Toffoli, looking stunning as always in some sleek blazer-dress situation, smiled from a few seats down.
"Aww," she said sweetly, "you guys are so cute."
Both Will and Ellie froze.
Will felt his entire soul detach from his body.
Ellie blinked. "Oh... um. Thanks!"
And then—nothing. She just turned back to her food like someone hadn't just complimented her on her nonexistent relationship.
Will internally screamed.
Macklin's head tilted, slow and thoughtful like he was watching live footage of a wildlife documentary.
Eklund narrowed his eyes. "She's either the best actress I've ever seen... or she really doesn't know."
Will met their stares across the table and smiled tightly. He was losing control fast.
But then Ellie glanced up at him, catching his eye, and smiled that sweet little smile that always made his stomach twist.
And Will realized something terrifying.
He didn't want to stop pretending anymore.
⸻
After the dinner, Will dropped Ellie off at her place with a grin that he swore didn't tremble. She thanked him like she always did—sweet, soft, a little shy—and then gave a small wave as she walked through her front door.
He waited until the door shut behind her before fully exhaling, like he'd been holding his breath all night before walking back to his car.
Then he slumped back into the driver's seat of his car and let the silence wrap around him like a weighted blanket of doom.
What the hell am I doing?
This wasn't supposed to be a thing. It was supposed to be a fake relationship to get the guys off his back. A little white lie to preserve the dignity of a guy who definitely wasn't secretly terrified of girls.
Because Will Smith might've looked like he had it all together—confident, flirty, always saying the right thing. But deep down?
He was a mess.
The reason he'd never had a girlfriend? He was shy. So painfully shy when it came to feelings that he once ghosted a girl for trying to hold his hand on a Ferris wheel.
But with Ellie?
It was different. Too easy. She was sunshine in human form. The kind of girl who made everything brighter just by walking into the room. She laughed with her whole chest, leaned into people when she talked, and made everyone feel like the most important person in the world—even when she was just handing them a water bottle.
Will groaned, dragging his hands through his hair.
He was in trouble.
He didn't know when it happened. Maybe it was when she giggled at his dumb joke during warmups. Or when she'd wiped barbecue sauce off his face at the steakhouse like it was nothing.
Or maybe it was the way she looked at him sometimes. Like really looked at him. Her eyes soft, a little curious, like she was trying to figure him out.
He thumped his forehead gently against the steering wheel.
Honk.
A loud beep pierced the night, his horn setting off a chain reaction of startled honks from neighboring cars.
"Great," he muttered, covering his face. "Just great."
He was spiraling.
Actually, genuinely spiraling.
Hands in his hair, stomach in knots, brain screaming you are fake dating the girl you like and she doesn't even know!
Then—
Buzz.
His phone lit up in the cup holder.
Ellie: You okay?
Will blinked. Turned slowly.
She was standing at her front door again, wrapped in a blanket, phone in one hand, amusement written all over her face. She waved once, eyebrow raised.
He groaned, letting his head drop back on the seat.
She saw the whole thing.
Of course she did.
And of course, she probably thought nothing of it. Just Will being a goof. Her friend. Her coworker.
Not the idiot who was definitely falling for her one fake moment at a time.
Will texted back.
Will: All good. Just fighting for my life.
Her laugh echoed in his head even through the screen.
Yup.
He was in deep.
And this?
This was going to be a problem.
⸻
Practice had wrapped, and most of the guys had cleared out, but Ellie was still in the hallway reorganizing a few treatment plans when Macklin Celebrini and William Eklund casually strolled over—just a little too casual.
"Hey, Brooke," Mack said, leaning on the wall next to her.
Ellie glanced up with a smile. "Hey guys. You need something?"
"Nope," Eklund said quickly. "Just hanging out. Long day, huh?"
"Always is," Ellie hummed, flipping a page on her clipboard. "Will was limping again. I told him to stretch more but he's stubborn."
Eklund exchanged a loaded look with Macklin, but kept his tone neutral. "Yeah? You two carpool today?"
"Mhmm," Ellie nodded without looking up. "We usually do after morning skates. I hate driving and he lets me control the aux."
Mack grinned. "What's your go-to playlist?"
"Oh, I've got a rotation. Depends on the vibe. But I always throw in a couple songs Will secretly likes but pretends to hate. He groans every time but doesn't skip them."
Eklund raised a brow. "What, like guilty pleasure music?"
"Exactly," she said, finally glancing up with a sweet, knowing smile. "He has a weird soft spot for Taylor Swift. But I won't tell anyone that."
Mack bit back a grin. "His favorite song?"
Ellie paused. "Okay, this is gonna sound fake, but he loves 'Wildest Dreams.' Like... screams the bridge in the car."
Eklund blinked. "Seriously?"
She giggled. "Dead serious. It's actually kind of impressive."
The two Sharks exchanged a look. This was going sideways.
Mack tried a new angle. "So, like... if Will gets hangry, what's the move?"
"Easy. Chicken tenders and a nap," she said, not missing a beat. "And keep conversation to a minimum until he's eaten. He's dramatic about it."
"I know," Ellie said brightly. "He's kind of a walking tantrum when he's hungry."
The boys were stumped. These were real answers. Couple-level answers.
And yet... Ellie seemed so chill about it. Not gushing. Not flustered. Just... Ellie.
"You ever get in fights with him?" Mack asked carefully.
Ellie scrunched her nose. "Not really. I mean, he gets pouty when I beat him at Mario Kart, but that's on him. I warned him I was good."
"So... no drama?" Eklund asked.
She smiled. "We're pretty easy together, honestly. It's fun."
It was fun.
Too fun.
Macklin and Eklund watched her walk off a minute later, still humming as she disappeared down the hallway.
"...Dude," Eklund said finally. "I think they're actually dating."
"No way," Mack whispered. "Will's been acting like a man on the edge for weeks."
"I don't know, man. She knows his favorite comfort food and his guilty pleasure song."
"She also just called him a tantrum in the body of a hockey player."
"...Fair."
Later that afternoon, the boys watched from afar as Ellie received a bouquet of flowers.
She smiled down at the card with that glowing, delighted look only she could pull off, and Will was standing right next to her.
Mack jabbed Eklund in the ribs. "He got her flowers."
"I'm seeing it," Eklund muttered. "This is insane."
(They did not know the flowers were from Ellie's parents congratulating her on finishing finals.)
Then there was the car ride home. Again.
Then the lunch they ate together in the corner of the lounge, shoulders bumping as they laughed at something on Will's phone.
Then the hallway.
They found them—alone, mid-conversation, completely unaware of their silent audience. Will was leaned against the wall, looking down at her with that look—the kind of look that belonged in a Nicholas Sparks movie.
Ellie was smiling up at him, cheeks pink, hands lightly clasped in front of her. Will leaned in slightly, said something that made her duck her head with a giggle. She bumped his arm, he nudged her back.
No one else was around.
No audience. No act.
And yet... it felt like something real.
The silence between Macklin and Eklund stretched.
Then—
"Okay," Macklin admitted. "Maybe we were wrong."
Eklund sighed. "Or Will's playing the longest con of all time and she's just the best partner in crime?"
They both kept watching.
And somehow, they weren't even mad about it.
They were just... curious.
And very invested.
—
Ellie rarely traveled with the team. She was usually tied up with classes back at the university, so most of the road trips came and went without her presence.
But this time?
Spring break aligned perfectly. No labs, no lectures. Just a brief window of time and an open seat on the team flight. So Ellie packed her essentials and joined the Sharks for their road trip to Colorado.
Will didn't hesitate to claim the seat next to her. Of course he didn't.
The moment they boarded the plane, he threw his backpack in the overhead bin, turned to her with a grin, and said, "Window or aisle, your call."
Ellie laughed softly. "Window. I like the clouds."
Macklin Celebrini and William Eklund were seated directly in front of them.
And they were ready.
Armed with subtle glances and perfectly angled earbuds that weren't even playing music, they listened in shamelessly—because this whole thing? This mystery situationship between Will and Ellie had become their full-time investigation.
And the second the plane started to taxi, the cuteness hit the fan.
"Do you have my headphones in your bag?" Ellie asked, nudging Will's knee with hers.
Will reached down, unzipped a pouch, and handed them to her without a word.
Macklin blinked.
Then Ellie leaned back, brows knitting. "Wait—did you remember to turn the oven off before we left?"
Will groaned dramatically. "You were supposed to check it after I made that frozen pizza."
She gasped. "You left it on?!"
He smirked. "Relax. I turned it off. I just wanted to see you panic."
"Rude," she muttered, smacking his arm.
Eklund tilted his head. "Are they married?"
Then Will added, "Don't forget to call your mom when we land."
"Oh yeah, speaking of parents," Ellie said, suddenly brightening, "how did your dad like that movie I recommended?"
Will grinned. "He loved it. Said he wants to rewatch it with you over FaceTime because he has questions and thinks you're smarter than me."
Ellie beamed, flattered. "He has great taste."
In front of them, Macklin was having a quiet meltdown.
"They're so real," he whispered.
"They're either actually dating," Eklund whispered back, "or we're living in a simulation and none of this is real."
Eventually, the conversation quieted. Will pulled out his laptop, propped it between them, and opened their current binge show—something light and funny that they both always watched together but swore they weren't watching without each other.
They didn't say much after that. Just quiet laughs, small comments, Ellie leaning a little closer as she got comfortable.
Then silence.
Macklin turned around to say something dumb—probably a chirp about their show—and stopped mid-breath.
He nudged Eklund urgently.
They both turned slowly.
And what they saw nearly sent them into cardiac arrest.
Will had shifted into the corner of the seat by the window, legs stretched out across the row. One arm was draped lazily but securely around Ellie, who was curled against him, practically on top of him, her head tucked into his chest, his hand resting on her arm.
Her arm was wrapped around his waist.
The laptop was dark. The episode long finished.
They were both fast asleep.
Macklin sat back in stunned silence.
