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brockadoodles · 3 years

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Take my Heart, I’ll Give you my Soul - b. boeser

AN: Alright, here it is. Without a doubt my favorite and most popular fic. It will probably flop and my heart will shatter since this is a repost but y’all said you wanted it so here ya goooooo.

Word Count: 24,717

Warnings: Drinking, angst, mentions of sex, and that it’s a long one.

It might have been dramatic, but you couldn’t possibly imagine that you had ever had a day as exhausting as this. It was your senior year of university, and one of your seminars was an 8am. Normally this wasn’t an issue, you generally enjoyed mornings, especially in your new apartment. Ever since moving in six months ago, you found yourself waking up early to enjoy the sunrise over the city, sipping your morning coffee on your balcony as you watched the city come to life. Lights slowly turn on, pinks, and orange hues lighting up the sky as the sun rises. You found it calming, taking extra care to slow your breathing down and relax, the cool air running through your hair.

This particular morning, however, had gone entirely wrong. You must have forgotten to plug your phone in the night before, waking up slowly around 7:30, which gave you nowhere near enough time to shower, get dressed, and commute from the city to campus.

You rushed through your morning routine, simply brushing your teeth, throwing up your hair, and a simple combination of a sweatshirt and leggings to get you through the day. You were the type of person who hated being late, to you, if you weren’t at least ten minutes early to something, you got a sense of uneasiness in your stomach. You tried to brush the feeling off, reassuring yourself that your professor didn’t care and that you were still attending the seminar rather than skipping like most students probably would have.

You rushed out the door, locking it swiftly and throwing your bag over your shoulder, walking quickly toward the elevators of your building. You tapped your foot impatiently as you watched the numbers on top of the doors count upward to yours. When the doors opened, you saw Brock standing there, a deep blue Canucks sweatshirt on him, dark grey sweats covering his legs. You stepped aside, allowing him and his dog, Coolie, to walk out of the doors. You had only met Brock a few times, being as he was your across the hall neighbor and you hadn’t seen him until one morning in August, him introducing himself to you in the elevator. You had spoken a few times in passing, never more than a quick hello as one of you was coming or going, but he always offered a friendly smile.

Today he looked different, a frown on his features while he exited. He was clearly stuck in his own head over something, thoughts mulling around. If it weren’t for Coolie rushing to your legs, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed you standing there.

“Good morning, Coolie.” You leaned down to pet the dog, scratching softly behind his ears while he wagged his tail. Brock smiled over at you, mumbling a quick hello before you parted ways for the day. You barely knew him, but something felt unsettling about the way he looked at you. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, and it seemed more than just the fact that it was early morning.

The day progressed and things quickly escalated from minor inconveniences to flat out annoyance. Class passed by painfully slowly, and your shift at work dragged on, with your boss coming hard on you for something you didn’t feel at fault for. By the time you got back to your apartment, you had three new assignments due, and a new deadline for a project at work. Your head was pounding from the stress, and you pulled your hair up into a loose bun and settled into your glass of red wine, a pair of old red fuzzy socks adorning your feet. You combed through the cupboards, wine glass in hand as you pulled out ingredients for cookies with your other hand, knowing that baking might help take your mind off of things and that the smell of freshly baked cookies would remind you of home.

You had always been a stress baker, finding something relaxing about the meticulous craft that was baking, comfort coming from strict measurements, and the feeling of control as you worked through various recipes. It had gotten you through many rough patches in life, and earned you a ton of friends more than willing and enthusiastic to consume all of the treats you baked.

When you moved to Vancouver, you lost that luxury, and you hadn’t really felt stressed enough to whip out the supplies since moving in six months ago. But with that day being so long and exhausting, you found yourself missing home more than you usually did, and as you had for many years, you turned toward baking to get you through the homesickness.

You turned on some music, letting it play softly as you started mixing your dough. You danced around in your kitchen feeling the tension release from your body and your head start to clear as you loaded up a plate of chocolate chip cookies, exiting your apartment and heading to the one across the hall before you could consciously realize what you were doing. You could blame it on the glass of wine, but if you were to dig deep into the archives of your mind, you knew it was because there was a nagging feeling about Brock nestled there all day. A single thread tying you to this boy you barely knew, wanting to make his day just a bit better.

You raised your fist to the door, knocking softly while balancing the plate of cookies in your other hand. You instantly regretted what you were doing as soon as you removed your knuckles from his door and heard Coolie’s feet scrambling around inside the apartment. You held the plate nervously, the few leftover chocolate chip cookies still warm from the oven. You knew you looked like a mess, your hair was sloppily thrown up on your head and your makeup had long since been removed. The dark leggings you wore were stained with flour, from you accidentally wiping your hands on them while mixing your dough. You told yourself that it didn’t matter, you and Brock were friendly enough, and with the look on his face that morning not leaving your mind for most of the day, you wondered if maybe your neighbor needed some sort of pick me up of his own.

“Hello.” You were met with a voice you didn’t recognize. You looked up at the young man standing in the doorway, Coolie trying to rush out of the door once he saw it was you standing there. You made eye contact with him, noting that he was tall, and blonde, like Brock. He was wearing a Canucks sweatshirt, similar to the ones you had seen Brock in many times, so you could only assume he might be a teammate or someone else who works in the organization.

“Petey, who is it?” You heard Brock’s unmistakable voice, muffled from the walls. The boy in front of you smirked, looking down at the cookies in your hand, and your cheeks flushed red in embarrassment.

“Uhm, is Brock here?” You asked tentatively, sneaking a glance past the blonde-haired stranger in front of you.

“It is a girl with cookies.” He called back, voice calm and monotone. You weren’t sure what to make of him, he wasn’t not being nice, but he was quieter than Brock. And now, with it arguably too late to turn back, you were beginning to feel regret creep up inside you about going over there in the first place.

The door flew open after your short interaction with the other blond, revealing Brock. Coolie immediately rushed out, tail wagging as he whined for your attention and sniffed your legs. Brock smiled at you, a more genuine smile than you had seen from him this morning, and it instantly melted all of your nerves as he motioned for you to come inside the apartment.

“God, I don’t deserve you.” He groaned, reaching down to the plate of freshly baked cookies you just set on his counter. You saw another young boy sitting on the couch, dark brown hair, and dark circles under his eyes. He looked a little awkward and was staring blankly at the basketball highlights playing on Brock’s TV. You suddenly felt embarrassed, you had no idea who these friends of Brock’s were, and here you stood, hair a mess, covered in flour, bringing your neighbor who you barely knew cookies in the late evening.

Brock either noticed you tense up, or was just genuinely polite enough to speak up after he swallowed the last bite of the cookie.

“Ah, this is Petey.” He properly introduced the blonde who answered the door, clapping a hand quickly to his shoulder before throwing it back to point at the other boy on the couch.

“And that little dead kid is Quinn.” He smiled. Quinn looked over at you, smiling softly and nodding his head before resuming watching the television, not even reacting to Brock borderline insulting him. Brock eyed you curiously as you reached down to pet Coolie who was pawing at your leg for attention, a fond look on his face. Petey eyed you suspiciously, watching as his best friend looked over at you. He assumed this was the pretty neighbor he always talked about, who he never actually had the nerve to hang out with on his own.

You could see Petey mulling over the interaction, almost as if you were watching him analyze the situation, causing you to feel exposed there in Brock’s kitchen. You swallowed, just about ready to gather your excuses and head back home before Brock spoke up.

“So, what brings you over at 11:30 with freshly baked cookies? Seems a bit late for baking.” He teased, chuckling lightly as you stood back up, wiping your hands on your already dirty leggings. You felt your cheeks heat up with his eyes on you, you were a bit embarrassed, having intruded on what appeared to be their guys' night.

“Just had a long day and baking helps me unwind. I made too many and don’t know anyone else so…” Your voice got softer as you spoke, unsure of what else to say. You brushed a strand of hair away from your face, watching carefully as Petey went and sat next to Quinn, the two of them whispering a bit as you stood in the kitchen still with Brock. Brock leaned across the counter a bit in front of you, resting his chin in his hands while he studied your face. The next words out of his mouth smooth.

“Want to grab coffee tomorrow morning and talk about it?” He asked. Your eyes widened a bit, this was your neighbor, who sure, you were friendly with and was ridiculously cute, but coffee? Was it a date? Was it the beginning of a friendship? You weren’t sure. You glanced over to the couch, the other two boys now with their full attention on you, making you nervous once more. You swallowed one again, clearing your throat quietly as you answered.

“Sure.”

“Cool. There’s this really old place a block from here, they have the best latte art.” He smiled once more, grabbing another piece of a cookie and popping it into his mouth.

“Latte art?” You questioned, finding it oddly charming that this tall, broad guy would be interested in something as trivial as that. But you didn’t know anything about Brock yet, and you couldn’t help but smile a little bit at how adorable it was.

