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[eyesthatroll]

Home ☆ Elias Pettersson

summary: In which Petey comes home to you after a long Road Trip

note: this started off very sweet and domestic and I got a little carried away...I apologise. Very little swedish used because I don't speak swedish and google translator always sucks. I loved writing for Petey, he's such an underrated king and I hope you like it as well <3

warnings: language, p in v, smut, degrading language? I think that's it, feel free to correct me if it's not.

requested: yes

wc: 1.1K

Elias steps through the door of your shared apartment, dropping his bags at the door with a thud and removing his shoes. He knows you’re going to scold him for leaving his stuff there but right now he can’t find it in himself to care if it means he gets to see you a little sooner. He lets out a big sigh as exhaustion settles into his bones. It’s the type of exhaustion that no matter the amount of sleep he got on the plane, won’t be sated until he gets into his own bed, with you.

He makes his way into the living room, where he finds you curled up on the couch with some movie softly playing in the background. His lips curl up when he hears soft snores from you, indicating you were asleep. He always tells you to go to bed but you never listen, always opting to wait up for him instead and he couldn’t be happier that you did because although he has to wake you up, it means he doesn’t have to wait a minute longer to see you.

“Älskling,” he whispers softly, gently brushing some hair away from your face as your eyes flutter open.

“Lias…You’re home?” you ask groggily, a little disoriented and Elias takes a seat next to you as you sit up, pulling you into his side.

“I’m home baby,” he confirms, kissing your temple.

Both of you sit there for a few minutes, not saying anything, simply enjoying being in one another’s company for the first time in a few days.

“I put your towel in the drier, so it’s warm when you get out of the shower. I washed the sheets so the bed needs to be made, so I’m gonna do that while you take a shower and I’ll meet you in bed?” you ask and Elias’ heart grows twice the size with pure love for you.

You put his towel in the drier so it would be extra warm. You washed the sheets because you know he likes the feeling of clean sheets after a long road trip. He knows by the faint smell of ginger in the air, there’s a container of freshly baked cookies waiting for him on the kitchen counter, just like there is every time he comes home. Just like he knows you’ll be up before him tomorrow, while he sleeps in. Making him breakfast, and throwing his laundry in the wash so that he doesn’t have to worry about it.

“I’ll be quick,” he assures you, his voice a bit thick by his sudden overwhelming thoughts of love for you.

-

After his shower Elias joins you in bed, pulling you close. You turn around to look up at him, running your hands over his cheek and pulling him closer to attach your lips. A few kisses later, Elias is sitting up against the headboard, your legs on either side of his hips as you straddle him.

“I missed you,” Elias groans, head falling back as his hands squeezing your ass, pressing your clothed cores together.

“I missed you more,” you mumble against his neck, where your kisses had already begun leaving marks on his pale skin.

Elias puts both hands on your waist lifting you up to stand on your knees as he pulls down your shorts. You help him by removing your shirt, kicking your pants of the bed and his eyes naturally fall to your breasts, buds hardening in the cold. He wraps both arms around you and pulls you closer, his face level with your chest, pressing kisses there.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs

“Elias, please. I’ve already waited long enough, please don’t make me wait any longer,” you whine and he grins up at you. Both of you aware who’s really controlling the situation despite you hovering above him.

“You’re always so desperate baby, huh? Is that what being away from me does to you? Turns you into a needy little slut?” he asks, tongue circling your nipple, his hand playing with the other one.

“Please” is your only response and Elias gives in, pushing you back a bit to remove his boxers, his only article of clothing and pulling you closer again, his hand wrapped around his dick, lining it up with your entrance.

“Only cause you asked so nicely,” he says, gripping your hips tightly as you sink down onto him. There was nothing like those first few seconds of being inside you. Elias was convinced nothing would ever compare. He wondered if lifting the Stanley Cup would bring him as much euphoria as you.

Your hands grip the headboard behind his head, causing you to bend forward, practically shoving your breasts in his face, not that he was complaining. The change in angle causing both of you to moan when he enters you again.

“Fuck baby, you always feel so good,” he groans against your skin, his hand trailing between your legs and thumb lazily rubbing circles across your clit.

“Lias,” you moan, your hands moving from the headboard to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, leaving marks behind, just how he likes it. Your hips still, legs getting tired and unable to do much else but feel pleasure as Elias continues to rub your clit.

“That’s not nice baby, I just got home from a four game road trip and you’re making me do all the work,” he says, grabbing a fist full of your hair and pulling it, causing you to arch your back. His other hand lands on your ass with an audible smack when you don’t answer.

“Can’t even be bothered to answer? Too cockdrunk to even think aren’t you sweetheart?” he asks, not giving you time to try and formulate a response before both his hands slide to your hips, lifting you up and down in time with his thrusts. You can’t do anything but take it, like a little toy for him to use. The thought sends you over the edge, causing you to clench around him and he finishes inside you.

You both sit there for a few minutes, Elias still inside you. Just being close and savoring the moment waiting for your heart rates to go down.

“I love you,” he says softly, kissing you gently.

“I love you too. Welcome home.” you whisper, kissing his chest and tucking your face in his neck while his hands rub up and down your back.

He hates going on long roadies, but he loves coming home. Warm towels. Cookies. Fresh sheets. And you.

#eyesthatroll fic recs! #elias pettersson

[eyesthatroll]

Just Friends

Jack Hughes x Best Friend!Reader

summary: You’ve been best friends with Jack for ages. He’s also been in love with you for ages, but he’s got that completely under control. Really, he does. Right? 5.2k words

warnings: alcohol/intoxication, non graphic mentions of surgery/blood/stitches, hospital stay, reference to Jack’s shoulder surgery :(

Jack finds you in his apartment kitchen, a black tie in his hand. He’s already dressed in his suit pants and shirt, and for once, he feels like hair looks almost presentable. You take the tie from him without a word, and you loop it around his neck, underneath the collar of his shirt. Meanwhile, he grabs your necklace off the counter and fiddles with the clasp.

You hum to yourself as you start to tie the tie. “Ready for the game today?”

He shrugs. “I’m always ready.”

Luke is there, too, shoveling cereal into his mouth and watching the two of you warily. As you loop the tie around your fingers, Jack slips the necklace around your neck, your skin soft under his fingers. He latches it, blindly, with expert precision, muscle memory. He’s done it a million times now.

You tug the tie into place and then smooth it out on his chest. He hasn’t put his jacket on yet, but you’ll fix the lapels of it, too. You take a half a step back and give him a once over. He stands, waiting for your approval with his breath held in his chest. It shouldn’t mean this much, you making sure he looks good, but it does. You reach up and tuck a lock of hair back into place atop his head, and he smiles happily.

“All good,” you say, dusting your hands together as if you’ve just finished a hard day’s work.

Jack squints at your face, spotting something, and he brings a finger up to brush against your cheekbone. “Eyelash,” he explains, and you hum, closing your eyes as he brushes it away. “Got it.”

“Thanks,” you murmur. “Come on, don’t wanna be late. And no cereal in the car, Luke.”

Jack rushes off to grab his jacket. When he comes back, Luke is dumping the last of his cereal into the sink, and Jack grimaces. You’re in the hallway, stepping into a pair of shoes. Luke turns to him with a smirk, and Jack shakes his head before his brother can even open his mouth.

“Don’t,” he whispers.

Luke rolls his eyes. “I just think you guys are-“

“You thinking is dangerous,” Jack says. “Save all that energy for the game.”

He walks away, down the hallway to find you. You reach up to fix his jacket for him, and then you reach for the car keys and hand them off to him. He grins and nudges his elbow against your side.

“You’re such a passenger princess,” he teases.

You shrug. “I’m very good at it!”

He’s not complaining, really. There’s nobody he’d rather see in his passenger seat than you. Your jersey hangs proudly from your shoulders, his name and number on the back, and it makes his chest feel warm. You’re his good luck charm. He just hasn’t told you that yet.

…..

Jack’s spent so much time convincing his brothers and his teammates and his parents that he’s not in love with you, that he can’t pinpoint when it actually happened. He’s not sure there was some big moment, some realization, some day where he looked at you and everything changed. You’ve just been so present in his life that maybe it was a sort of gradual thing. Maybe it’s always been there, and he’s been in denial since he was eleven and Quinn was teasing him on the playground near their house.

Now you’re in New York, closer than you have been in years, both distance wise and friendship wise. You have season tickets, because he’s playing in the NHL and he wants you at every game possible. You spend half your nights at his place when he’s home, and he ignores the funny looks Luke gives him about it. Honestly, he’s a bit tired of denying it all. He thinks maybe if someone just asked point blank he’d let it all spill out.

He reads the text from you and smiles- you’re on your way to the Rock, one of your friends in tow. He’d gotten you two seats for the season, so you wouldn’t have to sit alone. He sort of dreads the day you decide to bring a date, but then he wonders what guy would be stupid enough to go along with that. Jack’s cocky, he’ll admit it. He knows he’s good at hockey. He laughs at the thought of you dragging a date along to see him play.

Someone announces they’re ordering food before the game, from the deli down the street. Jack listens as his teammates put in their orders. Luke goes with his usual. Timo changes things up. When the assistant gets to him, he grins. He orders his go to, and then another, and asks for a can of Coke, too, for good measure. Luke gives a knowing roll of his eyes.

When the guy brings the food in, Jack takes his bag, fishes his sandwich out of it, and hands the other sandwich and the can of Coke back. “Can you get this to seat B322?” He asks, grinning widely. He knows your seat number by heart.

Luke sighs heavily next to him. The guy agrees, of course. Nico, who’s standing nearby, cocks his head in confusion.

“She’s coming straight from work,” Jack defends. The ribbing he gets from the guys will be worth it when he sees you after the game. “She’s gonna be hungry.”

“It’s a hockey arena,” Luke says drily. “There’s so much food here.”

“But she loves Krauszer’s,” Jack says, and Nico rolls his eyes. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t order her some?”

“Friend,” Nico says, drawing out the word. “Sure.”

Jack ignores him. He ignores Luke’s smirk, too. He eats his sandwich and finishes getting ready, and then he heads out onto the ice, knowing you’re there somewhere, probably sipping on a can of Coke.

…..

The issue, Jack finds, is that it’s getting harder to ignore the fact that he’s in love with you.

It was easier, before, when you were younger and he was more dumb and less aware of… everything. He could convince himself it was just puppy love, just absence making the heart grow fonder, when post high school saw the two of you split apart. But now you’re here, close, and yet not close enough. Jack wants more, and he can’t really ignore that feeling these days.

He’s out at a bar, team bonding, as Nico put it. Except that half the team is drunk, including Nico, and the only bonding Jack’s doing is the brotherly kind, trying to keep Luke from sneaking drinks, or worse, getting caught sneaking drinks. Sometimes he hates being an older brother. He’d wanted to come out, maybe talk to a girl, maybe take said girl home, or get her to take him back to her place so he wouldn’t have to worry about Luke overhearing. But it’s not really working, not with Nico hanging off his shoulder like a leech and Luke sneaking another shot, and god, Jack’s going to kill him. If you were here, you’d be keeping an eye on Luke, too. He wishes you were here.

He has a shot to take the edge of the annoyance off. Then he has another, and another, and then there’s a girl across the bar, smiling at him, and- she sort of looks like you, is the thing, but not quite. The sort of uncanny valley of it all is freaking him out. For a moment he wonders if hooking up with her would make it better- would get it out of his system, would scratch the itch. The sane, more sober part of him thinks it might just make it all worse. To have some girl under him and hear a voice that isn’t yours. Jack used to do this all the time. The thought of it makes him feel sick now. That’s new.

He downs another shot and passes his leech of a captain off on his problem of a brother, hoping the two of them will keep each other in line. Then he pulls his phone from his pocket and gets an Uber.

It’s only when he’s standing at your apartment door that he realizes he probably should’ve called first. You might already be asleep. You might be out. Maybe you have a guy over. His stomach does a somersault at the thought. He raises his hand to knock anyways- he’s come all this way.

You open the door with a smile on your face. “Nico called to ask if I knew where you went. Thought you might be headed here.”

Jack lets his shoulders drop. “They were annoying me.”

That’s not the real reason he left, but he can’t exactly tell you he saw the uncanny valley version of you and decided to leave. That would be… a lot. You seem to take his answer as the truth, because Luke is annoying on a night out, and Nico can be, too. Jack still probably should’ve told them he was leaving. He’ll get an earful about it. Oh well. The way you step aside to let him into your apartment makes it worth it.

He heads for the couch, and you laugh when he flops onto it, facedown. He likes your laugh. It sounds so much like you. He remembers the years when you were in college and he was far, far away from you, when he’d crack jokes on the phone calls just to hear you giggle. He presses his face into a pillow and hopes you don’t see the blush on his cheeks, or that you’ll attribute it to his drunkenness.

“Want food?” You call out, from the kitchen, he thinks. He groans loudly in response. “I have mozz sticks.”

He turns his head to the side and says, “fuck, I love you.”

He can say it here, in the comfort and privacy of your living room, in the relative safeness of the fact that he’s been drinking. You won’t think anything of it. You won’t realize how much he really means it.

The sound of your laugh is music to his ears. “Love you too, Rowdy.”

You don’t mean it the way he wants you to. That’s okay. He came to terms with that a while ago, listening to you say it over staticky phone calls. But you’ll make him mozzarella sticks, and you’re not upset that he’s here, so he’ll take it. He’ll take anything, really.

You come into the living room a few minutes later, plate full of food in hand, and make him roll over. He sits up slightly, leaning against the arm of the couch, and you lift his legs to sit under them. He doesn’t complain when you turn on some stupid reality tv show he hates- there are mozzarella sticks for him to eat, and the warmth of you under him, the weight of your arm where it’s draped across his calves. He can put up with the host’s annoying voice for this.

He falls asleep on your couch, half a mozz stick in his hand. When he wakes up, he’s tucked in with the quilt you’ve had for years now, a pillow under his head, and water waiting for him on the coffee table. You’re probably at work by now. He’ll send you a text to say thank you, later, unless he decides to just wait here until you come home. That doesn’t sound like such a bad idea, really.

…..

It’s a Saturday, and Luke is out for lunch with some of the other younger players, so Jack’s fending for himself. Trevor, knowing this due to what he would call their cosmic connection, has seen it as an opportunity to talk Jack’s ear off over FaceTime. Jack has his phone propped on the kitchen counter, half listening as he cooks.

He loves Trevor- really, he does, but the guy could talk for hours upon hours and never run out of things to say. Jack lets him, because he knows Trevor likes talking, so he’s not going to be mean. He just chimes in with noises of agreement or disagreement at the right times. Then Trevor says your name, and he zones back in.

“I fucking knew you weren’t listening!” Trevor cackles, wide grin taking up most of the phone screen. “But the second I mention-“

“Shut up,” Jack groans, rolling his eyes. “I’m listening. I’m just also making lunch.”

“Right, right,” Trevor snarks. “Just for you?”

Jack knows what he’s insinuating. Honestly, as much as he hates to admit it, it’s not a bad idea. You’re not working today, and he could probably convince you to come hang out with him in exchange for free food. He’s bored enough to listen to Trevor go on and on. You could save him from it.

“Yeah,” he says, and immediately contradicts himself by picking up his phone and sending you a text.

He tries to listen this time, he really does. He cares about Trevor, he wants to hear what he has to say. He finishes cooking lunch, and then Trevor has to go, shouting something to someone in the background, and he hangs up. Jack sighs at the empty, quiet room. He thinks about texting Luke to see when he’ll be back, but that feels pathetic. Maybe Nico’s not busy.

His heart leaps when his phone buzzes with a text from you.

Lunch sounds good. I’ll be over soon.

He can’t wipe the grin off his face the whole rest of the day. You come over, and eat the rest of the food happily, sitting at the kitchen counter. He watches fondly and tells you all the drama Trevor just told him- screw you, Zegras, he was listening. You smile brightly up at him.

“Got plans for the rest of the day?” He asks, hoping desperately that you don’t.

You shrug. “Nope. I’m all yours.”

God, he wishes.

…..

Jack thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can’t really be blamed when it all comes crashing down on a Wednesday afternoon in April. It’s been coming for a while. He’s had time to prepare. It shouldn’t take him out the way it does, because he’s seen it coming from miles away. It shouldn’t, but it does anyways.

They pull him from the games and finally, finally, ship him off to Colorado to have surgery. He gets an email with the flight information, another with a hotel to stay in the night before, and instructions on how to book his flight back to Jersey after he’s released. They don’t want to book it now, for fear of something going wrong in surgery. Hockey teams are superstitious like that, even their travel management.

There’s another set of emails, too- ones from the surgeon, about his prep and things he needs to do and bring and what to expect from the healing process. He hasn’t bothered to open it. That’ll make it real. He just packs up some of his clothes, shuts himself in his room, and waits. He ignores Luke, then he ignores Nico, who he’s sure Luke has brought over. He ignores Quinn’s phone calls, too, and everyone else’s.

When you show up, though, knocking on his bedroom door and calling out his name, he can’t ignore it. He makes a noise that isn’t a go away, and you take it as an invitation in, which he supposes it was. You make a soft noise of disapproval when you see him, curled up in his bed, hood pulled up around his head to block out the world.

“Hey, J,” you murmur, padding your way across his bedroom. “What’s going on?”

He sniffles and presses his face into the mattress. “The surgery.”

You sigh and sit down on the edge of his bed. “Yeah.”

Jack’s not afraid of having surgery, really. He’s never been very squeamish, never one to shy away from blood draws or stitches or IVs. You know this. Everyone knows it, which is probably why they’re all so worried about his reaction to this. He doesn’t want to admit it really, but it’s you, so he finds the words slipping past his lips.

“Mom can’t come,” he says, voice raw and scraping. “Or dad. Too short notice. And- and Luke and Nico and Quinn are gonna be busy, obviously, and I just… all this talk about surgery all this time and I didn’t think I’d have to do it alone, you know? It couldn’t wait till after the season so I could-“

He breaks off into an embarrassing, breath stealing sob. You make a soothing little noise and lean down next to him, scooping him up into your arms. It sort of helps and sort of makes it worse. The tears flow freely now. It’s just you. All his walls are down.

“You won’t be by yourself, Jack,” you murmur, and he waits for the reassuring words, that you’ll all be with him in spirit, that he’ll be home in no time, that he’s never alone. Instead, you say, “I took some time off. I’m gonna fly out with you, be there for the surgery.”

He pries one eye open, waiting for the punch line. There isn’t one. Just you, watching him carefully, holding him close. He knows how hard it is for you to get time off right now. It’s your busy season at work. And yet, here you are. Tears start running again. The whole world goes blurry. You just brush them away, one by one.

“Oh, honey,” you soothe, voice low and soft. “You didn’t think I’d let you do it alone, did you?”

God, he loves you. And he thinks this might be the final straw, the last puzzle piece. There’s no denying it now. You brush stray hairs from his face and press warm kisses to his forehead while he admits that he’s scared, not of the surgery but of what comes after, of the healing and the rehab and everything involved in it. You draw soothing patterns on his skin and just listen, because you know him well enough to know he needs to get it off his chest. He thinks about telling you how much he loves you as he starts to drift off, but he thinks better of it. There’ll be a better time than this, tear stained and curled up in his bed like a little kid. For now, it’s enough to know you love him, in any way, shape, or form.

…..

Jack wakes up in a hospital bed in Vail, Colorado, utterly disoriented and freezing cold. The ceiling is this ugly grey color, just like the rest of the ceilings in the building have been. He’s spent a lot of time staring at them in the last 24 hours. He blinks, and the tiles blur and swirl, and he hears his name in your voice. He tries to hold on, but he’s so, so sleepy, so he closes his eyes.

He wakes up again with no idea how long he’s been out. He’s warmer now. There’s an extra blanket laid over him, and a hand holding his. Hm. It feels nice. He squeezes his fingers experimentally. He hears movement to his left. A plastic cup appears in his field of vision, and he suddenly realizes how thirsty he is. He turns, slightly, and finds you.

“You’re here,” he says, quietly.

Your face is a little out of focus, but he thinks you smile. “Yeah, of course I am. Told you I would be.”

He knows that. He knows you flew out here with him, eating snacks on the plane before he hit the 12 hours before surgery mark and he had to stop. You checked into the hotel with him, got all the supplies ready for after the surgery, got him here, promised you’d be waiting when he woke up. But now he’s here, post surgery, and you’re holding his hand, and his chest hurts in the best way.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” you murmur, lifting the cup to his lips. He takes a sip. “Does it hurt?”

He shakes his head gingerly. He’s a little achy, but nothing that would make him cry normally. He can’t help it, it’s probably the meds. He remembers crying when he got his wisdom teeth out, too. He tries to tell you as much, but it comes out garbled and teary and raw. You shush him, smoothing your hand over his forehead and pushing his hair out of his face. That feels nice. You’re warm.

“Okay. It’s okay,” you soothe. “Take a breath. It’s alright.”

He does his best. You help him take little sips of water, and eventually the tears dry up. He’s left sitting there, your hand running through his hair, and he suddenly feels so, so sleepy. He turns his head and blinks at you. You’re clear in his vision now, beautiful as ever.

“You’re pretty,” he mumbles.

He thinks it all the time, he may as well say it. Nothing’s holding him back now. You laugh, and your face gets blurry again. He sighs.

“You’re pretty,” you say back.

He rolls his eyes, but he smiles anyways. “Hmm.”

“Are you sleepy?” You ask, thumb brushing against his temple. He nods. “You can go to sleep, okay?”

“You’ll be here when I wake up?” He asks, feeling a little vulnerable, suddenly.

“Yeah, Jacky,” you murmur, and when he closes his eyes, he thinks he feels your lips against his temple. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The third time he wakes up, you’re sitting next to him, eating ice cream out of a little plastic cup with one of the tiny wooden spoons. The tv in the room is playing that same stupid reality show. The host’s voice would piss him off if he wasn’t so focused on how adorable you look. He inches the fingers of his good hand towards you, towards where your knee is pressed against his bed. When he makes contact, you jump nearly a foot in the air. He can’t help but giggle.

“Jesus,” you mutter, shaking your head at him.

“Nah, just Jack,” he teases.

You roll your eyes. “Someone’s feeling better.”

If he’s being honest, he still feels a little loopy. Your face is in focus, but everything feels a little softer around the edges. His fingers scramble against your knee, and you laugh, leaning close. You set down the ice cream and reach to tangle your hand up in his. That’s nice. He doesn’t get to do that a lot- hold your hand. Maybe he should have surgery more often. You smooth his hair out of his face again. It’s such a caring motion that it sends his heart stuttering.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, quietly.

You shrug. “What kind of best friend would I be if I wasn’t?”

And. That’s nice, but it’s not really what he wants to hear. He wants you to be here because you love him. He probably wouldn’t spend hours in a hospital waiting room for Nico, probably wouldn’t sit and wait for him to wake up. He’d bring him food after, when he got home, would help him however he needed. But to fly halfway across the country just to be here? He’d do that for you in a heartbeat, but he’s not sure there are many others he’d do the same for.

You seem to notice the way he’s staring, and you wave the wooden spoon at him. “You want some ice cream? The nurse said to call when you actually woke up. I’m sure she’ll give you one if you turn on the charm.”

He blinks slowly. “I love you, you know that?”

It’s past his lips before he can take it back. It should be terrifying. He should feel sick to his stomach. Maybe it’s the hospital drugs, or maybe it’s just that he’s been holding it in for so long, but it doesn’t feel scary. He sort of just feels relieved.

You smile brightly. “Yeah, I love you, too, Jack.”

He huffs. “No, you don’t get it-“

Before he can get another word out, the nurse comes in. He wonders if you pressed the button when he wasn’t paying attention, or if hospital staff just have comically bad timing. He lets out a groan. You give him an amused smile.

“Welcome back, Jack,” the nurse says. He reads her nametag- Nancy. “I’m just going to do a little checkup, alright?” She turns to you. “If you want, you can step out into the hall.”

By the time he’s squeezing your hand to keep you there, you’re holding onto him tightly, too. Huh. That’s interesting.

“She can stay,” Jack says.

You nod. So does Nancy, a knowing smile on her lips. Jack wonders if she sees this a lot. Guys with friends who sit by their bed, oblivious to the fact that said guy is hopelessly in love with them. Maybe it’s a common thing in hospitals. Maybe it’s not just Jack. That’s a nice thought.

He gets his blood pressure taken, and his pulse, and he gets asked to take a few deep breaths for what seems to be just the fun of it. She asks his pain level- a 3, at which point you break in and tell the nurse that his three is more like a five. She smiles at the two of you. When she goes to leave, Jack speaks up.

“Could I have some ice cream?” He asks, hoping the way his voice cracks on the words makes her sympathetic.

Ice cream does sound good. His throat feels raw, and his mouth is dry. And he’s starving.

Nurse Nancy smiles and looks at you. “What do you think? Has he been well behaved enough?”

Normally, Jack would take a little offense to it. But he turns to you, and you’re smiling bright, lighting up the whole room. His stomach does a somersault. He wonders if the way he feels about you is visible on the heart monitor, if his pulse picks up every time he looks at you.

“He’s the best,” you answer, and he melts. “Give him all the ice cream you’ve got.”

Ten minutes later, you sit there, holding a container of chocolate vanilla swirl. He’d been ready to eat it on his own until he remembered his arm, the surgery, the whole reason he’s here. He’d had to settle for letting you feed it to him. Maybe settle is the wrong word, really. It’s nice to be taken care of, even nicer when you’re the one who’s doing it for him.

He thinks maybe he’s still loopy, because in between bites, he pauses, looks at you, opens his mouth, and puts his foot directly in it. “I meant it, you know. I love you.”

You nod. “I know.”

He’s too far into this to stop now. “No, I-“

You interrupt, dropping the spoon in the cup to place your hand over his. “Jack, honey. Tell me later, when you’re not high off anesthesia, okay?”

Oh. He cocks his head, slightly. His mouth tastes like chocolate and vanilla. You smell like flowers. Like the lilacs in the backyard of his childhood home. There’s a light and warmth in your eyes that makes everything feel a little bit better.

“And if I tell you later,” he says, feeling braver than he ever has before, “are you gonna tell me something back?”

You laugh. It’s still music to his ears. You pick up the spoon again, scooping up a bit of ice cream. His gaze stays locked on you.

“Yeah,” you say with a nod. “That I mean it the same way you mean it.”

That’s enough for Jack, for now.

He tells you again the next day, waits a full 24 hours because a part of him is worried it was all some sort of drug induced dream. But you’re packing up the suitcases, that same stupid show on the TV, and he turns to you where he sits on the edge of the bed and says it.

“I love you. Like, really love you. As more than a friend.” His heart is in his throat.

You drop the hoodie you’d been holding into the bag, walk across the room to him, and come to stand between his legs. He’s holding his breath. You hook your finger under his chin and pull his face to yours. He thinks he recognizes the look on your face, from the kitchen when you helped him tie his tie, from the living room with a plate of mozzarella sticks in your hand, from every moment he was feeling all his feelings for you.

“Yeah,” you say, kissing his cheek. “I really love you too.”

When you kiss him on the lips, soft and sweet and everything he’s wanted for ages now, he thinks that maybe the whole mess has been worth it.

…..

He sits in a wooden chair on the back deck of the lake house. It’s mid summer, the week of the 4th of July. The heat is nearly unbearable, heavy and sticky and inescapable. Trevor and Luke are on the grass, throwing a football back and forth. Jack’s trying not to check the time obsessively.

Quinn, who’s sitting next to him, gives him a look when he picks up his phone again. “She’ll get here when she gets here.”

Jack rolls his eyes and sinks further into his seat. “You’re a dick.”

“Jesus, I know she’s your friend but…” Quinn is shaking his head. “You’re being obsessive.”

He hasn’t told any of them. Not about the hospital bed confession, or the kiss, or anything that came after it. The flight back to Jersey, his head on your shoulder. The way you took care of him before he flew to Michigan for the off season. The late night calls the two of you have shared since then. He’s itching to see you. It’s been far too long. He’s been scared to tell them because he’s scared you’ll get here and it won’t be real. He’s being ridiculous, he knows it, but he can’t help it. It’s you.

He hears it when your car pulls up in the driveway. He stands up, ignoring the look Quinn gives him. He’s not quick enough- you must’ve parked and ran inside immediately. You come racing out onto the back porch, eyes wide, smile even wider, and he could melt into a puddle right there in the hot summer sun. You’re brighter than all of it.

He pulls you into a kiss right there, in front of everyone, earning a series of surprised yelps and gasps and cheers. He doesn’t care about anything else. You’re here, and you’re kissing him back, and that’s more than enough.

“Fucking called it!” Trevor yells, and Jack laughs.

“We all did,” Quinn says. “Glad you two finally figured it out.”

You won’t be here forever. You have work, and a life in the city. But for now, for this little slice of time, he gets to have everything he’s always wanted. That’ll hold him over for the rest of the off season. Or, more likely, until he caves in and gets an early flight back to Jersey to spend more time with you. From the way you smile when you stare up at him, he thinks it probably won’t be long.

a/n: thanks for reading! have been wanting to write about Jack for a bit & he’s just so best friends to lovers coded. so here we go!

#eyesthatroll fic recs! #jack hughes

[eyesthatroll]

#WHAT THE FUCK #I SAW THIS AND I STOPPED BREATHING #LITERALLY #WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK #nathan mackinnon

[eyesthatroll]

My Sweet Girl (Matthew Tkachuk Imagine)

This is by far-- I repeat, by far-- the longest reader insert I've ever written. It's my submission for @wyattjohnston 's Winter Fic Exchange, a gift for @matthewtkachuk ! Excellent URL, by the way.

The creative process here went as follows: Shelbs shows me her On Repeat Spotify playlist -> I see The Band Camino on it and remember that I love that band -> I listen to nothing but them for two weeks -> I hear the song Know It All and am struck with inspiration -> I write this and inflict it on everyone else.

I jumped around a bit while writing, so please let me know if there's anything I screwed up! This is also the type of fic that has had 20+ tabs of Wikipedia pages, ESPN articles, and stats pages open on my computer for two months, but there was still information I couldn't find, so please be gentle with any inconsistencies.

Anyway, I truly hope that you enjoy this one! I apologize for being a day late posting, my job sucks.

Rating: M

Pairing: Matthew Tkachuk/fem!Reader

Words: 26, 028

Warnings: a lot of angst

Contains: best friend's brother, friends to ??? to strangers to lovers, situationship, idiots in love, everyone knows but them, Matthew being kind of a dick, guest appearances by the Weinberg-Hughes family and Jane Gaudreau

Summary: As Brady's best friend, it was your duty to love and support him. You're pretty sure falling in love with his brother does not count as "support", but here you are.

-----

You weren’t expecting this to be as hard as it is.

Luckily, you’d been given a little warning beforehand, but apparently a week wasn’t enough to prepare yourself. Was it kind of fucked up that the news had to come from Brady, because Matthew hadn’t bothered to tell you himself? Yeah, kind of. Sure, Brady and you have been best friends for years, but it’s not like you’re not close with Matthew, too.

You hadn’t realized what was going on at first, convincing yourself not to be upset when Matthew’s texts slowed and his calls stopped outright. It had been the beginning of the playoffs, you reasoned, of course he was going to be too busy to talk to you as much. Despite the fact that communication between the two of you had never waned because of the season before. It was his first year on a new team, you’d told yourself, a team with a great shot at the Cup, at that. You could deal with missing him a little more than usual if that’s what he needed.

When you’d called him to congratulate him on passing the first round, he’d thanked you and wrapped the call up as quickly as he could. Seeing the 3:24:41 call duration on your phone afterward had felt wrong. It was one of the shortest calls the two of you had ever had.

You’d brushed it off, chalked it up to him being tired or busy. Then they’d won the second round, and the process repeated itself. A quick phone call, a few scant minutes. It had sounded like other people were there that time, so you’d convinced yourself that he would call you back when he was alone. He never did.

You got to watch Game 4 of the third series, got to watch them sweep Carolina to win the Eastern Conference. Your friend Terri had laughed and clapped as you cheered, jumping up and down like a child. She was a Carolina fan herself, but was good enough of a loser to hug and congratulate you despite it. She’d offered to leave so that you could talk to Matthew, but you’d waved it off. You knew he’d be celebrating with the boys that night, so there was no real reason to try calling. You’d shot him a congratulations text and spent the night smiling so much your cheeks hurt.

When you’d tried to call Matthew the next day, his voice had been hushed when he answered. You’d given him your congratulations, bubbling over about how well they’d played. It’s not the first time you’d had a phone call exactly like that, him letting you gush about his team’s play and basking in the attention. This time, he interrupted you before you even got a chance to really get going. His voice was still quiet, almost a whisper as he said he had to go. The wind was immediately taken out of your sails and you’d barely had time to say goodbye before he hung up.