Eklund stared blankly ahead.
"Okay," Mack finally whispered. "I think they might actually be in love."
"Yeah," Eklund agreed quietly. "We've lost."
And for once... neither of them minded.
⸻
It had been a smooth road trip. No injuries, no drama, just a few wins and a lot of good vibes.
Until Ellie got pulled aside in the hallway by Coach.
Not Will. Not one of the guys. Coach.
Coach gave her a polite nod, crossing his arms. "I've been informed that you're dating Will."
Ellie blinked. "I'm sorry... what?"
"I don't have an issue with it," he added quickly, "you're both adults. Just make sure you keep things professional when you're in the building."
Ellie just stared at him. Brain buffering. "Wait. Dating?"
He raised an eyebrow. "That's what I heard."
"Who told you that?"
"I think it started with Celebrini."
Of course it did.
Ellie nodded slowly, like maybe if she gave herself enough time, the moment would start to make sense. It didn't. She walked away in a daze, grabbing her stuff and heading out to where Will was already waiting in the car to drive her home.
When she got in, Will gave her the usual lazy smile. "Hey. Ready?"
She buckled her seatbelt slowly. "Are we dating?"
The car jerked slightly as Will's foot nearly missed the gas.
"I—what?"
"Coach said we're dating," she said calmly, like she wasn't possibly re-evaluating every moment of her life. "And Mack apparently told him?"
Will froze. Completely.
"Oh my god," he whispered.
Ellie stared. "Are we?"
Silence.
Then—
"I didn't mean for it to go this far!" Will blurted, hands flying off the wheel at a stoplight. "I swear! The guys kept teasing me about being single and I panicked, and I just... said I had a girlfriend! And then they wanted to know who, and I kinda... randomly described you. Because I had a crush on you, like, a huge one, and you were literally right there and—"
Ellie stared, eyes wide.
"—and it made sense because you're always nice to me and everyone adores you, and I thought it would die after a week, but then they didn't believe me so I had to prove it, and you just—kept being you, and I couldn't stop it."
Will looked like he was fighting for air.
"And then I didn't tell you, and it just got worse, and I didn't want you to hate me for lying, and I really didn't mean to fake-date you, it's just now it's not fake because I have very real, very tragic, very permanent feelings for you, and I know I ruined everything and you probably want to punch me in the face but—"
"Will," she said softly, her cheeks fully flushed.
"—and I'm freaking out, and I think I need to call my sister or move to another country or maybe both—"
"Will."
He whipped his head toward her, wide-eyed. "Please say something. Oh my god, did I just mess this all up? I'm so stupid. This is so bad—"
She cut him off.
With a kiss.
Will froze for a second—completely stunned—but then he melted into it, arms loosening, hand finding hers between the seats. Her lips were warm and soft and it was better than every fantasy he'd ever had.
One hand found her jaw, the other tangled in her sleeve, and she melted into him, laughing softly against his lips as they pulled apart.
"I would've said yes," she said breathlessly, cheeks pink, eyes bright. "You know. If you had just asked me out like a normal person."
Will was dazed. "You... you would've?"
She giggled. "Will, I've always thought you were cute. You just never asked."
"I literally faked a relationship because I didn't think you'd say yes."
"And you thought I was the oblivious one," she teased.
Will groaned and dropped his forehead to the steering wheel.
Honk.
She snorted as he flailed. "You've got to stop doing that."
"I can't think straight when you're here," he mumbled into the wheel. "Oh my god, I'm in love with you."
"I'm starting to notice."
—
Unbeknownst to them, across the parking lot, Macklin Celebrini sat in his car, slurping a smoothie and watching the scene unfold through his windshield.
He hadn't heard the words.
But he didn't need to.
He saw the kiss.
He saw the smile on Will's face after.
He saw Ellie laughing, looking at Will like he was the sunshine for once.
Macklin nodded to himself.
"Alright. It's real."
Then he picked up his phone.
Macklin: ur not gonna believe this but it's actually real. like, REALLY real. they kissed. in the parking lot. right now.
Eklund: send pics
Macklin: dude i'm not a creep
Eklund: that's news to me
—
Will was freaking out.
He was pacing the sidewalk in front of her house, pulling at the collar of his sweater, double-checking the dinner reservation under "Smith, party of two," and obsessively checking his hair in his phone camera.
Then, like any reasonable man in distress, he called his sister.
"Grace. SOS."
She picked up on the first ring. "Please tell me you didn't forget deodorant."
"I brought flowers," he said instead, holding the bouquet in one hand like it might suddenly explode. "Is that too much? Is it weird? We've basically been 'dating' for like, two months. This is somehow more stressful."
"It's not too much," Grace said, laughing. "It's perfect. You're nervous because it's real now."
Will groaned. "Yeah, well, real makes me want to throw up."
"Then it's working."
—
Ellie opened her door in a soft sage green sundress and her favorite pair of heeled sandals, hair curled loosely and cheeks already blushing before she even saw him.
Then she did see him—leaning against his car, freshly showered, holding a bouquet of daisies.
Her stomach flipped.
"Oh," she said quietly, smiling like the sun. "You brought me flowers?"
Will froze for half a second, then handed them over with an awkward little shrug. "Thought you deserved some. You've been dating me for months without actually being asked out."
She laughed, soft and sweet. "I didn't mind."
"Well," he said, his voice low and suddenly serious, "I do."
And just like that, Ellie was nervous too.
—
They went to a cozy, hip little restaurant downtown—intimate lighting, trendy cocktails, tiny candles on every table. Definitely a date-night spot. Will held every door open, let her choose the booth, and complimented her three times before they even ordered drinks.
Conversation flowed like it always did—easy, natural, full of low laughter and little looks that lasted longer than they used to. They didn't check their phones. They didn't rush. They stayed long after the plates were cleared, just sipping and talking, the city glowing outside the window behind them.
It was perfect.
Then—
"Oh my god," Ellie whispered suddenly, leaning across the table. "Don't look now, but I swear that's Cat Toffoli."
Will turned immediately.
"Will!" she hissed, laughing.
Sure enough, Cat and Tyler were strolling past their table on their way out. Cat caught sight of them first and lit up like a Christmas tree.
"Ellie! Will! Look at you two!"
Will stood up and gave Tyler a side hug while Ellie leaned in for a hug from Cat.
"You guys look adorable," she whispered into Ellie's ear before pulling away with a knowing grin.
Tyler clapped Will on the shoulder. "Try the tiramisu. Trust me. Split it."
Then they disappeared into the night, leaving Will and Ellie smiling stupidly across the table.
"Tiramisu?" Ellie asked.
Will flagged down their server.
—
Will had barely made it to his stall before Tyler Toffoli, who conveniently sat between Will and Macklin, turned to him with a smirk.
"So?" Tyler asked, casually taping his stick. "How was the tiramisu?"
Will grinned, tugging off his sweatshirt. "Delicious. You were right."
Macklin's head snapped around. "What tiramisu? What restaurant? You went out without me?"
Will shrugged like it was no big deal. "I took Ellie out. Like on a date."
Tyler chimed in, totally unbothered. "Saw them at this cute downtown spot with Cat. They looked so cute all dressed up. I had to say something."
Macklin stared at Will. "You really took her on a date?"
Will smirked, still high off last night. "Yup. Proper one. Flowers and everything."
Mack slumped against his stall, looking betrayed. "Unbelievable."
"You'll get over it," Will said, tugging on his jersey.
But the whole time, he was smiling to himself.
Because this time?
It wasn't fake.
⸻
A year and a half into dating, and Will and Ellie were still the couple that made people's teeth hurt.
They were that couple—matching hoodies, forehead kisses at the rink, inside jokes that made no sense, and a suspiciously high number of shared playlists. Will still lit up every time she walked into a room. Ellie still blushed when he kissed her cheek, even if it happened thirty times a day.
Tonight, most of the Sharks were crammed into Mario Ferraro's house for a lowkey night of pizza, video games, and yelling at the TV.
Ellie and Will? They were in the kitchen.
Bickering.
Loudly.
"I told you not to watch it without me," Ellie huffed, hands on her hips, wearing one of Will's hoodies and looking so betrayed. "That was our show."
Will, leaning dramatically against the fridge, groaned. "It was one episode! One! I was on the road and bored!"
"It was our show, Will! That's basically emotional cheating!"
"You were asleep by nine that night!"
"I was exhausted because someone dragged me to an early morning skate!"
"You insisted on making pancakes afterward!"
"I thought it would be romantic!" she gasped, hand flying to her chest.
Will raised an eyebrow. "So this isn't romantic?"
They glared. It was heated. Petty. A little ridiculous.
And then—
"You never would've done that while you were dating me without my knowledge!"
Silence.
Utter. Silence.
The living room went quiet. Like dead silent. No chewing. No breathing.
Ellie froze, eyes wide. "Oh... shoot."
Will turned bright red. Like stop-sign red.
She winced. "I wasn't supposed to say that, was I?"
He lunged toward her instantly, wrapping her in a suffocating bear hug, smothering her against his chest. "You're so dead. You're so dead."
From the other room came a chorus of gasps and groans.
And then—two familiar heads slowly peeked around the kitchen corner.
Macklin Celebrini, smugger than ever.
William Eklund, arms crossed and grinning like a cat who finally caught the canary.
"So," Mack said slowly. "It was fake?"
Will groaned into Ellie's shoulder.
Ellie peeked around him, cheeks pink but grinning. "For a good 3 months, yeah. I was as clueless as you guys."
Eklund pointed at Will. "We knew something was off. The way it came out of nowhere? The way Will was acting? Come on."
Will let his forehead fall dramatically onto Ellie's shoulder. "I hate everything."
"You faked a relationship," Mack said, "and then fell in love for real? That's some Hallmark-level stuff."
"I panicked!" Will shouted into the void. "And then she was just... her. And I couldn't not like her! Have you met her?"