“Very cool, one time they tried to do a portrait of me.” He nodded.

“It was ugly.” Petey jumped in, smirking at his friend for finally making the move at getting to know the cute neighbor he had to suffer through Brock always talking about. Brock laughed, a genuine full laugh where his hand rested on his stomach and his eyes crinkled and you instantly felt yourself growing captivated by him. He had the best laugh and it made you feel warm, something that no one else had ever been able to do for you.

“9?” He ignored his friend, instead focussing his attention only on you. You nodded before saying goodnight to everyone. You walked back into your apartment, hopping in the shower and working through your evening routine, mentally preparing to keep yourself up all night in anticipation of this coffee date with the cute boy across the hall.

The next morning you found yourself irrationally anxious, silently cursing yourself for agreeing to coffee with Brock. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go, you liked Brock, maybe had a bit of a crush on him, but that was exactly the problem. You had no idea why someone as cute and successful as that wanted anything to do with you. You were just a normal person, finishing up your undergrad at the University of British Columbia, hopefully entering the world after with some sort of better job than you already had that would allow you to stay in the city. Brock probably had way better options than you on his horizon, given that he was, from what you gathered, a successful professional athlete.

The fears melted away when Brock knocked on your door the next morning, a smile on his face and dark beanie covering his hair. You felt more comfortable around him than you expected so early on in what would eventually become a close friendship, following his lead as you entered the elevator together. Conversation flowing easily between you as you walked the short distance to the coffee shop he had been so excited about from the night before.

It didn’t feel like he was a stranger, and you found yourself wanting to share more with him than you normally would with someone who was just an acquaintance from across the hall. You also noticed how attractive he was, feeling yourself blush more than once as he intently listened to you tell him about your school and work.

You reached the shop, looking up at the old wooden building, a stark contrast from some of the more modern structures lining the streets. It felt homey, a warm-toned feeling emulating from the outside, spreading to the inside as Brock held the door open for you, motioning you inside. You looked around at the shop, seemingly empty for that early in the morning, just a few other patrons scattered throughout. Brock followed you up to the counter, saying hello to the barista who seemed to recognize him.

“Hey Brock, the usual?” She asked, her hand reaching for a cup to write his order down. You noticed how friendly he seemed toward everyone, nodding to the other barista who was across the shop, wiping down tables, a quality that you found yourself attracted to.

“Yeah, but for here.” He smiled, looking toward you. You felt your cheeks flush, carefully saying you’d take whatever he was having, feeling slightly embarrassed. The barista nodded, grabbing another mug with a smile on her face as she looked from you to Brock and you tried not to think about if you were the first girl that he had brought here as he handed over some cash to pay for the drinks.

You settled into a table near the back of the coffee shop, talking endlessly about anything and everything together. Brock was a presence that you didn’t know how you lived with just in passing for the last few months, now that you were seeing what he was showing you. The strange thing about it was how natural it felt, a connection between you that you couldn't explain.

You watched Brock curiously as he was speaking, finding yourself slowly memorizing each feature of him as if you were painting a picture in your mind for safekeeping. You felt drawn to the way his eyes closed as he smiled, and the way his hand rested on his stomach when he laughed. He was distracting, in the most endearing sense of the word. You sat there in that coffee shop, listening to him for almost two hours that morning, a fluttering in your stomach and heart that you were cautious about.

When Brock walked you to your door that was just across from his, there was an easy smile on his features as the conversation dwindled down. You felt your cheeks heat up as he stood close to you, your hand fumbling in your bag for your keys, his eyes softly on you.

“Since we’re now friends.” He started, a small smirk present as the two of you stood in front of your door.

“Can I have your number so we can do this again sometime?” He added, leaning his shoulder against the door frame, coming in close to your body. He smelled like cinnamon and cloves, the warm smile still present on his face as he watched you, carefully gauging your reaction to his seemingly weighted question. You had to concentrate on not fumbling while you exchanged phones, entering your phone number into his.

When he handed you your phone back, you laughed softly at his contact entry, the little whale emoji and blue heart next to his name, feeling yourself flush at your cute neighbor who you just had what some would assume was a great first date with. You tried to ignore the flutter in your chest as the texts started coming in, communication between you becoming a new constant in your life, friendship coming together seamlessly as it was meant to be.

The only downside was that as you started getting closer to Brock, the more it became painfully obvious your crush was unrequited. But that was okay with you because having Brock as a friend in the city was something you were grateful for, and if it meant you had to pack up your seemingly silly crush into a box, sealed and locked away in the depths of your heart, you would, because having him was as a friend was better than not having him at all.

Brock, however, knew he liked you from the first time you showed up to his condo, your red fuzzy socks on your feet, flour across your legs, and cookies in your hands. He had seen you many times before, in passing when one of you was leaving or coming back, but when you knocked on his door that late November night, he knew you were someone that he wanted to get to know better.

---------

December came and you and Brock had quickly gotten close, any awkwardness that you usually experience with a new friend as you get to know them had already melted away. You found yourself at his condo more often than your own on days and nights that he wasn’t out of town. He had even gotten you to go to one of their home games, surprising you with a jersey beforehand and laughing when it wasn’t even one of his.

“Brock last I checked, your last name is not Pettersson.” You ran your hands over the stitching, and you tried not to let your quickly beating heart question why he wouldn’t want you to have one of his.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to grab one but I knew I had this. Don’t worry, next game it’ll say Boeser.” You nodded at his words, pushing down any anxieties you had as you folded the jersey and set it down, making a mental note to not forget it as you left.

“Okay, let me cook you, useless boy.” You joked, shooting him out of his own kitchen while you started washing the vegetables and preparing dinner.

You and Brock had developed somewhat of a routine the last few weeks, with at least two dinners a week together when his schedule would allow it. It was nice at first until Brock absolutely wrecked a simple meal and you realized you’d either be eating takeout or cooking yourself each time. You didn’t mind though, because you liked being there with him, a lazy smile on his face as he tried to help you with whatever you were making, usually sneaking in bites of the food while he thought that you weren’t looking.

“So let me get this straight, you need me, to go on a double date with you and some girl Quinn wants to impress? Why?” You laughed.

“He really likes this girl, and you know how huggy is, he’s awkward.” Brock smiled, knowing that you had a soft spot for the little Canuck of the team. He reached over with his fork, grabbing a quick bite of your roasted vegetables from your plate, humming as he plopped them into his mouth. You swatted his hand away from your plate, rolling your eyes as he overly exaggerated how good the roasted veggies were while he chewed.

“Please? He’s taking her mini-golfing, clearly, he needs help!” He laughed once more, thinking about how nervous his teammate had been over this date, practically begging him to come along. “Plus, I can’t just third wheel it.” Brock added.

You rolled your eyes, softening a bit at the idea of helping Quinn. Brock watched you as you pondered over the idea, knowing that you would probably say yes. You knew he wasn’t seeing anyone, so it wasn’t as if there was an option for him to bring a date.

“Fine, on one condition.” You said, pointing toward Brock with your wine glass in hand.

“I win put put, and you’re taking me out to that fancy new brunch place downtown.” Brock smiled at your words, relieved that you said yes. He raised his beer to your wine glass, clanking them together softly as he grinned at you, cheeks slightly pink.

“Done deal. You know if you wanted me to take you on a fancy brunch date, all you had to do was ask.” He teased. Your own cheeks now rivaled his, your crush on your best friend bubbling to the surface. Brock winked at you as you shifted in your seat, gulping back the last of your wine while shifting your eyes away from him. You needed to compose yourself, Brock was just joking around, he wouldn’t actually be taking you on a date and you needed to keep telling yourself that to push the lingering feelings away.

“Don’t push it Boeser.” You smirked, gathering your plate and heading into your kitchen, leaving him at the table while you started packing up the leftovers from the dinner you cooked for the two of you.

A few nights later you found a nervous Quinn in the elevator as you were heading back home to get ready for this date. He was wearing some nice jeans and a simple sweater, with a dark jacket over it, cleaning up nicely. His eyes looked nervous but it looked like he had slept, a good sign you thought. He had a small bouquet of roses in his hands, debatably too much for a low key first date, but you shrugged it off, thinking that this girl would probably appreciate the effort.

“Quinn, what made you think it was a good idea to take a girl on a date outside in December?” You said, ruffling his hair quickly as you walked down the hallway toward Brock’s door.

“I didn’t really think about it..” he trailed off, avoiding eye contact. You touched his arm soothingly before knocking softly on Brock’s door, Coolie barking in the background.

Despite the cold weather, and Brock trying to block every shot of yours that you tried to get to go in, you were having a great time. It was deceiving though, because you were sort of in your head about all of it, almost giving yourself the illusion that the date with Brock was real.