At that point, you’d given up convincing yourself that everything was okay. Something was very clearly wrong, and you’d spent the next nine days trying to figure out what it was. You’d reached out to Brady, and he’d told you that he hadn’t noticed anything weird from Matthew at all. Knowing that, you’d tried to downplay what was going on between the two of you, lest Brady go bother Matthew about it. You don’t do well with embarrassment, so you’d preferred that whatever was going on stayed away from any third parties.

The finals started, ending rather anticlimactically ten days later in a 4-1 loss for the Panthers. Knowing Matthew, he was going to go straight back to his hotel room and beat himself up. For the last three, almost four, years, you’d called Matthew after every big win or loss, and this was his biggest loss to date. Yet your finger hesitated at his contact name, hovered over the picture of him with bedhead and a lazy smile. With how things had been going, you knew he probably wouldn’t want to talk to you, even if you hadn’t figured out why yet. But part of you hoped that he would, that everything to that point had been stress, and there, at his lowest, he would talk to you again, and everything would go back to normal.

That, of course, is not what happened.

He hadn’t answered at all. And when you’d tried a second time an hour later, it rang once before going to voicemail. That meant that he’d declined your call, but you didn’t know what that meant.

Two more days passed without you hearing anything from him, so you’d called Brady. All of this had been concerning, but that had been too much. Miraculously, you’d managed to stay calm when you spoke with Brady, sounding impressively level-headed when you relayed what happened and asked him if he’d heard from Matthew. Brady had seemed shocked at the situation, immediately calling Matthew after he’d hung up with you.

Thirty minutes later, when you’d received a text from Brady, your heart had sunk to the pit of your stomach, and it’s stayed there ever since.

Because what the text had informed you of is that Matthew hadn’t lost or broken his phone, hadn’t been sick or depressed or, god, lost in the fucking desert or some shit. It told you that he’d been with his girlfriend, and hadn’t wanted her to see him call or text another girl. Because, apparently, Matthew has a girlfriend now. And just hadn’t deigned to tell you.

When Brady had told you that she would be spending the offseason in St. Louis with Matthew, you’d tried to hide your shock. You’d cleared your throat and told Brady how great that was, even as you wanted to throw up. They’d gotten into town a few days ago, and you’d done your best to keep your distance. But Brady asked you to come to dinner at his parents’ house tonight, citing the limited time you have to see him before he goes back to Ottawa, and you couldn’t refuse.

So now here you are, curled up in a chair in the Tkachuks’ den, across from said girlfriend. Her name is Tessa, she’s 26, and she does remote work for a marketing firm. That explains how she’s able to pick up and go to St. Louis for three months, at least. She’s already recounted the story of how they’d met, a romcom story of spilling his drink on her dress at a party and getting to know each other from there. She talks about the instant connection, the way they clicked so quickly that she knew they were meant for each other. That part of the story was when you’d excused yourself to get a glass of water, just so you could stick your head in the fridge and take a few deep breaths.

Matthew and Tessa are on one of the couches, the older, comfier one. Matthew is propped up against one of the armrests, Tessa curled into his side, his arm around her shoulders. You’ve spent the night pretending not to notice the way Matthew keeps glancing at you.

Brady and Emma are posted up on the other couch, one on either side, Emma’s feet in Brady’s lap as she lounges. Emma is great, and does a great job at keeping the conversation going, despite how little you and the boys are participating. Tessa either doesn’t notice your silence or doesn’t mind, chatting happily about some film she and Emma have both recently seen. You’re pretending not to notice the looks Brady’s giving you, either.

You should really be trying harder. You know Brady wasn’t expecting you to curl up under a blanket and mope when he invited you, and he really is right about time being limited. You should be engaging, enjoying the time you get with the boys while you have it. You would, if you could open your mouth without feeling like you’re going to scream.

Eventually, Chantal calls you all to dinner. It’s easier once you’re all gathered around the table, somehow, and you’re able to talk a little. Chantal has always put you at ease, has always made you feel like just another of her children. If you had it your way, Taryn would be here too. She has a way of lovingly bullying you that always makes you feel better. Unfortunately, she’s visiting some college friends out of state. But you’re doing okay, you think, at acting normal.

Then you lock eyes with Keith, and any sense of ease you’ve gained flies out the window. You wouldn’t be inclined to say that Keith is the most observant person in the world, so the way he’s looking at you– like he knows something is very, very wrong– makes it clear that you’re doing an absolutely dogshit job at hiding your feelings. You look away from him quickly, swallowing hard and forcing yourself to talk even more. 

Maybe if you can just act normal, if you can push down the emotions and act like everything is okay, it will be. There’s nothing else you can really do about the situation anyway. Matthew has made it clear that he’s not interested in talking about it, so you’ll have to suck it up and deal with it on your own.

Dinner goes by a little quicker once you’re actually actively involved in the conversation. Typically, you help Chantal with the dishes after meals, but when you reach for the sponge at the sink, she shoos you away. She sends the girls back to the den, insisting that it’s the boys’ turn to help.

You curl back up in your chair, mind wandering as you operate on autopilot. You’re saying things, contributing to the conversation with Emma and Tessa, but you have no idea what you’re actually saying. Mercifully, they either don’t notice or don’t care.

This entire situation is fucked. What’s really getting to you, though, is how you’d been introduced. You’d walked in, giving out hugs to everyone except Matthew and Tessa. She’d approached you, shaking your hand enthusiastically.

“Matthew said you’re Brady’s best friend, right?” she’d asked. It was simple, innocuous, and true. Brady and you have been best friends for years, and that would be an adequate title in any other scenario. But it felt like a punch to the gut, knowing that after everything, Matthew had told her that you were just his little brother’s best friend. You’d glanced at him as she said it, and the intentionally cool, unaffected expression Matthew had in place still couldn’t hide the guilt in his eyes.

In that moment, you knew that he hadn’t told her anything about you, about whatever the two of you have been to each other for the past few years, and that he never intends to. There was a second where he’d made a decision, a second that you weren’t present for, that had cut off everything you’ve been to him and relegated you back to Brady’s Best Friend.

You want to pull Tessa aside, spill out everything. You want her to know that you’re Matthew’s friend too, that you’ve been more than that. More than that, you want Matthew to do it. You want him to tell her, to acknowledge whatever the hell you’ve been doing for all this time. You want him to admit that you’re something, anything to him.

Instead, you keep it all to yourself. The knowledge of everything between you and Matthew will live and die where it is now, in the minds of the two of you, and nowhere else.

June, 2018

You’re wiping down the counters when the man enters. You force a bright smile at him, still annoyed from the previous customer but doing your best not to show it. He returns the smile, approaching the register. You move to settle across from him, greeting him politely. The shop has a lot of regulars, but you don’t recognize this guy.

“I’ll be honest,” he says, giving a single nervous laugh, “I’m not really a coffee guy. Do you have any recommendations?” It’s not an uncommon question, and there aren’t any other customers right now, so you don’t mind.

“Do you like the taste of coffee?” you ask. He shakes his head. That eliminates about half of the menu, so it’s progress.

“How much caffeine are you going for?” you ask next.

“As much as possible,” he replies. The dark circles under his eyes could have hinted you to that conclusion. He has a laptop and notebook in one hand, down by his side. It’s normal for people to bring work along with them, and he’s definitely young, so you guess it’s probably school work.

“You could always do a triple shot latte with a flavor,” you suggest, your own go-to drink, “The caramel is the strongest. I can put in an extra pump if you want.” Technically, you should charge extra for that, but the kid looks kind of pathetic, and you feel bad. He can have a pity pump this once.

“That sounds good,” he agrees. You do the math in your head and punch in the price manually on the vintage register. The whole cafe is supposed to have a vintage vibe, a real hipster magnet. Math was always your weakest subject, but having to calculate totals in your head has made you a lot better with it.

Once he pays on the very not-vintage card reader, you direct him to the far side of the bar. You start on his drink, pulling shots with practiced ease. You’ve been working  here since high school, so you’ve gotten pretty good at making coffee. He doesn’t try to talk to you while you work, which is nice. There’s something oddly calming about his presence, though, and it’s helping your annoyance fade.

You hand off his drink, and he retreats to a booth in the back corner after thanking you. You go back to wiping things down, bobbing your head along with the music playing quietly over the speakers. It’s later in the evening, so you only get a few customers over the next hour. It’s one thing you like about working the night shift. Not many customers, and most of the people getting coffee around this time are tired enough to not give you much trouble, and are usually extremely grateful for the caffeine.

It’s quiet for long enough that you pull your stool up to the counter, pulling your textbook and notes out from under the counter. You start working on the homework for your summer semester, singing quietly to yourself as you read.

“You have a nice voice,” the guy from earlier says, suddenly standing in front of you. You jump, hand flying to your chest as if you’re a damsel in a period piece. You’d forgotten he was here.

“Thank you,” you say, once the surprise fades. You laugh a little, shaking your head. He laughs too, apologizing for startling you.

“Could I have another?” he asks, holding up his now-empty cup.

“Of course,” you reply, “Same cup okay?” You do your best to be environmentally friendly, so you don’t want to use another cup if you don’t have to. He says that’s okay, so you take the cup and start pulling another shot.

“Y/N,” he says absently as he leans on the counter, “That’s a pretty name.” You thank him again, dumping the first shot into the cup. It’s odd, because people are usually flirting when they say something like that, but his tone isn’t suggestive at all.

“What’s your name?” you ask, feeling like you should say something. You start pulling the second shot.

“Brady,” he says, extending a hand toward you. You look between his hand and your own, feeling rude but needing both hands to pull the shot.

“Oh, um,” you stutter, “Sorry, I’m–” He seems to realize what’s going on and retracts his hand, using it to rub at the base of his skull.

“My bad,” he says, shaking his head at himself, “I’m tired, sorry.” You smile at him, much more genuine than the first time.

“What’s got you so tired anyway, Brady?” you ask, dumping the second shot and starting on the third. His face twists at what you’d thought was an innocuous question. He’s clearly debating something in his head, so you stay silent.

“I’ve got something big coming up in a couple weeks,” he explains, tapping his fingers against the counter, “I’m just trying to be prepared.” You nod, not minding how vague he’s being. You don’t actually need to know every detail of a random customer’s life. There’s a moment of quiet as you dump in the third shot and pour some milk into a metal container.

“And I might be a little nervous,” he says, looking at his hands instead of you. You smile again, beginning to steam the milk.

“Just a little,” you repeat, slightly teasing in a way you usually aren’t with customers.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, looking up at you, “Just a little.” You smile at each other for a second, both knowing he’s seriously downplaying his feelings. You wonder what it is that has him so anxious, sure that it must be something serious. He doesn’t seem to be the neurotic type.

“What are you working on?” he asks as you pour the milk, gesturing toward your books spread out next to the register. You shrug.

“Organic chemistry,” you reply, pumping in the flavoring, “The worst class ever.” He cringes at the mention of it, which you feel in your bones.

“I’ve heard it’s awful,” he says.

“It is,” you confirm. You snap the lid back onto the cup, sliding it over the counter to him. He cradles it between his hands, but doesn’t move to leave. He’s looking up at you from where he’s hunched over, and you can’t help but stare back.

“Do you want to come sit with me?” he asks, “We could be miserable together.” The smile that overtakes your face mirrors itself on his own.

August, 2018

When Brady walks in, right at his usual time, you give him a smile and lean over the counter to hug him. You’ve become fast friends, sitting together a few nights a week, probably talking more than studying. His Big Thing is long past, and he still hasn’t told you what it was, but you don’t really mind. You get to know about his family and his girlfriend and his upcoming move to Ottawa, of all places, but you don’t need to know everything if he doesn’t want to share.

You make two of the usual latte, one for each of you. You grab your books from the shelf, meeting him at the corner booth. You get through some small talk as you both set up, going back and forth with an ease that you were surprised to find has been there since the beginning.

“Matthew’s going to come hang out tonight,” he says as he logs into his computer. He’s spoken about his brother before, so you’re somewhat intrigued.

“Any particular reason?” you ask. To your knowledge, Matthew has never been to the shop, so you’re not sure if something special is going on to spur him into coming.

“He thinks it sounds cool,” Brady shrugs, flipping his notebook open. Maybe you’d know what he’s always working on if you could read his tiny chicken scratch. As it is, you don’t mind letting him have his secrets.

You get four pages into your chapter before another customer enters, laying your pen in the divot between the pages while you go make them their drink. Luckily, they don’t stick around. It’s not awful when other people are around, but you always feel like someone is going to complain about you sitting in the dining room and studying while you should be working. But if there’s no work to be done, you don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. Unfortunately, not everyone agrees. So you prefer if it’s just you and Brady.

Another four pages drag by, reading interspersed with breaks to talk. Honestly, the breaks are also a way to keep yourself sane as you read unnecessarily complicated science.

When the next customer enters, you spring up from your chair, shooting them a smile as you make your way behind the counter. You give your standard greeting, asking what you can get them.

“What do you recommend?” the man asks. You were kind of hoping he’d have something in mind so that this interaction could go quickly, because he may be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen and it’s making you flustered.

“Do you like the taste of coffee?” you ask. He nods, looking you up and down with a critical eye. It feels personal, feels like he’s searching for something, and you’re not sure if you like it.

“How much caffeine are you looking for?” you ask next. You do your best to maintain eye contact, ignoring the way you have to look up to do so.

“How much you got?” he asks in return. The crooked smile he gives you makes your stomach flip. You grasp for a drink to suggest, all knowledge having fled your mind in order to focus on the curl of his hair over his forehead, the glint of his bright eyes.

“A Lazy Eye would probably be the most,” you say, clearing your throat, “But if you don’t want to have a heart attack, you could do a regular Red Eye.” He tilts his head, smile turning smug, as if he’s noticed your distraction. Something about it snaps you out of your daze, slightly indignant. You’ve seen plenty of hot guys in your day, and you’re not about to look like a fool in front of him just because he’s pretty.

“Red Eye, Black Eye, Dripped Eye, Lazy Eye,” you list off with as much confidence as you can muster, “Each with one more shot than the last. Pick your poison.” Your attitude change only makes him smile wider. Your hand is poised over the buttons of the register, ready to ring up whatever he decides.

“Let’s go with a Black Eye,” he says, bearing a surprisingly sharp canine, “I’ve had a few of those in my time.” That doesn’t surprise you, with his smug face and oozing self-confidence. Something about it feels so disingenuous that it makes your teeth itch. It’s clearly an act, but you can’t exactly call him on it.

You give him his total, he pays, you get to work. You empty the last dregs of coffee in the pot into the sink and set the machine to brew a new batch. No matter how annoying a customer seems, you’re not about to serve them shitty coffee.

“Y/N,” he says, leaning on the counter, “That’s a pretty name.” It’s exactly what Brady had said when you’d met him, which makes you eye the man a little suspiciously. Whereas Brady had clearly not been flirting when he’d said it, this man’s tone is ambiguous enough that you’re not entirely sure what his intentions are.

“Thank you,” you say, dumping the first shot of espresso into the cup. Normally, you would ask for his name in return, but you’re not sure if you want to encourage him talking to you.

“How long have you worked here?” he asks anyway.

“Almost three years,” you reply. You’re not sure you want to tell him anything about your life, but you’re trying to be polite.

“Experienced,” he says, smiling like he’s a lion closing in on its prey, “I like that.” It’s cheesy and kind of sleazy, and you can’t help but scoff in disbelief. He’s watching you like a hawk, studying your reactions to everything he says and does. You dump the second shot, wishing the coffee would brew faster so this interaction could be over.

“I don’t think I want to know what else you like,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. You used to get embarrassed and rattled by customers making comments like this, but at some point something had changed inside you. Now you just get annoyed, no matter how hot the person may be.

“Feisty,” he says, smile changing slightly in a way you can’t parse, “I like that too.” You roll your eyes, making a quiet noise of disgust. It’s not great for business to react to customers this way, but you can’t help it.

“I like it when men are silent,” you reply, able to feel how withering your gaze is. His expression changes yet again, smile getting smaller but more genuine, scrunching the bottom of his eyes up a little. That feels more natural to you, looks more right on his face. Something about the new softness in his eyes soothes something inside of you.

The coffee machine beeps to signal that it’s ready, and you waste no time in grabbing the pot and filling the cup. You hand it off to him, giving your biggest, most obviously fake smile.

“Have a fantastic night,” you say, immediately rounding the counter and heading back to the booth. When you settle back into your seat, Brady is smiling at you like you’ve told the funniest joke in the world.

“What?” you ask, picking up your pen. Brady’s eyes flick up above your head, slightly to the left, staying there, prompting you to turn around. The man is standing behind you, small smile still in place.

“Brady’s told me so much about you,” he says, and it dawns on you, “Nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Matthew.” Your jaw falls open and you turn back to Brady, kicking him in the shin under the table. He yelps; Matthew laughs.

“You’re both the worst,” you spit, trying to hold onto your irritation and failing. You laugh alongside the brothers, begrudgingly amused by the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Sorry about that back there,” Matthew apologizes, seemingly genuine, “I couldn’t help myself.” You shake your head at him as he bullies Brady further into the booth so he can sit. Brady shoves him back, but moves his things over anyway.

“It’s okay,” you say, pointing at him, “But if you ever pull that shit again, I’m banning you from the shop.” That startles a laugh out of him.

“I didn’t know you had the power to do that,” he replies, using his crossed arms to lean on the table.

“I do now,” you say, tilting your chin up, “Gonna put a picture up of you with a big X on it and everything.” You stare at each other for a second, and he breaks first, ducking his head as he laughs.

“Fair enough,” he concedes, looking up at you through his lashes. Your heart skips a beat, but you do your best to seem unaffected. This is your friend’s brother, for Christ’s sake. You can’t be all aflutter over him. You’re not sure you have a choice in the matter.

June, 2023

You might actually kill your coworker one day. He’s such a smug rat bastard, and every meeting including both of you makes you think you’re going to grind your teeth into dust. It’s just lucky that the job is remote, so you don’t have to be around him physically. Probably best for both your sanity and his safety.

“I mean, at least you were right in the end?” Terri says, sounding uncertain through your headphones. You’re sauteeing some onions and peppers, moving them around more than you should be just for something to do with your hands.

“Yeah, I guess,” you sigh, “I just don’t understand why he wants to make me look bad.” Ian– the coworker– seems to always have some kind of comment on your work, some type of criticism. Constructive criticism is part of the game, but his is never constructive. It doesn’t help that you’re the only two in the graphics department, so he’s always there when you present work. And really, being the only two should mean that you work together and support each other, honestly.

“Because he’s an insecure man-child,” Terri replies easily. You shake your head down at the vegetables, startling as the oven timer goes off. You jab at the button to turn it off, opening the door to remove the chicken.

“I think I’ve had enough of insecure man-children,” you grumble. You cut open one of the chicken breasts with more force than is strictly necessary, grateful that it seems to be done.

“You finally wanna talk about that?” Terri asks, and honestly? No, you don’t. Ideally, you’ll never talk about it, just push it down into the darkest recesses of your mind and bury it there. Unfortunately, you possess some level of emotional maturity, which means you know that you have to talk about it eventually.

It’s hard, because despite Brady being your best friend, you can’t exactly talk to him about this. If he knew any part of what’s been going on, he’d probably go physically fight Matthew on your behalf. Part of you thinks that might actually make you feel a little better. But he’d also probably be mad that you’ve had a not-thing with his brother, and that would make you feel worse.

“She seems like a nice woman,” you say, trying to keep your tone neutral. Terri sighs, and you take your plate of food to the living room to eat.

“She’s not the problem, here,” she says. She’s right, and you know it. You really don’t have anything against Tessa, and obviously you can’t blame her for any of this. Clearly, she had no idea about your not-thing with Matthew, and genuinely fell for him. There’s no point in being mad at her.

“Yeah, well,” you push some food around your plate, “He’s a fuckface and she can have him.” The mention of Matthew has ruined your appetite, the meal now looking completely unappealing. You push the plate to the other side of the coffee table with a huff. You’ll try eating again later, you tell yourself, knowing that you haven’t been eating nearly enough lately. You can’t help it, your inner turmoil chasing away your hunger most of the time.

“He is a fuckface,” Terri agrees, adding, “But don’t pretend you don’t still want him.” Ugh. Friends are the worst, actually, and you should just become a hermit in a cave somewhere. There’s no point even trying to deny the claim, both of you knowing that she’s right.

“I’m not allowed to want him anymore,” you say, voice coming out weaker than you want to admit, “I never should have let myself want him in the first place.” In the beginning, despite being attracted to Matthew, it was easy to maintain distance. He was in Calgary most of the year, and reminding yourself that he was your new friend’s brother actually worked as a deterrent back then.

You can’t pinpoint exactly when you started letting yourself get caught up, but you’d ended up completely entangled with him. Now he’s put that distance back between you, ripping away the strings you’d been tied up in, leaving you with all these empty spaces where he used to be. And it’s making you hate yourself, knowing that if you’d just kept things cordial, restricted your attention and connection to Brady like you should have, you wouldn’t be feeling any of this right now.

“You can’t help who you love,” Terri says, so gently that it only hurts more. You’re not fragile, okay? You don’t need the softness, the careful handling. You’re not fragile. You’re not.

“I gotta go eat,” you say, not wanting to lie, but needing a way out of the conversation, “Bye, Ter.” She says your name, but you just repeat the goodbye. She sighs, says goodbye, and you hang up. What you should do is eat something and go to sleep. Instead, you eye the easel in the corner of the living room. You sigh, heaving yourself up off of the couch to go grab a glass of water to rinse your brushes with.

April, 2019

It’s probably going to become your new favorite day of the year: the day Brady comes home from Ottawa. His plane had landed yesterday, and his parents had even brought you to the airport with them to pick him up. As quickly as you’d bonded last summer, you’d only gotten closer through the season. It feels like you can talk to each other about anything, like you were meant to meet, like he’s the platonic version of a soulmate. You had patiently waited your turn to hug him after his parents, squeezing him as tightly as you could manage. He’d only squeezed back harder.

With their seasons ending right around the same time this year, Matthew had landed the same night. Knowing they’d have to go back to the airport, the Tkachuks had decided to just spend the day out instead of going home. They’d invited you to come with them, an invitation you’d eagerly accepted. They’re quickly starting to feel like family to you, and you love spending time with them. For the first time in your life, it feels like you fit somewhere.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t been able to come along to pick up Matthew. You’d had to work last night, so the Tkachuks had dropped you off at home to get changed and get going. You’d still gotten to spend most of the day with them, which would have to be enough.

You’re going over to their place today, and you decided to bake and bring along cookies. All of their local family and friends are going to be there to welcome the boys home, and you haven’t met most of them yet, so you want to make a good first impression. Besides, it’s just polite to bring something along to someone’s house.

Though Brady still tries to hug you when you arrive, despite your hands being full, the plates need to be deposited on the dining room table before he can get a real one. There are a few people chatting in the room, so Brady introduces you to them.

Most of the next hour goes much the same, Brady introducing you to family and friends, having small conversations with all of them. You know that Brady isn’t trying to embarrass you, but he has a habit of hyping you up to people. He’s more outgoing than you are, and he uses that social ease to brag about how smart you are, how talented. It feels a little like he’s trying to justify being your friend to them, but you know better than to think that Brady cares what anyone thinks of him and his choices.

The kitchen exits onto a large cherry wood deck, scattered with chairs, some of them already occupied. The back yard is sprawling, green grass lined with lush bushes. There’s a pool to the right, not opened for the summer yet, a jacuzzi positioned between it and the house. You’re still not really used to all of this, the casual wealth of the family. It’s so far from what you’d grown up with, something that had astonished you when you’d realized just how far above you the Tkachuks are.

There are a few yard games set up in the grass, cornhole and ladders and something you don’t recognize. And there, in the center of the yard, Matthew is teaching a child how to play ladders. The kid is probably a cousin, of which they have many. Matthew is barefoot, wearing a bright red Flames hoodie and black shorts that only come to mid-thigh. You’ve narrowed your staring down to a minimum, so your eyes only linger for a second or two before you turn back to Brady.

He guides you around to meet the few people braving the chilly spring weather, much as he had done inside. Everyone is so nice, saying how pleased they are to meet you, and seeming to mean it.

Your last stop is Matthew, who interrupts his lesson to hug you. It’s only the second time the two of you have done so, the first having been the last time you saw him before he left for the season. Despite that fact, he squeezes you almost as hard as Brady had, as if you’re his best friend too. Not that you’d presume to be Brady’s best friend, but. Still.

“It’s good to see you, Y/N,” he says when you pull apart, and the expression on his face tells you how genuine it is. Your smile is almost involuntary, turning up the corners of your mouth and baring just a hint of teeth.

“Welcome home, Matthew,” you reply, “We missed you.” You’re not sure what “we” you’re referring to, but it feels less incriminating than saying “I missed you”. You get the feeling that he understands anyway, beaming at you.

The three of you chat for a few minutes, Matthew introducing you to his little cousin. With there being four of you, you decide to play a game of ladders, to test the little one’s skills. He’s pretty good, for a kid, and you and Brady make sure to throw well enough to convince him that you’re trying, but still let him win. Throughout, Matthew gives him tips and instruction, so kind and gentle that it makes your heart ache. They cheer when they win, high fiving and teasing you and Brady.

You go inside to spend some time with Keith and Chantal. Chantal gives you a big hug, as if she hadn’t just seen you yesterday. Keith gives you a hearty clap on the shoulder. Taryn appears at some point, sneaking up behind you and poking your sides to make you jump. You laugh along with her, enfolding her into the conversation easily.

Time flies by, the sun setting around you, the house lights turning on one by one as darkness descends. Eventually, you end up lounging in the den with the other adult kids. From your visits last year, the chair in the corner has become yours. You’re settled in, legs folded up under you as something that no one is watching plays on the TV. Brady and Taryn get into a heated debate about something or another, and Matthew gives you a long-suffering look as his younger siblings bicker. You just smile back at him, finding the family’s passion entirely endearing.

“Seventeen years of this,” Matthew gripes, clearly not as annoyed as he’s trying to seem.

“And sixty more to go,” you reply. Matthew chuckles at that, looking to Brady and Taryn with such fondness that you almost can’t stand it. It’s the kind of relationship you’d wanted with your own brothers, but that’s best not to think about.

“Hopefully,” Matthew says, turning that fond look toward you. Your heart skips a beat, and you’ve gotten good at ignoring that.

May, 2019

You shouldn’t be this nervous, but you are. Terri is on speaker phone, telling you about her new job. You’re half-listening, staring at the clothing laid out on your bed. You’ve been agonizing all morning about what you’re going to wear, how you’re going to do your makeup, if you should wear makeup at all.

“I’m glad that your boss defended you,” you say to Terri, still tuned in enough to follow her story, “She seems cool.”

“She’s so cool,” Terri gushes, “She’s my favorite now.” You’re so happy that Terri has finally found a good job, especially with how hellish her previous one had been. This one pays almost double what she was getting before, too, which definitely doesn’t hurt. She expounds a little more about the things she loves about her boss, and you decide to hang back up the dresses you’ve laid out. It’s still a little too chilly to wear them, especially after sundown.

“You’re still staring at those damn clothes, aren’t you?” Terri asks, switching the topic suddenly. Your face gets warm as you make a plaintive hand gesture, despite her not being able to see you.

“Clothes are stupid and I can’t decide,” you complain, trying to imagine how each of the final two options will come across. If you try too hard, Matthew might think that you think this is a date, but you still want to look good. You know it’s not a date, but you’re still kind of acting like it is, and it’s embarrassing.

“Definitely wear jeans,” Terri advises, “That’ll make it more casual.” You agree, putting away the skirt you’d paired with the one shirt, trying to picture how it would look with jeans. You move the pants between each shirt, before giving up and just putting them on. You’ll just try on both outfits and see which one you like better.

Once dressed in the first option, you take a picture to send to Terri. You look at yourself in the mirror, turning this way and that. After a minute or two of consideration, you switch tops. You take another picture and send both to Terri for her opinion.

“Oh, definitely the second one,” she says, “The first one makes you look like you’re going to a job interview.” You look at the picture again, and can’t deny that she’s right. You put that one away, settled in your decision. You’re not sure if Matthew has ever seen you in anything but jeans and a t-shirt, so you hope the red tank top layered with a tucked-in sheer pink printed blouse isn’t too much of a change.

When Matthew had invited you to take a walk around the park yesterday, just the two of you. You’ve never spent more than a few minutes alone with him, always having Brady or Taryn or Emma to provide distraction and distance. This time you’ll have nothing to focus on but him.

The time comes soon enough, and you gather your things, not wanting to make Matthew wait for you when he arrives. You’d offered to drive yourself and meet him there, but he’d waved off the idea immediately, saying that he’d pick you up.

A knock comes at your door right on time. You take a deep breath before you open it, settling your frenzied heart. Matthew smiles as soon as he sees you.

“Oh wow,” he says, almost absentmindedly, “You look great.” Your blush is immediate, and you hope he can’t see it. It seems that anything that comes out of his mouth makes you blush, sometimes.

The drive to the park isn’t too long. When you arrive, you gather your bag from the floor of the passenger seat, and by time you move to get a hand on the door handle, Matthew is already opening the door from the outside. It’s a sweet surprise, and you thank him as you climb out of the car.

It’s a nice day, not too cold or windy for once. The two of you walk, talking about this and that, moving from topic to topic as they arise. You point out a few birds as you go, and Matthew listens to the little fun facts you give about them. He seems genuinely interested, but even if he’s not, at least he’s polite enough to pretend.

“I guess we should have left a little earlier,” Matthew remarks as the sun goes down, the light fading around you. The sun sets quickly this time of year, so you’re still a few minutes out from the car by time it’s completely dark. The lights along the pathway bathe Matthew in yellow light, casting warm shadows in the dips and hollows of his face.

“At least I have a big, strong man to protect me,” you joke, elbowing him.

“Oh no, if we get jumped I’m running,” he replies, shooting a shit-eating grin down at you. You gasp and press a hand to your heart, as if you’re truly scandalized.

“You would really abandon me like that?” you ask. His smile softens at the edges.

“Never,” he says, looking so genuine that it makes your heart flutter, pausing before he adds, “Unless we’re getting robbed.” Your combined laughter rings out through the trees.

June, 2023

You’ve managed to avoid any questions about your odd behavior, and it’s getting easier to act normal over time. A couple weeks have passed since your first meeting with Tessa, and you still feel like ripping your skin off when you see her touching Matthew, but you’ve gotten better at hiding it. It’s not your place to be upset, anyway.

The diner is bustling at this time of day, the tail end of lunch rush. You had to wait a little bit to get seated, but now you’re sitting at the end of a booth in a chair they’d pulled up to the edge to make up for all five of you not fitting into the booth. It makes you feel a little left out, the only one not paired off, a fifth wheel to the two couples on either side of the table. You block that out, a skill you’ve had for years, but have had to strengthen rapidly over the past few weeks.

Brady has an arm around Emma’s shoulders, and you can tell by the angle of Matthew’s arm that he has a hand on Tessa’s thigh. You remember when that was you, Matthew touching you so casually, so naturally. Sitting across from Matthew as he nudges your foot under the table, sitting next to him with your shoulders pressed together, fingers tangled together on the seat, where no one could see.

Emma is telling a story about a night out with some of her girlfriends, and you’re laughing along at the antics with everyone else. When she asks you about work, you try to clear the perpetual lump in your throat before answering, succeeding in sounding happy, though the tightness remains.

When your food arrives, you spend most of the time pushing it around your plate to make it look like you’re eating. You never have an appetite around Matthew anymore, weirdly embarrassed about being seen eating in a way you haven’t been since you were a teenager. You’ll take it home and eat it later, if you can stop thinking about Matthew for two fucking seconds.

You’re not sure how long that’s going to be impossible, but you hope it’s not much longer.

January, 2020

You’ve been to a few games when the boys have played the Blues, but you’ve never made the trip up to Canada to see them play each other before. Ottawa is nice, Brady and Emma having shown you around a little when you’d arrived. Your nerves had been shot from the anxiety of traveling abroad for the first time, even though it was just to Canada. The couple seemed to understand, only taking you around for a few hours before bringing you home.

Brady’s apartment is nice, really nice. He’s offered you the guest room for a few days, and you appreciate not having to pay for a hotel. He’ll be home for six days before he has to go to St. Louis for the All Star game, so you’d arranged to stay in Ottawa and fly back home with them.

Luckily, the cafe is pretty cool about rearranging your schedule, so you’ll just have to work some extra days when you go back to make up for what you’re missing. You’d asked for the days of the skills competition and game off as well, Brady having managed to get you a ticket. Your manager has always thought it was cool that you were friends with the Tkachuks, so she had agreed to give you the time off if you brought her a souvenir. Matthew and Brady had offered to sign a jersey for her without you even having to ask, and you’ll owe them for a while, though they insist you don’t.