"She's literally the nicest person alive," Eklund agreed, nodding solemnly. "Honestly, we're impressed."
From the couch, Cat Toffoli yelled, "Called it!"
Tyler shouted, "It all makes sense now!"
And from then on, no matter what Will did, the boys never let him forget it.
Anytime Ellie walked into the locker room?
"Careful, boys. Will might be fake-dating her again."
Every anniversary?
"Happy Fakeiversary!"
" Did you count all the months you were fake dating? Or only the months you were actually dating."
Every time he so much as looked at her with heart eyes?
"Wow. That fake girlfriend really got to you, huh?"
YOU SLEEP THROUGH your alarm for the first time ever in your college career, thanks to your dodgy charger that has finally decided to give out. since the sight of sparky, scraggly, gold and green wires, you're surprised it managed to last as long as it did. your phone didn't charge and died in the middle of the night, leaving you clueless as to when it was time to get up.
thankfully, your corridor isn't always quiet. you woke up to the sound of the door across from you slamming shut, and you stirred in your sleep, brows furrowing at the disturbance, although your subconscious questioning why they felt the need to be so aggressive so early in the morning. and then you wondered what time of the morning it actually was. when you reached over to your phone and tapped the screen, your body became alert as you were faced with the black screen.
you scrambled to your feet, trying to find a clock, your ipad, a watch, and when scrambling for the jewellery in your hand, your mouth dropped as you realised your lecture started in just under 25 minutes.
you impress yourself, because within 10, you were fully showered, dressed in a cute but comfy outfit, your hair brushed and thrown up and walking out the door with every necessity packed in your bag. you ate an apple on the way to class, and even managed to stop for a coffee with five minutes to spare. your breath smelt minty, your perfume wafted in the air, and you even were even able to give yourself a little shoosh as you kept a little beauty kit in your bag, filled with mini creams and make-ups for a little touch up.
you were on your way to the hall, thinking of how your usual spot was probably taken when suddenly you see the mop of blond hair.
smitty.
your feet move before you think, a comfortable confidence settles in your chest as the smile grows on your face. you reach for his shoulder.
he turns around, curious at first, then relaxes, body going slump after seeing it's you. still, he suspects you're up to something. "hey."
"hey," you echo, bursting to get the confrontation out. "when were you going to tell me?”
will's brows furrow, his face flickering to confusion again as he looks down at you. "tell you what?"
"the obvious news?"
"what obvious news?"
"that you're a freakin' first round pick?!" your eyes dart across his face, "4th overall?"
you watch his face fall into that settled smile, not cocky, not smug, just his listening face, his polite stance, the same one he uses even when he doesn't want to appear bored when hearing something he already knows. you hit his arm when he doesn't say anything and looks away from you. "seriously! why didn't you ever think to bring that up? i feel like a total moron!"
he furrows his brows again, falling in step with you. "why?"
"because i didn't know!" you're amused the whole time you talk, still in disbelief you didn't know this information. "you talk so much about hockey and i didn't even know you've, like . . already made it?"
"i haven't already made it."
"but you got selected?"
"so?"
"so?" you turn to him again, "what do you mean so? that's crazy!" you look at him, noticing how he still won't look at you. "why didn't you bring it up?"
he shrugs, eyes on the entrance of your lecture hall. "didn't think you'd care."
it's not mean, he genuinely thought you might not have even realised how the hockey world worked, a bubble you were oblivious to. the same way he didn’t see cheerleading other than a few hot girls moving around in tiny uniforms.
you pause, rounding him to stop you both from going inside. "will . . . i really had no idea. i don’t want you thinking i never brought it up because i didn't care or thought it wasn't impressive . . i genuinely never knew. i wish you would’ve said instead of letting me . . i dunno . . downplay it to you, 'n think you were just some regular player — i mean, i knew you were a good from just practice the other day but i mean . . this is a serious deal. why aren't you happy about it?"
"you think i'm good?"
you pause, looking up at his blue eyes, "yeah. obviously."
you're not lying. you only saw him during practice but even then you knew he had some skill to him.
"really?"
"yeah?" you almost laugh.
his brow twitches, his smile growing before he continues his walk. "i am happy about it, it still doesn't feel real to be honest, best day of my life" he shares with you, "i just . . i'm not gonna go around boasting about it," he continues, tone easy but honest, "what guy would i be to be bragging about that when it's not even properly mine yet? could be taken away from me. could make the team and be shit. could get cut. could not even see proper minutes. you don't know how it's gonna go."
"you still made it that far."
he smiles a little, raising a shoulder while one arm reaches for the door, holding it open for you. "yeah, i guess so."
you lead the way, finding a seat with a free one next to it, still babbling on. "i know i don't seem like i know the most about the hockey world and all that . . . but i know that's a huge accomplishment . . so congrats. that's really amazing."
will smiles, keeping his head low to hide the slight blush taking his cheeks. "thanks."
you're not trying to embarrass him, so you make a joke, throwing your bag on the desk. "just remember me when you make it big and i'm asking for an autograph."
"i'll give you whatever you want," he winks, lifting his laptop out without looking.
you hate that it does something to you.
you look away, clocking that your lecturer isn't even in the room yet as you face the front. "what the hell?” your shoulders slump as you slide into your seat, "i literally busted my ass trying to get here on time and she's not even here."
"‘n you still had time to grab a coffee?"
you throw him a look. he looks back at you.
you get your stuff out, get comfortable in your seat and flick through the paper you've been using. you read over it, rubbing out some answers and writing them neater. you read the next set of questions and attempt one or two, looking for your calculator to check your answer, and when you can't find it, you turn to will, asking if he's done using his to borrow it.
you then realise he's not doing anything mathematic of the sort. "what are you doing?"
"customising goalie gear."
his eyes are focused on the screen, fingers clicking the mouse pad to turn the padding different colours. you watch for a second, blinking, and turn away. “i need to use your calculator.”
10 minutes pass. people start to leave. will even shuts his laptop and turns to watch you instead, eyeing the way you focus on the work and write with a tight grip. you know he’s staring at you.
“what is it?”
“wanna to get out of here?”
“and go where?”
“anywhere other than here. she’s not coming.”
you look at your page, at the long numbers on the page and his calculator that says error. you give in, nodding, clicking the lid back on your pen. “ok.”
will throws his stuff in his bag, an idea taking his face as he begins to lead you both out the room, like a light bulb . “hey, we could go to that darty?”
you pull a face that he can’t see. “the what?”
“the darty? around the block? starts at 11? i actually wanted to go then thought i’d be good and go to class for once . . look how that worked out.”
you follow next to him, hand resting on your strap, “if you’re talking about that party they’re throwing at the corner house during the day —practically morning— you’ve got me all wrong.”
will chuckles next to you, falling in tune with your steps. “what? you never been to a darty?”
“oh i’ve been to a darty - i just don’t like them. incase you didn’t realise, i’m actually repeating a class, so, i’m afraid a party before lunchtime is probably not the best idea for me, personally.”
“i don’t think going to one party in the broad daylight is going to be the reason you fail your class,” he mocks your sarcasm just as back, grin never leaving his face. “come on. live a little. go for an hour at least.”
“no. i don’t do darties. i do studying.”
“oh come on. i’ll help you study tomorrow night.”
“study what? how to make goalie gear? no thanks.”
will laughs at that, smitten by your wit. he runs his tongue over his teeth with a small shake of his head. “c’mon . . you don’t even have your file. i have it.”
“i have other work i can look at.”
“just go, everyone’s gonna be there.”
“no will, i have a class at 2:00! . . and i’m not even dressed for it!”
“babe, you’re the hottest girl on campus. in boston. you can wear a trash bag and people would still fall at your feet.”
you shoot him a look for his pet names, showing no sign of giving in. “be so for real.”
“i am.”
you choose to ignore him, although he’s practically breathing down your neck if it weren’t for the height difference.
“c’mon, don’t be a pussy.”
you grimace, disgust etched on your features. “ew will, don’t say that.”
“what?” he looks at you, “pussy?”
“YES! EW!” you cringe, hitting the button to cross the street now, “i hate that word!”
humour floods him, a tickle of mischief coursing through as he leans in closer. “pussy.”
“WILL,” your fist hits his arm, hard, his mouth falls open with a wince but results in a laugh at your warning tone. at the use of his name.“enjoy your darty. i’m going to try and get ahead in my other classes . . . not all of us have secured our future,” you cross, throwing him a look over your shoulder.
his face is smug, irked, but smug.
-
at 5PM, you find yourself at the darty which is no longer a darty but now just a party, as your boyfriend’s friends had called you to see if you could come get him from said darty. party.
you found him fast . . . but he wasn’t ready to go home.
“brad, buddy . . come on, you need to leave,” one of his teammates, colin, laughed, although didn’t necessarily pull him back from the keg he was about to do. you stood there, arms crossed, not getting involved this time. when he’s tipped upwards by his buddies, you walk off, deciding to see if you can find a drink of water for yourself.
there’s still a lot of people around, cups everywhere, a faint sweaty smell to the air as music thumps all around. you’re still in your clothes from earlier, a long-sleeved white t-shirt and shorts, your hair still down, feeling the coolness of the afternoon.
you’re giving him 10 minutes and if he still doesn’t want to go, you’re not going to be the one to fight him to it. his friends dragged him out at the end of the day, they can be the ones to get him back home safe.
of course . . . you’re a worrier . . so you’ll probably end up still waiting and putting him to bed yourself, spending the night so he doesn’t choke on his own vomit.
“GABE! HEADS UP!”
a football suddenly enters your eyesight and grazes the side of your head, enough to make you sway back and slosh your drink a little over your hand. you look over to find a guy standing with his hands covering his mouth, his freckled cheeks pink.
you look to the other side of the garden, finding who must be ‘gabe’ in the same position.
before you can say anything, the football comes flying back and hits the tall, freckled one in the stomach, not hard, but still winding him slightly - too busy looking at you, he almost trips on his own feet to the ground. you look over.
smitt.
you scan him in his current state.
his hat is on backwards, hair peaking out the sides and the black t-shirt makes him look more tanned from earlier, and maybe he is from being outside all day. he walks over to you, eyes flicking to the other two boys you got caught between, eyelids looking a little heavier than usual. “ryan, try not to hit the pretty lady. she’ll need that for vogue one day.”
you turn around to him.
he winks, red solo cup in hand.