You stepped off to the side of the course, leaning against a short fence. Brock followed you, positioning himself right next to you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“What do you think?” He asked, nodding his head toward where his teammate was, fumbling over his golf club while Kyn laughed at him softly. You smiled.

“I like her, he looks like a nervous wreck but it’s nice to at least see some emotion.” You joked, leaning against the small white fence next to Brock as you watched Quinn fumble over Kyn. She was currently giving him an earful about how to properly put the shot in through the small windmill, Quinn looking at her with adoration in his eyes.

Brock laughed, throwing an arm around your shoulder while he watched them. It was stupid, really, how such a simple action from him caused you to feel nervous. You had known Brock for a while now and while he wasn’t overly affectionate with other people that you could tell, he always seemed to have a need to be touching you when you were together. Sometimes it was his knee brushed up against yours on the couch during movie nights, sometimes it was his arm casually thrown over your shoulder while you were out with some of the team, and sometimes it was his hand brushing against yours while you walked.

“Wanna ditch them?” Brock’s voice pulled you from your own head. You looked over at where Quinn and Kyn were standing, he was laughing at something she said, both seemingly oblivious to the fact that you and Brock had separated yourselves from them. You turned toward Brock, leaning into him slightly.

“Movie night?” You asked, knowing that those were likely going to be the next words from his mouth. Brock smiled, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to your temple, sending your heart flying at the seemingly friendly kiss.

Brock pulled back, avoiding your eye as if he wasn’t sure why he had just done that and you felt your shoulders slump a bit at his reaction, only reinforcing his lack of feelings for you. But, the moment passed almost as quickly as it came, and he smiled down at you.

“You know me so well.” He said, the two of you already leaving the mini-golf course, seeing Quinn and Kyn in the distance, a budding romance building up between them that you found yourself slightly jealous over, no matter how hard you tried to push the thoughts of Brock taking you on a real date away.

---------

The next week, you were lounging on Brock’s couch, Coolie with his head on your lap, your hand resting gently on his head. Brock was in Washington DC, the Canucks on an east coast run. Over the last few weeks, you had slowly become the one that Brock trusted enough to watch Coolie, with you usually staying over at his condo, keeping an eye on things whenever he was gone. It was nice, domesticity with Brock that you fell comfortably into. You felt at home in his place, after many nights spent there with him over the few short weeks you had known him, and you absolutely loved the dog.

You never thought about how your friendship looked to other people, how quickly everything seemed to progress. You just felt like Brock knew you, and you knew him, two pieces of a puzzle that fit together smoothly, the only rough edges being your unrequited feelings for him.

You sometimes wondered if it was crossing some sort of metaphorical barrier of friendship though. You slowly picked up on him not talking to other girls, him calling and texting you even more so than he already used to, his body usually as close to yours as possible when you were together, and you would be lying if you said that you didn’t let your heart think about what it all meant.

The annoying thing was that you beat yourself up over it, allowing your mind to drift into places that Brock never put you in, in the first place. He never did anything to make you feel not good enough for him, so why did you suddenly feel like that’s what it was?

You hadn’t been able to watch the game that night, getting in late from work as you rushed from your office back to where Brock lived, where you used to live. You had seen the score though, and you knew the Canucks lost, and you were anxiously awaiting Brock’s Facetime to talk it out with him.

Brock always called you after bad games, or away games. There was something soothing in your ability to ground him, you listened to him, never offering advice if it wasn’t warranted, but you held him accountable to his game. He loved that about you, you had taken the time to learn him, memorizing everything about the inner workings of his mind to a point where he was unsure of if anyone would ever compare to you. Brock wanted you, more than anything, but what you had was so valuable that he wasn’t sure if it was worth the risk of losing. So instead, he took what he could get from you, and tried his best to give you everything you needed in return. He knew he was setting himself up for heartbreak down the line, but he didn’t care, so he kept dialing your number, with no intentions of stopping.

You picked up on the third ring, switching the call to facetime. Brock’s heart swelling in his chest, seeing you there in his condo, with his dog laying on you. He was selfishly getting too used to it, coming home to you, so much so that he found himself missing you when he would find stray items of yours scattered around. The hair ties in the bathroom, or the smell of your shampoo on his pillows. He knew he was falling, hard, and every time he came home to you, he found it harder and harder to restrain. Li

“Hey,” you said, eyes soft as you took in his appearance. He was in a hotel room, the dim lighting, and bad decor a giveaway. He looked tired, as you scanned his face you saw the large gash on his cheek, flecks of bruising starting to appear around it.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” You rushed out, instantly worried. You hadn’t seen anything about him getting injured, and even if it was just a cut, you felt a tugging on your chest, needing to know he was okay.

“Yeah, yeah I’m okay, just a high stick. My shoulder is a bit sore though, I took some bad hits.” He said, voice calm and reassuring. Brock was the type of guy who didn’t like to complain, he didn’t want people worrying about him, so he tended to brush things off, instead of focusing on what others needed. It was one of your favorite things about him, how selfless he was, but sometimes you needed him to take care of himself. You never said anything though, because it wasn’t your place to tell Brock how to react or not react to things that happened to him, especially if they were in his career. It was your job to be there as his friend and support him when he needed it, so that’s what you did night after night, facetime calls going so late into the night, often falling asleep next to one another on-screen.

“Tell me about your day though, could use the distraction.” He smiled. You could tell that something was off with him, maybe it was that he didn’t want to worry you with his pain, or maybe something else happened and he didn’t want to talk about it. Brock rarely asked for a distraction, he was always forthcoming with you, so him not wanting to talk about what happened bothered you, more so than it probably should have.

You bit your lip, glancing away from the camera slightly before looking back at him, short enough that you didn’t think he would notice. The truth was that you didn’t have a good day, you found out that you were going to be unable to go home for Christmas, something you had been looking forward to since moving to Vancouver.

Brock noticed something was wrong as soon as you picked up the call and switched it to facetime. You looked tired, your eyes heavy, the room dark with just the small lamp by his couch illuminating your face. He still thought you were beautiful, his mind reeling when he noticed you were wearing one of his sweatshirts, something that you did often that he never grew tired of. He saw you bite your lip and look away, something that you had a tendency to do when something was wrong. He softened a bit, waiting to see if you would bring it up with him. When you didn’t answer right away, he said your name softly and you turned, offering him a small but not quite all there smile in return.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked. You looked at Brock, not necessarily surprised at how he picked up on your shift in mood. You felt your eyes well up with tears, partially from the news from today, partially because you were simply exhausted, and partially because you missed him. He had been gone almost a week now and you were missing him more than you knew you should for being just his friend. Being in his condo, sleeping in his bed, the scent of him everywhere, it felt too intimate and you were beginning to get overwhelmed by what it all meant.

“I can’t go home for Christmas.” you softly said, him frowning slightly in return.

Brock knew how much that trip meant to you. You loved the holidays and you had been telling him for weeks how excited you were to go home and bake with your mom, go out to the tree farm and cut down the perfect tree with your dad, and just be around your family that you hadn’t seen in months. He also knew that most of the people you were close to in the city probably weren’t staying in the city for the holidays, and his heart ached at the thought of you spending Christmas alone.

“I’ll stay with you.” He said, voice small as if he was afraid this was too much, or the wrong thing to do.

“No, Brock you can’t, what about your dad?” You frowned, knowing how important going back to Minnesota whenever he could was to him. Brock picked up the phone, adjusting it on his pillow as he shifted around in the bed.

“I’ll just go home for All-Star break, it’s only a few more weeks, they’ll understand.”

“Brock-” you tried, him cutting you off quickly.

“I want to stay, let me.” He sounded so sincere, and you couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by it. You knew Brock cared about you, he always made you feel like you were one of the most important people in his life, but volunteering to stay with you for Christmas because he felt bad you couldn’t go home was heartwarming in a way that you couldn’t describe. You felt light tears pricking in the corner of your eyes, the relief from knowing you wouldn’t be alone during your favorite time of the year making you emotional.

You propped the phone on the coffee table in front of you and pulled one of the sleeves of the sweatshirt down to wipe your eyes. Smiling softly at Brock who was watching you carefully, taking in your movements, hoping that you wouldn’t fight him on this.

“Okay.” was all you could manage, the tears slipping out quicker.

“Good, because I really think I need to make my trainer mad by eating a whole batch of those gingerbread cookies you have been raving about for a month.” Brock joked, trying to lighten the mood. He hated seeing you cry and it was even more distressing to him when you were alone in his condo, him a thousand miles away unable to do anything about it.

You smiled at his joke, nodding your head at his words. Words couldn’t describe how appreciative you were of Brock, and a few weeks later when Christmas did roll around, you baked him two batches of those gingerbread cookies, watching in enamored amusement as he tried to shape them into various shapes. You were treading down a slippery slope with Brock, one that you were terrified of as the train raced down the track, headed toward the sharp curve of your heart, a curve that you weren’t sure the train could withstand.