Matthew gets in that first night, the three of you meeting him at his hotel. You’re not sure how he managed it, but he’ll be staying a few days instead of returning to Calgary with the team after the game. Maybe he got a special exception because this game is the last before All Star week, and he has to go to St. Louis anyway. No matter the reason, you’re glad he gets to stay.

The game the next night is exciting, and definitely worth the trip. With the Senators’ performance in recent years, it’s mostly the diehard fans left, so the atmosphere is electric. You get swept up in the passion and joy, especially when the game ends with a 5-2 win for Ottawa.

The boys have to debrief and get changed, which you know will take a while. Emma and you wait with the WAGs, Emma excited to introduce you to them. Some of them think you’re a new WAG at first, which is honestly kind of flattering. All of the ladies are surprisingly kind and welcoming, and you enjoy interacting with them as you all wait.

Matthew emerges first, guided down the hallway by one of the arena staff. His steps pick up pace when he sees you and Emma, and he shoots a quick thanks to the staff member before jogging over to the two of you. He immediately enfolds you in his arms, squeezing tight and holding longer than usual. You know it’s difficult for him to lose at all, let alone to his brother, so you let him hold you as long as he wants.

Once he lets you go, he meets your eyes. His smile is soft, tinged with a slight sadness that you want to wipe away.

“Hey there, sweet girl,” he greets, and your breath catches at the term of endearment. He’d started using it a few months ago, and it still makes your chest tight. You know that it doesn’t mean anything, but you still imagine sometimes that it does.

He turns his attention to Emma, giving her a hug as well, just one quick squeeze before releasing. The three of you start talking, waiting patiently for Brady. It doesn’t shock you that he takes so long to come out, knowing his unofficial position of leadership in the team. The guys come out one by one, hugging and kissing their wives and girlfriends, the number of ladies dwindling as they leave with their men.

When Brady finally emerges, he heads straight over to give Emma a hug and kiss. He hugs you next, before punching Matthew’s shoulder. They have a little back-and-forth as you all exit the arena, taking harmless jabs at each other all the way to the car.

The main issue with the living arrangements for the trip had been that Brady and Emma were going to have two guests and only one spare room. Matthew had offered to sleep on the couch, but he’s too tall for that, and you don’t want him to end up sore or hurting his neck during the season. You’d insisted that you’d sleep on the couch, but both Matthew and Brady had immediately vetoed that idea. Then you’d found out that the guest room has two twin beds instead of one bigger one, and the answer was simple.

Matthew sets his suitcase and backpack next to the door when you get home. You’ve already claimed the bed on the far side, so he gets set up on the one closer to the door. Emma and Brady are in the kitchen, making a post-game snack for everyone, so it’s just you and Matthew.

“You excited to be roomies for a week?” he asks, unzipping his suitcase. Yours is already open under the window, so you grab some pajamas out of it.

“Depends how loud you snore,” you tease. He shoots you a toothy smile.

“Oh, it’s gonna be loud,” he says. You chuckle a bit, knowing he’s joking. Emma calls for you, then, and you leave your clothes on the bed to go to her. The four of you converse as you eat, seated in a row at the kitchen island. You’ve got Matthew to one side and Brady to the other, and they take turns kicking your ankles. You kick back, grinning at Emma when she kicks Brady’s other side.

Brady and Matthew had already showered at the rink, so they sit in the living room while you and Emma get ready for bed. She uses the master suite, and you use the bathroom in the hall. It’s nice, if small, with a simple stall shower instead of a tub. You go through your routine on autopilot, only realizing when you’re done that you’d left your clothes in the bedroom. You wrap yourself in a towel, doing your best to sneak past the door to the living room.

When you look to make sure your stealth is working, you meet Matthew’s eyes. It stops you in your tracks. You can’t discern the look on his face, and you’re not sure that you care to. He shoots you an easy smile, and you wave at him like an idiot, acting on instinct. It only makes him smile wider, and you scurry off to the room.

After you’re dressed, there’s a knock on the door. Brady asks if you’re decent, and you confirm that you are, so he peeks his head in. Once he sees that you truly are dressed, he opens the door the rest of the way. He and Emma bid you good night, telling you to just ask if you need anything. You thank them and say good night in return, Matthew entering the room as soon as the other two retreat to their own room. He’s barely two steps into the room before he’s pulling off his shirt.

“Woah there, cowboy,” you say, holding up a hand in front of you. He just shrugs at you.

“Gotta get ready for bed,” he says, bending over and lifting his foot to remove his socks. You’d figured that he would wear a t-shirt and shorts to bed like you, but you should’ve guessed he’d be the type to sleep shirtless, no matter who’s around. He’s naked in front of thirty people every day, who cares about being shirtless?

You do your best to brush it off, turning down the covers of your bed so that you can crawl in. Normally, you would read for a bit before bed, but you’re tired enough tonight that you don’t think you need to. You pull the blankets up to your chin, turning on your side. Unfortunately, you sleep on your right, so you end up facing Matthew’s bed. Is that weird? Should you try sleeping the opposite direction?

Matthew doesn’t say anything, flicking the lights off and crawling into bed. He sleeps on his left, apparently, so he’s facing you too. That’s a little awkward, right? As your eyes adjust to the dark, you’re able to see the glint of his teeth as he smiles over at you.

“Sleep well, sweet girl,” he says quietly. You return the sentiment, grateful that the darkness means he probably can’t fully see the embarrassment on your face. You’re backlit by the window, so you convince yourself that he can’t.

The next morning, you wake to Matthew already out of bed, stretching. Your eyes roam his back, taking in the dips and ridges of his muscles. Only at the last second do you realize that his head is turned to the side, and he’s staring at you through the corner of his eye. You quickly avert your gaze, turning to sit bolt upright on the other side of the bed, facing the window.

The four of you spend the day exploring the city, Brady and Emma seeming to have planned what they want to show you. It’s nice, peaceful and fun. You make them take pictures with you in front of landmarks or cool art pieces, all of you squished together to fit in the selfie.

It isn’t until the fourth night that anything out of the ordinary happens. You’re lying in bed, having turned on your back to stare at the ceiling, unable to sleep. You probably shouldn’t have had that affogato after dinner, though usually they don’t bother you this much. No matter how long you toss and turn, how many sleeping positions you try, you can’t even make yourself tired, let alone actually fall asleep.

“What are you, a rotisserie chicken?” Matthew asks rhetorically, breaking the silence. His voice is hushed, but it still startles you. You turn your head to stare at him, finding him staring right back.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, sheepish, “I can’t sleep.” Matthew’s lips quirk up at one end.

“Me either,” he says, sitting up. You mimic his posture, then scoot back to lean against the headboard. He slings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands, and you think for a second that he’s going to turn on the light. Instead, he takes the two steps to your bed, motioning to the mattress. You nod, prompting him to start shoving your shoulder, bullying you into making space for him. You giggle, trying to keep quiet to respect the late hour.

“So,” he leads, taking a long moment to just stare at you before continuing, “Tell me something I don’t know about you.” You’re taken off guard by the request, not sure how to respond.

“I was an Aaron Carter girl growing up,” you pull out of thin air. Matthew’s face breaks into a wide smile, sunshine in the middle of the night.

“Really?” he asks. You nod, mumbling “yeah” in confirmation. That’s all it takes to get you both talking. You trade off back and forth, telling each other small things about yourself that may not come up otherwise, launching into short discussions about some of the statements.

“My favorite color is red,” he says at one point, when you’re starting to think you may fall asleep.

“I thought it was blue?” you reply, remembering Chantal mention that at some point. Matthew starts fiddling with his hands.

“I tell people it’s blue, but it’s really red,” he says. You tilt your head an inch or two, furrowing your brow at him.

“Why?” you ask. He ducks his head.

“Red is an angry color,” he explains, voice quieter than before, “With my reputation, I don’t want people to associate me with an aggressive color. I don’t want to play into the stereotype.” You hum, looking forward. It feels like this isn’t the best time to look at him, like he’ll clam up if you witness his vulnerability.

“It’s also the color of vitality, excitement, love,” you counter, leaving just a breath of a pause, “It’s a good color for you.” The entire room is still for a dragging moment, before Matthew gently knocks your shoulders together.

“What about you?” he asks when you look back to him. There’s a fraction of a change in his face, but you don’t comment on it.

When you wake up in the morning, you’re still sitting up, head resting on Matthew’s shoulder, his head laying on top of yours. You suppress the instinct to startle, not wanting to disrupt him, lest he wake up and move. His skin is warm under your cheek, your arms lined up from shoulder to the knuckles of your fingers. You close your eyes again, trying to keep your breathing steady, as if you’re still sleeping. You’ve been trying so hard to keep distance between Matthew and yourself, but you’ll allow yourself to enjoy this, just for a moment longer.

There’s a shift in Matthew’s breathing, his fingers twitching against yours. It settles after a second, into a different pattern, intentionally deep and even. You’re sure that he’s awake, that he’s doing the same thing that you are. You’re not sure what to do with that information.

The rest of the trip goes by smoothly, Brady and Emma showing you both the touristy things and the better local spots around the city. If the same thing happens the next night, and the night after that, you and Matthew talking in low voices until you fall asleep against each other, neither of you mention it.

April, 2020

While the initial prediction for lockdown was that it would only last a month, it’s clear that it’s going to last much, much longer.

It’s probably lucky that you’d just started a new job, one that can be done remotely, rather than either working at the coffee shop or being laid off. It’s not exactly what you want to do, but it’s at least in the artistic field, so you try to be grateful anyway. It’s difficult being locked away in your apartment, but you’re grateful that you’re luckier than essential workers and people who are losing their jobs altogether.

The thing that keeps you sane in all of this is your phone. More specifically, it’s your friends. You’ve developed almost a schedule with it, calling Terri in the morning for an hour or so before work. At lunch, you facetime Brady and Emma for another hour, not envying them being stuck so far from home. It must be hard to be in an entirely different country than your family.

The highlight of each day is the evening, when you facetime Matthew. Though he spends most of the day sending you videos and memes and updates about whatever little thing he’s doing at the moment, it’s still nice to talk to him out loud. Seeing his face helps your growing loneliness a little bit.

You’re in your living room, your phone propped up against the arm of the couch as you show off the few things you’ve made since picking up crochet a couple weeks ago. Matthew compliments each of them, commending you for your improvement. He’s the only one you’ve shown, too embarrassed to let anyone else see the wonky scarves with uneven stitches.

“You have time to work on any paintings lately?” he asks, once you’re done your little show and tell. The truth is that you’ve got three new canvases drying in the kitchen. The truth is also that the man asking about them is the inspiration for their creation. There’s nothing incriminating about them; it’s not like they’re portraits of him or something. But you’re still hesitant to show him, because even if he doesn’t know, you do.

You show him anyway. The painting of the park is his favorite, and you wonder if he knows that it’s the one you went to for your first time alone together. It’s mostly dark, greens and blues so deep they look black, yellow triangles of light splitting the canvas into section. If you look closely enough, the brush strokes fill in the details of the trees, the grass, the pavement. Your phone camera isn’t good enough for Matthew to see that, but he compliments it anyway.

“You should paint me something for my apartment,” he says after you show him all three. You’re not opposed to the idea, actually enjoy the thought of something you made being showcased in his home.

“What do you want?” you ask, a hundred ideas already flitting through your mind. The only way you’ve seen his apartment is through the background of pictures he sends you sometimes, or little glimpses you catch as he walks around while you facetime. You’re not entirely sure of the vibe, but you’re sure you can figure something out.

“What makes you think of me?” he asks in return. You stop in your tracks in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. The hand holding your phone lowers a couple inches unintentionally, your gaze drifting above the screen, staring into the middle distance. What makes you think of him? Hockey, obviously. Family. Curling up under a blanket on a cold night. Laying on the couch with your feet up on the armrest, your head propped up on a pillow, a sad replacement for his lap. Spruce trees, gold, pitbulls, mushroom pizza, black eyes– both the drink and the wound.

Everything. Everything makes you think of him.

You can’t say that, obviously. You search your brain for something personal but innocuous, something sentimental but still acceptable. You think of all the time that you two have spent together over the past few years, memories springing up, some that you’d even forgotten about. Some that you’ll never be able to forget about.

“Can I surprise you?” you ask. You’re given that familiar smile in response, any iteration of which makes your heart stutter in your chest.

“Yeah,” he says, propping his face up with one hand on his jaw, “I trust you.”

July, 2023

Some people may say that Terri’s apartment is cluttered, but you just find it cozy. She has decorations and knick-knacks on every surface, but the comfiest couch you’ve ever sat on. That’s where you are now, stretched out with your back against the side, Terri mimicking your posture at the other end, your legs tangled together in the middle.

“We should see the Barbie movie when it comes out,” she says, unprompted. You look up from the hook and yarn in your hands, tipping your head to the side for a second and shrugging.

“It looks good,” you say, an indirect agreement. You haven’t been to the movies since before lockdown, so it might be nice to go back.

“D’you think Gabe would want to come?” she asks cautiously, “He could bring the kids.” The mention of your brother still makes ice crawl in your chest, but it’s not as bad as it once was. He’d reached out last year, trying to reconnect with you, and apparently your other brother too. You’ve only seen him a few times since, but it’s more than you’d seen him in the four years prior, combined.

“It’s worth a shot, right?” Terri asks, eyes flicking toward your phone sitting on the coffee table. You look toward it as well, debating for a second. It would be nice to see your nieces and nephews, but it also hurts that they barely know who you are.

“Yeah,” you agree after a second, “Worth a shot.” You grab your phone, feeling as if it’s going to explode in your hands if you move too quickly. There are a few notifications when you wake the screen, which you ignore to unlock it. You open your texts, backing out of your thread with Terri from earlier. You have a picture message from Brady, just a selfie of him and Emma smiling, which you send a heart in response to. Backing out of that thread, you see another new message, underneath the contact name you haven’t had the heart to change. The red and purple hearts next to his name– each of your favorite colors– having been there so long that getting rid of them feels wrong, no matter how it makes your chest hurt to see them.

Can we talk?

You tap the back button as quickly as you can. You can’t respond. You should, to be polite, but you can’t. If you do, you’ll say something you regret. It’ll probably be agreement or the words “eat shit”, and either option will get you into trouble. You can’t respond. You want so badly to talk to him. You want so desperately to go back in time and never meet him.

Your fingers tremble as you draft a text to your brother, typing and deleting and re-typing a few times before you settle on the wording. You have more important things to worry about than Matthew.

August, 2020

The bubble was an interesting idea. It may not be the best idea in the world, despite the safety precautions, but you know Matthew is just happy to be back on the ice. He’s already sent you a dozen pictures of the hotel, of him with his teammates and friends, masked up together in the lobby. You tell him to tell the boys that you say hello, and he texts you each of their responses.

The first round goes well, the Flames only losing one game to the Jets. You know Matthew had been worried about going through all the rules and protocols just to be eliminated immediately, so you’re glad that that isn’t the case.

The series against the Stars starts out with an exciting back-and-forth, the teams trading off wins. Then the Stars win game 5, breaking the pattern. You’re not expecting the last game to actually be the last, convinced that the Flames would at least make it to a game seven. But the Stars pull a decisive 7-3 win, the Flames falling apart in the second period and unable to get themselves back together.

Matthew has called you as soon as he got back to his hotel room after every game, so you’re expecting your phone to ring some time in the next hour or two. You putter around the apartment a little, putting away some dishes and wiping down the kitchen counters. You’d been painting during the game, a commission from a friend of a friend of a friend. You return to that, losing yourself in the meticulous movements of your brush.

It feels like it’s been too long. You try to focus on the canvas in front of you, but there’s a nagging sense in the back of your mind that something is wrong. It sits heavy at the base of your skull as you try to ignore it.

Eventually, it becomes too much. You check your phone to make sure that you haven’t missed his call, but there are no notifications. It’s been a little over two hours. You unlock your phone and pull up his contact in a second, pressing the video icon. Typically, he’ll pick up after one or two rings, but you hear the third ring, the fourth. The call disconnects, shock shooting up your spine. It only lasts a second, your phone ringing with a voice call almost immediately.

“Hey sweet girl,” Matthew greets you in his typical fashion as soon as you accept the call. There’s something off about his voice, and it takes you a second to realize what it is.

“Hey there, darling,” you respond, voice as gentle as you can manage. It’s not the first time you’ve heard Matthew cry, but it breaks your heart every time. As much as he tries to seem tough and aloof, you know how deeply losses like this affect him. Now it makes sense that he didn’t want video involved.

“How are you?” he asks, clearly moving his face away from the receiver as he sniffles, but you can still hear it. You move to the couch, sinking into the cushions, as if you’re as crushed as he is.

“I’m okay,” you reply, “You holding up okay?” You know he’ll say that he’s fine, but you also know that he’s not. He may not be for a while. There’s a pause, a long stretch of silence, only interrupted by his deep, labored breaths.

“I wish you were here,” he says. He sounds absolutely miserable, his voice cracking in the middle of the sentence. The urge to hold him is overwhelming, your arms buzzing with the desire to wrap around him. You want to pull him down into your lap, let him tuck his head into the crook of your neck, let him cry on you as you scratch his scalp and kiss his head. Lockdown isn’t the only reason that can’t happen.

“I’m going to hug you so hard,” you insist, “As soon as I can see you again.”

July, 2023

While you’re still a third wheel with Brady and Emma, it’s better than being a fifth wheel with the entire group. You’d asked Taryn if she wanted to tag along, but she has training to do. Brady had already done his that morning, so he’s free for the rest of the day, and had invited you to spend some time together.

You’re certain that he doesn’t know how you feel about this place, how much it hurts to be here. As far as he’s aware, this is your favorite park, the one you visit with Matthew at least a few times a month every summer. He probably thinks it’s a great choice, something to cheer you up from the slump you know he’s noticed.

Despite the memories tugging at you from every direction, you’re mostly in a good mood. You’d gotten excellent news the day before yesterday, an opportunity you’ve dreamed of for a long time. You wanted to text Brady right after the meeting to tell him, but you’d decided it was better to share it with him and Emma in person. You’re debating something that absolutely doesn’t matter, all of you talking over each other. You’re waiting for the right moment to change the conversation. It doesn’t come until almost an hour into your walk, but you jump on it as soon as it does.

“I have some cool news,” you say, breaking the silent pause that had fallen over the group.

“Well?” Emma replies, “Go on.” The excitement is bubbling up inside of you again at the thought of it, your stomach turning, your chest too full.

“You know that gallery downtown that I love?” you ask, continuing after they agree, “I’m going to do a show there.” They stop in their tracks, Emma immediately enfolding you in her arms. You hug her back, squeezing tight as she bounces on her toes. When she pulls back, she holds your face in her hands, voice high and thrilled as she congratulates you. The smile on your face is unavoidable, happiness from the news mingling with the happiness of your friends being proud of you.

“Cool news, huh?” Brady asks, lightly smacking your shoulder as he says, “What an understatement.” The circle of his arms feels safe, his chest warm against your cheek as he holds you tight. The look on his face when he releases you is the best reaction you’ve gotten so far, his pride meaning more than anyone else’s.

“When is it?” he asks, taking Emma’s hand in his own once again and resuming the walk. You follow along, too excited to be self-conscious of the visible skip in your step.

“August 20th,” you say. There’s an unspoken question there, a silent invitation. You don’t want him to feel pressured to come, knowing that despite how supportive he is of your artistic endeavors, he’s not big on things like art shows. In the end, you don’t have to ask.

“You know we’re coming, right?” he asks, aiming a crooked smile at you, “You can’t stop us.” Though the smile hasn’t left your face since you brought up the topic, it gets brighter in return.

“I’d never dream of trying to,” you reply, and you mean it.

October, 2020

It’s odd to have the boys around at this time of year, the season usually taking them away at the end of August. You’re grateful for it, though. It means that you get to spend time with them, lockdown finally over, freeing you from the confines of your apartment. Your job has stayed remote, so you’re able to be around even more, saving time on what used to be an hour long commute each way.

Right now, it’s you and the boys, Emma, and Terri. You’d introduced her to them less than a month ago, but they already love her, just as you knew they would. She doesn’t always come around with you, considering how you spend nearly every day at the Tkachuks’, but she has some time today.

After twenty minutes of debating what you should watch, you all agree on a true crime documentary. You’ve given up your chair for Terri, squishing yourself onto the couch with Brady and Emma, pressing your cold feet against her leg and laughing when she yelps. She kicks you, only serving to make you laugh harder. Brady playfully threatens to fight you to defend his woman’s honor, and you put your fists up in front of you, jabbing out into the air as if you’re going to take him up on the offer. He chuckles, reaching out to fist bump you instead of punch. You drop your hands, looking past his big ass head.

Matthew is lounging in the second chair, the leg rest of the recliner up despite his legs being crossed under him. It’s the only way the chair will lean back, he’d told you once, and he doesn’t like sitting upright.

The smile on his face isn’t the wide grin you’d expected. It’s small, a gentle turn of the lips. Combined with the look he’s giving you– something unfocused, something unbearably soft– it implies an emotion that you know can’t be the correct interpretation. You swallow hard, turning your eyes back to Brady.

“Press play already, nerd,” you demand, tone playful enough to show that you don’t mean it. He sticks his tongue out at you, but does as he’s told.

Five minutes in, you glance over at Matthew, finding him already looking at you. You look away, slightly embarrassed to be caught. Another five minutes later, you can’t help but peek back at him again, as if your eyes are magnetized to him. It’s almost disappointing that he’s actually looking at the screen. It only takes a second for his eyes to move to the side, peering at you in his peripheral. The corner of his lips quirks up the tiniest bit, almost unnoticeable. But you notice.

You only make it maybe half an hour into the film before Matthew leans forward and snatches the remote from its place next to Brady. The plaintive sound Brady lets out is kind of funny, but you seem to think everything is funny today. Matthew pauses the show, declaring that the group needs snacks.

“Y/N, come give me a hand,” he says, beckoning you to follow him. You grumble a bit, but stand and follow him up the stairs and out of the den. He leads the way through the living room and into the kitchen. They’re fancy, so they have a walk-in pantry, of course. The two of you enter one after another. You start looking at the snack section, deciding what to grab. The good thing about being the one to retrieve the food is that you get to choose whatever you want and there’s nothing the others can say about it.

You’re rifling through the chips and pretzels when you feel a presence close behind you. It’s obviously Matthew, but he’s so close that you can feel the heat of his body radiating into your back. His left hand comes into your field of vision, pressing to the shelves next to your head. You twist your neck to look back at him, confused as to what he’s doing.

You’re not expecting the look he’s giving you. His eyes dark, completely focused in on your face. Your eyes flick from his eyes to his mouth without your permission. He’s not smiling, his lips parted just a fraction of an inch.

He rests his right hand on your shoulder, using it to turn your entire body around to face him. You can feel how dumbfounded your expression is as you stare up at him, your brow furrowed, your mouth slightly agape. He returns the gesture of looking at your mouth, his tongue quickly flicking out to wet his lips. He looks like he’s about to eat you alive. You would let him.

There’s a long, unbearable stretch of silence as the two of you just stare at each other, faces only a scant few inches apart. If this were anyone else, you would know exactly what’s going on, exactly what they want. But this is Matthew, your insanely wonderful, insanely hot, insanely out of your league friend. There’s no chance that he’s about to do what it feels like he is. No matter how many times you steal glances at each other, how closely he holds you, how many times he allows himself to be vulnerable with you, there’s no chance he’d ever want you. And just as you tell yourself that, he speaks.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his breath brushing across your lips from the proximity. Your eyes go wide, your mouth falling open wider in shock. You’ve spent the last two years valiantly suppressing any type of attraction you have to him, trying to respect his station as your best friend’s brother. And now, in just four words, he’s let it all loose. It floods you inside, so overwhelming, so much to take all at once that it triggers a full system reset. You swear your heart stops, your mouth opening and closing as you struggle to tear the words from your lagging brain.

The words won’t come. The look on Matthew’s face is changing, something embarrassed, something guilty. He moves back an inch and you reach out, unwilling to let him go. You cup his face in your hands, pulling him in to press your lips together.

It’s lingering, almost chaste, and entirely sensational. Your lips are tingling, sparks shooting down your spine. Your chest feels cracked open, your innards exposed for his inspection, your true self exposed for his judgment.

When you pull back and open your eyes, his are still closed. He looks like he’s in heaven, like he’s trying to imprint this moment in his mind the same way that you are. After a moment, his eyelids slide up and he looks at you again. His eyes are hazy, unfocused, his blown pupils leaving only a thin ring of blue around the edge of his iris.

“Again,” he says, breathless, “Please.”

Who are you to deny him?

The second kiss is as good as the first, your breath abandoning your body to pant out against his lips. You meet again, his tongue flicking out for half a second to touch your top lip. It makes you breath hitch, makes you kiss him again, makes you gently bite his full bottom lip. The sound he lets out is barely audible, but it only feeds the fire inside of you, an inferno that blazes up from your hips to your throat. You cradle his face in your hands, hold just strong enough to move his head how you want, to slot your mouths together perfectly each time.

“Hurry up, asshole!”

Brady’s shout violently snaps you out of your haze. You jerk backward, trying to step away, but already pressed against the shelves. Matthew doesn’t seem as put off as you, smiling as if nothing happened. You relinquish your hold on his face, dropping your hands to your sides. His hands had wandered as you kissed, one on your waist, the other on the back of your neck. He squeezes once at the base of your skull, dipping in to give you one last quick kiss.

After frantically grabbing random snacks, you return to the den. You can feel how hot your face is, and you can only hope that it’s not too obvious how flustered you are. You and Matthew deposit the snacks on the coffee table, everyone immediately selecting one. You curl back up in your chair, legs pulled up to your chest as you lay sideways, head on the armrest.

Every time your eyes drift to Matthew for the rest of the evening, he’s looking back.

January, 2021

Just as the day the boys come home is the best day of the year, the day they leave for the season is the worst. Sometimes you wish you were Emma, that you could follow them back and forth and never be without them. But St. Louis is your home, is where you have a job and friends and more recently, family.

You’d helped both boys pack for the past few days, but you won’t be able to go along to drop them off at the airport. When Matthew had left for the playoffs, Emma had offered you her spot in the car. You’d told her that she didn’t have to, but she’d assured you she wanted it that way. She has to go along this time, so the car is already overpacked. Besides, you have to work that morning anyway.

You still show up at the Tkachuks’ beforehand, so early that the sun hasn’t made an appearance yet. Matthew had forgotten to pack his favorite sweater, of course. You fish it out from where it had fallen under his bed, straightening up to hold it out to him. He thanks you, deciding to wear it for the flight instead of shoving it into one of his bags. It looks good on him. Cozy.

Brady and Emma are double checking their room as well, one door down from you. Keith, Chantal, and Taryn are down in the living room, waiting as patiently as they’re capable of, which isn’t very much.

Being alone with Matthew used to be exciting, used to make your heart change its rhythm, used to start up a buzz under your skin. Now, it’s just… comfortable. Safe. Right.

When Matthew approaches you, crowding up into your space, you know exactly what he wants. The first time you’d kissed should have been the last. You’re too drawn to him, feel too much toward him, more than you should. More than he will ever return. The two of you haven’t discussed exactly what you’re doing here, but it’s clearly meant to be casual. Matthew isn’t typically the kind to shy away from voicing what he wants, and he hasn’t spoken up to define anything.

Is that what you want? You’re not sure. Making out like teenagers for months has been nice, has satisfied a part of you. But only a part.

You’re avoiding thinking about what you want, too afraid of what you’ll find. Some part of you, buried deep inside, hidden behind a recently built wall, already knows. If you allow yourself to acknowledge it, this will end badly. If you allow yourself to want, you’ll destroy yourself in the process.

The kisses he lays on your lips stay sweet, gentle presses, just a tease of tongue here and there. His arms are wrapped around you, resting on your shoulders, while your hands rest on his hips. You haven’t progressed past kissing, and you’re not sure if he wants anything beyond this. You’ll take what you can get.

Keith calls up the stairs for you to hurry up, lest the boys miss their flights. Matthew leaves one last peck on your lips, just as he always does before you part. You glance around his room a final time, making sure everything is packed. You help him bring his bags downstairs, help him and Emma get their things outside and into the car. You’ll have to go home as soon as they depart, and you’re actually a little grateful that you have work to distract you from the first hours of missing them.

As per usual, Emma is the first to hug you. You squeeze tight so that you can lift her off of her feet for a second, just to make her laugh. Brady grabs you next, as if both of them know that Matthew wants to be last. Brady wiggles you side to side, planting a kiss on the top of your head. You headbutt his shoulder, then kiss the same spot you’d hit. He says how much he’ll miss you, something he always reiterates for a few days before he leaves. You return the sentiment honestly, earnestly. When he pulls back, you punch his chest lightly, and he returns the gesture.

Matthew steps up and opens his arms, and you step into them easily. He doesn’t squeeze too hard, just holds you close, hand cupping the back of your neck, calming your anxiety and dulling the sharp edge of your pain.

“Gonna miss you so much, sweet girl,” he whispers into your hair, just loud enough for you to hear. You try to swallow the lump that has suddenly formed in your throat.

“Miss you already,” you reply, a little uneven, a little raw, “Can’t wait to see you again.” He places a kiss on your head as Brady had, but his lips linger, hesitant to let go. But he does let go.

They all wave as they drive off, Brady, Emma, Matthew, and Taryn all crammed into the back seat. You wave back, watching the car go, staring down the street even after the car turns and disappears.

Time to work, you suppose.

July, 2023

Art has never frustrated you so much in your life.

When you were young, the struggle and annoyance came from trying to get things just right, though they were above your skill level. As a teenager, it was due to the struggle of developing your own unique style. In college, it was not having the energy to paint most days, falling asleep at the easel others.

For the past month, the art has been flowing. You’ve been painting most every day, the ideas coming easily, creating almost a compulsion that you can’t resist. It’s only satisfied when the painting is complete. There are a couple dozen or so canvases scattered around your apartment to dry, the most you’ve ever produced in a single month. But the frustration– the frustration comes from the fact that all of your ideas are about him. All of your paintings are moments with him, things he’d said, how you’d felt, how you’d hoped he felt.

There’s a feeling inside of you, as if you’re right on the edge of catharsis, as if you paint just one more thing, you’ll be able to let it all go. That’s your motivation for everything you’ve been making, just desperately searching for the release that will save you from the pain. At this point, you’re not sure it will ever come.

You’re working on a bigger canvas, the biggest you’ve used in years. You’re glad your current job allowed you to move into a bigger apartment, because you surely wouldn’t have been able to fit something like this in your old shoebox, packed so full of your things that you’d barely had space for an 11x14. You have to stand to reach the upper portion, swiping a brighter red over the dark red base. You don’t want it to be about him. It is anyway.

The show at the gallery is rapidly approaching, only a month away. You’ve been working with the curator to decide which pieces to use, filing through years of work. So far, everything that she’s found compelling has been about him. Things you’ve made recently, things you made years ago when things were still good. One day, you’ll get over this. But not today. Today still just hurts.

June, 2021

With neither of the boys making the playoffs, they’d come home earlier than usual this year. Sadly, Brady is pretty used to it by now, usually coming home around this time anyway. You’re used to getting a few weeks with Brady and Emma before Matthew comes home, but you don’t have that this year.

While Brady sulks for about two days when he gets home, Matthew is far more upset. The Flames had made the playoffs for the last couple years, and he was getting used to being a contender. So not even getting a chance at it this year clearly stung. He moped around for a week or two, face tight and arms crossed over his chest most of the time. The only time he let his arms down, let his guard down, is when the two of you were alone.

You’d comforted him through the couple weeks of upset, even staying the night a few times. It wasn’t intentional, you’d just stayed so late that you fell asleep, and Matthew didn’t have the heart to wake you. You have to get up early to get home for work, so you’d snuck your way out of the house before anyone else had woken. You’re not sure how Keith and Chantal would have felt about you staying the night in Matthew’s bed, but you know what they would have thought was going on, and you didn’t want to put yourself or Matthew in that position.

Once he’d relaxed, taken a deep breath and accepted defeat, he went back to being his regular happy, seemingly aloof self. You’re grateful for it, not a fan of seeing him upset and always wanting to help him through and cheer him up.

June had come kindly, bringing along more sun and nicer weather. You and Matthew had resumed your walks in the park, and the whole group of you spend about as much time outside as you do in the den. Things with Matthew had picked up where they left off in January, him pulling you into a secluded area any time he could get you alone, kissing you senseless. You’d missed the feeling of his lips, of his body pressed to yours.

Tonight is one of the more rare nights where Matthew comes to your apartment, instead of you going to his parents’ house. You’ve offered to make dinner and follow it up with movies. You’re already on the couch, your dirty dishes abandoned on the coffee table. You’re laying on your side, Matthew spooned up against your back, your knees hanging off of the couch with the way they’re bent to accommodate Matthew’s too-long legs. You’re warm and comfortable, enjoying the feeling of safety that he brings, something you’ve very rarely felt in your life before.