“i didn’t mean it — sorry . .”
“y/n,” will answers.
“sorry y/n. incase you couldn’t tell, football isn’t our forté . . .”
you just raise your head, still holding the side of it. “i gathered . . more rink rats i assume . .” you set your cup down.
“yup, this is gabe. this is ryan. they’re my buddies,” will introduces, tapping them both. “this is y/n.”
“we know,” they both say in unison.
“you’re the cheerleader in all the schools media.” the taller one says.
“um . . yeah, guess so.”
gabe and ryan have heard allll about you . . not even just from smitty—though he’s definitely done his part— but on campus. you’re kind of unavoidable - name, face, reputation. it’s almost common knowledge that comes with BC. you’re like a famous household name. everyone knows you, well - knows of.
will always butters you up. they’re yet to hear of one bad thing about you, though they’ve figured it’s just him being gone for you - a freshman crush, blown out of proportion.
they figured it was bullshit. freshman delusion. it didn’t help that you came with brad attached, so yeah—they expected attitude, entitlement, maybe even a little bite.
but you didn’t snap. didn’t even threaten to, didn’t go running to your boyfriend after they nearly took your head off, which kinda throws them a little. “she’s tougher than you said,” one of them mutters under his breath.
will throws them a look before they drift off again, already back to tossing the ball like it never happened. “sorry again, y/n.”
“it’s ok.”
will doesn’t follow them.
he stays where he is, closer even, enough that you can smell whatever he’s been drinking, faint on his breath, mixed with something clean. you glance up at him and he’s already looking at you. “what are you doing here?”
“pick up.”
“huh, been waiting long?”
“no,” you shrug, folding your arms loosely, like you’re not counting the seconds. “i just got here, i gave him ten minutes, so . .”
smitty huffs quietly at that, taking a small sip from his cup. “generous.”
you glance at him, catching the tone. “you don’t think?”
he looks at you properly this time, not playfully. “i think you’re doing him a favour,” he says with no judgement.
you exhale lightly through your nose, “yeah, well . . hopefully i can drag him out of here pretty quick.”
“good luck with that.”
“what? you don’t think i can?”
he tilts his head, considering it like it’s a genuine question. “i think you can. .” he says, “. . i don’t think he’ll make it easy for you.”
“he’s fine. he’s not even that bad,” you shake your head, defending your man. he’s allowed to be drunk. he’s probably been in your position before with you.
will just looks away, focusing on the atmosphere in front of you both.
you don’t like the silence. it feels tense and it somehow feels your fault. you change the subject. “did you have training today?”
he nods.
“easy?” you stare at his side profile.
“yeah . . had no puck bunnies watching me this time.”
it lands exactly how he means it to.
your face says enough.
he shrugs, unbothered. “just saying . . less distractions.”
it hits quicker this time. that same hot, crawling embarrassment, sharper now because he was there to hear it - to experience that whole situation of your boyfriend calling you his puck bunny. “that was a joke.”
“mhm.”
that’s it. no pushback, no argument.
just that quiet, unimpressed little sound.
and the fact he’s still not looking at you anymore.
you feel your temper spike. “can you not do that?”
his eyes flick back to you. “do what?”
“that,” you say, sharper now, “that whole—” you gesture vaguely at him, frustrated, “—mhm, like you know everything.”
“didn’t say i did.”
“you didn’t have to,” you shoot back, “you’re acting like it.”
he shrugs again.
the shrug does it. “you don’t know him,” you add quickly, defensiveness slipping in before you can catch it, “you met him one time.”
“mhm.”
your jaw tightens.
there it is again.
“seriously?” you laugh, but there’s no humor in it, “that’s all you’re gonna say?”
he tilts his head slightly as he sways on his feet, still not fully engaging, still not looking at you. “y’want me to say something else?”
“yes,” you snap, taking a step closer without even realizing it, “i want you to actually—” his eyes scanning the crowd in front of makes you cut yourself off with a sharp exhale, “–smitty, look at me when i’m talking to you?”
his eyes cut to you, properly this time. steady, unreadable, a little heavier than before - and he’s not swaying anymore.
you swallow.
up close, you forget how tall he is for a sscond. how steady he stands. still not 6’1 - still taller than you though. you can smell his musky cologne, the chewing gum in his mouth. his eyes bore into yours just as intimidatingly blue, pupils a little blown from the alcohol intake.
you blink, forgetting your words. “you . . i don’t—i don’t even care actually, what you think. it literally means nothing to me, it doesn’t affect my life. you can think whatever you want, like everyone else,” you suddenly let out a breath, almost humoured by your caring so much.
“cool,” smitt responds, looking back ahead of him.
a beat follows as he takes another drink.
“—‘cause i think he’s a fuckin’ asshole.”
your head jerks slightly, caught off guard by how simply he says it. “you judge people very quickly.”
“first impressions matter.”
“you’re judging him on one encounter, the one time you met him and probably what you hear from people.”
“i’m judging him on how he spoke to you that one time in front of me,” he mocks your tone despite keeping cool composure.
it hits you hard, throwing you for a second.
then gritting your teeth, you shake your head. “you don’t get it, he was messing around, that’s how he is.”
“mhm.”
“oh my god, you’re fucking annoying!” you grab your cup to leave. surely it’s been 10 minutes. “you just don’t get it.”
“the explain it to me,” a smile takes his lips. you look at him, really look at him now that he’s facing you again, and it only makes it worse, because he’s not angry, he’s not even worked up, he’s just waiting, like he already knows you won’t have a good enough answer.
“i don’t have to explain anything. you don’t even know me,” you scoff.
“m’okay.”
“so stop acting like you know better.”
“i don’t know better,” he says, “i just know you didn’t like it.”
your face falls, just slightly, as he watches you, and he clocks it, of course he does, he’s all eyes now, full attention diverted on you, hands comfortably in his pockets.
you shake your head, like you’re trying to shake him off. “i—just drop it. we’re going in circles here. you don’t get it and that’s fine.”
“whatever you say gorgeous.”
“good.”
“cool.”
“yeah.”
“yup.”
“awesome.”
“mhm.”
you growl, fist clenching. “god smitty, you’re annoying as fuck.”
“yeahhh,” he says easily, “you keep talking to me though.”
that shuts you up.
you grab your drink and leave.
when you look back at him, he’s already watching you.
will watches you go, the way your hair bounces behind you and legs stride with haste. the second you’re out of sight, something in him gives — a low, rough groan slips out, half under his breath, like he’s trying to keep it contained and failing anyway. he squeezes his eyes shut, his jaw tight, frustration bleeding out of him in a way he can’t control.
and still, his mouth pulls into a smirk.
“fuck,” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face, adjusting his hat whilst holding his cup with his teeth. “i could actually—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head like that’ll reset something. it doesn’t.
could actually shake you.
not for real, but just get you to stop talking in circles - stop pretending you don’t care when you so obviously do, stop defending a guy who doesn’t deserve it.
it gets under his skin.
bad.
and the way you look just makes it ten times more insufferable - the way you look at him when annoyed — like you expect him to back down like everyone else. like you doesn’t realise you’re standing there looking up at him, all fire and attitude with that slight crease between your brows that makes it even harder to ignore. how close you get without noticing, like you forget space exists when arguing, like you forget he’s not supposed to matter this much. the way you blink rapidly mid-rant, or how your chest rises and falls with haste the more defensive you get — that makes him want to do nothing more than to snap that stupid silver pendant off your neck because he knows that douchebag of a boyfriend of yours bought you it.
he sees gabe and ryan come back, brows raised, amused, their faces saying enough. “dude . . .”
“don’t,” he holds up a hand, “i need another drink.”
they just laugh, clapping him on the back and follow him to the kitchen.
-
inside, you’re lingering in the living room. it’s been almost 2 hours. brad told you he can’t go yet because someone has the key to his place. you tried to ask who, tried to ask his friends who had it - but got no answer. you tried to drag him out anyway, to your place, offering him to spend the night. he said no - he needs his key.
your head hurts, you’re hungry, and his buddies keep making jokes that just aren’t funny. the longer you stand in the living room, the more your irritation grows. it’s hot. it’s stuffy. it smells. you quietly slip out to the kitchen, desperate for a drink of water to help with the headache bubbling at the back of your head.
you held off on dinner, thinking you’d study ‘til five then come collect brad for you to both order in together. now, you’re seriously regretting not grabbing something beforehand and you can feel is affecting your mood.
the kitchen is slightly crowded but you manage to get a drink of water and even some ice. you bring it to your lips, accidentally locking eyes with a blue set from over the rim of your cup; your arm drops, your eyes closing in regret.
“OH! . . . look who’s still here!”
you don’t even move, you just look away.
will stalks over, resting smirk on his face. he’s much looser than earlier, clearly drunk, but not sloppy. his cheeks are more flushed, his blinks still as slow, and his hat is a little crooked.
he walks over, sensing your irritation whether at him or in general and decides either way – there must be more buttons to push. he slides next to you by the island, leaning one elbow on the counter, his upper body laying over it, twisted so he’s blocking you from anything else. “you take brad home?”
you look straight ahead of you. “nope.”
“huh,” he says, hands interlacing. you watch, tongue poking your cheek. “thought you were on a timed pick-up too . . what was it? ten minutes?”
you don’t say anything. you can see his smirk growing out the corner of your eye. “sorry, just figured you maybe forgot your watch or something . . .” he continues, “. . . let you know ten minutes was like . . an hour ago.”
you stare at him, close enough you can feel his body heat. “don’t.”