---------

January came and went, with you busying yourself with your last semester of classes, and Brock going home over the All-Star break, you felt like you hadn’t seen him in a while. It was the busiest month for both of you, with the Canucks mostly out of town for away games, the only times you truly got to see Brock were when he would come back to his condo late from roadies, carefully slipping himself into the bed next to you, softly murmured “hellos” before you both drifted back to sleep.

It was agonizing in a way, this back of forth with Brock, you were friends, but ever since Christmas, it had felt like more. You were almost sure he was going to kiss you that night, the tree illuminated in the background, joking around about hanging mistletoe up. And you let yourself stand there in front of him, prepared to take what felt like a long-overdue step in the confines of your relationship and it just never came. Brock never leaned in to kiss you that night, and you had carefully replayed the entire scenario over and over in your head wondering why he didn’t.

But now it was late February, and you were running late from work getting to Brock’s birthday party. You had been excited about this the whole week, feeling like you hadn’t had that many great opportunities to spend quality time with him. You were in the throws of midterm exams and a big project deadline at work, simply catching glimpses of him in late-night Facetime calls or the occasional morning coffee runs together if he didn’t have a morning skate or practice scheduled that day.

You had felt something shift since he spent Christmas with you, a dynamic in your friendship that felt slightly different. You didn’t know how to describe it, but the thoughts of him as more than your friend were getting stronger, more evident in the way that you thought about him. You were scared that maybe he could see your feelings, as if they were like a neon sign lit up in a window, the window protecting the piece of your heart that you hadn’t given to him.

You felt anxious as you left work, time slipping away from you as you sent Brock a quick text, apologizing for being late, and that you’d be there soon. You walked down the streets of downtown Vancouver, holding your arms close to your chest to keep yourself warm from the late winter breeze as you headed toward the bar where you knew everyone was.

Brock had been anxiously awaiting your arrival at the bar, knowing you were leaving a work meeting that had gone on a bit later than you anticipated. Most of his friends were there, mingling amongst each other in the dimly lit setting as they began celebrating Brock’s birthday, drinks freely flowing. He was waiting at the bar, saving a drink just for you for when you got there, knowing that you were the one he wanted to see. He watched carefully as he saw your figure come into view, you tucking your ID back into your bag and looking around for anyone you recognized. He was just about to raise his hand to try to get your attention when he saw you run into Quinn, instantly pulling him into a quick hug that Brock told himself he wasn’t allowed to be jealous over.

“You should tell her.” Brock looked over at the voice, Elias walking into the bar to get a refill of his drink. Brock just watched as the bartender handed him a new drink, Petey bringing it up to his lips to take a sip. When Brock made no move to respond to his friend, Elias spoke up once more.

“You should tell her how you feel.” He clarified, shifting his eyes slightly to where you were standing, just outside of earshot from where they were leaning against the dark wooden bar counter. Brock followed his gaze to where you were, looking at you. You must have just gotten there, your coat still wrapped tightly around your shoulders, cheeks, and nose slightly flushed from the strangely cold February night.

You were laughing at something that Quinn was saying, a genuine smile reaching your eyes. He would do anything to be the one to make you smile all of the time, harboring feelings that no one should have for someone who was supposed to be just a friend. If he really thought about it, he could rationalize that maybe you felt the same way, that the lingering looks you gave him as he told you about something important to him, the lines crossed after nights out where you’d wake up in his bed with your legs entangled together, all were indications that you wanted him in all of the ways he wanted you.

He was about to deny it, words tumbling out along the lines of “We’re just friends” to Petey that he had said so many times before, unsure of who he was trying to convince at this point. But before he could stop looking, you turned, catching his gaze, and offered him a small smile. The moment was quick as you turned your attention back to what Quinn was saying, but Brock was mesmerized by the small upturn of your lips.

“Brock.” Petey tried, looking at his friend who was so hopelessly in love with you that it didn’t even surprise anyone anymore. Brock pulled the cap from his head, running his hand through his blonde hair before putting it back on, trying to shake off the moment that had just happened.

“There’s nothing to tell, we’re just friends.” He laughed, desperately trying to believe it himself. It was so much easier if you truly were just friends, and if he had to repeat that statement a million times for it to be true, and for him to forget about the feelings he had for you, he would. He couldn’t lose you, and if that meant mentally locking up his heart when it came to you, that’s something he was willing to do.

“You two are something else.” Petey shrugged, leaving the counter with his drink. Brock quickly finished his vodka-soda, nodding to the bartender for a refill. He felt the alcohol starting to take effect on his body, watching as you slowly work your way through the crowd of his teammates toward him, stopping and saying hello as you passed by.

“Hey, birthday boy.” You smiled, walking right into Brock’s open arms. He hugged you close, resting his chin on your head for a moment before leaning back to grab you a drink. The bar in downtown Vancouver was busy even by a Friday night standard. The season had somehow worked out in Brock’s favor that year, with only a practice scheduled the morning of his birthday, and a day off the day after. He held you close for a moment, taking in the scent of your perfume and the presence of your body wrapped in his. He was already a few drinks in, feelings for you bubbling up to the surface from the haziness of the alcohol.

He handed you a vodka soda, letting his eyes scan your body quickly. You were wearing black booties and a pair of black skinny jeans that hugged your hips nicely. You had a navy blue sweater on, the dainty gold necklace that you always wore peeking through the collar. You had just come from work, not having time to change before heading to the party everyone was having for Brock’s birthday. You smiled at your best friend, chuckling slightly to yourself as you saw how hazy his eyes were from the drinks.

“Got you something, Boes.” you said, digging into your bag to pull out a small box, wrapped in blue paper. Brock looked from your eyes to the box, smiling widely as he slipped it from your fingers.

“A present? From my favorite girl?” He said, grinning widely. You felt a blush rise to your cheeks as he pulled you into his arms, pressing a sloppy drunk kiss to your temple, something that was a bit more than friendly and had your mind racing. Your skin feeling hot from his touch, even through your sweater, your silly little crush on your friend rising to the surface from his overly affectionate tipsy actions.

“Open it!” You beamed, taking a long sip of your drink. Brock quickly unwrapped the box, the curve of his lips tilting upwards as he looked inside.

“These are amazing, I love them.” He said, looking at the silver cufflinks you got him, engraved with a small outline of Coolie on each one. You thought the idea was kind of silly when you bounced it around with Petey, him reassuring you that this was exactly the type of sentimental but useful gift that Brock would love. Brock pulled you into another hug, letting his arm linger on your body as people started filtering through to wish him a happy birthday. You let your guard down, drinking arguably too much with your best friend, your head spinning faster each time his hands lingered on your body.

“Are you coming back to my place?” He asked, smiling once again at you. You nodded, curling your body back into his arm, that was loosely hanging over your shoulder. His breath was hot on your ear as he smiled wide at your wordless answer. You felt butterflies at the question that was only loaded in your head and going with a surge of bravery you reached up and laced your fingers through his, a move that earned you another soft kiss to your temple, and Brock’s sparkling drunk eyes looking at you fondly. You both ignored the looks from the others as you left the bar like that, hand in hand walking back to his condo, drunken giggles, and incoherent secrets spilled between you.

The walk back to the familiar building was quick and one you had taken many times before moving out, fond memories of nights out with Brock entering your mind as you stepped into the lobby.

“It’s still weird coming back here and not going into my place.” You said, walking into the elevator Brock trailing behind you, hand still laced tightly in yours. He pulled you flush against his chest, facing the mirror on the back of the elevator, looking at himself holding you, something he never wanted to stop doing.

“I miss just walking over to your place in the middle of the night.” He frowned, remembering the day you moved out.

“Mmm, me too babe, me too,” you mumbled into his jacket, the pet name slipping from your lips before you could reel it back in. Brock finally let go of you when the elevator doors opened, following your lead as you walked toward his front door. He fumbled with his keys as he heard his dog running toward the door at the sound of you and him waiting outside. When he slid the key in the lock, you pushed the door open, drunken giggles and Coolie’s whining filling the silence.

“Coolie, my favorite boy!” You said, tumbling into Brock’s condo, getting down on the floor to allow his dog to jump all over you in excitement. Brock laughed, walking into the kitchen and pulling out two glasses from the cupboard, filling each one with water. He came around the counter, reaching a hand down to help you up to your feet, you crashing into his chest, giggling.

You took the glass of water from the counter, drinking it slowly as you walked toward Brock’s bedroom, entering his closet to pull out a shirt for yourself to sleep in for the night. It didn’t even phase Brock how you walked around as if you lived there, because deep down he spent a lot of nights thinking about it. Whenever he was on a roadie, he knew you were there, watching his dog, sleeping in his bed, and it drove him crazy.