The movie is good, but you’ve found that being in Matthew’s arms makes you sleepy, so you’re having a hard time focusing. You manage to mostly follow it, letting out a jaw-cracking yawn when the credits start to roll.

You feel Matthew place a kiss on the back of your neck without comment. Then he’s moving you, rearranging your bodies carefully until you’re on your back, Matthew staring down at you from his position straddling your thigh. The way he’s looking at you is intense, somehow simultaneously fond and hungry. It wakes you up almost instantly, and you reach out to rest your hands on his thighs.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly, reverently. It’s not the first time he’s said it, but it feels different now. Maybe it’s the position you’re in, maybe the way he’s looking down at you as if he wants you, as if he–

He takes your hands in his own, bending down as he brings them up to cradle his cheeks. You run your thumbs across his high cheekbones, tilt his head up a little by the jaw as his eyes slide shut. You press your fingers into the soft spot behind his jaw, under his ears, pull him down, down, down.

Kissing him feels as easy as breathing. Guiding his head this way and that to get a better angle, pressing your lips together over and over, longer each time, deeper. Matthew has one hand on the arm of the couch to hold himself up, the other wrapped loosely around your wrist. He’s not trying to move you or take control, just holding on as if he needs something to ground him. You press your thumbs into the hollows of his cheeks, feeling the solid wall of his teeth under the skin. His mouth drops open and he lets out a soft sound. You press your thumbs in harder, between the new gap between his upper and lower teeth, testing how far you can push from the outside.

He squeezes your wrist once and you release the pressure. His mouth stays open, lips wet and shining. He opens his eyes halfway, as if his eyelids are too heavy to get all the way up, eyes hazy and unfocused.

Again, he squeezes your wrist. He’s suddenly standing, using his grip to guide you up as well. He immediately crowds up against you, as if being more than an inch away will kill him. His eyes have managed to refocus, but there’s still a dreamy look in them.

He takes a step backward, using the hand that had instinctively gone to the back of your neck to bring you with him. He kisses you, lingering. He takes another step back, gives you another kiss. He rounds the end of the couch and you realize where he’s leading you, kind of impressed that he can find his way to the bedroom without even looking.

Of course, your heart is a frantic mouse scurrying around your chest, thumping hard like you’re a prey animal facing down a predator. But as much as it freaks out in the cage of your chest, there’s no panic in your head. Being with Matthew calms your mind, keeps your hands from trembling, feels so right that you can’t find a reason for the anxiety that used to plague you around him.

He stops you halfway between the door and the bed, pulling back a couple inches to stare down at you. You’re hesitant to put a name to the look on his face, not sure if reverent is being dramatic.

You flatten your palms against the front of his shoulders, shoving him gently, bullying him toward the bed. He allows it for a moment, but stops after a few steps. He takes your hands in his own, brings them to his mouth to kiss your knuckles. You try to swallow down the desire that grows inside of you, threatening to spill out. He holds your hands close to his face, enough that you can feel his lips move when he speaks.

“You don’t have to be in control, sweet girl,” he says, lays another kiss on the bump of your right middle finger, looks deep into your eyes with such adoration you feel ready to split at the seams.

“Let me take care of you,” he says. The part of you that’s spent your entire life with a fist clenched desperately around any sense of control that it could find, for the first time, relinquishes its hold. And Matthew does, indeed, take care of you.

February, 2022

It’s your first time in Vegas, and the atmosphere is electric. There are hockey fans everywhere, plenty of people wearing jerseys as they explore the strip. Everything is so big, so bright, so fancy. As exciting as it is to be here, it makes you feel a little off, a little like you don’t belong. It reminds you of the first time you’d been to the Tkachuks’ house, amazed at how different everything is from the way you grew up.

Each player was supposed to be allotted two tickets, but they had allowed Brady to take additional tickets for his family, considering Matthew is his brother, in addition to how well-known and beloved Keith is. He’d managed to get Emma included as well, luckily.

You weren’t sure how he did it, but Brady had gotten another player to give one of his tickets so that you could come. Apparently the guy’s family couldn’t make the trip, and he only had one friend that he really wanted to bring. He won’t tell you who it was, but the way that Timo Meier winks at you as he passes the stands gives you an idea. You weren’t aware that the two talked, but there’s always the possibility that he had just gone around and asked everyone. The idea makes something bloom in your chest, as if you could love Brady more than you already do. You’ll have to find a way to thank Timo some time.

The skills competitions are fun, though Brady doesn’t win anything. It’s nice to see the players relaxing and having fun, a well-deserved break from the stress of the season.

You all go out to an early meal before the games the next day. You don’t realize until you arrive that Jack Hughes and his family were joining you, and you trip over your own feet when you see them waiting for you. You’re a huge fan of Jack’s, but more than that, Ellen Weinberg-Hughes is an icon. You stumble with your words when you greet her, shaking her hand and screaming silently in your head. With how the boys are looking at you as you do so, they obviously anticipated your reaction and are incredibly satisfied with themselves.

For the meal, you’re sat between Matthew and Jack. You’re grateful that Matthew is next to you, needing his calming presence as you meet some of your favorite players. The families are friendly with each other, the parents catching up on the news of each others’ lives, the children doing the same in separate conversations.

You spend most of the dinner talking to Jack, Quinn, and Matthew. They tell you all sorts of things, including embarrassing stories about Matthew that you weren’t privy to. You grin at Matthew every time they share one, absolutely intending to tease him about it later. This seems to be what the Hughes boys want, eager to give you more ammunition. Matthew buries his face in his hands at one particularly humiliating story, even as he shakes gently with quiet laughter. When he emerges and sits back up, you take a chance, placing your hand on his thigh. You squeeze once, trying to reassure him. He does his best to not react, but he also rests his hand on top of yours under the table.

“So you’re a painter, right?” Quinn asks at one point, curiosity evident in his perpetually sleepy eyes.

“Yeah,” you confirm, asking “How did you know?” You’d told them about your official job, but you hadn’t mentioned being a traditional artist in addition to a graphic designer. Jack turns a smug smile on you.

“Matthew talks about you a lot,” he says, pleased with himself. You look to Matthew just in time to see his face flush.

“Shut up,” he says to Jack, which only makes him smile wider. Jack’s attitude rubs off on you a little, and you give Matthew a delighted smile.

“How much is a lot?” you ask Jack, feeling Matthew dig his fingertips into your knuckles.

“Like, a lot,” Jack replies, Quinn nodding from his other side. You look back to Matthew, who looks like he wants to crawl under the table and hide.

“I talk about him a lot, too,” you say. That makes Matthew look at you again, bright eyes nearly sparkling in the restaurant’s dim lighting. His expression shifts, a small, grateful smile scrunching his eyes up the slightest bit.

After dinner, you all make your way to the arena. Brady and Jack left a while before the rest of you, needing to arrive in time to get dressed and likely do some more media. Before he’d left, Jack had requested your phone, creating a contact for himself and inputting his number. As he dud, you turned your face away, toward Matthew, opening your mouth wide as if you’re screaming. He looked amused at it, but there’s a sharp edge there. Quinn took the phone next, doing the same thing. You squeezed Matthew’s thigh again, and his expression softened. You’ve been following the Hughes brothers since they were in Juniors, and having them like you enough to want to keep in touch– you can only describe the feeling as elation.

The lines are out the door at the arena, and a few people catch the boys to request photos before you can get to the special entrance for players’ guests. They’re all very kind and courteous about it, taking a few pictures with people, finding a way to move through the crowd even as they do so. You probably should have come a different way, or maybe gotten there earlier, but as long as the boys don’t mind, you don’t either.

The seats are good, the second row of the first balcony. It seems to be the section that they put all of the family and friends, people milling around and chatting with each other. You spot Johnny’s parents a couple rows away, the only people around that you’ve met before. You wave to them and they return the gesture. They make their way down to your seats, greeting each of you in turn. They start chatting with Keith and Chantal, so you continue talking to Taryn and Emma.

The games are great, surprisingly fast. The Atlantic division plays a great game again Central, despite losing by 3. You still can’t help being proud of Brady. You’ve been next to him since his first season, and you’ve loved getting to watch him grow and improve. As long as he’s in the world, you’re going to be proud of him.

The final is awesome too, and you jump up to cheer when Jack scores in the first. When the Metropolitan wins, you high-five Taryn, glad that Jack could win when Brady couldn’t. Not a bad consolation prize.

The group hangs around for a while after, and you get to meet a bunch of new people. Everyone is so nice, making you feel welcome, feel like you belong. When you finally start up the stairs to leave, Johnny’s mom Jane stops you for a second. She pinches your jersey and gives you a sly smile.

“Just a family friend?” she asks, not a question but a suggestion. A few years back, Matthew had given you one of his jerseys to wear to a game, and you’ve worn it tonight, despite him not playing. You realize now how it could be interpreted, ducking your head for a second to smile at the floor, before looking back up to Jane.

“Just a family friend,” you say, firm and definitive. She holds your gaze for a moment, looks behind her at Matthew, who’s waiting patiently a few steps up. He’s looking at you, that soft look he gives you sometimes. After a second, he smiles brightly at Jane. She waves and turns back to you.

“We’ll see,” she says. She pats your shoulder twice before making her own way up the stairs with Guy. Once you process the statement, you shake your head and make your way up to Matthew.

“What was that?” he asks as you enter the corridor. There’s no way you can tell him the truth, and honestly, you’re not sure what the fuck that was either. You just shrug at him, continuing your way out of the arena.

The comment sticks with you, no matter how you try to brush it off. Johnny is Matthew’s best friend, and you’ve met Jane a few times before. If it had been a stranger, you would’ve dismissed it outright. But to hear it from someone who actually knows the two of you? That’s harder to let go.

July, 2023

Laurel, the curator for the gallery hosting your show, is a lovely woman. She’s also very, very good at her job. You’ve been to countless shows at this gallery, and they’re always perfectly compiled, excellently arranged. You’ve brought her your most recent paintings today, which makes you glad that you have a car, because hauling them through the city would be a nightmare.

The only problem you have with Laurel is that she seems to see straight through you. You’re not used to someone looking past the professional figure you present, let alone someone seeing every part of you that you put into your art.

She’s staring at your offerings, examining every last detail. She’s already chosen about half of the pieces that will be displayed, creating a theme with your relatively impressionist style. She moves one canvas to the side, away from the others. She takes an extra few minutes to consider one of them, the largest one. It just finished drying yesterday. Having to see it every day as you passed it in the living room has been torture.

“Everything except that one,” she says, gesturing to the one she’d set aside. If she wants all of these, that’s likely going to be everything for the show. With everything else she’s chosen, this is all they have the wall space for, considering the way that you’ve seen Laurel arrange the art in previous shows you’d attended.

“That one is the centerpiece,” she adds, hand against her cheek as she continues staring at the large canvas. You swallow hard. Of course. Of course every painting she likes is about him. Of course the centerpiece will be him. No matter what you do, you’ll never escape him.

She asks a bit about your inspiration and motivation for the piece, and you give her vague answers that sound more philosophical than the real thing. The two of you discuss some of the minutiae of the show, trying to get everything finalized ahead of time. There’s less than a month left, and your excitement is starting to pair itself with dread.

When you get home, you go straight to your bedroom and throw yourself face first onto your mattress. You bury your face in a pillow, finally letting out the scream that’s been stuck in your throat since you learned of Tessa’s existence. It helps.

You make and have dinner, barely aware of what you’re eating. At least you can eat without getting nauseous now. You don’t feel like watching TV, probably wouldn’t be able to pay attention to a real show right now. Instead, you sit on your bed, leaning back against the headboard. You scroll social media mindlessly for a while, the ghost of Matthew next to you, his invisible arm pressed against yours.

February, 2022

Despite your better judgment, the first time you and Matthew had slept together wasn’t the last, either. It had continued through last summer, then again when he’d come to play the Blues. Now you’re in Calgary, in Matthew’s apartment for the first time, in his bed again.

A lot of people idolize the first time they sleep with someone, comparing every subsequent time to the first and often coming out disappointed. You had no reason to do so, because the sex only got better over time. As you and Matthew learned each other’s bodies, figured out what got the best reactions, the sex kept improving. Even if you wanted to fall back on your morals and resist him out of respect for Brady, you know you couldn’t stay away for long. It’s irresistible.

And it’s not just the sex. It’s the way he holds you after, lays on his back so that you can rest your head on his chest. It’s the way his breath ruffles your hair as you fall asleep together. It’s the things he says to you.

It’s the nights like this.

You’re in Matthew’s bedroom, the dark dead of night offering only the moon to light the room. Your head is on Matthew’s chest, his arm around you to keep you close, as if you would ever willingly leave. Your breathing had returned to normal a while ago, your body cooling off and beginning to recover from the rush of feeling. Matthew kisses the top of your head every so often, and you return the sentiment by tilting your head to lay kisses against his sternum.

“I wish I could keep you here forever,” he says, so hushed that you almost miss it. He’s always so quiet when he talks like this, as if he’s afraid to say it. He says these kinds of things anyway, but never above a whisper, not willing to share the vulnerability with anyone but you. Again, you press your lips into his skin.

“I wish I could stay here forever,” you reply. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? To stay here, with him. No need to be quiet so as not to wake his family, no having to sneak out in the morning, no work to keep you away. Just laying here, together.

“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” he says. There’s desire in his voice, of course, but also earnesty, like he really means it. Part of you would like to believe that he does, but another part knows how important it is to not get caught up in the fantasy. It’s easier said than done.

“Not any of the other girls you’ve had?” you ask. You’d meant for it to come out teasing, but your honest curiosity wins out. Then there’s a hand on your chin, fingers gently guiding your head up until you’re looking Matthew in the eye. It’s not exactly comfortable to crane your neck like this, so you prop yourself up on one forearm, resting the other hand where your head had been as you stare down at him.

“Never,” he replies, insistent. He looks so serious, sounds so sincere. You don’t say anything, can’t think of anything. There’s something in the wide roundness of his eyes that speaks to you, pulls you in, encourages you to search deeper. It takes a second to figure out what it is that’s hiding in there, but… it’s fear.

“I never want this with anyone else,” he says, tangling his fingers with yours over his racing heart. There’s a question you want to ask, something you’ve been wanting to ask for a while, but the fear in him has mirrored itself within you. You should just shut up, keep it to yourself. The words come out before you can convince yourself to stay quiet.

“What is this?” you ask. You’re not sure what answer you’re expecting, but you know which one you’re hoping for. He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and for the first time, you don’t divert your gaze to admire the sheen of them, unable to look away from his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he says, pauses, presses your entwined hands harder to his chest, “But I never want to give it up.”

May, 2022

Again, Matthew is the second to come home. Brady returned almost a month before in April, the Senators not in the playoffs, as usual. You feel bad sometimes, because Brady is genuinely a great player, but his team has just struggled to gel together. Even through all of their trials, Brady insists on keeping hope. He loves his teammates, and that’s what really matters to him.

Matthew, on the other hand, isn’t so great at dealing with failure. The Flames make it to the second round, which is an achievement all on its own. But after winning Game 1, they’d lost four in a row and been knocked out. It feels to Matthew almost like they got swept, he explains over the phone after the final loss.

When he gets home, he once again spends a week sulking. You mimic what you’d done last year, though staying the night is intentional this time. So long as you sneak out before anyone wakes up, you’ll be fine.

On the eighth day, you tell Matthew for the hundredth time how proud of him you are. He shoots you a bittersweet smile and says that he’s proud of himself too, and you know he’s bouncing back. It doesn’t help that he’s been debating for months whether to re-sign with the Flames, an agonizing choice for him. He loves his boys, but he’s not sure he belongs there anymore. You’ve assured him that you’ll support him no matter what decision he makes. Johnny hits free agency next month, and if he moves, you’re not sure that Matthew will have the motivation to stay.

The next couple of weeks go by the same way that they always do, with you spending as much time with the Tkachuks as possible. At least, you think you’re doing a good job of acting like everything is the same as years past. No one knows about you and Matthew, and it seems like he wants to keep it that way. You like having this little secret life with him, getting to have him all to yourself. You’re okay with the way it is, you convince yourself.

June came quickly, having begun only four days after he’d returned. The weather improves, you and Matthew once again resume your walks in the park. You play yard games and watch trash TV with Brady and Emma. You help Chantal cook dinners, help Keith clean up afterward. Everything is back to the summer standard.

The day had been nice, sunny and warm. The light had turned the leaves of the trees golden during your walk this afternoon. The sun is long gone now. Nighttime has become your favorite part of the day, the only time you get to indulge in whatever it is that you and Matthew have. The only time you get to touch his skin, to hear the low sounds he can’t help but make, to feel his warmth against you, inside you.

It’s been some time since you’d finished, but you can’t quite fall asleep. Matthew is spooned up against your back, face buried in the nape of your neck. You’re not sure if he’s asleep or not, too distracted to bother trying to figure it out. You’ve been thinking about it since your visit to Calgary. Any time Matthew called, or texted, or even crossed your mind, you thought of it. It made your heart leap into your throat, your breath catching as you choked on it.

He doesn’t know what you’re doing together, what you are. He didn’t give the response you’d been hoping for, but he didn’t outright deny it either. Sometimes you think it would have been better if he had, if he’d said that it was just sex. Then you could start working on moving on. You wouldn’t have to lie awake at night, wondering.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his groggy voice making you startle and snapping you out of your head. You take a deep breath, debating yourself for a couple seconds before you decide.

“Nothing,” you reply, patting his forearm where it’s snaked around your waist, “Go back to sleep.” He takes a quick, deep breath, the air rushing out over your skin. You’re helpless to resist when he starts moving you. If you did put up a fight, push back against his hands, you know he would stop. But you’re tired.

“What’s wrong?” he asks again once you’re flipped to face him. He looks tired too, the exhaustion of the season still lingering. The moonlight paints his face in silver. It makes his skin shine, almost glowing in the darkness.

“I’m afraid,” you say. You wish he hadn’t turned you around. It would be easier to speak it into the wall than it is to say to his face. You say it anyway, watching his brow furrow, admiring the way the silver light adds contrast to the wrinkles the expression creates.

“Of what?” he asks. You could make something up. Telling him that you’re afraid of monsters under the bed would be less embarrassing. You’ve never been very good at lying to him.

“The day you move on,” you whisper, invisible pressure on your throat making the words come out tight and unsteady. The surprise on his face surprises you in return. He’d refused to put words or labels to whatever this is, of course you would think that he’s going to leave eventually. You’d have to be an idiot to think that he means it when he says forever.

“I won’t,” he says, resolute. You can only manage a half-smile for him.

“You’re not the first man to say that,” you reply. He reaches up and cradles your cheek in his wide palm, warmth seeping into your skin.

“But I’m the first one to mean it,” he says. You close your eyes. They begin to prickle at the corners, but you refuse to cry about any of this. He’s so adamant, so steadfast in his insistence. You try to remind yourself of what this isn’t, what it will never be, but you’ve never trusted someone the way you trust him, and you can’t help believing him anyway.

August, 2023

You hadn’t anticipated this happening, let alone how hard it would be, but finally, finally it’s a little bit easier.

You’re not over Matthew, not by a long shot. It’s going to take months, years. It may never happen, who knows? As long as you can cope with it, can keep your friends around, that’s all that matters.

The first half of the day was spent with both boys and their girls. You didn’t have to curl up so tightly on your chair, didn’t have to force words out so they didn’t think anything was wrong. Conversation was relatively easy, topics changing and flowing naturally. You’d smiled, laughed, and a couple of times you actually meant it.

Matthew had apparently planned a date for Tessa and himself, so they excuse themselves in the late afternoon. Brady, Emma, and you stick around the den for a bit, continuing to talk. Eventually, Emma stands, stretching dramatically.

“Let’s go for a walk,” she suggests. You’ve spent too much time lately sitting at an easel or curled up in bed, and a walk sounds like a great idea.

You expect it this time when Brady takes the three of you to the same park. It’s easier when you’re not blindsided by it, and you have the lovely memory of the last time you were here with the two to focus on, instead of Matthew. You walk for a while, music playing softly from Emma’s phone, tucked in her back pocket. Once you’re deep into the wooded area of the park, she stops dead in her tracks. You follow suit, spinning around to shoot her an inquisitive look. She takes the two steps forward to close the space between you two, grabbing you by the shoulders and walking you backward. You stumble, trying to look behind yourself to keep from falling. She pushes until the backs of your knees hit a bench on the side of the pathway and you fall onto it. You gape up at her, befuddled by the behavior and the way her arms are crossed over her chest.

“What’s going on,” she demands, not a question. You furrow your brow, at a loss for words. You know what she’s talking about, and you know that she knows that you know. But why would she wait until the day that it starts to fade, the day that you can finally think of something else, to ask you about it?

“C’mon, Y/N,” Brady says, plopping down on the bench next to you, “We know something’s wrong.” You had accepted the possibility of this back in June, but you weren’t expecting it to take almost three months for it to happen.

Your first instinct is that you absolutely can’t tell them. You’ve been keeping this secret for years, and if Matthew has his way, you’ll keep it forever. If Matthew gets his way, you repeat in your head. That’s it, isn’t it? All this time, you’ve been so focused on what Matthew wants that you ignored your own wanting. What do you want?

You want to tell someone, to finally have this horrid pain out in the open instead of keeping it caged up around your heart. You want your best friend and his wife to hug you. You want them to understand.

“Matthew,” the name tumbles out, and you don’t want to stop it. Brady and Emma are still looking at you, waiting for anything you want to tell them. God, Brady is your goddamn best friend and you’d convinced yourself that you couldn’t tell him something? That there was anything on this earth that he would shun you for?

It all comes spilling out in a rush. Everything from the first time you’d met him. Hell, some information that isn’t strictly necessary, but they don’t interrupt you or complain, so you venture on. It takes long enough to recount that Emma sits on the metal armrest of the bench. Brady’s holding one of your hands in his lap, Emma taking the other to do the same.

You’d promised yourself more than once that you wouldn’t cry about this, but you don’t really care enough to stop yourself now. The tears come two-thirds of the way through, falling silently as you recount some of the things Matthew had told you, the things he’d promised you. You’re not outright sobbing, so you manage to power through the rest of the story. Your eyes are squeezed tightly shut by the end, like closing them will block out the memories.

It takes a couple of minutes for the tears to stop. The three of you let the silence hang as you wait for it, nothing but the leaves rustling in the trees, something scurrying in the bushes. When you can safely open your eyes to face the world again, you look over to Brady. He looks devastated.

You watch his evolving emotions morph the expression on his face, from heartbreak to anger and back again. The anger makes your heart skip a beat, suddenly afraid that maybe the whole “I slept with your brother” thing will be a problem after all.

“Do you want me to kick his ass?” he asks, startling a laugh out of you. You know he’s dead serious, too. Part of you thinks it might be cathartic to see Matthew get beat up by his little brother, but your soft heart doesn’t want anything bad to happen to him. After everything he’s done to you, you still don’t want him to have to feel even a fraction of the pain you do.

February, 2023

This year, the boys don’t have to bribe anyone else to get you to the All Star Game. Each of them is allotted two tickets as per usual, but Taryn is too busy with school to come. She’d aimed a satisfied smirk at Matthew through the camera of her phone, saying guess you’ll have to take that one along as her eyes darted slightly to the left, clearly looking at where you were on the screen.

Since your work is remote, you’ve brought along your laptop. You spend the morning of the skills competition working, still averse to using your PTO if it’s not completely necessary. The boys have to do media, so there’s no one around to bother or distract you. You kind of wish there were.

The special skills competitions are as fun this year as they were last. You especially love Sidney Crosby in the dunk tank, seemingly having the time of his life. You may not know him personally, only having met him once in passing, but after everything he’s been through, you think he deserves some carefree fun.

The sun has set by time you emerge from the arena after the regular skills competitions. The days are shorter at this time of year, even in Florida. It is warmer than St. Louis, though, which you’re grateful for.

Jack is in the competition again this year, so you meet up with the Weinberg-Hugheses again that night. You’ve gotten much closer with Jack and Quinn over the past year, building relationships on texts and calls and dinners when they play the Blues. Luke has tagged along this time, and you get on with him just as well as his brothers.

Matthew shoots Jack a look when he slings an arm around you on the way back to your hotels after dinner, but Jack just grins at him. You’re still not sure what that’s all about, but you’re just going to stay out of it.

The games the next day are fantastic. You’ve never gotten to watch both of your boys win at once, and you love it. When the Atlantic wins the whole thing, you cheer so loudly your voice cracks. Emma laughs at you, but you just laugh along with her.

You stick around for a bit after the game again, Keith and Chantal mingling while Emma shows you the decorations she’s planning for the wedding on her phone. After a while, someone taps you on the shoulder from behind. You turn your head, immediately recognizing Jane. Johnny had made it again this year with his new team, so it would make sense that she’s here too. You stand, reaching up to hug her in her elevated position.

“Matthew got you a new jersey?” she asks, referencing the All-Star jersey you’ve got on. You wish you could say that you bought it for yourself, but it had indeed been a gift from Matthew. It shouldn’t be embarrassing, so you act like it’s not, even though it is.

“Yeah, he’s a great friend,” you reply, shrugging, “He likes to take care of me.” The thing about Jane is that she’s not really a jerk. Sometimes the you-and-Matthew comments bother you, but she’s generally a very sweet woman.

“It’s good to have someone like that,” she says, smiling gently at you, “Matthew is a good boy.” Jane had been at enough Flames games for you to know her, and definitely enough for Matthew to become a pseudo-son to her. They don’t interact much anymore, save for when she pops up in the back of Johnny’s facetimes, but you know she still has a soft spot for him. You don’t blame her.

“He really is,” you agree, nodding. The two of you make some small talk, and you get some updates on Johnny’s new life on the Blue Jackets. You give her some updates on Matthew in return. After a bit, Guy shuffles up next to Jane, telling her that it’s time to go. She acknowledges him quickly, turning back to take one of your hands in her own.

“I know he takes care of you,” she says, patting the back of your hand with her second, “But you take care of that boy, too. Okay?” You just nod, smiling and bidding her goodbye. Her and Guy retreat up the steps and out of view. You’re not sure why she feels the need to say these things to you, and you’re not sure why you take them to heart.

You meet Matthew and Brady outside the player entrance, the boys immediately scooping up you and Emma, respectively. Matthew sweeps you off of your feet for a moment, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Once you’re free, you start to dip forward, realizing what you’re doing at the last second and changing track to make sure the kiss lands on his cheek.

He beams at you, and you’re absolutely certain that you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to make him smile.

April, 2023

The day Brady comes home is the best day of the year, you remind yourself for the thousandth time. You’re excited to see him, you are. The way your chest has felt rent open for days isn’t his fault in any way. You’re not going to make him pay for being the messenger.

Once you all get the couple home, you go upstairs with Brady and Emma to help them unpack. They don’t really need help, obviously, but it’s an excuse to spend time together. Brady talks a little about the season, but mostly focuses on his plans for the summer. He talks about wanting to go see G, maybe even take a trip out to visit Tim.

For the most part, you just fold clothes and listen. Eventually, they switch to the topic of the wedding, Emma showing you even more pictures. She’d asked you to be a bridesmaid forever ago, so you’ve already seen most of it, had even helped her pick half of it out, but you’re never going to squash her excitement.

Exhausted from their travel, the two make their way down to the den after everything is put away, collapsing onto the couch. You curl up in your chair, allowing the couple to choose what you watch. They pick something or another, nothing that you can pay attention to right now. Instead, you find yourself examining Brady, picking apart his features, finding all the things he shares with Matthew.

It’s the best day of the year, you remind yourself again. The light of the TV highlights Brady’s jawbone and your skin crawls.

August, 2023

The show is going exceptionally well, exceeding your expectations. The space is filled with strangers, friends, and even your brother and his family. There are critics and collectors, some that you’ve seen at other people’s shows, some that you don’t recognize. Everyone wants to talk to you, and you don’t get a spare moment to breathe for the first few hours.

When you do get a chance to exhale, the rich couple that had been occupying you finally walking away, you catch the color out of the corner of your eye. You’ve been all around the building all night, mingling and networking in equal measure. You hadn’t realized where you ended up until right this second. You turn to the piece, staring as if you’d never seen it before.

You don’t need to look over to see who steps up next to you a minute later.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Matthew says. It doesn’t feel like an accusation, though it is one. All you can do is sigh.

“What did you expect me to do?” you ask, not expecting an answer. You glance at his hands out of the corner of your eye, noticing the wine glass in one hand, water glass in the other. Without a word, Matthew holds the water out in your direction, still fixated on the painting. You take it, feeling odd that not only does Matthew know that you forget to drink enough water, but also that he’s still trying to take care of you.

“It’s me,” he says after a pause. You’re both facing the largest canvas, the centerpiece. Swirls of bright red spread across a crimson background, highlighted with orange, accented with a royal purple. There, in the center, are two comparatively small, even circles of icy blue.

“They’re all you. Or about you, at least,” you say, seeing no need to deny it any longer, “About us.” It’s obvious that Matthew hadn’t expected you to admit it outright, thrown off for a minute by the admission.

“Can we talk?” he asks as you take a sip of water.

“We’re talking right now,” you reply, feeling petty. It’s his turn to sigh. He sets his wine glass down on the nearest horizontal surface before returning to your side, facing you this time.

“Somewhere private,” he clarifies, pauses, “Please.” You may be mad at him, enraged, incensed, but you’ve never been able to deny him anything, and you still can’t, even now.

You shut the storage room door behind you, flicking on the light to chase away the darkness. Matthew has his hands shoved in his pockets, looking around as if there’s anything interesting in here. You cross your arms over your chest, waiting for him to nut up and look you in the face.

“Listen,” he begins, rubbing the back of his neck but still not looking at you, “I know I should have gone about this better.” You snort. No shit. The sound finally brings Matthew’s gaze to meet your own.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Matthew says, motioning with his raised hand, “I didn’t think you’d care that much.” You can feel how incredulous your expression is, and you don’t even try to hide it.

“In what world would I not be upset?” you respond, “After everything?” You can hear yourself, know you sound like a bitter, jealous old ex, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and looks away again. When he looks back, there’s an almost pleading look in his eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says, more sincerely than the first time, “You shouldn’t have had to find out from Brady.” You avert your gaze, working your jaw for a second before you raise your chin and square your shoulders.

“No,” you agree, “I shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry I stopped talking to you,” he says, motioning helplessly with his hands, “You have to know how hard that was.” You shake your head, almost disgusted.

“Imagine how hard it was for me,” you reply. Your fingertips are digging into your own arm, fingernails biting into the skin. The fact that he would stand here and imply that this was a struggle for him– as if he expects you to offer sympathy– makes your stomach churn. The guilt in his expression makes you sickly satisfied.

“Listen,” he leads with that word again, as if he has any right to ask it of you, “I didn’t want to upset her. You know how some girls are.” You do know. And it’s still not an excuse.

“You didn’t tell her about me,” you say, anger and hurt straining your voice, “You said that I was just Brady’s best friend. You didn’t even tell her what we had.” You want to scream it at him, just want to scream in general. Maybe if you did, if you released your tight grip on control in a different way than you had with him, maybe it would make him understand.

“What did we have?” he asks. His voice is quiet, just as yours had been when you’d brought up the topic all those months ago.

“I don’t know,” you say, turning his own words back on him. It’s true, anyway. You’ve never known what any of this was. You’d only known what you wanted it to be, what you stupidly, fruitlessly hoped for.

“We never dated,” he replies, voice still low but seemingly not bothered by the uncertainty, “We never called it a relationship. You were never my girlfriend.” It’s a simple fact. It tears your heart out of your chest.

“Just because we didn’t name it doesn’t mean it was nothing,” you insist, squeezing your eyes shut for a second to push down the urge to cry before admitting, “I stopped dating.” He looks even guiltier at that, but it doesn’t soothe anything in you.

“I didn’t look at another man,” you continue, embarrassed and ashamed but unable to let him continue through life without knowing, “I didn’t even want to look at anyone else.” The shame makes the fiery anger burn brighter.

“I gave you three years of my fucking life,” you say, voice raising just enough to make Matthew flinch. You keep it reigned in enough that no one outside will hear, not interested in sharing this conversation with anyone else, especially not potential business contacts. The flames engulf your chest, lick up at your throat, threaten to consume you.

“I never asked you to do that,” Matthew replies, solemn. Your jaw drops, just half an inch, enough to part your lips as your breath hitches. He never asked. He never fucking–

“You–” you begin, breath catching in your throat as your eyes burn with tears you refuse to let escape, “Everything you said, everything you did, and you expected what? For me to just move on?” Your nails are digging so deeply into your biceps that you’re surprised they haven’t drawn blood. Matthew doesn’t respond right away, and you can’t tamp down the impulse to be petty.

“But I guess that’s what you did, huh?” you jab. Matthew shuts his eyes tightly, fists clenching like he wants to fight. It should be threatening, but you’ve always known that he would never dream of laying a finger on you in violence. But then again, you’d thought you knew a lot of things about him.