“don’t what?” he pushes, “don’t notice you’re still here?”
“you’re not funny,” you turn, totally unimpressed.
“neither is your boyfriend but you’re still with him.”
will is unfazed your death stare. he can tell he’s pushing some seriously dangerous buttons and he likes it. “don’t you have anywhere better to be?”
“nope, i’m just a freshman.”
that makes you look at him.
“i bet you do though . . important junior duties in between your babysitting schedule . .”
“smitt.” you warn.
“yeah?”
he says it like it’s a game.
“stop.”
“just saying.”
“well stop saying. i don’t care. i don’t care what you think,” you say again, firmer this time, “or your opinions, or your stupid little comments—any of it.”
“yeah, you’ve said.”
“well i mean it.”
“i know.”
a beat passes.
“—i just think it’s funny,” he adds, leaning in slightly, voice dropping just enough to cut through the noise, “how much you say you don’t care but you still haven’t walked away yet.”
“because you follow me everywhere.”
“then go now.”
“move then,” you say.
“you can go around.”
“you’re in the way.”
“am i though?”
“smitt.”
“leave without him, let him make his own way home,” he stands up, off on a rant again. “he’s a fucking jerk.”
“so you’ve said.”
“y’want me to say it again?” he smiles drunkly.
“say it to his face,” you challenge, tilting your head.
“go get him,” he nods his head in his direction. your grin drops.
you ignore him once again, hoping he’ll just leave but he doesn’t. he watches you each for the chips in the middle of the island, trying to mask your discomfort. “you’re actually an asshole too.”
“that why you stay talking to me?”
you look at him taken aback, offended by his reply. “you . . why are you being like this? you’re drunk and even more annoying,” you throw back in the same breath - but he’s already gone still beside you, attention snagging on something over your shoulder.
then he moves; fast and instinctive.
he circles behind you, one hand catching your waist as he subconsciously pulls you against him, angling his body around yours just as two guys stumble through the crowd, shoving at each other hard enough to send bodies flying. smitt takes the impact before it can reach you — shoulder driving into one of them in a rough check that knocks them off course, they almost fall and you definitely would have been with them.
the force jolts through him into you, but his grip doesn’t loosen. your arm stays trapped beneath his where it hooks around your waist, keeping you tight to his chest while the guys ricochet away. “ay fuckin’ watch it,” he barks, glaring after them with sharp irritation.
the music’s still pounding around you, people shoving past without looking, but for a second it feels weirdly muted — your attention snagged entirely on the warmth of him behind you: the solid line of his chest against your back, the way his hand’s spread low against your side like he forgot it was there. his jaw stays tight as he watches the two guys disappear into the crowd, annoyed in a way that feels too genuine to laugh off.
you wriggle your arm a little, trying to break free, “you nearly tackled them.”
“yeah, well they nearly tackled you.” he scoffs, watching them disappear from eye sight.
the words land strangely, because he says it like it’s obvious - like of course he was gonna step in and protect you, like it wasn’t even a second-thought.
clearly not as drunk as you thought he was.
with his eyes still trained, he grabs another drink on the counte and opens it by the marble top, resuming his space. your heart is still beating. “people are fucking annoying.”
“like you?”
he rolls his head to you.
“like your loser boyfriend.”
“you wear the crown, honey.”
the name makes will’s heart jump in a giddy way, not that he takes it for real endearment, but because you’re comfortable enough to say it in the first place. it’s like fuel to him. “you can call me annoying all day long, at least people still like me.”
“is everything a competition in your life?”
“it is when it comes to you,” he takes another swig, keeping eye-contact with you. you can see the smirk too, even as he drinks.
it annoys you more than the words themselves, the smugness of it, the confidence, like this whole conversation is entertaining him. “never gonna happen.”
“why? ‘cauSe i’M a fReShMan?” he mocks your high-pitched tone.
“‘cause i’m not single for starters.”
he scoffs, unaffected, “just ‘cause there’s a goalie doesn’t mean you can’t score.”
“wow! so you condone cheating,” you coo with fake tenderness.
“when they date an asshole, yeah, i do,” he mimics your tone, also holding his chest.
you look up at him, holding his gaze, hand dropping as you feel your playfulness begin to fade. “you need to stop getting so involved in my relationship.”
“why? ‘cause i’m right about everything i say?”
“oh my god, smitty, no! you’re not right about anything,” you lean you hand on the counter, “you don’t know anything.”
he mirrors you instantly, elbow dropping to the counter so now he’s facing you properly.
close.
too close.
“i know you don’t like darties.”
you narrow your eyes.
he raises a shoulder. “you’re still here hours later when you said you wanted to study for a class you don’t want to repeat . . again,” he looks at you, “apologies though,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “i’m just a freshman ‘n i’m probably misreading the situation, soo . .”
you feel your face begin to warm at his use of your own words being thrown against you. “i got sidetracked.”
“m–okay,” he looks off again, that same smile on his face like earlier — when all he was saying was mhm.
“i did.”
“okay. i believe you.”
“good! you should be glad - means you have more time to stalk me and obsess over my life,” you inch closer with a passive-aggressive smile.
“even in my dreams, baby,” he mirrors you, knuckling down. you can practically feel his breath on you, fanning your mouth.
you catch the gum in his mouth. “careful, brad might hear you.”
“i’m not a pussy, i’ll put it in writing.”
that word again.
will smiles when your lashes flutter close, grin pulling lopsidedly as he speaks quietly. “he’s a pussy.”
“will,” you almost whisper.
“what?”
you hate how close he is. you look across from him, close enough to see the different blues in his eyes, the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the way his pupils shift when he looks at your mouth before dragging back up again. “you need to go.”
“no.”
“go will.”
“why?”
“before brad comes in here.”
“and what?”
you look at him.
“what’s he gonna do?” he leans in just a fraction more, voice dropping like he’s saying something meant only for you. he squints his eyes too, lifting his chin again like it’s a joke - confidence oozing out of him and not even obnoxiously.
“he’ll hit you.”
“he wouldn’t risk it.”
“he would.”
“ok, and? if he does?”
“and?” you question. “are you stupid?”
“you think i’m scared of your boyfriend?”
“i think you should be.”
“m’not.”
“smitt.”
“what? you worried about me?”
your chest tightens. you blink rapidly. “no.”
“liar.”
“ugh! you just love the sound of your own voice.”
“and you’d love to hear what other sounds i can make, now stop changing the subject—”
“—sorry!” a voice cuts in from between you both.
you jump back.
a girl.
another freshman.
you barely register her at first - just the scent of her perfume, the soft voice and smitty’s posture straightening before his brain catches up. he turns instantly, backing away from you like his nose wasn’t inches from brushing yours. “hey smitt!”
it’s sweet, it’s casual- the kind of familiarity that says she says his name often.
“hey,” he replies, lighter now. easier. different.
not for you.
you watch the way his face changes; relaxed, still amused, but open in a way it wasn’t a second ago. you analyse the way his eyes focus on her, shining, smiling at every word she says as she asks him to pass her something.
she’s a nobody - and he looks at her like she’s the most fascinating thing in the room right now.
she laughs at something he says, of course she does - you don’t even know what he says, you just notice how easy it is for him - how quick you’re . . not the center of his attention anymore.
it shouldn’t bother you.
it doesn’t bother you.
he passes her the thing, smiling as she thanks him, and walks off again, the interaction nothing but short, sweet and simple.
you stare at smitt.
he turns back toward you, still relaxed, still amused, like nothing happened.
but the moment feels different now.
to you at least.
he notices your expression instantly.
one eyebrow lifts, “what?”
“nothing. let me just go now so i don’t get in the way of your little freshman fangirls,” you snatch your drink and turn.
“what? wh—where are you going?” he says, amused by the suddenness.
“home.”
“home? “ he repeats. watching you go. “what? you taking brad this time?”
“you’re not funny smitty!” you yell after him, turning heads as you go. with a pounding in your chest and a fire in your veins, you storm to the living room and drag brad home, no room for argument.
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GENRES ▸ fluff, lowkey crack fic, reader is a d1 impatient hater she also lowkey cray, it’s like wills first day on earth…plz like hes my friend
SUMMARY ▸ standing in line for will smith’s autograph was supposed to be a favor for your best friend. instead, you accidentally insult his handwriting to his face…and somehow end up leaving with his number.
WORD COUNT ▸ 3.4k words
AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ hello hello so sorry for my absence i have been trying to be much more #normal about hockey and hockey men but alas i love wsh too much to not write about him I WILL BE MORE ACTIVE I PROMISE! also sorry this is not my best: quite short & super silly & dialogue heavy…writers block kicking my ass but this is slightly inspired by will last home game signing fans things and taking pics and being the last player to leave WSH WHY MUST U BE SO ENDEARING??
alsoooo just a thank you thank you thank you for all the love ive gotten recently i appreciate it more than you guys could ever know <3 i might do a pt two of frasers fic after this!
there are a few things you’d rather be doing on a sweltering saturday afternoon in san jose. grocery shopping. cleaning your apartment. sitting directly in front of your cold air conditioner contemplating every decision that’s led you here.
instead, you’re standing in a line that wraps halfway around the outdoor concourse of the sap center.
it’s been two hours.
two whole hours of jerseys, sharpies, hockey sticks, and fans clutching merch like they’re about to meet the pope.
all for an autograph.
mind you, not even for an autograph you want. an autograph your best friend wants.
“i still don’t understand why i’m here,” you mutter, shifting your weight for the fiftieth time. the birkenstocks you last-minute threw on this morning now seemed like a horrible idea, and you're pretty sure that tomorrow you were going to wake up sore from standing.
your best friend doesn’t even look up from staring toward the front of the line like she’s tracking prey, “for emotional support.”
you continue staring at her and continue your whining, “you’ve barely spoken to me this whole time.”