“Have I ever told you how much I love your bed?” You groaned, plopping yourself on top of the bed, crawling underneath the covers. Brock laughed in return, tossing his shirt to the floor and getting in next to you. He pulled you into his chest, the atmosphere in the room shifting to something more serious. You tried to focus on his face and the way he was looking at you, but all you could feel was your heart beating in your ears as his fingers danced softly along the top of your hip, sliding his shirt that was draped on your body just enough to show skin. You needed to do something to break the silence, to pull his stare away from you before you did something that you might regret.

“Did you have a good birthday?” You whispered, hoping that he couldn’t hear the steady thumping in your chest. Brock smiled again, his whole facial expression getting softer the more he looked at you.

“The best.” He whispered back, leaning in and pressing the softest of kisses to the corner of your mouth, lips almost touching yours. Your breath caught in your throat, the moment passing as quickly as he did it. Brock tightened his arm around you, leaning his head into your shoulder. You lay frozen there, with Brock draped over your body as you struggled to breathe. Brock’s almost kiss sending you into a spiral of thoughts, instantly making your heart race. It wasn’t until you felt his hot breath on your neck, and heard his snores in your ear that you were able to calm down enough, drifting to sleep, neither of you remembering or mentioning the almost kiss by the time you woke up.

The next morning, your eyes felt heavy, your head pounding as you tried to block out the sun coming in from Brock’s windows, the floor to ceiling windows normally offering your favorite view of the city shining sunlight that was far too bright for anyone who had that much to drink the night before to deal with. You groaned, feeling Brock’s arm wrapped securely around your waist, no memory of how you got into this position with him from the night before.

“Brock.” You shifted, trying to move out from under his arm. He groaned in response, pulling you even closer into his chest. You were overwhelmed by the situation you were in, Brock’s legs entangled with yours, his arm sprawled over your middle, his head in the crook of your neck. You felt more vulnerable with each thump of your quickening heartbeat, holding your breath while you pieced together the night before. You and Brock had slept in the same bed before, you were adults and friends. Sometimes after a night out, the two of you would stumble drunkenly back to his condo, wordlessly sinking into his bed together to sleep off whatever the drinks of choice were for the occasion. This felt different, you’d never woken up completely consumed by him, your bodies close together. It felt too intimate for your relationship, his arms too closely holding your body, his lips mere centimeters away from peppering light kisses into your neck.

You found yourself daydreaming about what it would be like to wake up like this every morning, feeling secure and content in Brock’s arms. You could easily picture a slow morning where you’re woken up in the late morning to soft kisses, running your hands through his hair while you come close together. It wasn’t that far off from where you were now with him, only you couldn’t just wake him up and kiss him, and the realization sent you spiraling into your own heart with feelings you had so desperately tried to keep at bay for months. You needed space, you needed to get out of his grasp and forget about how good it felt to be with him, even if it was only for a moment of consciousness.

“Brock.” You said more firmly this time, you shook his arm slightly and he seemed to realize what was going on. His eyes fluttered open and for a moment he looked at you, there in his arms and it was the best feeling he had experienced in a long time. Something so simple as being wrapped up in you sent him over the edge, tumbling through his feelings like a boat on rocky water.

He pulled himself from you, running a hand through his hair as he watched you get out of his bed, eyes lingering down your body. His heart was pounding, and his mind racing as you stretched slowly in front of him, his t-shirt you had borrowed from the night before riding up your thighs slightly. He let himself imagine for a moment what it would be like to pull you back into bed, fingers laced together while you’re underneath him, needing only each other.

“Fuck.” he cursed, trying to rid himself of the image he created.

“What?” You laughed, turning to look at Brock. He had a hand stretched out over his face as he groaned.

“Just a headache, one too many vodka sodas.” He joked, sliding his hand through his hair before smiling at you. You smiled back, your eyes soft as you focus on him. It felt like something more, the way you looked at him.

“Well, Boes, I’m starving, think I need some of your famous eggs.” You grin at him, the moment passing just as quickly as it began.

---------

Brock steps onto the ice, knocking over a few pucks that are stacked up on the bench next to the tunnel before beginning his usual warm-up lap. It’s game one of the first round of playoffs, the Canucks entering as the wild-card this year. He was absolutely buzzing with nerves for the first game, the energy in Rogers Arena already different than it was for normal home games.

It was still early, but the arena was already filling up with fans.

He was focusing on his pregame rituals, but still taking his time to read the signs that kids had taken the time to write, stopping every so often to toss a puck in their direction. He took glances over at the other end of the ice, where the San Jose Sharks were warming up for the game, flashes of video of their games running through his head as he focussed on getting mentally checked into the game.

He was pleasantly surprised when he skated by and sees you behind the player’s bench a few minutes into warmups, pre-game nerves for the playoffs settling in, but somehow slowly evaporating when he realizes you're there. You’re smiling brightly at him, offering a small nod as he noticed you. He quickly glances toward the young girl next to you, holding your hand. Brock quickly picked up a puck on his stick, bouncing it around before catching it in his right hand. He mouthed something to you that you didn’t quite catch, but before you could ask he was tossing the puck in your direction. You caught it, watching Brock as he smiled at your niece and waved.

“Is that the one?” Your sister-in-law teased as you reached down, and handed the puck to your five-year-old niece. You sighed, knowing exactly where she was headed with this conversation.

“We’re just friends.” You tried, not knowing who you were trying to convince more at this point. Your crush on Brock had developed into full-on feelings, and sometimes you were almost sure that he could sense the way you reacted to him. You hadn’t admitted your feelings to anyone, hoping that if you kept them guarded close to your chest that you would eventually move on and stop daydreaming about your best friend. But it seemed like almost everyone was onto your scheme, poking fun at your dynamic with each other every chance they got. No matter how many times it happened, you couldn’t help but feel a slight pinch in your chest each time Brock brushed off their comments. Your heart sinking every time he laughed the words,

“We’re just friends.” To someone.

Holly came down after warmups, just before the game was set to start, a smirk present on your face as she held her hands behind her back.

“Okay, what’s that face for?” You rolled your eyes, knowing Holly it could be anything. She pulled her hands in front of her to reveal a denim jacket resembling her own. You looked at it, noticing Boeser clearly written on the back, details surrounding his name of things you knew and loved about him. One thing that caught your eye, was the small patch on the top right corner, just where one of the seams aligned with the shoulder. You widened your eyes at your small initials embroidered into the corner.

“Well, what do you think?” She smiled brightly handing the jacket to your shaking hands. You didn't know what to think. You weren’t Brock’s girlfriend, Holly knew this. Holly also knew about your long harbored crush for him, feelings that had been spinning out of control lately, a wag jacket doing nothing to help them go away.

Your sister in law looked at you, a knowing smirk evident on her face as she bounced your niece in her lap.

“Holly…” You trailed off, unsure of if it was even appropriate for you to be wearing something like this, endless questions racing through your mind, wondering if Brock even knew about this, and worse, if he did, what would he say. You ran your fingers over the stitching on the jacket, letting your heart think for just a moment about what it would be like to wear this if you were actually his girlfriend.

“Well, put it on. I want to see.” you sighed at her demand, stomach filling with nerves as you placed the jacket over your sweater, the fit perfect on your frame. You felt like people were staring, it was obvious what that jacket symbolized and even most casual fans knew who Holly was, being that her husband was the captain of the team. The last thing you wanted to do was end up all over Twitter as “Brock Boeser’s girl spotted” or something like that. Not only would it be embarrassing, but your feelings were already growing stronger, like ivy settling into a trellis, weaving its way through the spaces while the beautiful leaves slip out, and you didn’t need those leaves present to the entirety of hockey Twitter right before an important series for Brock.

“God, he’s going to have a heart attack when he sees you. Poor guy probably won’t make it.” She said, taking a sip of her drink and settling down into the seat, the other girls slowly started to fill the friends and family section down by the ice. You felt exposed, standing there in a matching jacket knowing that so many of the girls knew you weren’t Brock’s girlfriend.

“Wait, he doesn’t know?” You exclaimed, making a move to slide the jacket off of your shoulders, embarrassment clouding your judgment, and turning your cheeks a bright color as you felt the temperature of the arena shift. The lights began to dim and the Canucks opening graphics started to appear on the ice, you instantly shrugging back into your seat when you saw Brock skate out with the rest of the opening lineup, eyes searching the crowd for you as he stood there next to his linemates. He offered a small smile toward you, nodding slightly before focussing his attention back on the ice as you waited for the anthems to start. You tried to ignore the way the jacket felt on your body the rest of the game, ignoring how the meaning of wearing it felt as time progressed.