“Why do you care?” he asks, shoulders tense as he opens his eyes to stare you down, “You don’t even want me.” That shocks a laugh out of you, so completely ridiculous that you can’t help it.

“That’s the most fucked up part– I do want you,” you respond, simultaneously an answer and an admission. His brow furrows as he continues looking at you, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“Did you seriously think I didn’t?” you ask, more of a demand, slightly offended because, “Do you think I said all those things for fun? For shits and giggles?” You can’t read his expression, don’t even bother trying. He can feel whatever he wants. That’s not your concern anymore. All you care about is the cold spreading through you, crawling up from the tips of your fingers, freezing your arms, creeping into your chest and beginning to extinguish your rage.

“I loved you, dickhead,” you continue, the words spilling out of you starting to sound pathetic, no matter how hard you’re trying to hold on to the anger, putting the last grasp of it into the words, “Stupid fucking idiot asshole, I loved you.” Matthew gapes at you, hands going lax at his sides. His jaw moves as if to say something, but nothing comes out.

“I loved you and you threw me away like garbage, and didn’t even have the balls to tell me yourself,” you force the sentence out, feeling like you’re choking on every syllable. Matthew’s breathing stutters. You’re expecting annoyance, irritation, maybe even shame or guilt. You’re not expecting his wide eyes, his eyebrows turned up in the middle, his slack jaw.

“You loved me?” he finally asks after a few agonizingly long seconds of silence. There’s something in his voice that you tell yourself you don’t care to analyze.

“Of course I did. How could I not?” you say, huffing as you look upwards, needing a momentary break from this staring contest, “The pathetic part, the part that makes me hate myself, is that I still do.” It’s physically painful to say, no matter that the hurt is psychosomatic. You’ve spent the last few minutes breaking open your ribcage, one bone at a time, revealing to him the space you’d made for him inside of yourself.

“You love me?” he asks, so dumbfounded that he’s repeating himself.

“Yes, Matthew,” you say, facing up to the dread inside of you, the one fact you’ve been struggling with the most since you’d found out the news.

“And I’m terrified. Because I’ve always loved you,” you pour out, barely able to hold yourself together as you meet his eyes, “And I’m afraid that I always will.” There’s not even space for half of a breath before Matthew speaks.

“Please do,” he says. His hands are open, palms facing your direction, as if pleading.

“What?” you ask.

“I didn’t know,” he says, and apparently he’s decided it’s his turn to reveal himself, “I was surprised that you wanted anything to do with me at all. But then you kissed me, and I spent the next three years waiting for you to leave.” The confusion comes over you so quickly that it almost masks the hurt.

“Why would I leave?” you ask. There’s been nothing subtle about your feelings. You’ve told him that he’s the only one you want, that you want to spend the rest of your life by his side, that he’ll always be the only one. How could he hear all of that and think that you would ever leave?

“Because you’re smart and kind and funny and hardworking–” he starts listing off.

“Tessa is all of those things too,” you cut him off. It doesn’t come out as resentful as you would’ve expected a sentence like that to. As you’ve told Terri, you really have nothing against Tessa. Besides, she really is everything he’s saying.

“But she’s not you,” his response comes immediately, emphatically, “I don’t want just anyone like that; I want you, and you happen to be that way.” You’re stunned into silence.

“It’s not the traits, it’s you,” he says, insistent, like he’s trying to convince you of your own worth, “And I kept waiting for you to find someone else, someone who wasn’t hotheaded and self-centered and–” He stops himself, swallowing so hard you can see his throat stutter under the thin skin of his neck.

“Someone better,” he finishes. The thing is that Matthew doesn’t have low self-esteem. He knows he’s a catch, and yet… And yet, he’s standing here, admitting that he’d still thought of you as being so far above him that you could never want him. And it’s not that there isn’t probably someone out there better than him–

“I never wanted someone better,” you tell him, voice almost a whisper. Growing up, you’d created this picture of the perfect man, told yourself that you’d find him one day, would never settle for less. Then you’d met Matthew, and he was nothing like that imaginary ideal. He was flawed; he was real. And you couldn’t help but love him for it.

“And I never wanted anyone else,” he replies, his own voice hushed to match yours, but no less certain, “I still don’t.” Three months ago, you would’ve given anything to hear that. But things are different now.

“I thought that if I went and found someone like you, someone close enough, that I could fall for them too,” he confesses, shame making his face tense, “I thought that if I stopped talking to you, if I kept my distance, that I could get over you.” A fraction of the anger buds in your chest at the idea.

“So you’re using Tessa,” you accuse, instantly offended on her behalf.

“No!” Matthew denies emphatically, pauses, shakes his head, “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” If he is using her, at least he seems ashamed about it. Something in his posture makes you think he isn’t, that he really thought he could love her.

“Look, she’s great. She’s amazing. She’s too good for me, too,” his shoulders have been hunched up to his ears, but they fall now, defeated, “She talks about that spark she felt when we met, the way she feels about me now, and I want, I really want to feel that way too. It would be easier if I could.” Believing this entire time that he truly loves her has been hell for you, but it’s still somehow worse to know that he doesn’t. That he did all of this, hurt you so deeply, for someone he doesn’t even love.

“As much as I’ve tried, I don’t. And I can’t,” he says, turning his gaze to the floor, “And if I’d ever thought that I had the slightest chance with you, I never would have dated her to begin with.” All these years, all those words, all the touches you’ve shared, and he’d still never taken you seriously. It’s not your fault, you know. But you realize now that for every time you’d indirectly confessed your feelings to him, he’d said the same things back. He’d returned every sentiment readily, easily. And as much as he’d apparently had the same idea as you, that the other could never love you back, you hadn’t seen it either. You’ve been just as ignorant of his feelings as he was of yours, just as deep in denial. And now there’s this rift between you, a deep chasm that keeps you apart, all for no reason.

“So, what now?” you ask. There’s nothing else to ask.

“What?” he seems genuinely confused.

“What now?” you repeat, too tired to be upset anymore, “You break her heart? Or do you keep pretending? Fake your way into a wife and kids and a house in the suburbs?” His confusion persists, tongue darting out to wet his lip the way it always does when he’s anxious.

“I thought–” he shakes his head the tiniest bit, as if he can’t believe what’s happening, “I mean, I love you. I want to be with you.” There’s a sadness sitting heavy in your chest, only getting deeper at his words.

“I love you too,” you say, tipping your head an inch to the right, perfectly aware of how melancholy your smile must be, “But you hurt me, and now you have to hurt her too. I thought you were better than this.” You’d thought the world of him. You don’t hate him now, could never force yourself to. But you are disappointed in how everything has played out.

“I thought you didn’t want better?” he says, not really a question. Your lips turn up another centimeter at that.

“Listen,” you say, turning the word back on him. You inhale deeply, exhale slowly. He stays quiet.

“The opportunity of a lifetime is on the other side of that door,” you gesture vaguely over your shoulder, then let your arms relax, your hands fall to your sides, “I don’t know what to do with any of–” you give another vague gesture, “--This.” The devastation is writ clear on his face, telegraphed by his posture, bared in the forefront of his miserably beautiful eyes.

“Out there?” you say, smile still in place, “I know exactly what I want. So I’m going to go get it.” you pause, take another deep breath, “And maybe you’ll be there tomorrow, and maybe you won’t.”

“I will,” he jumps in. You huff an almost-laugh.

“We can figure this all out later,” you say, sure a definite, “For now, I have to focus on the things that I’m sure of.” He nods, looks at the floor, raises his head and looks back at you.

“Did you used to be sure of me?” he asks, an uneven, shaky whisper.

“Yeah,” you say, your entire being feeling so heavy that you can barely hold yourself upright, “I used to be.”

September, 2023

While Brady had departed yesterday, Matthew doesn’t leave until tomorrow. It took some internal debate, but you’ve decided not to go along to drop him off at the airport. His family will think it’s weird if he doesn’t hug you, and you’re not sure if you can handle him touching you yet.

You’re curled up on the couch with a book, letting yourself get lost in the story. A knock comes on the door and you startle. You mark your page and stand, rounding the couch to open the door. When you do, Matthew is standing there.

“Hey,” he greets, giving you the same bittersweet smile you’ve become accustomed to over the past few weeks. You’d given him a key to your apartment right after you’d moved, but you appreciate him not using it right now. You welcome him in with a gesture of your hand, turning to lead the way. You get four steps away before he speaks.

“I broke up with Tessa,” he blurts out. He doesn’t seem happy about it, but he doesn’t seem particularly sad either.

“Why?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest, “You’re that sure that I’ll take you back?” The anger comes and goes as it pleases, and it’s starting to sneak through the space between your ribs.

“No,” Matthew says, looking so unbearably fond of you, “I think you’ll tell me to get fucked.” Some days you want to.

“Then why did you break up with her?” you ask. Part of you has been wondering if, despite everything he’d said, he would stay with her. You’re not sure you would have been able to keep the conversation to yourself if he had, but you would have at least tried.

“Because none of this is fair to her,” he answers, shrugging, “She deserves someone who feels the same way about her that she does them. Someone who’s obsessed with her. She doesn’t deserve to be settled for.” You examine his expression, his stance, and realize that he’s truly being honest. He genuinely wants the best for her.

“How’d she take it?” you can’t help but ask. It makes him grin down at the floor for a moment.

“Honestly?” he asks when he raises his head, “Not great. Could have been worse, though.” As much as you love Matthew, you would have been proud of Tessa if she had slapped him.

“Probably should’ve been worse,” you reply. He grins again, tilting his head as he admires your face.

“Probably,” he agrees. For long moments, you both stand still, eyes locked.

“What now?” you ask, the same question as a couple weeks ago. He shrugs again, but he doesn’t seem as miserable or desperate as he had at the gallery.

“I don’t know,” he replies, that same phrase that you’re still trying to make peace with, “I know what I want. Same thing I’ve wanted this entire time. So I guess it’s up to you.” After three years of him encouraging you to give up control, to let go and follow his lead, he’s handing you the reigns now. However this ends or continues is completely your decision.

“You leave tomorrow,” you say, though you’re both viscerally aware of the fact.

“Yeah,” he gives you the crooked smile that had captured you the first time you’d met, “Don’t suppose you want to come with me? The winter weather’s nicer in Florida.” You let out a breathy chuckle, shaking your head at him.

“If you’d asked me that last summer, I probably would’ve said yes,” you admit. You kind of expect him to react with sadness, but you prefer the hope that blooms on his face.

“Maybe I’ll ask you again next summer?” he suggests, offering you the option. At this point, you have no idea where your relationship will be at this time next year. You don’t know if you’ll even have a relationship, of any kind. But if he’s willing to try, so are you.

“Yeah,” you nod, smiling wider than you have in a long while, “Next summer.”

June, 2024

The Hughes brothers are a funny trio. Seeing Jack’s upbeat, outgoing energy bookended on each side by two reserved, perpetually exhausted brothers is always kind of funny. You’d run down the pavement from the Tkachuk’s door to the driveway when you’d seen Quinn climb out of the car’s driver seat, immediately sweeping him up in a hug. The boys had decided to road trip around this summer, so of course you’d strongly suggested that they visit you.

You help them haul their bags out of the trunk, taking Luke’s backpack in hand and insisting on carrying it in for him. The three of them had started teasing you the instant they saw that Matthew hadn’t come out with you.

“Come on, I heard him at the All Star game,” Jack pesters, voice taking a mocking edge as he croons, “Sweet girl.” You laugh brightly, stopping the careful steps you’re taking backwards up the pathway to the house.

“We weren’t dating, I swear,” you insist. Plenty of people over the years have accused you of dating Matthew, but at least he’s funny about it. He stops in front of you, lifting his chin and giving a shit-eating smile.

“Wait, weren’t?” he asks, “As in, past tense?” You feel heat begin to crawl up your face. You’d intended to tell them, of course, but not the second they got here.

“Yeah,” Matthew calls from behind you, and you twist around to watch him close the space between you, “Past tense.” Jack’s glee is overt, but you can see the little signs of happiness on the other two boys’ faces too. Matthew lines himself up against your back, wrapping his arms around you, the gaudy Cup ring on his finger glinting in the light.

“Hey, sweet girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss into your hair. You can’t see him, but Jack’s smug face makes you sure that Matthew is staring straight at him. “My sweet girl,” Matthew says. It might be the best thing you’ve ever heard.

#eyesthatroll fic recs! #matthew tkachuk

[eyesthatroll]

this was just phenomenal, oh my gosh, this hurt sooooooo good. i cannot even put into words how much i loved this.

wasted like all my potential / m tkachuk

it’s hard to be at a party when i feel like an open wound. it’s hard to be anywhere these days when all i want is you.

/ or, the one where clayton weighs the pros and cons of dating matthew.

word count: 17K pairing: matthew tkachuk x OFC warnings: mild suggestive language, alcohol, angst pls be nice, this is the first thing i've written and been brave enough to publish in years. ok, enjoy.

wasted like all my potential

✨ act one: one single thread of gold tied me to you.

Clayton Kozak had never had a favorite color. But right here at this moment, if someone were to ask her to pick, she'd probably have to say the golden shade of blonde Matthew Tkachuk's unruly curls were turning after an afternoon in the Florida sunshine.

The light ocean blue of his eyes as they stared down at her, noses practically touching as he wrapped his arms loosely around her waist, were probably a close second.

She let out a sigh of contentment as he leaned down to close the small gap and kiss her.

In contrast to the feisty persona he had developed on the ice and in the media, everything about Matthew was thoughtful and delicate when it came to Clayton. His fingers ghosted across the bare skin of her back, the callouses and cuts that usually adorned them having healed over the Summer. The slight touch was enough for goosebumps to erupt all along the skin left exposed by her bikini despite the warm evening sun beating over them.

With the ocean waves gently breaking against the side of the boat, everything about this moment felt perfect.

She didn't get many moments like this, just her and Matthew totally uninterrupted with no outside distractions. And it would only get busier with the NHL pre-season about to start in a week. So when Matthew suggested taking the boat out onto the water for one last afternoon of swimming and sunbathing, just the two of them, she jumped at the opportunity.

Clayton was used to this routine, having known Matthew and the Tkachuk family practically her entire life. Hockey, including the off-season conditioning, would always be priority number one. Everything else, like these tender moments where Matthew let his guard down, had to be slated between the demanding travel and workout commitments.

Even when he had a day off during the season, he was usually at the rink or working out anyway. She anticipated this would be the last full-day date until Christmas or maybe even the All-Star break in January.

As much as she wanted more and craved more commitment from him, she also knew this was the reality of being in love with an NHL player. Or maybe it was just the reality of being in love with Matthew.

The sun was beginning to set, the sky a mix of vibrant pink and purple hues over the water, signaling their day was finally ending. Matthew placed another kiss on the bridge of her sunkissed nose, fresh freckles from the sunshine sprinkled across her face.

That delicate shade of pink Clayton's skin would turn after a few too many uninterrupted hours in the sun, her favorite way to spend her free time, was probably Matthew's favorite color. He wasn't sure how someone so obviously meant to spend their life on the beach could have been born and raised in a landlocked state like Missouri. Still, he was thankful the universe had planted her in the house across the street from his childhood home.

And he was even more thankful that after high school, when hockey and life took them on separate paths, they had both independently ended up on the shores of Fort Lauderdale simultaneously as if they were always meant to find their way back to each other.

"Thank you for today," Clayton spoke, her voice quiet as she broke the comfortable silence between them.

Her words were met by a smirk from Matthew, his hands on her lower back pulling her in even closer to his chest. There wasn't an inch of space between them, yet it still didn't feel close enough. Not when he knew how little time he could dedicate to her when he reported to training camp in a few days.

"Anything for my best friend," he cooed, but his words made her flinch.

His best friend, never his girlfriend.

Hoping he didn't notice the reaction, she let her hands unlock from behind his neck and slid down to rest her palms flat on his chest. She forced a smile, staring up at him as if his words weren't sending both of them quietly spiraling.

It didn't feel fair how little of himself he could actually commit to her.

He wasn't sure how other guys on the team balanced hockey with a wife and kids. He wasn't even sure how his parents had done it, raising three kids with demanding hockey schedules.

Realistically, you couldn't spread yourself that thin and give 100% of yourself to everyone. Something would continuously suffer, ending up with the scraps and leftovers of what you had to offer. And Matthew loved Clayton too much for that. In his mind, he couldn't be a boyfriend. His world was too demanding to commit to a relationship; he would just let her down.

He had tried before. Not with Clayton, but there had been girls in Calgary. They would all say the same thing, that they understood hockey came first, but it still always ended up in flames.

It could have been because of hockey, or maybe they knew he was in love with someone else. When they inevitably screamed and shouted at him for never choosing them, they never bothered to clarify. And Matthew never asked because deep down, he didn't really care.

Sometimes, he wondered if his tragic dating history ever weighed heavy on Clayton's mind. If she thought differently of him because he couldn't hold down a serious girlfriend while his younger brother, Brady, had always been Mr. Long-Term Relationship and was now happily married.

Or maybe she could read between the lines and knew none of these girls would work out because they weren't her.

He could have been nicer (or loyal) to them, but he never pictured a future with them and didn't see the point. They were all collateral damage.

So, instead, he would settle for these in-between moments where he was hopelessly in love with his best friend. He would live in that gray area for as long as he could until someone else came along who could give Clayton everything he couldn't. Everything she actually deserved.

Selfishly, he'd continue to hope that maybe she'd still be there when it all ended. He'd never ask that of her, though. He knew that it was unfair to ask someone to wait. He also knew she'd probably say yes if he asked.

Maybe that was what hurt the most, knowing she wanted this as badly as he did.

She showed up for him every day with a smile, answering every call and enduring every silent treatment after a loss as if it were her fault. She had even helped him shower and dress himself in the playoffs last year when he broke his sternum but refused to sit out a game. Someone who was just friends with you wouldn't do that.

"We should head back before it gets dark," Clayton spoke, finally stepping back to untangle herself from his solid 6'2 frame.

Matthew leaned down to press another light kiss to her lips before she could get too far away. "I actually think we should just stay here forever."

"Matthew," she warned, but it came out as more of a laugh. "I loved this. This was the perfect day off, but let's go home."

Home. It sounded so sweet when she said it.

For a moment, he liked to imagine she actually meant their home. The white picket fence, somewhere on the beach, would be filled with too many decorative throw pillows and a gaggle of children. He hoped their kids would get her temperament, always calm and collected. But maybe his athleticism and height, he thought as he stared down at her much shorter frame.

He had been picturing their future together since he was a teenager, but it never quite looked like this.

He had been three when his family moved from Scottsdale to St. Louis, buying the house across the street from the Kozak family. Peter, Katja, and their only daughter, Clayton. She had been a ray of sunshine from the moment they met, her parents inviting the Tkachuk family over for a barbecue to welcome them to their neighborhood.

Clayton was the automatic third musketeer, a year younger than Matthew but a year older than Brady. Wherever one of the Tkachuk brothers was, Clayton was never far behind. Taryn was born about a year after they moved in. Clayton was so excited about having a sister that no one had the heart to tell her these weren't actually her siblings.

She spent more time in the Tkachuk basement than in her own house, watching endless hours of NHL highlights with Matthew and Brady or playing dolls with Taryn as she got older. They even went to Oak Hill together, often carpooling every day to get to school. That sometimes meant she'd have to stay late after class to watch a hockey practice if Chantal was on pick-up duty. But she would pack an extra sweater (usually one of Matthew's) and brave the frigid temperatures to watch every game and practice.

Matthew didn't remember a time when Clayton wasn't in his life.

He probably took having her as his best friend for granted until they graduated middle school, and he headed across town to his private all-boys high school. It was the first time they had ever been separated, and the hole she left was immediately felt. He'd spend all day in class distracted, wondering what she was doing or who she was hanging out with now that he wasn't there to save her a spot at lunch. He knew she was friends with Brady, but the two weren't nearly as close as she was with Matthew.

Then, at the end of freshman year, the distance got even worse as he left St. Louis altogether, packing up to head to Ann Arbor to join the U.S. National Team Development Program.

She thought she missed him when he went to high school, but Clayton realized this was different when he left for Michigan. This was more than just missing a carpool buddy or having a piece of your routine missing. Because she went off to high school the following year, leaving Brady behind at Oak Hill, and she didn't feel nearly as torn up over the change.

Was 15 too young to be in love with someone?

When the school year ended and Matthew returned for the Summer, he knew something was different, too. Freshman year had been good for Clayton. Her teeth were no longer hidden behind a set of braces, and she had hit a bit of a growth spurt. Standing taller now, her 5 '5 frame still no match for Matthew's height, he was suddenly acutely aware of how beautiful his best friend was.

He would only be home for a few months before returning to Michigan for his second season, but they spent every possible moment together. She couldn't recall when exactly they had crossed the line beyond just friends, but they spent most of that Summer sneaking around behind their friends' and parents' backs.

They hooked up all Summer, never labeling it or discussing what this meant. Sometimes Clayton blamed the ambiguity of this whole thing on her shyness not to have that awkward conversation then. She should have put her foot down and made him talk about how he felt then instead of letting them both dance around the topic for nearly a decade.

Because in the Fall, he disappeared back to Michigan, as if nothing had happened. When he came home for the Summer, they picked back up right where they had left off. And then, after a couple of months, he was leaving to move to Canada for a year in the OHL.

Rinse and repeat.

When Clayton graduated high school, she decided to make a big move and finally stop waiting around St. Louis for the boy who only came around once a year. Accepting a volleyball scholarship to the University of Miami, she made a new home for herself in Florida. Now well-established in her career, she had seen Matthew occasionally on the off-chance that their scheduled visits back home overlapped, but the sibling she saw the most now was Taryn.

Taryn would often FaceTime her, ranting about the latest college drama or picking her brain for relationship advice she didn't want to bring to her older brothers. She'd also catch Clayton up on how Brady and Matthew were doing.

Usually, the summary was that Brady and Emma were perfect, and Matthew had just broken up with his most recent flavor of the month.

Clayton may have been in love with him since she was a teenager, but she knew he had a reputation. He wasn't like that with her, though. They were different.

Matthew finally released his grasp, letting Clayton step back and take a seat on the tan leather bench seat in the boat. His eyes were glued to her as he watched her grab the oversized threadbare Flames t-shirt she had been wearing over her bikini today. He didn't bother to hide the disappointment on his face as he watched her get redressed, eyes following her hands as she slipped her ripped denim shorts up her tanned legs.

"Take a picture, Chucky," she teased, tossing her wavy ocean hair over her shoulder as she felt his eyes burning a hole in the side of her face. "It'll last a lot longer."

"On it, baby," he replied, reaching behind him into the beach bag resting on the boat floor behind him. He proudly pulled out her Polaroid camera, something Clayton rarely left the house without. "Say cheese, please."

He held the lens up to his eyes, snapping a photo of Clayton smiling up at him with a toothy grin. He didn't think he'd ever seen a sight so beautiful, but Matthew felt that way nearly every time he saw her.

When Clayton was 15, she was convinced Matthew was her soulmate.

He was it for her—the beginning and the end of everything. Every time he left St. Louis, it felt like the end, but he always found his way back to her each Summer. When he was drafted to Calgary, that felt final. She was established and settled in Florida. He was building a life as the face of an NHL franchise almost 3,000 miles away. So Clayton did her best to move on.

They'd still text frequently, and he'd leave her tickets every time he was playing in Florida, but for the first time in her entire life, she could actually feel the distance between them.

There had been a lot of twists in their story, but when her phone rang one evening last July, the last thing she was expecting was for Matthew to be on the other end of the line.

He'd been traded to Florida, and overnight, those 3,000 miles became zero.

They had spent nearly every second since then together.

"Okay, now let's take one together!" she cheered, stretching her hands out to grab the camera firmly clutched in his hands. He snapped another photo, mostly blurred, as his body shook with laughter at her attempt to reach up at him. "Matthew, come on," she whined as he ignored her request.

"Okay, okay," he conceded, taking a few steps to sit on the bench seat beside her. She maneuvered herself to sit on her knees to give her a little more height. Her arms wrapped around his neck from behind, her chin resting on his shoulder as his head subconsciously leaned against hers.

He extended his arm in front of them to capture the selfie, snapping a second photo just as she kissed his cheek.

Now, at 25, Clayton still believed they were soulmates.

Even if Matthew danced around the subject or wouldn't put a label on it.

There was some golden thread wrapped around them that tied them together. It had brought Matthew's family to St. Louis, and even when life took him away, that invisible string never let him get too far. Through every twist and turn, she knew they'd always end up together. 

Clayton imagined that golden thread would one day end up wrapped around their ring fingers, professing it had always been you in front of their friends and family.

They were so close, but maybe this wasn't the end yet.

They'd be okay, though.

Whenever they finally got there.

___

🤔 act two: is it chill that you're in my head?

It was a little faded from the sunshine that streamed into her bathroom through the small frosted glass window, but that Polaroid selfie from their day out on the boat last Summer had found a new home stuck to her vanity mirror.

It was surrounded by a collection of other photos, many of which Matthew also appeared in, but that golden moment always stood out. It was her favorite memory with him, sitting in the center of the collage of photos, so it was the first thing she saw each morning and the last thing she'd see in the evening as she got ready for bed.

The other photo, of Clayton pressing a kiss to Matthew's cheek, had found its new home tucked away in his wallet, away from prying eyes where he could see it every day. He wasn't sure how he had survived so long without Clayton by his side every day. After a year and a half in Florida with her, his previous homes without her felt like another lifetime.

Clayton had been living in Florida for about 6 years, but she still couldn't quite wrap her head around how sunny and warm it was in December. Used to Missouri's icy midwest winters, it almost felt wrong to slip on a lace sundress for Sunday brunch this late in the year.

Not that Clayton minded too much; she was born to soak up the sun on a beach.

Matthew's daily good morning text that she had woken up to warned her that it was cloudy today on his way to practice, so she should probably bring a jacket just in case. He had been doing that every day so far this season. Clayton woke up each day eager to tap the screen of her phone to see her daily weather report from her best friend and whatever other sweet message he sent.

She would text him back as soon as she woke up, but by then, he was usually on the ice for practice, his phone long forgotten in the locker room. He'd then call her on his way home from the rink to find out where she was to know if he was going home or heading straight to her apartment.

Today's message was pretty short; it was evident he was still in a sour mood from last night's 4-3 loss to the Islanders. Clayton had opted not to come over since she was supposed to meet her friend, Rose, for brunch, and his house was too far out of the way. She was sure the fact he had to sleep alone after the loss didn't help this morning's mood.

Habitually late for everything, Clayton tapped on the screen of her locked phone from where it sat on her bathroom counter, checking the time to see how far behind she was running. As the screen lit up, it illuminated the spider web of cracks running diagonally across the screen.

She had lived with the shattered iPhone since last May, a casualty of Matthew's game-winning goal against Carolina with 4 seconds left to sweep the Hurricanes and send the Panthers to the Stanley Cup Finals. As the puck soared across the goal line, she leaped out of her seat, her phone tumbling out of her pocket and shattering on the concrete floor of Amerant Bank Arena.

He had offered to replace the phone every time he saw it, but the broken glass reminded her of the chaos and thrill of the game. It was an odd thing to be sentimental about, but she wasn't ready to part with it just yet.

Seeing that she was, unsurprisingly, already late, Clayton hurriedly grabbed a tube of lip gloss and some perfume to shove into her purse. She grabbed the denim jacket lying at the end of her bed, just as Matthew had warned her to do.

"Only 10 minutes late," Rose cheered, standing up to greet Clayton with a hug as she approached the cafe table where her friend had been waiting. "I've already ordered us mimosas."

"And this is why I love you," Clayton laughed, giving Rose a tiny squeeze before settling in the seat across from her. Their server reappeared to place the two orange juice-filled champagne flutes onto the table as if on cue.

"Cheers, love," Rose raised her glass to clink against Clayton's. It was a tradition for their monthly brunch date. As hectic as life was, she always prioritized at least a monthly check-in with her freshman-year roommate. Not that Clayton's life was really that hectic. She was just so wrapped up in Matthew's world that she hated making plans with others when he was free.

"Okay, catch me up," Clayton ordered, setting her glass back on the tabletop. She closed the menu in front of her, knowing she would order the same dish she got every time. Folding her hands together to rest on the tabletop, she raised her eyebrows expectantly at her old roommate. "What's new in your world?"

Rose let out a small giggle, a reaction that Clayton knew always meant trouble. Rose couldn't help the smirk pulling at the corner of her lips as she opened her mouth to speak. "Well, Baker and I have someone we want to set you up with."

"No, absolutely not," Clayton shook her head, leaning back in her seat.

This was familiar to Clayton. Rose, the unofficial matchmaker of her friend group, had successfully set up nearly every single one of their single friends. She wasn't sure how many weddings Rose had stood up in, watching her silly blind date pairings walk down the aisle and tie the knot together. She was good at what she did and had been trying to set Clayton up with someone since they were randomly paired up in their freshman-year dorm.

Clayton had said yes to a couple dates here and there, but with Matthew lingering in her mind, they never went too far. Now with Matthew literally in Florida, the closest their friendship had ever been to being a real relationship, she wasn't going to fuck it up by going on a blind date with whoever Rose and her long-term boyfriend had picked out.

Not that Clayton and Matthew had ever, in the 10 years they had been dancing around a real relationship, had a conversation about not seeing other people. Obviously, they had both dated other people, but in the last year, they had spent nearly every moment together. She hadn't had time for it, even if she wanted to see someone else.

Unless you count how much time Matthew spent on the road.

The thought of a different girl waiting for him in every NHL city made Clayton feel dizzy. Matthew had a lot of time unsupervised and could have been seeing other girls regularly. And without having ever talked about being exclusive, he had every right to. Was Clayton stupid for waiting around and just hoping he wasn't sleeping with other people at the same time?

She snatched her drink from the table and took a large gulp of the bubbly drink to try to calm the nagging voices in her head.

Rose paid no mind to Clayton's protests, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table as she pouted. "Oh, come on! He works with Baker, and he's so sweet. He's new to Miami and-"

Clayton raised her hand to cut off Rose's rant. "Ro, I'm not letting you set me up with some guy. It's never going to happen."

"Why not?" Rose asked, her eyes softening as she pleaded with Clayton. She wanted to see her best friend happy—with someone who made time for her and went above and beyond like she deserved. She knew Clayton was secretly in love with her childhood best friend, but she had no idea how deep the feelings ran. "Come on, Clay. Have some fun, will you?"

"No, Matthew-" Clayton tried to explain, but as soon as she said his name, she watched Rose's face drop. 

"What about Matthew?" she challenged, clearly unimpressed with the excuse.

Rose had watched her best friend cry over Matthew more times in the last 6 years than she cared to remember. Clayton continued bending backward to show up whenever he called, but she wasn't sure why. As far as Rose had witnessed, he had never really been anything to write home about.

Before Clayton could respond, their server returned to take their orders, offering a brief reprise in the conversation. The girls rattled off their orders, handing back the menus, and asked for another round of mimosas.

As they settled back into a brief silence, Rose chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment. 

Clayton didn't respond well to interrogations, especially about her situationship with the oldest Tkachuk brother. She needed a different approach before Clayton just shut down entirely.

"Are you two officially dating now?" Rose tried, voice gentle as she tried not to insinuate anything with the question. If Clayton was turning down another date, maybe there was an update on the situation with Matthew. After all, she was practically living at his house this year.

But the way Clayton looked down, finger tracing the condensation on the outside of her glass, told Rose all she needed to know. "Well, no."

"Jesus, Clay," Rose sighed, tossing her head back as she blinked at the ceiling. She couldn't do this anymore, blindly cheering on her best friend in a dead-end relationship that would never evolve into something tangible. "I love you, but how long are you going to let him string you along?"

"He's not stringing me along," Clayton sputtered, shaking her head wildly. Rose shot her a knowing look, not buying a single word she was spitting out. "We have history, it's just-"

"Complicated, I know," Rose finished for her. She took a moment to finish her drink, placing the empty glass to the side as they waited for their next round to arrive. Rose had heard this story a million times before. Including the first night the two girls ever met. Clayton tried to explain why she couldn't make out with the cute football player at their first-ever frat party because of some guy in Calgary who wasn't her boyfriend. "Can I be blunt?"

Clayton choked out a laugh, taking her bottom lip between her teeth to try to smother the giggle that threatened to slip out. "As if me saying no is going to change your mind."

"You're about to turn 26. You're a big girl now. You're hot. You could have any guy here in this restaurant," Rose listed off, holding out a finger to emphasize each point as she said them. Clayton could feel a blush rise up her neck, glancing around quickly to ensure no one at a nearby table was eavesdropping on this conversation. "You can't still be obsessed with the guy you lost your virginity to, what, like, almost 10 years ago?! Move on, please, Clay."