“moral support then.” and with that she goes back to silence. she's totally locked in, tunnel vision for the task at hand.
you solemnly glance toward the long table at the front where the reason for this entire situation is currently sitting.
a number of sharks players are signing things nonstop while staff members try to keep the line moving. jersey after jersey, puck after puck, the sharpie barely leaving their hands.
and in your watching, you notice that people step up to the table and immediately forget how to speak. one guy nearly drops his stick. someone asks for a selfie and then apologizes for asking.
it’s all very intense.
but it's not all to say you didn't understand them; you've definitely had your own share of fangirling in the past (i.e the absolute embarrassing period of your life where one direction and harry styles twitter fan interactions dictated how good of a day you were going to have), but as a hockey outsider who would rather much be spending this day on the beach, didn't do so well in hot temperatures, and was dragged here, it was all a little much.
however, you were a good friend, and you already made it this far, so might as well see it through.
you lean a little closer to your friend as you nod towards the first player, lowering your voice like you're discussing something deeply serious.
“…which one is he again?”
she turns toward you slowly, very slowly. the kind of slow that suggests she’s reconsidering the entire foundation of your friendship.
“they’re all sharks players.”
you roll your eyes at her. “yes thank you, i gathered that part.”
“then why are you asking?”
“because you’ve been talking about them for two hours and i still don’t know who anyone is.”
she sighs dramatically and gestures toward the table like she’s presenting a museum exhibit. “those are the players. will smith first, he went to bc, it's his second year. then, macklin celebrini. my personal favorite. remember the player that was serving face when canada won the silver? he's the yo-”
you squint to see them, your friend's babbling continuing in one ear and out the other. when you turn back, your friend, meanwhile, looks like she’s about to ascend as she finishes her descriptions.
“i love them all,” she whispers reverently.
you smile at her, "all of them?”
“yes.”
“even the one who just signed that puck like he’s drawing a spiral?”
she gasps like you’ve insulted her personally. “do not start.”
you glance toward the player she’s referring to, the very first one in line.
blond curly hair, hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal his toned forearms, leaning over the table while he signs something quickly and hands it back with a small smile.
“…i’m just saying,” you murmur. “his handwriting looks a little questionable.”
“you cannot say that.”
“i didn’t say it to him. he can't hear me anyway.”
the line shuffles forward again, and suddenly the table is closer.
close enough now that you can actually hear the conversations happening.
your friend straightens like she’s preparing for the most important moment of her life.
“okay,” she whispers.
you glance back at her doing deep breaths, “okay, what.”
“we’re almost there.”
you glance back toward the table, and the line moves again. suddenly there are only two people in front of you. another fan steps away from the table, the next person in line moves up.
now there’s just one guy between you and the players.
you glance toward the table again.
the first player, the one your friend identified earlier, will, is signing something quickly, handing it back, then reaching for the next item.
the sharpie's moving fast. a little too fast.
"see? look at his form.” you murmur.
“please stop.”
“i’m just saying it looks like he’s signing during an earthquake. we did not wait two hours for some chicken scratch.”
she glares at you. “please do not speak when we get up there.”
“im just trying to help you!”
“just hand him the jersey.”
you push, now amused. “what if he says something?”
“nod.” she has a murderous look in her eyes.
“what if he asks a question?”
“smile.”
you stare at her. “ y/bff/n, you realize this is a conversation, not a hostage negotiation.”
she doesn’t answer because the line moves again, as the person in front of you steps away. and suddenly, you’re next.
your friend freezes. completely freezes. like a 2007 imac laptop buffering, not a single thought in her eyes.
you look at her, urging and pushing a shoulder. “hey…are you going?”
she shoves her jersey into your hands instead.“you go first.”
you stare at her in disbelief. “absolutely not. this is your jersey!”
“please.”
“why.”
“i forgot how to talk.”
you glance at the table, then back at her. then down at the custom sharks jersey now sitting in your arms like it’s your responsibility.
"this feels like a trap.”
“just hand it to him.”
before you can argue further, the staff member at the end of the table gestures toward you. “next!”
great, fantastic, awesome.
your legs eventually propel you forward. the first player looks up from the puck he’s signing.
blond curls falling slightly over his forehead, as his blue eyes meet yours, sharpie still in hand.
he smiles easily, and you'd be lying if you said your stomach didn't flip at the sight of it. dammit, why did he have to be gorgeous too?
“hey.”
you hold out the jersey, a little speechless and a tad starstruck.
he takes it, glancing briefly at your friends name on the back, then he starts signing.
closely, you watch the sharpie move across the fabric. but then, you pause.
then squint.
it's wrong. it's all wrong.
you get that it's been hours of him signing things, but it's possibly the worst written thing you've ever seen. and something that your best friend, sharks super fan, sharks season ticket holder, did not deserve after talking so highly of the team.
you've also never thought of yourself as a confrontational person, but before your brain can stop your mouth, you hear your own voice start, “wait.”
he looks up, confusion lining his perfect features. “yeah?”
you point at the signature.“…is that supposed to say will?”
absolute silence.
your friend behind you makes a small choking noise.
the staff member next to the table suddenly finds the floor very interesting.
will looks down at the jersey, then back up at you, blinking slowly. "i mean….that’s the idea.”
you blink. "huh.”
“no offense really,” you add quickly, “it just looks a little like three squiggles. and my friend has been waiting for two hours.”
will stares at you for a second. and it may single-handedly be the longest second of your life.
you then think you most definitely are going to be kicked out, banned from any sharks game, blacklisted from any nhl event to come.
but then, will laughs. an actual laugh, more akin to a giggle, like you’ve genuinely entertained him.
which somehow makes this situation worse. because now he’s still looking at you, still holding your friend’s jersey, and still smiling.
“three squiggles?” he repeats, amused.
you shrug helplessly, because at this point you’ve already committed fan social suicide and couldn't possibly make it any worst. “i’m just saying?”
behind you, your friend is silently vibrating with secondhand embarrassment, and you make a mental note to buy her dinner at least for the next few days to make up for it.
will glances down at the jersey again, tilting it slightly like he’s evaluating his own work.
“you know,” he says thoughtfully, “i’ve signed about four hundred things today.”
“that explains the decline in quality.” ok, y/n, just stop talking.
he looks back up at you, and the smile gets impossibly wider. “decline in quality?”
you smile back at him, “i’m trying to be generous.”
the sharks staff member next to him snorts before quickly pretending it didn’t happen.
will taps the sharpie against the table once, in contemplation, “okay,” he says.
he pulls the jersey back toward him and writes something again underneath the signature, as you watch suspiciously.
“what are you doing?”
“improving it.”
“is that possible?”
he finishes writing and slides the jersey back toward you. “there.”
you glance down. under the signature, written much more clearly this time, is:
“will (will smith hockey, 2, sharks nhl player)”
you stare at it, then glance back at him. “wow, very clear.”
he shrugs, “figured i’d clarify.”
you huff out a laugh despite yourself.
behind you, your friend makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a dying animal.
will glances past you briefly, grinning at her. “that's your friend?”
you turn, and your friend looks like she’s about to pass out, but weakly smiles and waves. “the one and only.”
he nods toward the jersey, and gives a little wave back. “better give it to her before she faints.”
you hand the jersey back to her.
your friend clutches it to her chest like it’s sacred, but she's smiling so big it makes the whole social suicide exchange worth it.
will looks back at you. sharpie still in his hand, “so,” he says casually.
“you always critique people’s handwriting or am i just lucky today?”
you cross your arms, but it's hard to wipe the smile off of your own face. “only when it’s especially concerning.”
he laughs again, locking eyes with yours, and for a second you almost forget you’re standing in the middle of an autograph line in front of hundreds of people.
then the staff member gently clears their throat,the universal please keep the line moving signal.
you step back, starting to turn away and falling back into line with your friend, who's actively recovering from whatever just occurred.
but will's voice stops you, “hey.”
you glance back.
he's already signing the next fan’s puck, but he looks up briefly, still smiling at you, "three squiggles was a little harsh.”
you grin, “you’ll recover.”
he shakes his head, and you look at him for the last time, trying to soak in the feeling of his charming smile directed towards you, “probably.”
as you walk to the next table, your friend immediately grabs your arm. hard. “WHAT WAS THAT.”
you wince. “can you please not yell, he's literally still right there.”
she continues to whisper-yell. “you insulted his handwriting.”
“i critiqued it.”
“you said it looked like three squiggles!”
“it did look like three squiggles! and you deserve the best…especially after we waited this long.”
she presses the jersey to her chest like it’s the most valuable object she’s ever owned. “ok, true. thank you y/n.”
you glance back toward the table.
will is already signing something else for the next fan in line, but you notice something. every few seconds he glances up toward you, and when your eyes accidentally meet again, he smiles.
not the polite fan interaction smile, but a different one.
which your stomach does something extremely inconvenient in response to.
the rest of the tables goes by in a blur.
your friend manages to magically regain the ability to speak somewhere around the second player (macklin) and proceeds to have very normal fan interactions while you silently stand beside her trying very hard not to think about the fact that will smith, professional hockey player, and admittedly, very cute hockey player just laughed at something you said.
which, objectively, should not matter.
except it does.
a little.
okay, maybe more than a little.
by the time you reach the end of the tables, your friend is glowing like she’s just had the best day of her life.
“this was amazing,” she breathes.
“i’m glad one of us enjoyed it.”
you start walking toward the exit of the concourse, now already dreaming about your air conditioner and a very cold room.
but halfway down the hallway, your friend, now scrolling on her phone, suddenly stops completely still. “oh my god.”
you pause,“what now?”
she shoves her phone directly in your face: it’s on twitter, and watching slowly, there's a video playing, a very familiar video.
it's your voice, much more quiet but still very clear: “…is that supposed to say will?”
it's filmed by a fan a few people back in line, and the camera angle shows the entire table and subsequently the whole interaction: will looking up, you pointing at the jersey. and then, his laugh.
the caption reads:
“will smith hockey bad handwriting confirmed”
the video already has a few thousands of views.
you stare at it in horror, stuck in a feeling of total mortification and seconds away from deleting whatever parts of your presence that publicly exist on the internet. or in real life, if that was possible.
jaw dropped, you get out, "oh my god, that genuinely happened five minutes ago.”
your friend scrolls, submerged, “there’s already another one.”
you lean closer, another fan angle, but this one catches something you didn’t notice before. after you walk away, will looks up again, watching you walk away, and smiles a last time to himself, shaking his head.
the reply underneath reads:
“will smith CRUSH???”
you immediately push the phone away, “absolutely not. i do not want to see anything further.”
your friend grins. “i’m just saying.”