It was late in the third when Brock scored a goal, pulling the team ahead 2-1. You jumped up and cheered loudly along with the girls as he skated right up to the glass in front of you with his linemates. When the celebration broke and he skated along the bench, bumping fists with his teammates, he looked at you the entire time, smiling brightly. He didn’t notice the jacket, too focussed on your smiling face, and the momentum shift as his goal pushed the Canucks in the lead as he skated by, the goal ending up as the game-winner for the opening night of the first-round series against the Sharks.

You shuffled out of the stands, saying goodnight to your sister-in-law and niece before following Holly down to the tunnels, a text from Brock burning a hole into your hand as you read it.

Wait for me? It read.

The words twisting in your mind as you tried to decipher what they meant. It could be nothing, but you couldn’t help but feel a shift in the air as you wore his last name on your back, standing amongst all of the other wives and girlfriends. You tried to push the feelings down, shoving them back into the box whose wood was splintering more and more lately, feelings for Brock tumbling out of the cracks. You couldn’t even deny it anymore, you liked him, and it terrified you in a way that you couldn’t explain, and wearing his name on your back was doing nothing to help you push the problem away.

You tapped your foot anxiously as you stood around with the rest of the girls waiting for him. You felt a bit out of place, being there among all of the wives and girlfriends, but Holly had stuck by your side, welcoming you with open arms, and a big surprise that you were now wearing.

The denim jacket hung loosely over your shoulders, Boeser embossed on the back, the number 6 stitched on the right arm. You felt a bit strange about it at first, not wanting to cross another boundary with Brock, the lines seemingly becoming blurrier and blurrier as the last few months wound down. You told yourself it was just playoffs, this was standard, and you knew Brock wasn’t seeing anyone, in fact, as far as you knew, he hadn’t been talking to anyone for months. You tried your best to ignore what that meant, to tell yourself it was just a coincidence that the two of you had started spending even more time together.

Brock exited the locker room, his hair was still slightly damp from the shower, his navy blue suit back on his body. He was riding a post game-high, and the feelings only escalated when he saw you standing off to the side. Your bag was draped across your arm, foot lightly tapping on the ground as your eyes looked around the hallway. His breath came to a stop when he realized what you were wearing.

Draped over your shoulders was a light wash denim jacket, one that he instantly recognized as the infamous wag jackets. His eyes darkened as he scanned your body, gaze lingering on the number 6 on your right arm, his number. He took the final steps toward you, wrapping your body into his as you realized it was him there to greet you.

You looked up at him, instinctively tossing a hand up to his slightly damp hair, his arm wrapped around your waist as he hugged you.

“That’s a nice jacket.” He said, leaning his head in, resting his forehead against yours, causing your cheeks to flush and your heart to rapidly beat in your chest. You didn’t know what he was doing, but something about the darkness of his eyes, and the softness of his voice removed you from where you were. All you could focus on was him, not the tunnel, not the other players and wags shuffling out of the arena, it was just you and Brock.

“Yeah? Thought I’d represent my favorite guy.” You whispered, leaning in ever so slightly, shaking with nerves and hoping that you weren’t misreading the situation. This was it, Brock was finally going to kiss you, and you weren’t entertaining any of your head’s thoughts of stopping it.

“I’d hope that’s my last name on the back.” He said, the tone of his voice lower, eyes reflecting something darker that you hadn’t seen before. Your cheeks were probably red by now, your heart was beating in your throat, and butterflies were swirling deep in your stomach as you both leaned in. The moment was agonizingly slow. You felt your eyes flutter shut, preparing yourself for a kiss that you had spent months waiting to happen.

“Boes! You forgot this!” Jake yelled, and Brock pulled away from you quickly, recovering instantly as if the moment never happened. Your heart sank, and your stomach filled with another emotion, one that you tried to avoid thinking about as you hung the jacket up in your closet later that night, coming to the realization that he didn’t want to kiss you, rather he must have just been caught up in the moment.

Neither of you mentioned the almost kiss, instead it was added to the overstuffed box of moments that you swore he felt what you were feeling, only to be locked away collecting dust as you waited for a kiss that at this point you were beginning to feel like would never come.

The Canucks unfortunately were knocked out of the first round, your heart aching as you watched the final seconds of the sixth game on tv, knowing that Brock was probably beating himself up over the missed breakaway chance from earlier in the period that would have tied it and sent it to overtime. You watched sadly as the Canucks skated off the ice, seeing Brock with his head down as he left quickly.

Your heart ached for him and the rest of the team, knowing how hard they had worked to get to that spot only to be eliminated so early on. You opened up your text thread with him, fingers hovering over the keyboard as you questioned how to offer your support when he most likely didn’t even want that right now. Before you could come up with some attempt at empathy for what he was feeling, your phone buzzed in your hand, his name flashing on the screen indicating a text.

“Going to try to sleep off the bad mood, we land at 8:30 tomorrow.” The text read. You just sent three blue heart emojis back, not knowing what to say, wishing that you could comfort him but knowing that he just wanted to be left alone. You couldn’t pretend that it didn’t sting. You wanted to be the person he went to for everything, and while you knew you were practically that person already, him not opening up to you now had you feeling like it was a reassurance that he didn’t feel the same. Your brain is trying to convince you that if he did have feelings, he would want to talk to you.

The official end of the season also meant that you knew your time with Brock was dwindling down as he prepared to go back to his hometown for the summer, something you were selfishly dreading. Going a few days without Brock usually felt too long, and you selfishly didn’t know how you’d handle not being able to see him every day. With how close you had grown in the months since meeting him, and how wrapped up in him you had somehow let yourself fall, you couldn’t imagine what this summer would be like with him gone.

Brock got back into Vancouver the next morning, coffee and pastries in hand as he came into his condo, relaxing as soon as he saw you and Coolie curled up on the couch. You were wrapped in the throw blanket, head leaning awkwardly on the back of the couch with Coolie curled up next to you. Your favorite show was softly playing on the TV in the background, a now cold cup of tea sitting on the coffee table in front of you.

He went into his room, dropping his bags near the closet and grabbing some fresh sweats and a shirt to wear, Coolie noticing and jumping off the couch to follow him. He reached down, greeting his dog with affection before walking back out to the living room. He slipped onto the couch next to you, pulling the blankets over enough to cover himself, nudging you softly until your eyes fluttered open to meet his.

“You’re back.” You said, voice slightly groggy from sleeping. Brock reached up and put his arm around you, motioning you to lay down on his lap. You smiled, curling yourself into him and adjusting your position so that you were able to lay on his lap. His arm adjusted, resting over your stomach, his hand just close enough to yours that you almost reached up and threaded your fingers through his. His other hand softly playing with your hair, actions feeling like they were blurring a line to the point of almost crossing it, but not taking the final step.

He didn’t say anything in return, instead looking down at you with a smile. You could tell he was upset, the reality of the season-ending finally kicking in now that he was home. But he made no move or indication that he was wanting to discuss it, probably earning an earful from the coach anyways. Instead, the two of you settled into the spot there, your show playing on the tv with both of your minds drifting to each other, wondering if the quickening paces of your hearts were normal or just an illusion of the feelings unspoken between you.

A few hours later, you found yourself in a different position, your feet were feet propped up into his lap, one of his hands was resting securely on one of your shins as he scrolled through his phone with the other. It was quiet, the two of you finally up and awake from the nap you took together when he came back, and you knew the inevitable talk of him leaving was coming.

You didn’t want to talk about it, and if you had your way, Brock would be staying in Vancouver this summer with you. But, you weren’t his girlfriend, and it was unreasonable to allow your mind to drift to that place, no matter how many times you thought to yourself that he must feel the same, only to be let down by nothing ever-progressing past friendship between you.

You didn’t know how much longer you could handle it, the underlying feelings every time his skin touched yours, the times where it felt like he was so close to finally kissing you, only to pull back and stop himself. You didn’t know what to do, your heart and mind battling back and forth with your mind begging you to distance yourself, trying to tell you that it was good he would be gone for a few months, and your heart telling you to keep as close to him as possible.

“So, when are you going home?” Your voice broke the silence. You spoke quietly, trying to hide the hint of sadness in your voice at the idea of him leaving. Brock looked up from his phone, locking it and setting it down on the coffee table before he squeezed your shin reassuringly.

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about that.” He started with a hint of nervousness in his voice. You leaned up, propping yourself up on the pillows to look at him, nodding at him to continue.

“Do you want to come home with me?” His question startled you and sent your mind slipping down a runway that you didn’t understand. The question felt loaded yet natural at the same time. Going home with him meant meeting his family, spending time with the people he cared the most about, and you didn’t know how to process what exactly he was asking of you.

You were just Brock’s friend, what would his family assume when he brought you home? Did they know about you? The questions were circling in your mind, causing you to freeze for a moment before being able to answer his question.