This was the most blunt Rose had ever been with Clayton. But it was also the most honest take anyone had ever had about Clayton and Matthew's relationship.

"It's more than that, Ro," Clayton whispered, voice cracking a bit as she tried to keep her emotions at bay.

It sucked to hear this, especially since Clayton knew everything Rose was saying was true. That was what stung the most.

How many people in her life had watched her hopelessly wait around for some guy who couldn't commit to her and just bit their tongue?

She remembered how girls would look at her in the hallway in high school when she talked about him, the same looks of pity that greeted her at prom when she showed up alone, Matthew somewhere out of state for hockey.

"In 10 years, he's given you nothing," Rose continued, shaking her head slightly as she leaned forward. She kept her voice low and tone gentle, knowing each word out of her mouth was just another punch to the stomach for Clayton. There was no easy way to say it, she could just hope Clayton knew she meant well. "You're in love with this idea of what you two could be—this storybook romance of marrying your childhood best friend. But you deserve more than that."

"I know I deserve more," Clayton agreed. It was scary to admit it out loud, especially if that more wasn't guaranteed to include Matthew.

They were supposed to be it for each other, but the longer they went on, the more cracks began to show in their foundation.

"Then what's holding you back?" Rose asked, eyebrows raised. She wasn't necessarily implying that Clayton needed to make a clean break, but she couldn't just sit around and wait for Matthew to decide he wanted to be with her one day. She needed to take charge and advocate for herself before she died, waiting in the wings for her big moment. "What's holding him back?"

"I don't know," Clayton answered honestly. She had a few theories that had bounced around in her mind over the last decade, but she couldn't exactly put words into his mouth. Because that was the exact problem—he had never told her why he couldn't commit.

She had often thought maybe he didn't want the distraction that a relationship would bring. It was easier this way with no strings attached. He was dedicated to his hockey career; he had been this way his entire life.

But he had also had girlfriends in Calgary, never labeling them as distractions to his career.

What about Clayton didn't make her suitable for the role, but these other girls were?

Clayton sighed, giving her head a shake to straighten out her thoughts. "It's-"

"I swear to God if you say complicated one more time," Rose cut her off, eyes narrowed as she glared across the table at Clayton.

"It is!" Clayton cried, throwing up her hands in frustration.

"Then let's uncomplicate it," Rose spoke, tone confident as she sat up straighter in her seat. She held her hand out expectantly, eyes staring directly at Clayton. "Give me your phone."

"I don't-" Clayton tried to object, but Rose's sharp glare shut her up instantly.

"Phone," Rose repeated, making a grabbing motion with her hand. Clayton sighed, pulling the cracked iPhone from the pocket of her denim jacket and handing it over. As Rose looked at the shattered screen, her eyes went wide. "Clay, girl, fix your phone."

Clayton wasn't sure what Rose had in mind. She never knew what her feisty best friend had in store for her; it was part of what made their friendship work so well. Part of her wouldn't be surprised if she just called Matthew and interrogated him right here and now on speakerphone.

Clayton's only solace was knowing Matthew was still on the ice for practice, so he wouldn't pick up. That didn't stop her heart rate rising as she watched Rose swipe up to unlock the phone.

Rose opened the Notes app, typing Matthew's name at the top. She turned the phone screen slightly so Clayton could see what she was doing, relieving the girl that she wasn't typing out a declaration of her love for her childhood best friend in a text message. Instead, Clayton's eyebrows knit together as she tried to figure out what purpose this note served.

"We're going to make a pros and cons list for Matthew," Rose answered, reading the confused look on Clayton's face as she stared at his name in the empty note. Rose turned the phone back to her, typing away as Clayton watched her quietly. "Let's just lay it all out. If the positives outweigh the negatives, you tell him you love him, and you make this shit official."

Clayton snorted, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared at Rose in disbelief. "And if they don't?" she prompted.

"And if it's not worth it, you cut ties and move on," Rose answered casually. "No more emotional gray area."

"Right," Clayton nodded, pausing to finish her drink. An overpriced mimosa at brunch wouldn't get her drunk, but she hoped it had enough alcohol in it to take the edge off a bit. She could already feel her knee bouncing nervously under the table. "This feels childish."

"I do this every time I try to set someone up," Rose dismissed. "And I have a great track record."

"So what were the pros and cons of Baker's co-worker and me?" Clayton asked, a wicked smirk taking over her face.

"Don't try to distract me," Rose warned, looking up from the phone to scowl at Clayton. "Okay, pros and cons for Matty. Go."

But Clayton's mind went completely blank. She couldn't think of a single positive thing about Matthew—or even a negative to start with. Put on the spot, she was at a complete loss, so she just shrugged her shoulders.

"What is it you like about him?" Rose tried again, no trace of annoyance in her voice as she let her best friend take her time.

"Uh-" Clayton tapped her fingertips against the tabletop, racking her brain for the first thing that came to mind when she thought of Matthew. "He's great in bed."

"Clay!" Rose cackled, throwing her head back as she laughed loudly. Her usual mild-mannered best friend's answer caught her completely off-guard. "Obviously, he's a great lay. But there's got to be something else that's kept you around for this long."

"I mean, when he lets his hair grow a little out of control and his curls-"

"Okay, you find him hot," Rose said with an eye roll, "now give me something real."

"He's my support system," Clayton answered honestly, eyes focused on tracing the grain of the wood tabletop so she wouldn't have to look at Rose. She felt oddly vulnerable here. If she couldn't even tell Rose what she loved about Matthew, how would she ever tell him? "Since we were kids, he has always made me laugh, even on the worst days. He gets me out of my shell, too. Like, he's up for any adventure, but at the same time, he's always going to make sure I'm okay."

"Okay, now we're getting somewhere," Rose smiled, continuing to type away as Clayton rambled off all of the ways Matthew made her world spin around. It gradually got easier once she had the first few points written down.

Clayton took a moment to thank the server as she dropped off a new tray of drinks, Rose scrolling up to review the pros they had drafted together.

"This is a good start," Rose cheered. "Now, what's making you nervous?"

"I don't know," Clayton sighed, grabbing her fresh drink to buy her time to think.

"There's not a single red flag? Seriously?" Rose's tone was sarcastic, but Clayton just rolled her eyes. "Come on, Clay, I've met the guy. I'm pretty sure he invented red flags."

"Ro, be nice," Clayton warned, shooting a cautionary glare across the table.

"This isn't the time to be nice. This is the time to be honest." Rose placed the phone on the table, leaning forward on her elbows to size up Clayton's feelings. "What is sitting in the back of your mind telling you to walk away?"

Everything, Clayton wanted to shout. He doesn't actually love me like I love him.

But that felt too scary to say out loud.

Rose could tell something was heavy on her mind, watching Clayton chew anxiously on her bottom lip.

"Safe space," Rose promised, extending her hand out towards her best friend, pinky extended.

Locking their pinkies together in a silent vow, Clayton couldn't help but smile. As tough as Rose was, she knew she meant well with this whole thing.

"He has a bit of a reputation," Clayton finally answered. But the words felt bitter as she spoke them, not liking the nausea that rose up her throat as she gave that taunting voice in the back of her mind a platform to project her deepest fears.

"A reputation for what?" Rose prompted, head tilted to the side as she encouraged Clayton to continue. They both knew what she meant, but Rose needed Clayton to say it out loud. No more dancing around the truth.

"The St. Louis rumor mill was pretty convinced he was cheating on most of his ex-girlfriends in Calgary," Clayton whispered, cringing as she recalled the stories she grew up hearing back home each Summer.

"Yikes," Rose muttered, scooping the phone up to continue typing.

"I mean, they're just rumors," Clayton immediately tried to backtrack, already feeling guilty for giving these old whispers any validity. It didn't help that Taryn would comment about it sometimes, too. It didn't bode well if his younger sister, who worshiped the ground he walked on, thought he made a shitty boyfriend too. "I didn't pay too much attention to them."

"Give me another one."

"He could be traded at any time," Clayton spoke up, focused on picking a loose string on her white sundress from where her hands rested in her lap, "and he'd just be gone again."

"Okay, that's more in line with what we're looking for here," Rose replied, nodding. "If he was traded, would you go with him?"

The laugh that slipped from Clayton's mouth was involuntary, clamping a hand over her face in embarrassment. It was such a ridiculous question that she couldn't stop the knee-jerk reaction. "I don't think it's a question of if I would go—I don't know if he'd even ask me to go with him."

"Right, commitment issues," Rose laughed, sending Clayton a sad smile across the table before she turned her attention back to the phone as she continued to type. "Already on the list."

___

🌩️ act three: the truth is hard to hear, but it wasn't hard to find.

Despite what the too-long list sitting in her Notes app would imply, Clayton was in love with Matthew.

While she hated to admit it, it did feel freeing to get her fears and hesitations out in the open. She was hopelessly head over heels for Matthew and probably always would be. No amount of flags, green, red, beige, or purple, would change her mind.

Rose knew this, too, but she hoped that saying her feelings out loud would help Clayton gather the courage she needed to take the next step.

The bottomless mimosas helped, too.

Letting herself into Matthew's house with the spare key he had given her, she was greeted by a quiet home. She dropped her keys on the large kitchen island with the grocery bags she had picked up on her way over. She knew his fridge would be empty, never thinking far enough in advance to ensure a post-workout snack was waiting for him when he got home. She put away the snacks she had picked up, an assortment of Matthew's favorite things.

Knowing he wouldn't be home for at least an hour or two, she made herself comfortable. This wasn't too out of the ordinary of their usual weekend routine. Shrugging off her denim jacket, she draped it over the back of one of the stools tucked under the island, bare feet padding across the tile floor of the open-concept kitchen.

She collapsed onto the pillowy oasis that was Matthew's couch—one Clayton had picked out for him last year when he was moving in. She let her body relax and sank into the oversized pillows on the sectional couch. She turned on the TV and was immediately greeted by the ESPN highlights Matthew had been watching that morning before he left for practice.

He had every channel under the sun, but if it wasn't playing hockey, he wasn't watching.

Matthew was a creature of habit, and he had been this way since he was a kid. Getting up an hour early for school each morning, just so he could watch the NHL highlights from the night before. They had been late for school on too many occasions because he refused to leave before he had watched the entire show.

She flipped through the channels until she settled on something trashy and mind-numbing, using it as white noise in the background so she could zone out and disappear into her mind for a bit.

Rose had torn Clayton apart and filled her head with new doubts she hadn't thought of before. She had spelled out all of the reasons why this wasn't going to work—why Matthew was never going to change.

But did anything else on the list matter if she was in love with him?

Matthew was her better half, and he always had been.

She wanted the good and the bad. No matter what it looked like. Because that's what a real relationship was. It was just as much the highs and sunshine as the moments of fear and self-doubt. What mattered most was who you wanted by your side on the bad days.

And Matthew was always the answer.

All she could hope was he felt the same way.

She needed to say something about it to him. Rose had planted the idea, painting the image of forever waiting in the wings for her starring role. Clayton needed to seize the opportunity before someone else came along and acted on everything she was too scared to do.

Unlocking her phone, Clayton scrolled through the note, eyes skimming over the points Rose had typed out. It was quite a list, from nitpicking over him only watching hockey to the bigger things like unpredictable mood swings and reluctance to open up and share his emotions.

Focusing on the pros at the top of the note, Clayton recited all of the things she loved about Matthew and everything she loved about herself because of him. The words echoed in her head; she tried to spin them together into a coherent speech she could say to him.

She probably wouldn't say anything today, though. Because there was always the option Matthew would feel differently. Selfishly, she wanted one more perfect day with him, one she could remember fondly forever before everything changed.

She'd keep her thoughts to herself for now. Christmas was only a few weeks away, a couple of days after her birthday, and that might be a better time to tell him. He'd have a few days off to rest and recover. She had already turned down her parents' invitation to join them for a skiing trip at her Uncle's house in Colorado, not wanting to leave Matthew alone since she knew his parents were going to Ottawa to spend the holiday with Brady and Emma for their first Christmas as newlyweds.

The front door opening startled Clayton, not realizing how long she had spent staring blankly at this stupid list. She locked her phone, carelessly tossing it onto the coffee table next to the TV remote as she heard Matthew's footsteps coming down the hall. Just as she settled back into the off-white pillows, Matthew's smiling face greeted her from where he stood, leaning over the back of the couch.

"Hey, beautiful." He leaned over the back of the couch from where he was standing to kiss her, albeit a messy and clunky kiss as she was upside down to him.

But it was still perfect, Clayton having to bite down hard on her bottom lip to try and contain the beaming grin on her face as she pulled away to stare back up at him.

"Sorry, my phone died," he explained. His usual routine always included calling Clayton every time he left the rink, but she had been so caught up in her own head she hadn't even noticed his usual call time had come and gone.

"All good. I was just out with Ro," she answered, attention focused on his blue eyes, the rest of the world around them fading out of view. They stayed like that for a moment before Clayton remembered he had just come from practice and probably needed to eat something to help with recovery. "Oh, I got you more of the protein shakes you like. They're just in the fridge."

"You're incredible." He leaned down to kiss her again before backtracking across the living room to grab the drink from the fridge.

She listened to him putter around the kitchen, attention only half-focused on the TV screen in front of her as she waited for him to come back and join her. Trying to play it cool, she couldn't deny the butterflies in her stomach as he dropped onto the couch cushion beside her with a huff.

10 years on, and everything about Matthew still made Clayton feel like a teenage girl with a crush.

"What are you watching?" he asked. His eyes scanned the screen, and his brows knitted together as he took in the reality TV show she had been using as background noise.

"Real Housewives," Clayton answered with a slight shrug.

"Absolutely not," he shook his head, reaching for the remote to flip through the channels.

"Yeah, don't worry. I wasn't watching that," Clayton chirped, sarcasm dripping from her every word. But Matthew didn't seem phased. "Feel free to change the channel."

He settled on the NHL Network, and Clayton couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes. She didn't know if Matthew even knew other channels existed.

He leaned forward to put the remote onto the coffee table beside her phone before settling back into the couch. They assumed their usual position almost instantly. Matthew's feet propped up on the coffee table, arm resting on the back of the sofa so Clayton could cuddle into his side. Her head came to rest on his chest, an arm snaking around his waist. His eyes were glued to the TV screen as she zoned out, letting her eyes glaze over a bit as she listened to the comforting sound of his heartbeat.

Her eyes grew heavy as they reached the top of the hour, the highlight reel of last night's top plays starting again from the beginning. She knew this meant they were approaching dinner time, and she'd probably have to separate from him soon, but she let her eyes shut for a moment.

She was fully content at that moment, with Matthew drawing lazy patterns on the bare skin of her shoulders. She could feel him connecting the dots between the freckles covering her shoulders from too many Summers spent by the ocean.

Eventually, she was brought back to Earth as Matthew's stomach grumbled, loud enough to wake her up from her half-asleep state.

"Someone's hungry," she laughed, moving to sit up and untangle herself from him.

"No, where are you going?" he groaned, grabbing at her bare thigh from where her short dress had ridden up to pull her back down into his lap. He locked his arms around her waist, holding her in place against his chest as she laughed, the sound muffled by the fabric of his t-shirt from where her face was pressed into the crook of his neck.

She sat up slightly, legs straddling either side of his lap as she looked down at him. "It's fine. I can cook us something quick."

"Nah, we can just order in," Matthew dismissed her protests, keeping her securely in his lap. His hands found their way from her waist to the bare skin of her thighs, fingertips slipping dangerously high under the loose fabric of her sundress. "I don't want to move just yet."

She leaned down to kiss him, knowing she was playing a risky game here. But he eagerly met her halfway, crashing their mouths together as she parted her lips with a giggle, offering him enough access to slip his tongue past her lips.

Letting her hands intertwine with the curls at the nape of his neck, his fingertips pressed into her thighs as he pulled her down further into his lap. 

Without an inch of space between them, he let out a low groan as she gently tugged at his bottom lip with her teeth. She slowly pulled away, taking a moment to catch her breath.

"What would you like for dinner then?" she asked sweetly.

Matthew looked up at her innocently, but his blue eyes had their usual mischievous sparkle, especially as his fingers dipped below the lace fabric of her underwear as he spoke.

"You," he answered without hesitation, smiling as he watched her roll her eyes at his answer. "If I order now, that'll give us about 30 minutes to kill?"

Pretending to think his offer over, Clayton did her best to ignore the butterflies in her stomach as his thumbs rubbed gentle circles against her hip bones, dancing dangerously close to exactly where she wanted him.

She gave him a slight nod, signaling she was caving into his insatiable demands.

She slipped out of his lap, allowing him to sit up and grab her phone from the coffee table to place their dinner order. He typed in the passcode he had memorized. His phone was charging somewhere on the kitchen counter, and his credit card was already saved in her Apple Wallet for easy access.

But as he unlocked her phone, Clayton remembered the last thing she had opened before he had come home.

"Wait," she cried, jumping forward to try and grab the phone out of his grasp.

But it was too late.

"What is this?" he asked, eyes scanning over his name at the top of the Notes app. He easily extended his arm to keep her away as she attempted to reach for her phone.

Holding the phone higher, he read over the words on the screen.

It was a bullet point list, filled with plus signs and heart emojis. Matthew's brows screwed together as he tried to make out what this meant and what it had to do with his name at the top of the page.

➕ Blue eyes

➕ When he lets his hair grow and his curls are out of control

❤️ Chewing on that stupid mouthguard after a big hit or goal

➕ Let's me pick dinner every time

➕ Great in bed

🔥 Like, really great in bed

His eyebrows shot up as he read the list, glancing at Clayton momentarily before continuing.

➕ Listens when no one else does

➕ Has always made me feel safe

❤️ Been in love with him since I was 15

His heart ached for a moment, reading over Clayton's words.

Was she writing out all of the things she liked about him? Was this a thing that girls did? And if so, why was she adamant that she didn't want him to see it?

But then he continued reading, scrolling down further until the heart emojis began to disappear.

❌ Won't watch anything other than hockey ever

❌ Short temper

❌ Can't cook

❌ Never feels like I'm his first priority

🚨 Could be traded and have to leave Florida at any moment

❌ Traveling for most of the year

❗ Isn't great with communication when he's on the road

He tore his eyes from the screen to look at Clayton sitting back on her heels, watching him nervously with her bottom lip between her teeth.

"What the fuck is this?" he asked again, hoping he was misreading everything.

"Nothing, it's stupid," she rushed out, reaching to grab her phone again, but he quickly stood up from the couch.

"No, Clay, cut the shit." Well, there was that short temper. "Is this some pros and cons list? About me?"

"Kind of?" She answered, but it came out as more of a question. She scrambled off the couch, following him as he stormed into the kitchen. "But it wasn't serious, I-"

"Unbelievable," he roared, pacing back and forth across the kitchen as he looked down at the screen still clutched in his hand. Clayton hesitantly followed, stopping across the large kitchen island to watch him as he began to read the list out loud. "Never opens up about how he's actually feeling. Commitment issues. Doesn't introduce me to people as his girlfriend. Cheated on his ex-"

Clayton flinched as his voice trailed off. She watched as his pacing abruptly stopped, and he looked up at her with glassy eyes. Clayton had never seen him this raw and emotional before, at least not when he was off the ice. She wasn't sure which one had been the breaking point, but her list had clearly struck a nerve.

"You believe this shit?" he asked, his voice raised as he stared Clayton down.

She wasn't quite sure what to say. The cheating had all been rumors, a fable she had never been brave enough to ask Matthew about. "Taryn said-"

From the way Matthew's jaw dropped, an angry flush rising up his neck, she instantly knew that was the wrong answer. "Jesus, you made this list with my sister?!"

"No!" Clayton objected, eyes wide at his insinuation. "No, of course not!"

"Okay, then enlighten me," he challenged, voice cold as he eyed her down. "How did you come up with this shit?"

Clayton knew there was nothing she could say to calm him down. It was best to let him get it out of his system when he got this angry, and then he'd be fine. So she shrugged weakly, unsure what to say to try to do damage control. "I just, I don't know…"

He wasn't even listening to her anyway, continuing to scroll through her phone. She regretted letting Rose talk her into making such a long list, mortified at the words he must have been reading now. 

"I can't believe what I'm reading here," he muttered, ignoring Clayton as she chewed nervously on her thumbnail.

She had never seen him this serious. He was always the first one to make a self-deprecating joke. When he first scanned over the list, she figured this would be traumatizing for her, but it would just roll off his back. It would be another ongoing inside joke they'd hold over each other forever, like the rat keychain she had bought him that still hung from his car keys.

She wanted to lighten the mood, bring him back to Earth for a second, and realize she didn't invent everything on this list. She was just harmlessly observing. She just needed to explain the big picture here.

Clayton and Matthew didn't fight. They never had.

That's why they worked so well.

That's why they were meant to be.

"I mean, this can't be news to you, Matthew," she tried, her voice raised slightly to get his attention back.

His head shot up, expression unreadable. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Like this is the first time you've ever been told you have a short temper," she reasoned, letting out a light laugh to ease the tension. But when Matthew's expression didn't change, she could feel her chest tighten. "Come on, Matty."

"It's not-" He shook his head, closing his eyes briefly as he tried to collect his thoughts into something coherent. How did he vocalize what it felt like to have the love of his life write out all of the ways he disappoints her—all of the things she hates about him. "It's not that."

"Then what is it?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest as she spoke.

"I know this about myself. Trust me, everything awful you could write down, I've already thought about myself first," Matthew answered honestly, holding up the phone in his hand for emphasis. She stayed quiet as he spoke, but she could feel the bile beginning to burn at the back of her throat as the guilt crept in. "It's that fact that you think these things about me."

"No, Matthew, I don't-"

"But you do," he cut her off. The more he spoke, the louder his voice got; any attempts to keep his emotions under control right now were futile. "And you fucking wrote them down."

"It's not like that," she argued, wanting to take a few steps around the kitchen island and close the distance between them. But as he began to read off the list again, she froze.

"Doesn't care what others think," he read, nodding his head as he contemplated the bullet point. "Oh, but it's in the pros column. That's lucky," he cheered bitterly.

"You're just unapologetically you," she tried to explain. "You always have been."

"I care what you think, Clayton."

He tossed the phone onto the kitchen island counter that separated them, not wanting to look at the screen any longer. She cringed as it slammed against the white quartz, no doubt the already broken screen shattering further from the impact.

"I've always cared what you think of me," he repeated, voice much quieter this time.

"Matty-"

"I've never thought a single bad thing about you," he challenged, not pausing to let her speak. "I've just loved you exactly as you are."

It was the first time he had ever said he loved her like that. The first time Matthew had acknowledged his feelings out loud, but this was all wrong. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. Clayton felt awful, her lungs burning as if she were being held underwater while Matthew swam off without her.

Stuttering over her words, she wasn't sure what to say, tears threatening to spill from her waterline as she could see Matthew slipping away from her. "I'm sorry, I-"

He raised his hand to cut her off, giving his head a slight shake as her words trailed off. "You should go," he said.

"What?" she whispered in disbelief. Matthew wasn't going to kick her out over this stupid list. He had just said he loved her. This was when he was supposed to fight for her.

But instead, he didn't back down.

"You should go," he calmly repeated. But despite the neutral tone he spoke with, Clayton could practically see the steam billowing from his ears.

"You haven't even given me a second to explain," she cried, her voice trembling. "Just hear me out."

He momentarily looked up at the ceiling, taking a deep breath as he tried to compose himself. As angry as he was, watching Clayton cry did far more damage than he could ever explain. "No, I don't want to."

"Matthew," she pleaded, tears flowing as she watched him grab his phone from where it was plugged in on the counter. "That's not fair."

"Then add that to your fucking list, too," he spat before storming out of the kitchen.

___

🎂 act four: standing in the hallway with a big cake, happy birthday.

Having a birthday on December 23rd meant a lot of scarcely attended birthday parties as a kid. Most families were already booked with commitments for the holidays. That had never bothered Clayton, especially since Brady and Matthew always showed up no matter what.

And that was the only thing she ever wanted for her birthday anyway.

Even when she turned 4 and was obsessed with Cinderella, insisting on having a princess-themed party. The two brothers had shown up, wore the girly pink party hats, and played all of the princess-themed games, never once making a fuss.

Even at 5 years old, Matthew had a heart of gold.

He would do absolutely anything for Clayton, and three-year-old Brady would do anything Matthew told him to do, including pretending to like princesses and dolls for a couple of hours to help her forget that none of the other neighborhood kids were coming to her party.

She would return the favor, letting Matthew and Brady dress her in makeshift goalie equipment. Usually made of oversized couch pillows, they'd pull off the basement sofa, sticking Clayton in the net as the brothers fired rubber pucks at her.

That ended quickly after the first time Brady fired a shot directly at the pillow taped to her stomach, the waterworks starting almost instantly. When Chantal came downstairs to see the commotion, Matthew was wrestling with Brady for hurting his best friend while Clayton continued wailing.

They weren't allowed to put Clayton in the net anymore after that.

Even now, about to turn 26, she was celebrating a day early on a Friday night so all her friends could head home on her actual birthday to be home in time for the holidays.

Matthew would say this was stupid—if he were still speaking to her. She shouldn't be rescheduling a milestone or diminishing the importance of her birthday to make it more convenient for everyone else.

But she hadn't heard a word from him in weeks—since he had found the note on her phone, told her he loved her, and promptly kicked her out of his house.

She had texted him the following day to say she was sorry and asked if they could talk, but she never heard back. The message still sat on Delivered, but she wasn't entirely convinced he hadn't blocked her number since then. He had never taken that long to respond to a message. Even throughout the years they had spent physically far apart, this was the longest they had ever gone without talking.

Something felt different, as much as Clayton didn't want to admit it.

This fight felt final.

The South Beach bar was packed for being only 3 days before Christmas. Clayton pushed her way through the sea of sweaty bodies back to where Rose was waiting at the bar. Their entire friend group had made it out tonight, sans Matthew, of course, and the rowdy group was making sure Clayton had enough alcohol in her system that she couldn't even remember how to spell Tkachuck.

For the first few drinks, she had kept an eye on the door, secretly hoping Matthew would show up as an olive branch gesture. He hated missing her birthday, even if it was a day early.

With her birthday so close to Christmas, Matthew usually got a couple days off to return home for the holidays. No matter how late his flight would get in on the 23rd, he'd always stop by her house on his way back to his parents just so he could see her in person on her big day.

On the off-chance that he wasn't coming home, or his travel schedule meant he wouldn't arrive until the day after, he'd FaceTime her first thing at midnight.

He had flowers delivered to her door the last few years, too.

In hindsight, that wasn't friendly behavior. Clayton and Matthew were never just friends.

Taryn had called her last week looking for Matthew because he wasn't answering her calls, and she assumed he must be with Clayton. Keeping the details vague, she let his little sister know she had fucked up, and he was giving her the silent treatment. She had admitted to Taryn that she was pretty sure it was over, whatever it was. Taryn had insisted Matthew was just stubborn, and he'd come around.

Clearly, Taryn spread the news because Brady called her hours later, casually checking in. Something he had never done in the entire lifetime she had known him.

Not wanting to appear like she was a mess without him, knowing Brady would instantly report everything back to his older brother, Clayton told him she was okay. Whatever had happened had happened, and their friendship had just run its course.

Brady was uncharacteristically quiet, which drove Clayton insane as she tried to imagine what Matthew had already told him. It was apparent he had heard the other side of the story, but she wasn't sure how much detail he knew—and what Matthew thought of her now. Instead, she kept up her act and kept her voice steady as Brady wished her a happy early birthday and said she could reach out anytime.

That phone call felt final, too.

But maybe Clayton was overthinking everything.

"Clay, baby." Rose's voice pulled her out of her head. She felt her best friend's arms snake around her shoulders, pulling her closer to the bar stool Rose was sitting on. She wasn't sure what time it was, but the multitude of drinks they had been feeding Clayton all night was starting to catch up with her. "I have someone I want you to meet."

Resting her head on Rose's shoulder, Clayton let her tired eyes flutter shut for a second. "Who?"

Rose pulled away slightly, turning to face the dark figure standing just behind her. Clayton stood up straight, blinking up at the tall stranger who was smiling down at them.

"This is Jay," Rose supplied, gently squeezing Clayton's shoulder when she didn't immediately react. "You know, Baker's co-worker I told you about a few weeks ago?"

Ah, the blind date Rose wanted to set her up on. The blind date she had told her about just before they made the list that had ended her and Matthew.

"Right," Clayton nodded her head, smiling up at the mystery suitor. "Thanks for coming out."

"No problem. Happy birthday, by the way," he greeted as Rose quietly slipped off her barstool in the background to offer the pair a moment of privacy from their group. They were still sandwiched in on all sides by other bar patrons, but their group was congregating at a series of booths along the far back wall of the bar. "Can I get you a drink?"

Clayton looked over her shoulder briefly, watching Rose's retreating figure disappear into the crowd of unfamiliar faces. Turning back to Jay, she had to crane her neck to look at his face. "Uh, yeah, that would be nice."

She couldn't help but scowl as he turned his back towards her, flagging down a bartender to place his order. He hadn't even asked her what she wanted to drink; he was making an executive decision. Her scowl only deepened when he turned back around, presenting her with a shot of Fireball and a vodka soda. Probably the signature drink order of every girl in Miami, but if he had paid attention, he would have noticed she preferred cranberry juice over club soda and had been doing tequila shots with her friends rather than Fireball.

"Cheers," Jay smiled, holding up his own shot glass of cinnamon liquor to clink against the one he handed over to Clayton.

She smiled politely in return, downing the shot before putting the empty glass back onto the bar top.

Okay, he definitely was cute, Clayton couldn't argue that.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ambush you on your birthday like this," Jay offered with a small laugh, watching Clayton sip the overpriced cocktail. "Baker said he was going out tonight and asked if I wanted to come. It wasn't until I got here that Rose-"

His words trailed off as he gestured loosely between them.

"Yeah, she likes to be a bit sneaky sometimes," Clayton giggled, but the sound felt foreign to her ears. Jay didn't seem to notice, or she was putting on a convincing show despite her enthusiastic smile not quite reaching her eyes.

He leaned his elbow back against the bar top, looking down at Clayton with a lazy smile. As she took another large sip from her drink, Clayton's vision felt fuzzy around the edges, focusing her eyes on the crisp white collar of the dress shirt Jay was wearing to try and keep her world steady.

The freshly pressed dress shirt, sleeves perfectly rolled up to his elbows, felt almost too formal for this bar. It was as if he had stopped by on his way home from the office and didn't have time to go home and change. His short dark hair was also perfectly gelled, slicked back to keep it out of his face.

"So, Rose said you just moved to Miami," Clayton finally said, breaking the silence between them as she blinked at him. He was taller than Matthew—if that was even a unit of measurement.

"Yeah, just got transferred to the South Beach office," Jay nodded, taking a sip from the amber beer bottle gripped loosely in his hand. His answer was short, and a drunk Clayton wasn't sure how to continue the conversation or if he even wanted her to. Jay shook his head as if he could sense what was on her mind. "Sorry, I'm not going to lie, I'm a bit nervous here."

Clayton rolled her eyes, finishing off her drink with a gulp. "There's nothing to be nervous about. Rose is meaner than me, so you're fine if you can survive her and Baker."

Jay laughed, a deep chuckle that made a smile break out on Clayton's face. "Thanks, I needed that."

"Where was home before Miami then?" she asked, gently nudging him to continue on with the light conversation.

"Calgary," Jay replied, missing the way Clayton's face fell momentarily at his answer. Even if she wanted to forget about Matthew tonight, the universe continued to find ways to bring him up in every setting. "It's in Canada," Jay offered when he finally noticed the blank look on Clayton's face.

"Uh, yeah," Clayton tried to laugh off, biting on the inside of her cheek to try and calm the stinging she could feel beginning to form behind her eyes. She would not cry on her birthday, especially over the mention of a city Matthew played hockey in once upon a time. That was ridiculous. "I'm familiar."

"Oh," Jay perked up, eyebrows shooting up his forehead in surprise. "Have you been?"

"No, I just-" Clayton paused, trying to find the right words.

How did she even describe her relationship with the city of Calgary?

She had been before, but only ever to cheer on Matthew in the playoffs, plus that one year she showed up with no notice to surprise him on his birthday with the help of his teammates. But she couldn't mention that without mentioning Matthew. Dropping his name would mean sharing their childhood origin story, inevitably leading to questions about where her best friend was tonight.

"I used to know someone who lived there," Clayton finished lamely.

"Oh, sweet," Jay smiled, taking a small step closer to Clayton as the crowd around them grew. "I swear no one here in Florida has ever heard of it."

Clayton laughed along politely, nodding during the appropriate pauses in the conversation as she let Jay continue. He seemed excited in his stories of growing up in Canada but never once mentioned anything about hockey or sports.

His short dark hair and deep brown eyes were a sharp contrast to Matthew's ocean blue and dirty blonde curls. He was cute, but he wasn't Matthew.