“don’t say anything.”
she's excited now, waving the phone in your face. “he was totally watching you!”
you start walking again, fast, hoping to escape the area before anyone around you notices. “we’re going home.”
your friend's ecstasy continues, “this is the best day of my life.”
“i insulted an nhl player! and it's recorded for the whole internet to see!”
“but he liked you.”
you stop. “he did not like me.”
she raises an eyebrow. “he wrote his name again just for you. you had a whole moment!”
you open your mouth, but close it again. because unfortunately, she’s not wrong.
but you wanted to pretend the whole exchange didn't happen, so you shove the phone away.
“i need to move cities. i can never show my face in san jose ever again.”
she side hugs you, linking arms to walk side by side. “relax, he laughed.”
“that’s because he’s nice.”
she grins. “and also because you’re funny.”
you shake your head and start walking again. “we’re never speaking about this again.”
she slips her phone back into her pocket, but a smirk remains on her face. “never.”
₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
later that night, the entire ordeal has finally started to settle into something that feels less like a public humiliation and more like a weird fever dream story you’ll probably tell people in a few years.
you’re home: the air conditioner is blasting, you’re in pajamas post-shower, and fully horizontal on your couch contemplating the fact that you survived two hours of standing in birkenstocks.
on the table in front of you, your phone suddenly buzzes. then buzzes again, and again.
you glance down at it lazily, thinking it's probably your friend group chat laughing at something stupid. but it's instagram notifications, and in fact, a whole slew of them.
you frown slightly and unlock your phone.
[willmackfan222] started following you. [smittyhockey] started following you. [bedminttruther] started following you.
most of them are hockey fan pages. you stare at the screen. shit. “that can’t be good.”
your phone buzzes again, this time it’s a text from your friend.
y/f/n: sooooo
you already don’t like where this is going.
you: what did you do
the typing bubbles appear, then disappear, then reappear.
y/f/n: before you get mad
y/f/n: just hear me out
you sit up slightly, bracing yourself for the worst.
you: what did you do???
another message appears, while the steady stream of instagram followers continues.
y/f/n: i may have helped the internet connect a few dots.
your phone buzzes again, and in her next text, a screenshot appears.
it’s twitter. the viral video. and directly underneath it, your friend’s reply. “this is her btw” followed by your instagram handle.
you stare at the screen in complete silence. then type:
you: you did WHAT!?!??!?!
her reply comes immediately.
y/f/n: IT WAS FOR THE PLOTTTT
y/f/n: YOU NEED TO CAPITALIZE ON YOUR FAME and also everyone was asking:) enjoy!!
you drop your head back against the couch, speaking to your empty apartment. “unbelievable."
after a few seconds of quiet contemplation of either going to her apartment and driving your car right through it or hugging her for the free followers, your phone buzzes again, another instagram notification.
you glance down automatically, but freeze.
[_willsmith2] started following you.
your brain stops working for a second. you open the notification. his profile loads: blue check, same blond curls, same cute smile.
the same guy who laughed when you told him his signature looked like shit.
then another notification appears only a few moments later.
[_willsmith2] new message request.
you stare at the screen like it might disappear if you blink, then slowly open it.
[_willsmith2]: for the record…
a second bubble appears.
[_willsmith2]: my handwriting is usually much better than that.
you stare at the screen. then laugh. because of course he opened with that.
you type back before you can overthink it.
you: i stand by my critique. think about the hundreds of fans before us who got your chicken scratch. tragic.
the typing bubble appears almost immediately.
will: harsh
you: honest
will: wait
will: i can fix this
before you can ask what that means, another notification appears: not a text, but an image. you open it.
it’s a piece of paper, clearly ripped from a notebook. written across it in extremely neat, practiced handwriting is:
“will smith”
underneath it, smaller: a phone number.
you stare at the screen, and your brain takes a second to catch up. will smith, professional nhl hockey player, has just slid in your dms and gave you his phone number.
another message appears.
will: proof
will: my handwriting is actually elite
you laugh again, shaking your head.
you: this could still be fake
you: anyone could’ve written that
there’s a short pause, then:
will: true
will: guess you’ll have to text it and find out
you roll your eyes at the cheesiness of the text like he can somehow see you doing it.
you: this is a suspiciously elaborate defense of your handwriting
will: listen
will: when someone accuses you of signing things like you’re in an earthquake
will: you have to clear your name
you grin despite yourself, and you realize he heard you with your friend even before you approached the table.
you: i said it looked like three squiggles
will: which is somehow worse
a few seconds pass. then his next message appears.
will: if my handwriting has officially been redeemed
will: i was wondering something
you lean back slightly against the couch.
you: should i be concerned ?
will: probably
another typing bubble, and the entire situation settles in your mind. was this real?
will: but mostly i was wondering if the pretty girl who made fun of my autograph in front of like 400 people
will: might want to get dinner with me sometime
you blink at the screen. once. twice. this definitely was not real. but you type back, amused.
you: is this a pity invite because i bullied you
his reply comes almost instantly.
will: no
will: i just think it would be funny to let you critique my handwriting in person
you stare at the message, fully smiling now.
then you type.
you: ok :)
you: but if the menu handwriting is bad i will say something
then:
will: i’m willing to take that risk :)
a/n: hope u enjoyed!!! i also started writing this during the sharks preds game last night (literally every time i watch a sharks game they win...is this a sign) yayayayay!!! fraser fic continuation soon? or a new fraser fic?
BRAD USED TO DRAG you along to hockey practice when he was on the team and you can honestly say it wasn’t your favourite thing to do. he was good, but his competitiveness and aggression got in the way a lot, and as much as hockey got heated at times, your boyfriend tended to take it next level, which ultimately led him to getting kicked off the team.
well, he was benched —time and time again for ‘unfair, unsportsmanlike conduct’— and eventually got sick of sitting out so many games and left before he was officially banned from the team. this led to his return to football. he was a good athlete, he was tall, fast and packing muscle - he was good at most sports and had a natural competitive streak in him, which was why coaches could hardly turn him away - he was good on the field: granted, he was aware of his entitled attitude, thus resulting in him getting offered a spot as a reserve quarterback. he was an aggressive player, but they could do with that.
he still thought he had it in him to make it as a pro. you weren’t going to be the one to tell him he should have a backup plan.
since leaving the team, he still often sat in on practices to support his friends and when the rink was free, he’d still skate around with the boys and shoot empty netters.
hockey was a big deal at BC, but you just didn’t get much hype. then again, you watched for him, and he was either on the bench or fighting more than handling the puck, which you didn’t like to see either.
you joined brad on his visit, sitting the third row from the front while he allowed himself to sit in the visitor’s bench, shouting and hollering (mostly in attempt to distract and make his friends laugh.) you sat, arms wrapped around yourself, wishing you’d have asked for a hot coffee instead of iced. you set your belongings on the seat next to you, planning to finish the last few questions on your paper, but you ended up just swiping and scrolling at your screen for the majority, every so often stealing glances at the dynamic of the team and then back to your phone.
“alright schmitt, you’re up!”
you’re shopping, trying to find a new jacket for an upcoming event when a single set of heavy blades slice through the ice, followed by a satisfying ‘clacking’ sound that fills the arena. you look up, distracted from your hunt to see the #6 practising a penalty shot with the goalie, effortlessly shooting it into the net after building up high speed.
“stop showing off, smitty.”
“alright smitt, we all know you’re headed to the league.”
“smitt, what was that?”
they mess him around, and he spins around with a smile, hockey stick horizontal in his hands.
you recognise the face instantly.
blondie. ‘6’1 in skates’.
you narrow your eyes as others pack on the ice, testing another team dynamic with him now on their line.
it’s weird, you’re not used to seeing someone move like he does, so swiftly, with ease, with great control of the puck and real clean passes.
what you notice more than anything about will’s play is how he has fun with it. he’s smiling nonstop, laughing even, joking around with some of the other new guys on the team. they make brad’s boys look dull.
they’re actually . . really good on the ice. they have a good chemistry. its hard to look away.
you don’t realise you’ve watched the entire training period until their coach is blowing a whistle and telling them practice is done; that they’re free to go. brad is already following the older guys back to the locker room, joining in on their adrenaline rush, leaving you on your own to get up and lift your things. a few remain on the ice, shooting pucks and trying to trip the other up.
making your way down the steps to the front, trying to think of a time slot you can actually do you essay when a sudden, deafening bang smacks against the boards, right where your head is, so hard it marks the plastic. you almost jump out of your skin - cup slipping, your file scattering loosely under your arm.
your head shoots to the rink, and standing there is will; tongue running his bottom lip, hockey stick in hand, failing to conceal that humoured smile.
“got ya,” he calls out. you barely hear it though the boards, the sound faint and muffled.
you furrow your brows, not finding it funny, and continue walking, picking up your empty coffee cup.
when you reach the players bench where brad had been, you scoop his empty cup too and head for the tunnel — only for a puck to fall from what feels like the sky and land directly on the two plastic cups in your left hand - sending them to the floor.
your head snaps to smitty again, mouth ajar now because as much as it is annoying, you can’t believe he was able to time that so well. “smitty what the hell!?”
he laughs, pleased with himself as you kneel to pick them up, again, cold coffee making you grimace as it touches your hand.
you stand, grumbling, while he chuckles. you toss the puck back on the ice, and he stops it with casualty, crossing one leg over the other and leans on his stick. “you stalkin’ me?”
you pause in your steps again, barely turning to answer him with an exaggerated scoff. “sure.”
he skates forward, gliding smoothly, stopping across from you. his cheeks are pink from both the cold and workout, his hair a little damp from the helmet he’d abandoned since his coach disappeared. he’s even taller standing before you, making you wonder if he actually is 6’1 in skates. the thought makes you laugh a little.