“Brock, what do you mean?” you asked.

“I know the last couple of months have been hard, with graduation and your job winding down, and I also know that I can’t imagine spending months away from you. I thought it would be nice to show you where I’m from, get you away from the city for a bit. You’d love it there.” Your heart fluttered at his words, overtaking every inner thought that your mind was screaming at you. Your head was telling you to say no, that this was most definitely a clear boundary that shouldn’t be crossed. But your heart was running through every red light, every traffic signal placed there by your head, telling you to turn around and stay in Vancouver.

You placed your hand over his and he instinctively flipped his hand over and threaded his fingers into yours. It was a small gesture, but one that sent your heart into absolute overdrive, killing off any willpower that your head was trying to preserve.

“I’d love to.” You answered, leaving your hand entangled with his for a moment as you watched his smile grow, a weight seemingly lifting from his shoulders. He looked happy, and you would have done anything to make him happy.

---------

Spending time with Brock in Minnesota was something that you didn’t know you needed. You felt like you were seeing a different side of him, one that you knew was there but that you hadn’t had the privilege to see before. He was more at ease around his family, always in a relaxed state of mind no matter what was going on around him.

You watched him with his dad, sitting out on the dock next to one another. The hot sun casting a beautiful sheen onto the lake water outback. Brock’s hair was getting lighter, his skin getting tanner with each passing week, and you found yourself falling even more in love with him than you already were. Watching him with his family changed something in you, you knew you had feelings before, but for the first time since discovering them, you wanted to do something about it.

There had been so many instances since being in Minnesota where you’d be there with Brock, so close to leaning in and finally crossing that boundary, showing him how you felt. But something stopped you every time, fear.

You continued looking out at the dock, watching as Brock sat with his dad. You loved this side of Brock, seeing him so at ease with one of the people that mattered most to him. You knew Brock was happy in Vancouver, and that he was working hard on contract negotiations to stay, but Brock in his hometown was a different side of him, one that you felt privileged to be able to see.

Your eyes lingered on the sky, bright stars filling the vast dark space, the moon illuminating a reflection against the water as you laid next to Brock on the small boat. Your head comfortably resting on his chest, his arm around your shoulders. It was another shift in closeness with him that had occurred over the short week you had been in Minnesota. Something between you had changed, and despite knowing everything you thought you could know about Brock, you found yourself wanting to know more. Each touch sends you closer to admitting your own feelings to him out loud, only to stop yourself short by the worry of losing the best thing in your life that you had.

“He’s happy you’re here, you know?” His mom’s voice startled you, her stepping onto the patio where you were, taking a seat at the small table outback, a drink in her hand. You looked at her curiously, replaying the words over in your head. Something about her tone had you feeling like there was more weight to them.

“I’m happy too.” You smiled, trying to keep your composure. It wasn’t that his family made you nervous, but you wanted to keep having a good impression on them because they were important to Brock.

“You can tell him, he feels the same way.” Her voice was distant, ringing in your ear as the words hit you like a force of air rushing through your lungs. You watched as she looked over at her husband and son, smiling softly, before looking back to you. You were frozen in time, hand firmly on your glass as you circled through her words in your head, dancing around the idea of taking them to heart.

“Just something to consider.” She said, standing back up and walking inside, leaving you to your thoughts.

You felt something bubbling up to the surface, feelings that you had tried for so long to keep in a box tucked away. Albeit, you were doing a poor job as of late, but something about what his mom said to you had you thinking about it, taking the chance on Brock, something you’d been telling yourself you don’t need to do for longer than you could remember. You were terrified, even if he did feel the same, that it wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t work out and you’d be left alone, in a city that you grew to love because of his company, shattered while you were left to pick up the pieces alone. But you also knew that you couldn’t keep going the way that you had, the two of you dancing around something that had been seemingly so obvious for so long, mere inches from one of you taking the plunge.

Brock caught your eye from across the yard, a gorgeous smile on his face as he made eye contact with you, eyes squinting slightly from the sun, skin glowing. Something about the way that he looked at you at that moment had everything come crashing to a head for you, and you knew his mom was telling the truth. You knew Brock was just as in love with you as you were with him, and maybe if you let your guard down long enough, your own fears would be powerless to stop it.

A few hours later you found yourself outside with Brock, the two of you in a comfortable silence as the pinks and oranges flashed through the sky, the sun beginning to set and moon beginning to rise. You had been thinking about what his mom said to you all day, about him feeling the way you felt, willing yourself to just reach out and take his hand, lacing your fingers together like you had done so many times before, only this time the meaning would be more.

Brock stood up, his sudden movement startling you from your thoughts as he reached his hand out for yours. For a moment, you wondered if he was in your head, taking the leap that you had been wavering back and forth over for quite some time now.

“Come on, I wanna take you on the water.” He said. You tentatively reached out and placed your hand in his, allowing him to pull you up as he threaded your fingers together leading you toward the small boat that was at the dock. He helped guide you over the ledge, using his hands to steady your hips when the boat lurched underneath your legs as you climbed on. You looked around, noticing the pile of pillows and blankets scattered on the floor of the boat deck, a bottle of your favorite wine visible.

Brock kept his hands steady on your hips for a few seconds as you adjusted to the movement of the water, your eyes curiously wandering around the small scene he had set up, fully intending to take you out for a nice sunset ride on the water.

“What’s all this?” You asked, feeling your stomach begin to fill with butterflies that Brock had given you so many times up until this point. He just looked at you, a fond smile present on his face while he reached his hand up from your hip, slowly guiding it toward the back of your neck to cradle your head in his hand. You thought, once again that this would be the moment where he would finally kiss you, but instead, you felt his lips touch your forehead, and your thoughts of doubt creep back in. You tried to ignore the sinking feeling in your chest as he let your body go, motioning for you to sit down as he got the boat away from the dock, the sun setting in the distance.

The whole time spent navigating to the middle of the lake was quiet but comfortable. You sipping on wine, and Brock steering the boat, sun continuing to set. He had a serious look on his face, and from knowing Brock all of this time, you knew he brought you out here for a reason, one that you only hope would be something good.

He dropped an anchor in the water, keeping the boat steady when he got to a place he liked. It was beautiful, the water of the lake a gorgeous deep blue, the dark trees casting shadows onto the water as the sun disappeared from the horizon, the moon taking its place in the night. Brock came over to where you were sitting, laying down next to you and watching the stars. He was quiet, deep in thought as you looked at him.

“Brock,” you started. He turned to face you, leaning up slightly and opening his arms, a silent ask for you to lean into him. You laid down, resting your head onto his chest, on hand sprawled out on his stomach. He reacted quickly, one of his arms wrapping around you, holding you as close to him as possible, fingers pulling slightly on the ends of your hair. He pressed a soft kiss to your head, another action that sent your mind fluttering with worry as you waited for him to speak. The two of you resting in that position, holding each other while the night continued on.

“I got an offer today.” Brock’s voice broke the silence, vibrating through his chest as he spoke, his hand absentmindedly playing with the tips of your hair. You knew what he was talking about, it was part of the reason you had come with him back home in the first place. Brock was up for a contract in Vancouver, something he desperately wanted, but he also knew that anything is possible in the league, and things can change quickly. You lifted your head up to look at him, pressing your hand into his chest for balance.

“Where?” You asked, voice small. You didn’t want to let yourself think about what would happen if Brock left Vancouver, and you had managed to push the thought away for weeks. In your mind, Vancouver had to work out, and maybe that was selfish of you to think, but you didn’t care. You knew how much he loved the city and believed in that team, not to mention the friends he had. Moving somewhere would be devastating for him, and you didn’t know how to process what that could do to your friendship if it would even survive at all.

“Nashville.” He hummed, threading his hand through your hair, resting on the back of your neck. A simple touch, one far too intimate for your supposed dynamic, but that sends chills down your spine.

Your shoulders slumped as you went over what he just said, repeating Nashville in your head a few times, mentally calculating the distance, trying to justify hanging on when he would be almost half a world away. You felt your heart sink completely, silently closing the door to telling him how you felt that night, realizing that if he was leaving, maybe it wasn’t worth the risk at all.

“Oh.” You said. Brock sighed, still holding on to your neck, looking you deep in the eyes.

“I’m still waiting for Vancouver.” He smiled sadly. You looked at him for a moment, recognizing the tenderness in his eyes, the way he was so shakingly trying to keep his worries at bay, to protect you from the possibility that this was your last summer together. You laid your head back onto his chest, focussing your breathing to match his, listening to the steady beat of his heart while you laid there, mulling over the words tumbling through your head.

“Brock?” You whispered, not daring to move.

“Yeah?”