It was like he was the complete opposite of Matthew.

That was the point, though. Clayton needed to get over Matthew.

If she was being honest, everything still felt too raw. At this exact moment, she didn't know if she'd ever get over it because Clayton didn't think she'd ever have to get over him.

So, Clayton let Jay buy her another round of drinks.

When Rose and Baker piled into an Uber to get Clayton home, the entire world felt like it was spinning. She kept her eyes shut in the back of the car, head resting on her best friend's boyfriend's shoulder as she focused on her breathing to try and prevent herself from getting sick.

She had probably already been too drunk when Jay had bought her their second round of drinks. Yet she had lasted through three more rounds of shots before she couldn't quite stand up straight without the support of the edge of the bar top. Rose was in just as bad of a state, though, Baker stepping up to make sure they both made it home in one piece.

Overall, it was a successful birthday party for Clayton.

She had forgotten about Matthew for a few hours, letting go and having some carefree fun with her friends—even if it meant a nasty hangover tomorrow.

Arriving at her apartment, Baker helped her get her front door unlocked before he returned to the waiting car to continue on to Rose's apartment.

Alone for the first time that night, Clayton leaned up against the closed front door, blindly kicking off the high heels she had been wearing. She let out a small groan as she pressed her feet flat against the floor, her arches aching from the tall shoes she had suffered through for the evening.

Stumbling her way to her bedroom, Clayton clumsily stripped from her outfit, leaving a trail of clothes in her wake as she made her way to her closet. She unclasped her bra, tossing it onto the floor, and grabbed the first shirt hanging in her closet. She slipped the soft gray fabric over her head, leaving her in nothing but the oversized T-shirt that barely reached her mid-thigh.

She padded across the carpeted floor of her bedroom until she reached the bathroom, flicking on the light only to be greeted by her harsh reflection in the vanity mirror. Of course, the first t-shirt available had to be one of Matthew's Panthers' t-shirts.

"Fuck this," she mumbled, taking a seat on the porcelain edge of her bathtub. Her closet felt too far away to go and change now. The room continued to spin, so she slowly lowered herself to the floor, enjoying the feeling of the cool tile against the bare skin of her legs.

Finally, alone with her thoughts, Clayton couldn't stop the first sob as it slipped out. Once the first tears had fallen, there was no stopping the floodgates.

She was furious at Matthew.

He didn't show up.

And he always showed up—even to that stupid princess party when she was 4.

But he couldn't show up now.

He was a coward.

And yet she missed him so badly.

Before she knew what she was doing, her fingers fumbled to unlock her phone, pulling open his contact. She didn't have a game plan, but before she could put too much thought into it, she had clicked on his number and put the phone on speaker, resting on her thigh as the sound of the outgoing rings echoed off the bathroom walls.

It rang all the way through, letting her know she wasn't blocked, at least.

"Hey, it's Matthew." Clayton's chest tightened at the sound of his voice, something she hadn't heard in weeks and didn't know she could miss like this—even if it was just his pre-recorded voicemail. "Sorry, I missed your call. Just leave me a message, and I'll call you back."

The beep, signaling Clayton's prompt to record her message, made her ears ring. She stayed quiet for a moment, unsure what to say or if she should even be leaving him a message right now in her current state.

But he had let her down on her birthday, and she needed him to know that he had hurt her, too.

"You missed my birthday party," she finally whispered, her voice hoarse from all the stress crying had put on her vocal cords. She leaned her head back against the cool tile wall of her bathroom, eyes immediately locking on the polaroid photo of her and Matthew stuck to her mirror, as if there was some sort of gravitational pull there.

She tried to make a mental note to herself to take it down tomorrow morning. The last thing she wanted to see every day when she woke up was a reminder of the absolutely perfect day with the guy who couldn't even show up to her birthday party.

"You never miss my birthday, Matthew," she emphasized, closing her eyes so she didn't have to stare at the photo any longer. "I mean, you have, but never when you're around."

Clayton was rambling, drunken thoughts stumbling out in no coherent order. "Like, we're in the same city, and you just didn't come."

"I should have known you weren't coming. You haven't read any of my messages. I eventually just stopped sending them, so I guess I never invited you, but you still should have known." Clayton released a shaky breath as her mind tried to catch up with her mouth.

Brady and Taryn knew about her birthday plans, so Matthew should have known, too, right? She wondered if he had asked at all or if he even felt any guilt over not showing up for her.

"Did you know?" she repeated, pleading with his voicemail for some sort of answer, only to be met with the quiet echo of her voice in her empty bathroom. "It doesn't even matter. I watched the door all night like an idiot thinking you'd miraculously show up and—I don't even know what else to say."

With her phone resting in her lap, Clayton picked at the peeling edges of her manicured nails. This was an anxious habit she had picked up as a kid, one Matthew had caught onto quickly—even winning her cheap plastic rings at the local arcade so she would have something else to fidget and pick with—a small gesture that had made Clayton feel safe with him, even as a young child.

He was her safety blanket. Their relationship had always felt natural and effortless as if they were made to look after each other.

"That list was…" Her voice trailed off, trying to find the right words to explain that stupid note in her phone that had caused all this. "There's never been a real negative. I just need you to know that. Forget all the rest; that's all I care about. I need you to know there's never been a negative or a red flag—whatever you want to call it. You're you, and that's always been enough for me."

"I love you. I always have. I always will, probably." Clayton laughed bitterly, shaking her head as she confessed the words she had been sitting on for the last decade. "My entire life, Matty, it's just been you."

"I thought you didn't feel the same way. We've always danced around whether this was real or not, and it was for me. Still, I guess I just thought if you really loved me like I loved you, you would say something." Clayton sighed, shrugging as if Matthew could see her actions. "Rose was just trying to help me out and, like, get me to talk myself out of it, I guess?"

"I'm sorry for fucking it all up," she whispered, voice cracking as she tried to bite back another sob. She didn't know if Matthew would even listen to this message or if he cared about what she had to say. He would probably delete the notification, assuming it was a drunk dial when he saw the message's timestamp.

She could feel her anger and frustration rise as she pictured him swiping to delete the message, carrying on with his perfect life as if nothing had happened.

"Like, I'm not sorry for doing it because 10 fucking years is a long time to be in love with your best friend and watch him just date a string of other girls. Meanwhile, I hopelessly wait on the sidelines to maybe one day get my chance. And I'm not sorry for falling in love with you, even if you don't feel the same way."

"Fuck, this is so embarrassing," she laughed, wiping desperately at the tears flowing freely down her face. What a way to celebrate your birthday, drunkenly crying to your ex-boyfriend's, who was never actually your boyfriend's, voicemail. "Sorry, I just needed to get this out of my system. I'll delete this rant and pretend this never happened, and we can go back to just not being together or whatever."

Pulling the phone away from her ear, the shattered screen lit up to reveal the number pad. She pressed the glowing number 3 to re-record the voicemail, not noticing in her drunken haze that the deep crack across the screen prevented her phone from recognizing the gesture.

Assuming the voicemail had been erased, she ended the call abruptly before it could prompt her to record a new message.

Clayton let the phone, clinging to life with only 2% battery, slip from her hand onto the fluffy pink bath mat below her.

It was well past midnight, signaling the first year when Matthew hadn't called at 12:01 AM so he could be the first to wish her a happy birthday.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around her shins as she did her best to curl up into a ball. Everything felt overwhelming, and she wanted to disappear into the floor.

Clayton had never in her 26 years felt as alone as she did right now.

This had to be what rock bottom felt like.

___

🌷 act five: so much older and wiser.

Okay, this had to be what rock bottom felt like.

If Clayton could remember her bathroom pity party from the night before, she probably would be laughing at herself now, her drunken tears on the floor of her bathroom nothing in comparison to the pain in her head and the pressure behind her eyes. A dull, rhythmic banging in her head eventually woke her up, keeping her eyes still firmly squeezed shut.

She could feel the warm sunlight beating on her face through the frosted glass of the bathroom window. Still curled up in a ball on the cold tile of her bathroom floor, a fluffy bath mat served as a makeshift pillow. She didn't remember most of last night, but she definitely didn't remember falling asleep on her bathroom floor.

The dull banging subsided for a moment, Clayton delicately cracking an eye open. She was curled up on the floor, every light still on in her bathroom and bedroom. Her eyes felt heavy, and she rubbed at them as she slowly sat up. The room still felt unsteady as she tried to piece together the events of the night before.

Pulling her hands from her face, she looked down at the black smudged across her fingers. The mascara that had not been washed off last night was now smeared across her face. Her cheeks felt dry and tight, telling her she had probably cried a bit.

She blindly reached up to grab a square of toilet paper from the roll mounted on the wall behind her, lazily wiping under her eyes to try and clean up the glittery mess of makeup from the night before. Her eyes fluttered closed, and the pounding in her head started up again.

Clayton froze, eyes flying open as she listened for the sound.

This wasn't a migraine. This was someone banging on the front door of Clayton's apartment.

She reached to grab her phone from where it had been discarded on the floor beside her, but it stayed black as she tapped on the screen.

With her phone dead, she had no idea what time it was. Assuming it was Rose or Baker coming to ensure she was still alive after not answering her phone all day, Clayton scrambled to get off the bathroom floor.

"Yeah, one second," she called, voice hoarse as she was still waking up. The loud knock on her front door sounded again as she shuffled towards the entryway, kicking her trail of last night's clothing out of the way to try and make her apartment look a little bit more presentable.

"Relax, I'm fine." Clayton's mouth abruptly snapped shut as she opened the door, expecting to see an annoyed Rose or worried Baker waiting for her.

She cursed herself for not looking before opening the door, not even taking a couple of extra seconds to make herself look presentable—or at least putting on anything other than Matthew's t-shirt. Because here she stood in front of Matthew, her hair a tangled and frizzy mess, hungover in last night's smudged makeup, and not even wearing pants.

He looked good, his hair a little longer than when she last saw him, but overall, he just looked like Matthew. Like her Matthew.

"Wait, why are you here?" she asked, cutting him off before he could even get a word in. She knew his schedule probably better than she knew her own work schedule. She knew he had just been on the road, including their western Canada road trip and his return to Calgary that week. She knew they didn't have a game last night, but they were playing Vegas at home that night for their final game before the Christmas break. She still wasn't sure what time it was, but she knew he had a strict gameday schedule that didn't allow surprise visits like this. "You have a game tonight!"

He wanted to call her out for still following his schedule and knowing his routine. A smirk threatened to pull at the edge of his lips, but he didn't want to cave that fast. He had come here for a reason, his speech recited in his head a hundred times on the short drive from his house to hers.

"Yeah, I do," he nodded, taking a small step forward to where Clayton was leaning in the half-open doorway. "But it's also your birthday, and I needed to bring you these."

He held up the small bouquet of wildflowers that Clayton hadn't noticed in her panicked state. She delicately took the flowers from his outstretched hands, eyes focused on the colorful petals as she felt fresh tears stinging at the corner of her eyes.

It was too early to cry again, but what was this supposed to mean? Why was he ignoring her for weeks and just showing up with flowers like everything was okay?

"Can I come in?" he asked, watching her shaking hands fidget with the flowers. "I want to talk, Clay, please."

She nodded slowly, opening the door wide enough for him to walk past her. She followed him into the kitchen, where he sat on one of the bar stools tucked under the kitchen island. She gently laid the bouquet of flowers on the countertop, leaning back against the edge of the counter across from him as her eyes scanned his face, trying to get a read on what he was thinking.

"Uh, happy birthday," he started, eyes focused on his hands folded on the counter in front of him. Clayton was about to open her mouth to tell him off—because how dare he show up here after everything and wish her a happy birthday, but he spoke up again. "I owe you an apology."

"Yeah," she nodded in agreement, preparing to stand her ground.

Suddenly feeling self-conscious under his gaze as he looked up at her, she crossed her arms over her braless chest in an attempt to cover up, causing the oversized shirt to ride further up her bare legs.

His mind momentarily went blank, hopelessly trying to recall the speech he had been preparing. He had been struggling to find the right words for weeks, but after waking up and listening to Clayton's voicemail message this morning, he couldn't wait any longer. He had already wasted too much time being stupid. But he hadn't considered that she'd be half-naked when he was psyching himself up to do this.

He had missed her so desperately, his mind unable to focus on anything other than how good she looked in nothing but his t-shirt.

"Can you, like, put some pants on or something?" he asked, his voice a low chuckle. He dropped his head into his hands, elbows resting on the granite countertop as he harshly rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Christ, I can't focus here."

"Y-yeah, one second," she answered, caught off guard by his request. She mumbled an apology before taking off down the hall towards her bedroom.

She grabbed a pair of pajama shorts and pulled them on, along with the bra she had tossed onto the floor the night before. As quickly as she could, as if Matthew was going to get spooked or change his mind if she took too long, she brushed her teeth and put on some deodorant, desperate to try and make herself look a little more put together.

Deciding at the last second to swap out the Florida Panthers t-shirt, she pulled on an old UMiami crewneck before giving herself a quick once over in the mirror. A small piece of sparkly red plastic caught her attention in the reflection, catching the light from where it sat on her bedside table behind her. She doubled back to pick up the small plastic ring, slipping it onto her right index finger where she usually wore it.

Returning down the hallway, she found Matthew sitting on the edge of her couch now, elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward, head hanging low. She quietly sat on the other end of the couch, watching him as he gave his head a slight shake. It looked like he was running through a speech or a game plan in his mind, so she remained quiet, offering him the space to speak up when he was ready.

"I'm sorry for how I reacted," he finally spoke, lifting his head slightly to look at her.

"I'm sorry for even writing a list," Clayton replied instantly.

"No, it's-" He trailed off, trying to remember the words he had been practicing all week when Matthew had been too scared to reach out and find out the damage he had done was too big to recover from.

Taryn had said she sounded fine when she talked to Clayton. Brady had even said she sounded indifferent to the whole thing when they spoke, leading to an awkward phone call where his younger brother tried to tell him as gently as he could that it was time to move on and he had missed his chance.

He had even told his mom about everything, unsurprising to those who knew him best. Matthew was a mama's boy at heart, and he had always told his mom everything. In return, Chantal was always patient and would try to offer him unbiased advice. Even if she had been telling him to get out of his own way and ask Clayton out for years.

"I was talking to my mom, and-"

"Oh my God," Clayton muttered, eyes wide as she stared at Matthew in horror. "Chantal knows? She's going to hate-"

"Shut up," Matthew cut her off, shaking his head with a subtle roll of his eyes. "She's on your side."

"What?" she repeated, brows knitting together as she tried to follow his train of thought.

"She said I was an idiot," Matthew clarified, earning a small laugh from Clayton. She immediately covered her mouth to muffle the sound, not wanting to push her luck here. He seemed to be in a good mood, but Clayton wasn't sure where they stood with each other. For all she knew, he was ramping up to a big breakup speech, and this whole thing was about to end. "She said I should have just told you how I felt from the beginning instead of assuming you'd be fine in this weird, no-label limbo or whatever."

"Oh," was all Clayton could manage to spit out.

Matthew was referring to how he felt rather than saying he loved her again. Part of Clayton's mind wondered if he was talking about his feelings in the past tense or keeping his words vague on purpose because he had loved her then, but he didn't anymore.

This definitely felt like a breakup speech rather than a love declaration.

He was clearing his conscience and confessing his fault in all of this so they could tell people that this was a mutual decision in the future. As if any breakup was ever mutual. Someone always came out worse for wear, and it felt like Clayton right now.

"I thought what we had was working," he spoke up again, sitting up straighter in his seat to face Clayton fully. She watched as his knee bounced anxiously, too nervous to look at his face. "I thought it was working, so I didn't want to mess with it."

"I get that," Clayton agreed, nodding as she watched his fingers fidget with the hem at the end of his shorts. She wanted to soak up everything about him at this moment, memorize how his voice sounded or the subtle smell of his cologne, just in case this was the last time.

Because Clayton did get it—she had thought their dynamic had worked, too. Yeah, there was always the elephant in the room about whether they were actually together. The longer it went on, the more doubt started to creep in that she wasn't the only one he was sleeping with. Still, Clayton probably would have been happy to settle with that for the rest of her life. She had been the one to go and rock the boat and then acted surprised when it all blew up in her face.

After 10 years, if Matthew had wanted them to be together, it would have happened by now. Maybe she was just convenient for him, the safe choice to come home to each night while he kept his options open for something more.

That thought alone made Clayton's chest feel tight, and her eyes welled up with tears. She looked up at Matthew, blinking to try to hold back the tears as he smiled sadly down at her. She searched his face, trying to read his emotions, but he looked defeated. The usual mischievous sparkle in his blue eyes had been replaced with a well of his own tears threatening to fall.

He closed his eyes momentarily, exhaling a small breath as he tried to focus. "I'm a shitty boyfriend, Clay."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" she spat out before she could think to bite her tongue.

She was supposed to be agreeing and listening, hearing out whatever speech he had prepared to try and win her back, but if he was going to try and argue that this whole thing had happened because he wasn't a good boyfriend, despite never even being her boyfriend, was bullshit.

If looks could kill, Clayton was staring daggers at Matthew, folding her arms across her chest as she leaned back against the couch cushions to put more space between them.

"I don't know, I just-" He sighed, running a frantic hand through his unruly curly hair. He hadn't expected that reaction from Clayton when he was imagining this scenario in his head. As stupid as it was, now he needed to think on his feet here. "I don't do well in relationships. There's too much pressure."

"Then what did you think this was, Matthew? Like, honestly," she challenged, completely exasperated. Shaking her head as she stared at the ceiling, she tried to blink rapidly to slow the frustrated tears that had begun to slip out. She looked back at him, not missing how he cringed when he noticed the silent stream of tears across her cheeks. "This was a relationship, even if you didn't want to put a label on it."

"I mean, I guess," he mumbled, scratching at his neck to avoid watching Clayton cry. He felt nauseous, knowing he was the reason she was so upset. This is another example of how Matthew would be a terrible boyfriend, and Clayton deserved so much more. He was already letting her down and didn't even know it. "I didn't want to be another shitty boyfriend to you. I didn't want to put you through that."

Instead, his words were met with a bitter laugh from Clayton as she wiped furiously at the tears to try and stop them before they fell.

"You thought you were sparing me?" she repeated, rolling her eyes as Matthew nodded. "What you put me through was worse."

"Clay-" Matthew tried, but she raised her hand to cut him off before he would finish his sentence.

"All of this," she gestured wildly between them to emphasize her point, "is so much worse."

Matthew hung his head, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees again. The air in the room felt heavy, not how he had imagined this morning going. Honestly, he thought showing up with flowers would be enough on its own, and Clayton would tell him she loved him too before they'd both apologize and live happily ever after.

But he deserved this.

Everything on the list was valid, which his mom politely reminded him of. Right before his mom told him she would have written a list about his dad a lot earlier and that Clayton was a saint for waiting ten years.

"I'm sorry," Matthew spoke up. It wasn't the grand speech he felt she deserved, but it was all he had in him. Matthew was sorry for kicking her out, ignoring her for weeks, missing her birthday, and years of selfish mixed signals. He was sorry for everything, and he just hoped she knew the weight that his words carried.

"I'm sorry too," she whispered, scared of where this conversation was going.

"I shouldn't have let it get to this point." Matthew's voice was just as quiet as he finally looked back up at her. She watched him shake his head as if he was talking himself out of what he would say next.

She wasn't sure if he was referring to letting their fight get to this point or their entire relationship of mixed signals. She couldn't take this anymore. She had to just put it out there—rip the bandaid off and deal with any consequences later.

"Matthew, you're an asshole," she spoke up, staring up at the ceiling again as she talked so she wouldn't have to see his reaction to her next words. "And yet, I'm so in love with you, it's insane."

Clayton let out a self-deprecating laugh, shaking her head as she thought about how ridiculous this all sounded. He was giving her every possible out, a laundry list of excuses as to why they would never work, and yet she could never be the one to give up on him. She needed him to say he was all in, or she needed him to walk away.

"Put me out of my misery already. Either tell me you love me too, or it's over. I can't do this guessing game, this will they won't they we've been doing for the last decade." Feeling a surge of bravery, she lowered her gaze to stare directly at him, holding eye contact as she let her words sink in. "Please just fucking grow a pair and do something here, or I need you to leave and let me go once and for all."

Matthew took a moment to respond, letting Clayton's words hang in the air.

With each passing second, deeper cracks began forming in her momentary confidence surge. Subconsciously, she reached for the small ring on her index finger, twisting the sparkly red plastic around her finger to try and redirect the nervous energy bubbling in her chest.

His eyes fell to her hands, distracted by the movement for a moment before he recognized the sparkly plastic toy. It was the exact ring he had won her from a claw machine at the arcade in sixth grade. He remembered how all of his friends had teased him for wasting his time and money to win a cheap ring for a girl, but even that young, he already knew he would do absolutely anything for Clayton.

He always noticed her fidgeting with rings and jewelry, but he had never taken the time to notice that she had kept that exact ring after all these years. He was probably most surprised that it was still in one piece.

He was enjoying watching her sweat after her out-of-character ultimatum. Eventually, he couldn't handle it anymore, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he tried desperately to keep his face neutral.

As she watched his smile slowly break out, she let out the deep breath she had been holding. Of course, he wasn't going to make this easy. It wouldn't have been Matthew if he had just agreed right away. He loved pushing her buttons way too much for that.

She swatted at his chest in annoyance as he leaned forward to reach out to her. Easily grabbing her hands, he pulled Clayton across the couch and into his lap. Wrapping his arms around her, she felt his chest rumble with a deep laugh as she buried her face into the crook of his neck.

He brought his hand up to intertwine with her hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head as he held her as close as he could to his chest.

"I love you too, baby," Matthew whispered, pressing another kiss to the top of Clayton's head.

That was all the confirmation Clayton needed.

They were going to be okay.

Matthew and Clayton were always going to end up okay in the end.

___

#eyesthatroll fic recs! #matthew tkachuk #🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

[eyesthatroll]

𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓, 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐘 ─ LH⁴³

౨ৎ ─ summary | requested ! can u write rough car smut with luke hughes please 🫶🏻🫶🏻 -> luke storms out of your friend's party because of a "good-natured" comment, causing you two to get into an argument in his car but quickly make up.

─ word count | 2k

─ warnings | SMUT with teensy bit of plot!!!!!!! slight angst, car sex (obvs), jealous!luke, rough!luke (not too much tho), unprotected p in v, no prep, dumbification (pls idk if this is the right word for it) but like VERY LITTLE, praise, luke being PUSSY DRUNK, choking (but not really), and pretty sure nothing else.

─ taglist | @dancerbailey @maryleclerc @valluvsu @bowen-power @bunting58 @daisysnhl @daisysthings @hearts-4-luke @iminlovewithtz11 @jackhughesily @literatureluster @lvrzegras @lxvelyzoe @ru-kru

─ ev's notes | this is quickly turning into a luke hughes fan-page (even tho i'm supposed to be in MY QUINN HUGHES ERAAAAA) request some stuff!!! my requests are open rn!!!!!!!

ALL IT TOOK WAS one backhanded comment and Luke was out of there.

He was practically dragging you at this point, his hands gripping yours as he walked out of the room. It didn't take a whole lot to realize he was angry ─ he was fuming. His jaw clenched, and his steps were sharp and quick, he needed to remove himself from the situation before he said or did something he might later regret.

You struggled to keep up with his fast pace, feeling the tension radiating off him like heat from a flame. His grip on your hand was almost painful but you knew better than to protest or try to slow him down. When Luke was in this mood, it was best to let him cool off on his own terms.

You reached the car and he dropped your hand, opening the driver's door and getting inside. He didn't bother saying anything as he started the car as soon you got into it. You wanted to say something but you knew if you did, you will never hear the end of it.

You and Luke had gotten invited to one of your friend's get-together. Now this would be a normal occurrence if it weren't for the fact he strongly dislikes your friend. You knew why but it honestly didn't seem that big of a deal ─ your friend wasn't really a big fan of sports.

You knew the root of Luke's dislike for your friend stemmed from their differing interests. Luke, being a professional hockey player, lived and breathed the sport. It was his passion, his livelihood, and his identity in many ways. On the other hand, your friend couldn't care less about sports.

Now this all would not be a problem if your friend had a weird thing with teasing Luke. He really enjoyed getting a rise out of him but it wasn't like he targeted Luke, that was just how he was.

As the car hummed along the road, the tension inside it seemed to thicken with each passing mile. Luke's knuckles were white against the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack.

"Luke, we need to talk about this," you spoke up (despite your better judgement). You couldn't really find the words to put it lightly. He was being too sensitive, you wanted to say.

But of course, you couldn't. That was mean. You glanced back at the brunette, sympathy written all over your expression.

Luke shot you a sharp glance, his eyes flashing with anger. "What's there to talk about?" he snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a knife. "Your friend was out of line, and I'm not going to stand around and be disrespected like that."

"He wasn't trying to disrespect you, Luke," you countered, your voice rising slightly. "He was just joking around, like he always does."

"Well, maybe his idea of a joke isn't as funny as he thinks," Luke retorted, his grip on the wheel tightening even further.

You shook your head, feeling your temper flare. "You're being too sensitive," you shot back, unable to hold back your frustration any longer. "He's my friend, Luke. I'm not going to just cut him out of my life because you can't take a joke."

You knew you'd stepped over the edge, crossed a boundary you shouldn't have. Regret seeped into your expression as Luke's anger seemed to triple, if that was even possible. Your mouth hung open, trying to say something, anything but nothing came out.

Luke's expression darkened at your words, his jaw tightening even further as he processed your response. The silence in the car grew heavy, suffocating, as both of you grappled with the weight of your words.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Luke spoke, his voice low and laced with barely-contained fury. "So that's how it is, huh?" he muttered, his gaze burning into yours.

"Luke, I'm sorry... I just-" You stammered, desperately trying to backtrack. "I just..."

But before you could finish your sentence, Luke's words cut through the air like a knife, his anger now laced with a bitter edge.

"He's a little bitch, why are you trying to defend him so badly?" Luke's gaze bore into you as he spoke. "I bet you he can't even skate correctly and he's over here talking about hockey like he knows anything about it."

As he continued to speak, his voice was filled with something more than just mere anger. You could practically feel the jealousy radiating off of him and finally, it made sense ─ he was jealous. Your heart almost did a flip, it was... kinda cute.

Despite the venom in his words, your lips began to curve into a small smile. Luke looked over and his anger seemed to turn into utter irritation.

"Why are you smiling?" His words came out harsh but you just shook your head.

You shook your head, trying to suppress the smile that threatened to spread across your lips. "I'm not laughing at you," you assured him, though your tone was light. "It's just... you're cute when you're jealous."

"Jealous?" He repeated, angry coursing through his body. "Of him? Why? It's not like he stands a chance against me in anything. Jesus, Y/N. Jealous?"

"I didn't mean it like that," you said quickly, reaching out to touch his arm in a gesture of reassurance. "I just meant... it's cute when you get all protective. Like you care about me."

Luke's expression softened slightly at your explanation, though the tension in his shoulders didn't ease. "Of course, I care about you," he said gruffly, his tone still tinged with irritation. "I hate that guy. So much, I don't think I've ever hated anyone more. And seeing him flirt with you-"

"What?" You interrupted. "Luke, he's not flirting with me."

Luke glared back at you, trying to suppress an annoyed groan. "Trust me, Y/N. I can fucking tell. You're just too friendly to get it. But you're my girl, I don't why he wants to one-up me. You're already mine."

"I am, I am yours." You repeated, your gaze softening slightly.

Luke looked back at you, his gaze filled with smugness and a maybe even desire. "Yeah," he replied breathlessly. "You fucking are." His voice was low and you felt his voice go right down south.

He pulled over the car and you felt your whole body burn up. He put the car in park and looked over at you, his gaze filled with desire. You knew you couldn't have him waiting so you just crossed over to him and straddled his lap.

Luke didn't waste any time ─ he grabbed your jaw and kissed you harshly. You let out an uncontrollable whimper at that, his touch almost bruising on your jaw. His lips drew lower, letting go of your jaw as he began kissing your neck.

You couldn't help but let out quiet whimpers, letting your head fall back.

"Mine," he mumbled against your neck with each kiss on your neck. You began grinding your hips against his and you felt his hard-on right on your clothed cunt, your whole body shaking with desire.

He stopped his actions and you let out a huff of disapproval. He gestured for you to move in the backseat and you did with no question, laying back as Luke got on top of you.

He slid your hips upward before taking ripping your leggings off. His touch was harsh but you didn't mind ─ Luke usually took his time with you and was much softer but you knew his mind was racing with jealousy. And you didn't wanna admit but you were kind of hoping for this outcome when you had first got into the car.

He pulled down his sweatpants and you could see his cock bulging out of his boxers. His head fell back in pleasure as he pulled himself out, the tip an angry red as pre-cum was leaking out of it. Luke let out a groan as he gave himself a few pumps before he slid your underwear to the side.

Usually, Luke was patient enough to stretch you out with his fingers but not tonight; he just needed to fuck you dumb, til your legs were shaking the only thing playing in your was him.

He leaned forward so he could pull you into a needy kiss before he slid his cock inside of you slowly. His kiss was sloppy as you let out a moan into it as he slowly bottomed you out. You felt the burn, Luke was pretty big and the lack of prep added some pain but you knew it would dissipate.

"Ah, fuck." Luke moaned into the kiss before he pulled away. He bottomed you out pretty quickly, you were so wet that he just slipped right in. "Fuck, baby. You feel so fucking good."

You whimpered in response before Luke slid his hands up to your neck, holding you tightly before he began thrusting in and out. His other hand was planted right on your hips, his grip firm. Your eyes rolled in the back of your head as you arched your back in response, the previous mentioned pain quickly turning into pleasure.

"You're mine," he grunted as he quickened his pace. He pulled your legs all the way to rest on his broad shoulders, fucking you from a new angle.

He was hitting in all the right spots, you could barely see straight. All that was coming out of your mouth were moans and unintelligible strings of praises and curses.

"Feel so fucking good, Jesus." Luke felt himself slip, your pussy felt so good and knowing that you were only for him, that he was the only one who's ever been this deep inside of you, made his knees weak. "Ah, fuck baby."

He began fucking you into the backseat, harsher and rougher than before. You couldn't even think straight anymore, your cries louder and your legs shaking as he did. Luke felt like he was on cloud 9, you were squeezing him so good and you were so perfectly made for him, not to mention how fucking beautiful you looked; your eyes closed, your head back, your face sweaty and your mouth slightly open as you took him ─

God, he was so fucking close. He closed his eyes because he knew if he kept looking at you, he'd cum. Luke held you down by your neck as he brought down his fingers to rub on your clit harshly and before neither of you knew it, your orgasm hit you like a truck.

Your cunt tightened against him, he let out a loud groan as he head fell back. A few more deep, messy and harsh thrusts and he was spilling inside of you. He fell on top of your heaving chest, both of you trying to catch your breaths.

Your fingers found his curls and you began to run your hands through them. Sure, it'd make them all frizzy but you knew it made Luke relax. The whole car was fogged up, making your lips curve up into a lazy smile.

With a gentle sigh, you pressed a warm kiss to the crown of Luke's head, relishing in the quiet intimacy of the moment. "I love you, I'm sorry-"

"No." He interjected, finally sitting up so he could face you entirely. "I'm sorry for... being all being all possessive and jealous back there. It's not fair to you, especially when you've done nothing wrong."

You reached out to gently cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against his stubbled jawline. "It's okay, Luke," you reassured him, your voice soft. "If I'm being honest, it was kind of hot."

"Yeah, I figured." He smirk as gestured to your legs as you rolled your eyes in amusement.

You couldn't help but laugh at his reaction, feeling a warmth spread through you at the sight of his playful expression. "Yeah," you admitted, your voice tinged with a teasing tone. "I mean, it's nice to know you care so much."

Luke's smirk widened into a full-fledged grin, his eyes sparkling with desire. "If being jealous always ends in us fucking like that, then maybe I should do it more often." he quipped, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. You giggled as he did so, relaxing in his touch.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

#eyesthatroll fic recs! #luke hughes

[eyesthatroll]

after watching the wings suffer a gut wrenching loss to the capitals, i wallowed in sadness and self-pity for a few hours before coming on here. alice, stalking your page (is it weird that i stalk my favourite authors for updates?) and seeing that you updated the series has turned my night around!!! 🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

i read this while listening to ‘i caught myself’, ‘that’s what you get’ & ‘when it rains’ by paramore (paramore phase??) and my god, i loved this so much.

the subtle tension.

the details.

THE FUCKING DETAILS ??? 😭

you described everything so perfectly. the scenery, nathan, their thoughts. words cannot describe how beautiful your writing is.

i love getting to read about their backstory. i love them in general. (is it appropriate to say them when it’s x reader??)

anyways, i’m rambling. could never put into words how much i love this series. you are quite literally feeding my hunger for nate mac (and dad nate mac at that) if you haven’t checked it out, would highly recommend!! 🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

quiet night in listening to you speak another language (it's so casual)

summary: it's the eve of christmas eve and nate's somehow found himself listening to you speak french (he's not complaining)

warnings: swearing, tension?, mentions of christmas celebrations

the series!