“what?”
“nothing.”
he pulls an unconvinced face. “clearly somethin’.”
“it’s not,” you reassure, amused at his tone. “you’re . . good.”
“think so?” he raises his brows, no cockiness or smugness about it as he plays with the puck. almost . . deflecting the compliment.
“yeah,” you almost laugh at his humbleness. “your aim’s annoyingly good,” you nod to the spilled drink you hope you don’t get shouted at for.
he shrugs, mannerisms screaming eh. “you got class today?”
you’re stunned by how nonchalant he is, and not in a try hard way either. he’s genuinely . . modest. will — will smith — smitty — who’s been nothing but cocky and confident since the moment you met him, tries to direct the attention off the one thing he should be cocky and confident about.
he reminds you of the professionals you’d see in the league who deflect taking any credit for winning goals, always crediting their team. will gives that vibe from that response alone, which you didn’t expect from him.
“no my . . they’re done for the day,” you stop in front of him, feeling the coolness off the ice as you rest your hands on the barrier. “haven’t seen you.”
he shrugs. “been busy.”
and he’s not lying, but he doesn’t want to bore you with details.
you perk a brow. “busiest guy i know.”
he perks a playful brow back, grin taking his lips. “y’miss me?”
“no,” you scoff, “but you’re being weirdly secretive.”
“and if i am?”
“about what? what weird, mysterious freshman things have you got going on?”
his brow twitches, entertained by your curiosity, “super classified stuff.”
you stare at him, brows pinched, waiting for him to cave, because people usually do with you, they like giving you things - answers, attention, whatever.
. . . but he doesn’t.
he just looks back at you, all teeth, dragging his tongue along the edge of them like he’s got all the time in the world.
he likes this.
likes you asking.
likes not giving.
you narrow your eyes. “you’re annoying.”
“you’re nosey,” he shoots back, laughing.
you press your tongue to your cheek, fighting a smile.
“who’s nosey?”
the voice cuts in before you can move, your stomach dropping before you even turn.
your boyfriend stalks up beside you, presence immediate — not loud, not dramatic, just there in the way that gifts a small shift in the air.
will glances over, just a quick look – taking him in, registering, then looks back at you, smacking on some gum.
your back straightens as you turn away from him.
brad’s already looking at will.
“brad . . this is schmitt,” you nod to the blond, “he’s a freshman.”
will hates that you use that to identify him. he knows it probably gives guys like brad a sense of relief - like there’s no threat to him - it’s funny almost. like he’s a little baby.
brad slumps slightly, arm creeping around your waist. “right, and he’s being nosey?”
“no, no i’m . . . i’m the one being nosey,” you reassure, “he’s . . ”
“—being mysterious,” smitty cuts in easy.
your boyfriend looks at him properly now, not a quick glance, but a look that lingers, eyeing him up almost, like he’s measuring him for something.
will pushes slowly off the barrier, just enough to stand properly, leaning on his stick, giving him full access.
brad raises his head, “right.”
will looks at him, raising his.
“i’m brad.”
“i assumed.”
your boyfriend perks a brow. “so you chose BC.”
will shrugs. “looks it.”
there’s a pause.
“brad used to be on the team,” you pipe in when the moment passes, feeling your boyfriends large palm on your hip.
“i’ve heard,” will answers, neutral, flat.
impossible to read.
but it’s not impressed.
brad shifts in his feet, taking the conversation back as he watches will standing casually, “you as good as they make you out to be?”
smitty shrugs, like it’s the least interesting thing he’s been asked all day. “depends who you ask.”
“you getting minutes?”
“some.”
“must be good then. good for a freshman — you are a freshman, right?”
“yeah.”
“yeah, thought so.”
smitty’s mouth pulls slightly at one side. “that a problem?”
your boyfriend doesn’t rise to it, but shrugs, “depends,” he says, “you usually talk this much to other people’s girlfriends?”
your stomach tightens, your hand reaching for brad’s arm to get going. smitty doesn’t even hesitate. he smiles in response instead, eyes flickering to you, “only when they talk back.”
you feel brad’s hand tightening.
silence stretches just a second too long when brad turns to you, his hand landing hard against your hip with a sharp smack that echoes more than it should. his voice drops soft, which only makes it worse. “well, you done playing his little puck bunny? so we can get going?”
your face falls. for a second, you just stand there, mouth parting like you’re about to say something—but nothing comes out. you glance at will, and then back at brad, heat rushing up your neck, blooming across your face.
puck bunny?
in front of will?
will doesn’t look amused anymore. whatever ease was there a second ago is gone.
you try to escape the moment as fast you can, brushing off the subtle humiliation of your boyfriend’s comment and nod too quickly, “y—yeah.”
he nods, craning his head slowly to schmitt as he starts to leave, like he’s about to let him in on some golden advice. “gotta watch out for distractions man - those puck bunnies are the worst . . don’t i know that.”
schmitt’s eyes flick back to you then -quick, instinctive, checking you almost- then back to brad, “yeah?” he fakes interest, “think it’s the puck bunnies who need to watch out for me.” his eyes lock on yours.
something unfamiliar twists low in your stomach — hot and alive like you’ve never experienced before. it makes the heat in your face worse, like it’s doubled back on itself, and you drop your head, hoping neither of them notice.
brad ushers you again, completely done engaging with the boy. he sighs, “let’s go, lola,” he smacks your ass again, “let schmitty here get back to practice . .” he glances to him again, “. . he needs it.”
you nod, eyes on the floor. you can’t look at will.
schmitt doesn’t move, just lightly tracks his eyes to brad with that same calm, unreadable look. “yup,” he agrees, pushing further back onto the ice, “you too — if you ever come back.”
that one lands. it pulls brad’s attention straight back - and yours too, the weight of it sitting heavier than everything else.
will taps his stick twice against the ice and skates off, like that ends it - like he decides when it’s over, and somehow, that’s the part that lingers the most. “see you thursday, y/n,” he calls out, skating away.
brad watches you for your response, but you don’t react. you just keep on walking, eyes down.
leaving the rink, your heart is pounding in your chest, wondering if you just imagined the whole thing.
you can’t believe your boyfriend just called you a puck bunny.
someone else’s puck bunny - to their face.
you can’t believe you didn’t say anything. all smart and sharped-tongued for what? until it comes to him?
you’re not even a puck bunny! you didn’t even meet brad like that! he was the one who chased you!
you’re so angry, and yet, despite your frustration, you feel it’s no match in battling brad’s — you’ve already ran through the argument in your head, and know how the scenario ends. you’ll call him out for his disrespect, and he’ll say it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been there in the first place, talking to another guy. like you brought this on yourself.
so, you force yourself to be the one to take the fall and break the ice - set the tone of the situation, acknowledging you were the one in the wrong. “he’s . . . irritating.”
“he’s a fucking brat,” he doesn’t look at you, just allows your arm to fall from his. “stay away from him.”
“he’s in my classes, brad. it’s hard to.” you try to keep up with him.
“with 200 other people around?” he turns then, lifting an eyebrow.
he’s not even that mad, but will has successfully irked him in some way.
impressive for a freshman.
you rub your arm as he scoffs, shaking his head. “he’ll be gone soon anyway . . when that little hockey career of his takes off.”
“yeah . . . he is good.”
“yeah, no shit, y/n. he’s not 4th overall pick for nothing.” he shakes his head, almost rolling his eyes.
you look at him, brows furrowed, trying to make sense of his words, “what was that?”
“i said he’s not 4th overall pick for nothing.”
“what’s 4th overall pick? 4th overall pick for what?”
your boyfriend turns to you like you’re truly the stupidest thing on planet earth. his mouth is almost open in irritable disbelief at your stupidity right now. “4th overall pick in the league, y/n. the NHL,” he looks at you, “you know what the NHL is – don’t you?”
you hate that your boyfriend has now started to mock you for your oblivious, but you’re genuinely lost right now. “what?”
“tell me you knew that,” you’ve both stopped walking now, brad’s posture towering above you. “you did know that, y/n.”
you didn’t.
you must be the only one on campus who didn’t. in boston who didn’t.
“he got drafted in june. he’s going to L.A or san jose or something.” brad hates that he’s even spelling this out to you. “he’s a first round pick. fourth overall. he’s going to play professional hockey.”
it clicks what he’s saying.
will, drafted in the summer, to the main thing, the NHL, called up to that big stage they put kids in a jersey on.
first round?
fourth over all?
the fourth guy?
like the first three, that always get their picture together, that are the big deal - will was the next one called after that? picked by an NHL team?
that’s like . . . a lot to take in right now.
that’s a really big deal?
your face is still twisted in confusion turning shock, struggling to retain the information, but the sight of your boyfriend watching you carefully snaps you into reality and you quickly fix your face, trying to move on from the subject.
“oh.”
he eyes you closely as you shrug, walking with him, “didn’t know.”
brad sighs and shakes his head, hands stuffed in his pockets as he continues to walk on, your touch annoying him now. “shock of the century . . brains would be dangerous on you.”
you deserve that, so you don’t say anything.
ugh! when you get your hands on will! you think, recalling his downplay on his hockey ability every time you brought it up.
you feel like a total idiot, rude almost, seeming like you refused to acknowledge the major accomplishment in his life - the thing everyone probably knows him for.
you shake your head into yourself, guilty for probably coming across so ignorant. you hate that you didn’t know. you feel like a total bitch.
brad doesn’t notice. just thinks you’re in your head again.
wait ‘til i see that guy again, you think, mysterious, freshman idiot.
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