< this was originally going to be longer but i need to rehash the lore first >

In all actuality, Nate hadn’t actually realised that he’d even owned a book in French. He’d scoured past every title and spine of each single one at least three times before, and not once did he clock the French one. In his defence, the title was pretty misleading – that was in English – and still, according to you, the inside pages were all in French. 

French. He’d shaken his head, and if it had been anyone else, he might have scoffed and not believed them, but he was beginning to get the hang of reading your body language and facial expressions pretty well in the five or six months you’d been friends – and he’d yet to decide if that little skill of his was a good thing or not. On one hand, it let him know exactly when to shut the fuck up (now, for instance), and on the other…well, the more he thought about it, the more he was coming to the realisation that there wasn’t much to not like about getting to know you more.

But now? You standing in his living room because you’d both miraculously managed to get back to Cole Harbour for a few days at Christmas? If he was being completely honest with himself, it was kind of driving him crazy.

And for the life of him, he couldn’t work out why.

It might have something to do with the fact that he was a little bit tipsy; it might have had something to do with the fact that maybe he found he wasn’t entirely too bummed out that he’d just made a fool of himself in front of you; or it might have had something to do with the fact that he’d just realised your voice changed when you spoke French.

Was that something that happened to everyone who spoke more than one language? He couldn’t remember. He’d heard Jo speak French on a number of different occasions, even you when he’d met up with you in Montreal, but with the close proximity forced by lowered inhibitions from the alcohol in both your systems, he was just now figuring it out.

Your voice was deeper, but somehow softer. And Nate found himself wondering if it changed yet again if you spoke a different language. He found himself wanting to find that out. Actually, that seemed to be a recurring theme lately: you’d say something or do something, and he’d stop for a moment, his mind soaking in that new piece of information – the calm before the storm – until his brain would ultimately spiral into a smattering of different thoughts and questions, all of them pertaining to you.

He’d considered writing them down and making a note of them, but the risk of someone accidentally stumbling across such a list was slightly mortifying, and the only thing he could do was promise his future self that when things stopped being a little bit awkward (i.e. silences where both of you would remember that the person in front of you was still a stranger and not in fact an old, good friend), he’d just start asking them. Out loud. And without shame.

Take this moment, for example:

It was the day before Christmas Eve. He’d spent the morning dropping off presents to non-family in the local area (mainly Sid and some other childhood friends that he still kept in touch with), and along the way he’d received a phone call from you and walked home to the sight of you huddled on his doorstep, clutching a bottle of wine with the excuse that you thought it’d be more bearable to drink with someone else than alone.

And if he was being completely honest, when his phone first lit up with that incoming call, he felt himself perk up, a grin already on his face when he answered – of which he was entirely sure you could hear in his voice down the line. Though, that was nothing compared to the actual proof of you on his doorstep, nothing at all.

He’d had to keep his hands from shaking when he stuck the key in the lock, and stop himself from staring for too long, because you’d clearly come from some sort of dressy-gathering and were wearing pretty, formal clothes and you’d clearly had a good day already because you were practically already glowing.

Needless to say, it hadn’t taken much for the two of you to eventually settle in his front room, a Christmas movie on low volume in the background as you trawled his bookshelf with curiosity. That was when the little debate had started, and it was also when you’d rather unapologetically rolled your eyes and shoved the pages under his nose to prove you were right, because what else would you have done?

What would he have done? Probably the same thing. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen your competitive side, either, and if every little discussion ended up with you sitting right next to him, your legs folded underneath you as you held the book in front of your face, eagerly rattling out sentence after sentence in French – he figured maybe losing this kind of this wasn’t such a bad idea. He also figured he could cope with going a little bit crazy every now and then.

(Nate hated losing, that should be known.)

Though, one thing he found sufficiently annoying was his own inability to understand just what it was you were saying. He’d always wanted to learn French – he’d have probably ended up on a different team in his youth if he had known French – but he’d never really committed himself to picking up the language, not even when he met Jo. Sure, he knew basic phrases, as did most people, but this was something else.

Every sentence or so you’d have to reread what you’d just read in French in English for him to understand, and even though he wanted to know the translation, he also wanted to batter his child self for ever turning those lessons down, because hearing English after speaking French was incredibly…well, as much as he liked the English language, it lacked the unique beauty of the French language.

“Do you want me to keep reading, or–”

“Yes please.” He instantly regretted interrupting you – not only because he was honestly so eager to keep hearing you talk, but because of your own reaction to said eagerness. He didn’t even need to be looking at you to feel the heat of your amused stare into the side of his face.

Though, he also knew, at least some unconscious part of him did, that it was also because he liked being close to you in this way: a kneecap pressing into the side of his thigh, one sock-clad foot under said thigh, and your shoulder leaning against his bicep from where it had previously (already) been outstretched across the back of the couch. After all, you’d put yourself there. Initially to prove a point, but you hadn’t moved, neither of you had.

The glasses on the coffee table were empty, as was the bottle, and it was getting pretty dark outside already. The fire was on, While You Were Sleeping was playing, and he felt comfortable. Infinitely more comfortable than he would have done if he’d have just come home to an empty house, though he half suspected that if you hadn't been here he’d have just asked to have dinner at his parent’s house, but you’d sorted that too with a few clicks on your phone.

He rather liked having you around, it was something he’d recognised from the very beginning but he seemed to be reminded of it each and every time you saw each other – which wasn’t very often at all, not often enough: you were in Montreal and he was in Colorado, and very rarely were the two of you ever in the same place at the same time. Not unless he had a game in Montreal or you had to visit the chain in Colorado, or you were both at home. Other than that, your friendship was strictly limited to the confines of technology, and even then there was often a small conflict with the time difference.

Two hours wasn’t much, but with his constant travelling and your workload, you’d come to learn it was no easy feat trying to organise a video call – hence, texts just seemed to be the easiest thing to do.

Yeah, he found himself thinking, fuck knows when you’d get to see each other next.

It was why he took the chance of sounding like a bit of an idiot: if he wasn’t honest then it’d take forever to actually get to know each other properly, and he wasn’t going to have that, at least, not if he could help it too much.

“Does your voice sound different when you speak Spanish than when you speak French?” He wasn’t looking at you when he asked it, but the burning of his cheeks did intensify when you slowed to a stop, the book lowering to your bent knee.

When he did look at you, your head was tilted, a careful look of consideration melted into your features. You rested your head momentarily on his arm and he had to fight to not react to that.

“Probably.” You settled on, voice rough from the alcohol, “You have to use your facial muscles differently to produce the sounds depending on accent, rhythms and intonation patterns.”

Your head lifted off his arm, and for a second his mind went blank.

“What does your Spanish sound like?”

You raised your brows, eyelids heavy, “You want me to speak Spanish?”

He just nodded, fighting off a cheeky grin.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything.”

“Cualquier cosa.” You muttered, watching his face carefully for any indication your voice had changed.

It was a little odd to admit, but there was something entirely endearing about watching Nate react to things – whether it be something you said, or something that happened. It was fascinating: the way his mouth would twitch or his brows would dip down or raise, or the different creases that would appear. It felt like a game trying to predict what would change on his face to formulate a complete reaction, but it was weirdly adorable.

Though, your favourite thing just had to be his nose – mostly because it was the one constant: you could always rely on the sharp slope and slight curve to stay the same. The relevance that had to your previous observation was little to none, but…you liked it.

This time his mouth twisted, and he glanced away from you momentarily, like he needed the extra few seconds to replay the moment in his mind to make the decision. In truth, you already had an idea of what your own voice sounded like speaking different languages: part of the learning process was to record and talk and relisten to improve pronunciation, and it was then that you’d realised for yourself that you sounded slightly different.

Spanish was a higher pitch, probably because you found it less comfortable than speaking English and French. English was a nice medium to refer back to, and French was lower even then, probably because of the accent itself, and the fact that you’d been speaking it just as long as you had English.

Still, it didn’t take ten minutes for you to notice the differences like it had Nate – it took a good couple of days.

“Spanish is higher than French and English.” Nate turned back to you, confident in his answer, and for the sake of not showing just how shocked you were at that, you nodded.

“A propósito, tu cabello se ve bien de ese modo.” 

He blinked, eyes lazily focused on your mouth as you moved, and his lack of reaction to the unfamiliar phrase prompted an unintentional blush to warm your cheeks – the sheer intensity of his eyes and the mix of his slightly parted mouth (either out of curiosity or lack of self-awareness) bringing something a little heavier to the moment. You attempted to distract him from the colour of your cheeks by nudging his thigh with your kneecap.

He swallowed, mouth closing, “What does that mean?” 

And because he usually had pretty pale cheeks, the flush of the alcohol blended seamlessly into any further reddening making it almost impossible to distinguish if he was the least bit embarrassed about you having caught him staring so unashamedly – if it weren’t for the tips of his ears burning.

“It means ‘by the way, your hair looks good that way’.” You muttered a little sheepishly, lifting the book up to hide the bottom half of your face, eyes peeking over the top to spy on his reaction whilst also trying to appear nonchalant. 

You watched his eyes widen a little bit, jumbled mind digesting your compliment, before running a self-conscious hand through his waves. They were probably the most messed up you'd ever seen them: unruly and a little floppy. It wasn’t exactly a sight that screamed ‘Nathan’ to you, but you weren’t lying when you said it looked good. He looked good.

Only, he didn’t seem to agree, because he frowned, fingers twirling the ends of his hair, eyes cross-eyed as he dragged strands down to his own view, “My hair’s a mess.” You heard him mutter rather confusedly, and you lowered the book once more, leaning your head against your fist, mindful not to knock his arm off the back of the couch.

And maybe it was because you were also tipsy, or maybe it was because you didn’t want him to start fixing it, or maybe – just maybe – there was a small part of you that needed him to know you weren’t teasing, convince him that you you weren’t just saying it for the sake of saying it, “Stop fussing with it.”

“I can’t, it’s pissing me off.” He groaned, using both hands to scrape his hair backwards, which did nothing but draw your attention to his features: the shadows under his eyes from the light and his lashes; the prominent hook of his nose; the precise groove of his philtrum; the shape of his mouth; the soft stubble decorating his chin.

You were staring.

And he opened his eyes, the clear blue startling you to look sharply at the TV, now acutely aware of the fact that you were tucked against his shoulder, pressed against his thigh and under his thigh, all in pretty close proximity to say you’d only known each other for a few months.

Usually it took you a while to get comfortable with someone as a friend, even in the physical sense: hugs weren’t usually a comfortable thing – you didn’t know why, you just weren’t like that – though alcohol was the only thing that made you more comfortable with that kind of thing.

The common denominator.

“When do you go back to Colorado?” You spoke as you turned your attention back to him, speaking the first thing that came to your mind to get his sudden frustration away from his hair.

“Christmas morning.” He sighed, thumb scraping his eyebrow, “What about you?”

“Christmas evening.”

There was a lull in conversation after that, the both of you quiet as you took in what it meant. Usually you hated uncertainty and having such a lack of control over future plans, but it was something you’d had to quickly accept and adjust to if it meant you wanted Nate in your life. You didn’t know when you’d next see each other after this holiday. It could be weeks, it could be months.

You swiped your phone from the coffee table, pulling up your calendar app and scrolling through the dates. You knew he didn’t have any games left in Montreal, which left (at least, up until the play-offs) it up to your own work schedule. Sometimes your boss would have you travel to other branches across Canada and the US to implement training or just to evaluate how different departments work in your division – maybe you could learn more efficient techniques etc. But that was rare – you’d been down to Colorado once in the last seven months, and it was only luck that Nate was at home then.

Which put you up to Summer if the Avs clinched the playoffs, and even then it was fifty-fifty as to whether or not you’d be able to take holiday, obviously not to just see Nate, but to spend time with family that you didn’t get to see as often as you’d like. Though, your holiday leave tended to be used for birthdays.

You switched off your phone, running a hand through your hair and placing the book on the coffee table, untucking yourself from Nate to sit next to him instead, a suitable amount of distance separating you on the cushions. It wasn’t an obvious gap that you’d placed, but it was appropriate enough.

“Two days to spend time with the family.” He murmured, arms crossed over his chest.

“I think that’s the thing I miss most about not living here anymore. But I’m always ready to go back to my little apartment – I hate feeling like a kid again.”

Nate hummed in agreement, though a part of it felt fake. He knew what you were saying, he understood where you were coming from, but it felt fraudulent to sit on his couch in his house and agree with you – you who had to go back to your parents and probably get pestered (lovingly) as to where you’d been all day, before getting told not to go to bed too late. He hadn’t had that in years. He’d spend days at his parent’s house, but he’d always come back here.

“You can stay here tonight, if you want.” 

He’d said it quietly, a part of him wanting to be drowned out over the sound of the movie, and despite wanting to come across as it being a casual suggestion, he couldn’t help the note of sincerity seeping into his tone. He supposed it was that that had you hesitating, eyes carefully roving his face.

“I have a spare room already made up, it’d be no trouble.” He shot you a wry smile, shrugging helplessly, before turning back to the TV to give you space to think.

Only, you just sighed and picked your phone up again, before throwing him a glance out of the corner of your eye, “Are you sure?”

He nodded, offering a small, reassuring smile, “I’m sure. I can drop y’off in the morning.”

#eyesthatroll fic recs! #nathan mackinnon #ugh so good 😭 #IF YOU HAVEN’T READ WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR??? #AN INVITATION??? #here’s ur invitation 💌 #now go #!!

[eyesthatroll]

oh I have another idea for you!

how do you think jt uses his playoffs/cup winning experience to help guide the younger players on the team (specifically your son lucas)?

tiff this is truly, truly wicked of you to ask me this and I will try my very best not to go off the fucking rails with this but...

he doesn't wear an 'A'—not officially, anyway, but that doesn't mean he isn't a strong leader in the room. he's not afraid to chime in, his voice ringing out amongst the other veterans like dylan, david, and ben, especially because he has more playoff experience than a majority of the guys on the team; he shares a lot about the team's mentality, the poise they carried in denver, how he manages his body during the (hopefully) extra long season/shortened off season come playoff time.

but, more importantly, he definitely is more of a quiet leader, often taking more of an intimate approach: offering quick tips after a play, private words of encouragement before an important game, sharing strategies he's employed to deke a defender like banking the puck off the boards, even sometimes staying late after practice to talk through a play or help with a shot. have you noticed how lucas is significantly more confident shooting the puck this year

something that I go insane about with @acheronist often is from this video from training camp—and the idea that after this silly exchange, jt offers lucas the advice that he should try playing with unfamiliar sticks, just for those strange times during a game when he's got to play with someone else's. (this was the exact moment that jt imprinted on him btw. in september. on like the 3rd day of knowing him.)

requests temporarily open for compher content 🫶🏼

#jt compher <33

[eyesthatroll]

happy birthday to your man!!! I hope y’all are celebrating hard tonight!!!

speaking of celebrations, how would reader (though we all know it’s actually you fbwhshwjwj) make jt’s first birthday in detroit extra special?

okay I answered a similar ask here BUT I will expand specifically on the detroit part bc duh!!!!

I think at this point she's definitely already taken him to most of the major detroit landmarks (she was tasked with being his tour guide, after all), so a scavenger hunt or special tour is a bit out of the question. and, as I mentioned in the other ask, he's in big playoff crunch mode so a getaway is also out of the question.

that said, I think she would have planned a cute lil picnic action at belle isle this past weekend because it was beautiful in detroit! some sushi takeout, a bottle of wine, and homemade strawberry shortcake for desert really putting myself into this one whoops

requests temporarily open for compher content 🫶🏼

#jt compher <33 #!!!!

[eyesthatroll]

what is happening for jt’s birthday in the a dream come true universe? if anything. love your work!!

thank you so much 🥹 an excellent question—I could never let my mans go without celebrating his bday!

this pic is a visual summary (everyone say thank you syd for nearly ending my life today) but I detailed a little more below the cut 😏

requests temporarily open for compher content 🫶🏼

the wings are in super focus mode with the 2 most important games of the season happening this week, so nothing over the top despite what you might want to do (it is the first birthday you're celebrating together, after all). he had morning practice this AM, but you didn't miss the opportunity to wake him up with your head bobbing up and down underneath the sheets.

after that, he spent much of the morning/early afternoon at the rink, followed by lunch with a couple of the guys—andrew, shayne, dylan, daniel, and lucas. he's not big on the public fanfare, doesn't want to make it a big thing, but he does make a lot of sarcastic quips about being the center of your attention.

you made reservations at a restaurant in birmingham, insisting on taking him out to a nice steak dinner and a bottle of expensive wine—one of his favorites. his cheeks flush when you present him with the gift you carefully wrapped, a quiet hum of thanks and appreciation.

and after? you make sure his special day ends the best way you know how: on top of him, your hands tangled in his hair with his fingers gripping your waist while you whine out your birthday boy's name.

#jt compher <33 #!!!!

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predators @ devils \ april 7, 2024.

#wow #two pretty boys in awe #of what? who knows #simon nemec #luke hughes

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the offficiating in the NHL is so bad that’s just become almost infuriating to watch games. i don’t know how players feel safe playing in a league where one day a deliberate cross check to the back of the head is a 5 minute major, and the next day it’s just a minor. absolutely no consistency whatsoever.

and i look like a crybaby making reasonable complaints about it on social media. makes no sense.

#hockey #nhl #sorry for the rant #but it’s so annoying.

[eyesthatroll]

penguins @ devils \ april 2, 2024.

#might be intering a nh13 phase #nico hischier

[eyesthatroll]

MEDICINE – Quinn Hughes x fem!reader (smut)

previous part

summary: Quinn Hughes is going to dream about this night for a longggg time.

note: the longest smut I’ve ever written ever, we quite literally dive right in.

warnings: 18+ content, MDNI, sexual content, oral (fem!receiving), p in v, dom!Quinn Hughes, nicknames like pretty girl, use of y/n, fem!reader, praise galore.

word count: 3.1K

"So this is where you live?!"

You had barely stepped into Quinn's apartment when you found yourself admiring your vast surroundings. The apartment was neat, and one might think it had been plucked straight out of a catalogue were there not various personal touches around the place, such as a variety of trophies and family photos. Your eyes glimmered once they'd finally landed back on Quinn, who seemed to watch you with amusement as he approached you.

"This is where I live." Quinn hummed in confirmation, coming up behind you as you pulled your lower lip between your teeth. You turned fully towards him, reaching up and intertwining your arms around his neck.

"Do I get a tour?" You drawled, tilting your head upwards as he slowly raised one eyebrow.

"Jump," that was all he said before you were hoisted up onto him, your legs instinctively locking around his waist as he gripped the space of your upper thigh. You let a laugh spring free as he moved forward, your arms desperately tightening their hold.

"This is the living room, kitchen, and hall," Quinn pointed out as he moved through the apartment, his eyes never leaving yours. He turned, careful not to jostle you too much, as he pushed a door open, entering the room backwards. "And this is the bedroom,"

"Oh, my favourite so far," you hummed, your fingers carefully curling around the curls at the base of Quinn's neck. You were suddenly placed down on a soft surface, your body sinking into comfort as Quinn took a step back.

"And that's my bed," he spoke. He kept his darkening eyes on you while your hands smoothed across the fabric of his sheets, your feet kicking off your shoes. You had to hold back a laugh as you childishly flopped back against the bed. "Make yourself at home."

"I plan to," you said, pushing yourself up to face the rugged man. You crossed your legs as you lazed back on your hands. "Help me?"

Quinn bit back his own smile as he stepped closer to the bed. His hand reached for your knees, forcing you to uncross them as he pressed a long and demanding kiss to your lips. You found yourself melting into his every touch, becoming soft like wax—so easily malleable, there to be toyed with and moulded into whatever he wanted.

His hand crept upwards, cupping your jaw as he moved your head to turn ever so slightly. He pulled away from your lips, grazing his own along the skin of your cheeks, and you were it felt like a raging swirl of fire moving down your body and straight to your core. He tilted your head further, your eyes dropping closed as he began a tirade of unhurried kisses down the expanse of your neck.

You let a small gasp slip from your lips as Quinn suddenly suckled on the flesh just above the base of your neck, the biting sting of pressure perfectly soothed by his tongue smoothing over the purpling bruise. You let him manoeuvre you as his other hand ran up and down your pant-covered leg, his fingers light and teasing, knowing exactly what they were doing to you.

Quinn pulled back fully now, his hand still against your cheek, his thumb caressing your cheekbone as he admired the various blotches he'd left across your skin.

"Beautiful," he sighed, his eyes traversing back to yours. His eyes were heavy, half-lidded, and filled with what you could only describe as pure want. You leaned into him, connecting your lips to his once more, your body squirming with need. He pulled away almost instantly, his lips still against yours as he whispered. "Not yet…patience, pretty girl."

You found yourself gulping as Quinn moved down your clothed body. His hands ran upwards, lingering at the bottom of the top you had worn out.

"Can I take this off?" He asked, his voice pleading. His eyes were fixated on you, despite his wandering hands that ran beneath the top. You found yourself nodding, to which Quinn frowned. "Words, pretty girl…I need to hear them."

"Take it off, please," you breathed out, your chest rising and falling abnormally quick as Quinn hummed and lifted the shirt from your body, leaving your chest in just your bra.

"And this?" Quinn smirked, toying with the lace-edged strap of your bra, his tongue running over his lip.

"Take it off," you confirmed. Quinn had no hesitation when he quickly unclasped it and threw it into the unknown, leaving your chest bare for him to witness. You smiled as he made a choking sound; his warm hands ran up and down your goose-bumped skin. Your head lolled back as he cupped your breasts, leaning down to press chaste kisses to the sensitive skin.

"Quinn," you found yourself pleading, your hands laving through his loose waves as he sucked a bruise just above your nipple, his tongue swirling over it as you whined. He let out a breathy laugh as he brought his face up to yours, his breath fanning across your cheeks.

"I want to taste you," he murmured, brushing his nose against yours before he smoothly moved downward, his eyes trained on your widened ones.

His thumbs caught in the waistband of your pants, silently searching for permission before he began to pull them down slowly, revealing your skin that was practically itching with need. The fabric moved down your legs swiftly as Quinn's nimble fingers pulled them off of you completely. His hand remained lightly holding your ankle, his eyes still on yours as he moved to kneel before you.

You dropped back onto your elbows, your head tilting back as Quinn slowly pressed longer, and chaste kisses up your leg towards your upper thigh.

"Oh god," you gasped out as he pressed a kiss right below the hem of your pants. Quinn hummed through a chuckle, lifting his head for a second.

"Not quite," he mused. He ran his fingers over the dampened fabric, relishing the way you squirmed against his every touch. "Will you let me taste you, y/n?"

You pried open your eyes to meet his desperate ones, his hands on either one of your thighs, thumbs smoothing over the supple flesh.

"Please," you begged, your hand tugging on his curls. You pulsed with need, your body flushed with desire, as Quinn thumbed his lip in thought.

"Only because you asked so nicely," he whispered breathlessly.

You gasped as Quinn's tongue came into contact with your clothed core. He trailed his tongue over the dampness before he nipped the hem of your pants with his teeth, dragging them down your legs without breaking eye contact. You felt your heart thumping loudly against the confines of your chest as he threw your pants onto the floor before he quite literally dove in.

Quinn devoured you like a man starved.

Your eyes had shot closed as you felt his tongue glide through your wet folds, circling your clitoral area as he pleasured you. Your head fell back in silent ecstasy, with your mouth agape as his tongue flicked over the sensitive nub. He slowly worked a finger inside of you, your walls clenching down as he moved it in and out.

"You look so pretty like this," Quinn mumbled in hushed tones. He crooked his finger inside of you, pressing against your soft walls as you let out a breathy moan. He sucked your sensitive nub into his mouth, circling it with his tongue, while he slipped his finger in and out easily due to your arousal.

You carded your fingers through his hair as you felt him slowly push another finger into your wetness, causing Quinn to groan against you, vibrating across your clit as he continued his tirade of sucking and swirling.

"You take my fingers so well," he praised, his eyes moving up to witness your blissful face. The feeling of his fingers sliding in and out of your drenched core, hitting every nerve cell, sent you into overdrive and wiped away any thought other than the pleasure he was giving you. Your hips jolted towards his fingers with a shameless moan as you tried to feel as much of him as he was letting you.

Quinn had a gift, you decided, as he brought you closer and closer to the taunting edge of what seemed like endless pleasure.

You cried out as he curled his fingers, moving them more rapidly as you held onto his hair, your thighs closing around his head. The familiar sensation of a tightening swirl formed in your core, wracking through your body and threatening to spill over. You tightened around Quinn's fingers as he sped up, hitting places you hadn't even realised could be hit.

"Gonna come," you panted out, your eyes fluttering as Quinn seemed to ignore your warning, continuing his pursuit of your pleasure as your body trembled beneath him.

Without warning, the feeling of euphoria washed over your body, your thighs tensing around Quinn's head as he worked you through your orgasm, your chest heaving breathlessly as your back arched against the bed. You felt his fingers ease in and out past the tension, trying to prolong your orgasm for as long as it could.

Your eyes had rolled far back into your head, your fingers gripping onto Quinn's hair as he slowly withdrew to relish the look of pure, unadulterated pleasure that cascaded across your face.

With one last, languid pump, he removed his fingers from your slickness, causing your eyes to peel open. Quinn was flushed and covered in your wetness; his hair was ruffled and messy from where you'd been holding on.

And you'd never seen something so attractive in your life.

Quinn kept his eyes on yours as he raised his fingers to his lips and sucked your juices off of his digits with a crude pop.

Scratch your last statement—now, you'd never seen something as attractive as that in your life.

Despite your shaky body, you found yourself standing up, pulling Quinn off of the floor by his collar, and dragging him towards you to meet him with a punishing kiss.

You felt yourself melt into the embrace, the taste of you still smothering his tongue as you gripped his collar and slowly began to unbutton the white shirt he adorned. You'd gotten bored of being the only one bare; your desire to see Quinn naked overwhelmed your senses.

Your hands smoothed up and down his abs as you unbuttoned, and your kiss was unwavering as Quinn allowed you to work away. You rolled his shirt off his shoulders, your hands traipsing over the thick flesh of his biceps, causing you to pull away and admire his upper body, now fully on display.

Your fingers trailed across his shoulders and arms before you leaned forward and kissed the base of his neck, beginning your path down to the waistband of his jeans. Keeping eye contact, you dropped to your knees, your hands scrambling to unbuckle his pants, craving the bulge that protruded from beneath the fabric.

Just as you fully unbuttoned his pants, Quinn tutted and grabbed your hands, lifting you back up to your feet. You found yourself whining as you stood, your nose brushing against his as he chuckled.

"C'mon," you pouted, "at least let me have a taste."

"On the bed," Quinn ordered, his thumb dragging your lip as you rolled your eyes and sat back on the bed, your anticipation growing with each moment as Quinn stood before you, his gaze smouldering with desire. With deliberate movements, he removed his jeans, revealing the bulge that had been teasing you, now pressing against the fabric of his boxer briefs.

You watched intently as he discarded his remaining clothing, your breath hitching in your throat at the sight of his naked form. Quinn's physique was a work of art, with every muscle defined and rippling beneath his skin, a testament to his strength.

He climbed onto the bed, his body hovering over yours as he captured your lips in a searing kiss. You rolled your hips against him, wantonly moaning into the kiss at the feeling of his cock pushing against your skin.

"I need you, Quinn," you panted as you broke away, his eyes glittering with lust as they gazed down on you.

"Alright," he hummed, pulling away completely as he grabbed something from the set of drawers behind him. "Since you've been so patient." Quinn held out a wrapped condom, his grin widening as he stared you down with a cheeky smile. "Open it for me?"

You bit your lip and nodded, taking the condom and ripping the foil with your teeth. You took out the condom and looked up at Quinn as one of your hands drifted towards his stiff cock. You heard a deep grumble erupt from him as your thumb rolled over his tip before running along his shaft.

"Can I please?" You frowned playfully up at Quinn, practically salivating at the mere thought of having him inside your mouth.

Quinn rolled his head back, a low groan escaping his lips as he felt your touch tantalisingly close to where he craved it most. He brushed his fingertips beneath your chin, his eyes smouldering with desire.

"Patience, pretty girl," he whispered huskily, his fingers trailing along your jawline. "You'll get your chance."

You couldn't help but pout, feeling a delicious ache between your thighs as anticipation coiled tighter within you. But you trusted Quinn's lead, knowing the reward would be worth the wait.

With practised ease, Quinn plucked the condom from your fingers and sheathed himself in the condom, his movements deliberate and precise. He then hovered over you once more, the heat of his body searing against your skin.

"Ready?" he murmured, his voice thick with desire as you leaned further back into his soft sheets.

You nodded eagerly, your heart pounding in your chest as you spread your legs, inviting him closer. With a slow, torturous glide, Quinn entered you, filling you completely with a single, seamless thrust.

"Oh my god," you drawled, your eyes rolling back into your head as your fingers jumped to grasp at him. Quinn grunted as he thrust into you, spurred on by the feeling of your fingernails digging into the skin of his back and by the addictive little sounds you were making for him.

You could feel him everywhere. His touch was like wildfire, spreading with no containment and burning you with the purest desire. Your body writhed as he pounded into you, his soft groans in your ear adding to the intensity of the moment.

You mentally praised whoever Quinn's personal trainer was because his stamina was unrelenting as the sound of skin-on-skin slapping echoed through the room intertwined with your soft moans.

You gasped as Quinn suddenly started shallowly snapping his hips into you, his shaft deep within, causing sweat to pour from your skin. You arched off of the bed in pleasure, your fingers deep into the skin of Quinn's muscular back. His mouth moved to your lips as he fucked into you, your tongues plunging into one another's mouths.

You rolled your hips towards him as your lips separated from his, needing more of him inside you. He met your needy attempts with fierceness as that tightening knot within you began to pull in your core. You were no longer coherent in your words, each one of your moans laced with reckless abandon and a feeling of indulgence.

"Quinn," you eventually managed to gasp, feeling your orgasm encroach, your cunt fluttering around his cock. Quinn hummed as he thrust harder (you hadn't realised that was possible!).

"I know, pretty girl," he murmured, pressing kisses on the bruises on your neck that he'd previously gifted you. "I can feel you clenching around me."

You couldn't even find the words within you as your body shuddered, your orgasm washing over you in sudden flashes. You felt yourself clench harder around Quinn as he continued to thrust in and out of you, chasing his own pleasure while helping you ride through yours.

"That's it," Quinn gasped out, his pace slowing as you clawed into him. He let his head drop as he spilt inside of the condom, his steady thrust now sputtering. You groaned at the feeling of him inside you while he pried open his eyes and met your lips with another fiery kiss.

You both lay there, breathless and spent, intertwined in a tangle of limbs and sheets. The room was filled with a heady mixture of your mingled scents and the echoes of your shared passion.

Quinn brushed a strand of hair away from your flushed face, his eyes softening as he gazed at you with an adoring intensity. You returned his gaze, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at the affection in his eyes.

"God, that was…you were…" Quinn murmured, his voice husky with emotion, as he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead. You smiled up at him, feeling a surge of contentment wash over you.

"You're not so bad yourself," you teased, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest once he'd slipped out from inside of you and disposed of the used condom.

Quinn chuckled a deep rumble that reverberated through his chest. You allowed yourself to settle on the sheets, your breathing steadying as you tried to relax your racing heart. As your gaze began to fade, he returned beside you, his hand stroking up and down your arm, leaving goosebumps in their trail.

"I should probably get going," you murmured, kissing the palm of his hand as he cupped your cheek.

"Unless you stayed, just for tonight, of course," Quinn whispered, his eyes pleading as you bit your lip nervously. "And we could go again?"

You felt your cheeks heat as your eyes darkened.

"Just once more?"

Quinn nudged your chin with a finger, causing both of your lips to graze as a soft breath escaped yours.

"Oh, sweet girl, I plan on taking you multiple times tonight, if you let me."

"Well then, what are we waiting for?"

tags: @quintinh43 @hughes86-43 @josierosie @starswin @ashes2ashesweallfall @megaluke @coldheartedmar @snailss @rhino-saurus @lupinslibraries @alwaysclassyeagle @ru-kru @xaelia-au @dreamsarebig

#eyesthatroll fic recs! #quinn hughes

[eyesthatroll]

devils @ rangers \ march 3, 2024.

#oh my god #matt rempe

[eyesthatroll]

michigan @ michigan state \ march 31, 2024. ncaa championship !

#frank nazar #my oh my

[eyesthatroll]

rooting against quinnipiac because i’m still not over last year

#eyesthatroll talks hockey!