“What happens if you leave? To us?” You tried to sound light, but the shakiness in your voice was difficult to disguise, the only noise surrounding you was the soft rocking of the water, and crickets chirping through the darkness. Brock tightened his arm around you, pulling you further into his chest. It was warm, secure, and for a moment you allowed yourself to drift into a headspace where this was more than it was. Brock was your best friend, but in that moment, you had never felt more sure that all of your feelings were reciprocated, the two of your heartbeats synched.

“Nothing, no matter where I am, you’re too good for me to not be close to.” You tipped your head up at his words, faces mere inches apart.

“Do you mean that?” You whispered, already knowing it was the truth. Brock never was dishonest, he wore his heart on his sleeve and proudly carried around the scars that people who didn’t deserve him left. He gently raised his hand to your cheek, offering a reassurance you needed in his expression, eyes connected with yours.

“Always.”

You instinctively reached up, threading a hand through his blonde hair. The two of you looked at each other for a moment, your eyes glancing down to his lips. The moment is frozen in time, nothing but the late-night cool breeze passing over your skin, raising goosebumps on your arms, but the only sensation you could feel was your heartbeat in your throat, willing you to take the chance. It was now or never, you thought, needing to show him how you felt, how badly you couldn’t handle it if he went to Nashville, leaving you alone in Vancouver without him by your side.

Without processing your next move, or allowing yourself to stop, you leaned up and pulled his head down to meet yours, pressing your lips softly to his for the first time. Brock reacted quickly, leaning further into the kiss, moving his lips against yours. Your mind was on overdrive, and your stomach in knots. You had wanted to kiss Brock since the day you tumbled into his apartment, fresh cookies from your infamous stress baking sessions. But somewhere along the way, he became your best friend, and while the thoughts of kissing him never went away, you locked them into a box tucked deep in the cavities of your heart, in hopes that it would protect you from losing him. By kissing him you had taken an ax to the box, ripping it apart at the seams and allowing the feelings to escape, blind to the pressure that you would come to feel from it all in just hours time.

You tugged on the ends of his hair, the kiss becoming deeper as he pulled you closer to him, every emotion you were both feeling tumbling out from the safe spaces it had been locked in. Brock slowly pulled back, eyes darkened as he looked at you, lips slightly pinker. He had never thought he would get the chance to kiss you, and now that he had, he didn’t think he could ever stop. But, he needed to know you wanted it too, that this wasn’t some fleeting caught up in the moment kiss.

You smiled at him, a smile that he had seen so many times yet could never get enough of. You leaned in, pressing your lips to his jaw slowly, delicately as your fingers pulled through his hair. He could barely breathe, your lips igniting his skin. He needed to feel every inch of you.

“Are you sure?” He hummed out, tilting your head up to look at him once more, a question holding more weight than either of you imagined would happen when heading out into the late summer night on that boat.

“I need you.” was all you said, intently looking at the boy in front of you who had somehow become everything. Brock kissed you quickly, a fire in his eyes and heart that only could be contained by you. You deepened the kiss as he slowly leaned your body back, rolling himself to hover over you. Your hands ran up his chest, settling back into his hair. One of his hands firmly pressed into the dock, steadying himself as his other snaked under the sweatshirt of his you had on, settling on your bare skin just above your hip.

Your breathing started to get heavier as his lips left yours, trailing softly down your neck and collar bones. His hands slowly sliding up your sides, resting just below the line of your bra. He pulled back slightly to look at you, admiring once again how beautiful he thought that you were. You knew what he was going to ask next, Brock was always the type to need clear consent before doing anything. You reached a hand up to his cheek, lifting your head to press your lips to his softly once more.

“It’s okay, you can keep going.” You smiled, thankful for the only light being the moon so that he couldn’t see your flushed cheeks. Brock pulled his hand from your sweatshirt, reaching up to grab yours in his, lacing your fingers together and pressing a soft kiss to the back of your hand, a move that sent butterflies into your stomach.

“Are you sure?” He needed to hear you say it, he needed to make sure this feeling was real, and that he wasn’t just imagining what was about to happen with you. You squeezed his hand softly, words firm as you spoke.

“I want you, Brock, all of you.” He took his time, hands gently peeling the clothes off your body, reassuring kisses splattered all over your neck and chest. You leaned into him tugging softly on his hair while you felt his whole weight on top of you. Your mind was hazy, thinking of nothing but this moment with Brock, how good it felt to finally have him.

He laced his fingers through yours, pinning your hands down as he slowly entered you, his body hovering above yours. Moans softly filling the air as the pace picks up, your bodies flush against one another as you irrevocably cross a line in your friendship in the darkness, stars floating brightly in the sky, the only illuminance reflected on the still water.

---------

Brock swore he imagined it, you kissing him the night before, the way his hand fit tightly in yours, the soft breaths you took underneath him. And when he woke up to the light shining through the curtains, and you curled up under his arm he worried for a moment he was still in the dream. He lay there, listening to the soft snores coming from your slightly parted lips, admiring how at peace you looked. It was only when he realized you were in only his shirt, a hint of red marks peeking out from the collar that he realized he hadn’t been in a hazy dream after all. It was real, you and him, it was all real and he was determined to make it last.

“Morning,” Brock mumbled, pressing a light kiss into your shoulder. You opened your eyes slowly, memories of the night before flashing through your mind. You curl your body into Brock’s, and he pulls his hand into yours, lacing your fingers together. Your mind was racing, every emotion running through you. Brock kept peppering kisses along your shoulder, something that was far more intimate than friends should be doing. This was what you always wanted with him. So why did it feel like you were standing in a forest, waiting for the tree to drop on top of you, knocking you out of the dream world that you must have been residing in.

“Brock.” You whispered, daring yourself to break the silence. You felt your insides twisting, your stomach rumbling with nerves as you laid entwined with him. It didn’t feel real, and the longer you put off the inevitable conversation, the worse the heartbreak for you would be when he told you it didn’t mean anything or was a mistake.

“Yeah, baby?” He said, lifting his head up from your shoulder. You shifted in his arms, detaching yourself from him and sitting up in the bed. You felt exposed, laying there with nothing but a thin linen sheet covering your body, knowing that you had slept with Brock not once, but twice the night before. You bit your lip, avoiding his eye as he sat up next to you, running his hand through his hair.

Brock was nervous, you weren’t reacting how he assumed you would, and part of him wondered if last night was some fever dream. Something he imagined happening, but your naked bodies next to each other confirmed the reality of the position you two had put yourselves in. He wanted you, he wanted everything with you. He wanted to hold your hand all the time, kiss you whenever he wanted. He wanted to hold you while you cried and help wipe the tears away. He wanted to be yours and only yours, for as long as you’d have him, and the memories of your body entangled with his was pushing his heart to finally open up his heart fully to you, even if you already unknowingly held it in your hands.

“So, last night…” you trailed off, gripping the sheet closer to your chest. You were feeling more anxious with each breath you took, heart, filling with regret of your own actions as you sat there next to Brock. He smiled at you softly, no indication that anything was wrong, and although that should have reassured you that it would all be fine, something about it made you more uneasy. You opened your mouth to speak, willing your brain to somehow come up with everything that your heart wanted to say, only no words came out. Brock sensed your uneasiness and tried to grab your hand. You pulled yourself further away, not wanting to push the boundaries that you bulldozed through the night before.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Brock’s words rang in your ear, echoing in your mind as you felt your breathing constrict as if you were underwater, gasping for a final breath of air to fill your lungs. You couldn’t speak, you couldn’t move, the words coming from his lips were so sincere, so heartfelt, and was what you thought you would want to feel in this situation. He watched you carefully, reading the signs of apprehension on your face, his heart pace quickening.

“I think I have been for a long time honestly, you just, you’re my best friend. But you’re more than that, you’re who I want to call in the middle of the night when I’m feeling down, you’re who I can’t wait to come home to after weeks away. You’re who I want next to me at every moment. I want to hold you all the time, comfort you when you’re sad, and celebrate with you when something good happens. God, you’re everything, you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever known.” He continued. He looked so happy, the weight of his words weighing heavily in the air, causing you to further sink into the bed, grasping on to the sheet like you were on the edge of a mountain, hanging on for dear life. You were biting your lip so hard, nearly drawing blood as he told you everything your heart wanted to hear. But it all felt wrong.

“Brock, you don’t love me, we just-” you struggled to find the words, not wanting to hurt him even though you were caving into your own insecurities and fears. You weren’t sure what you were doing, letting your brain sabotage what your heart desperately wanted, images flooding your mind about the pressures of being Brock Boeser’s girlfriend, what it all meant, how it would change you. You wanted nothing more at that moment than to go back to the day before and return to pining over him from afar because it was easier. It was easier when you didn’t know what his lips felt like against yours when you didn’t know that he was in love with you.

“I love you, and I want to be with you.” He said, his voice firm, eyes locked in yours. Brock was trying to hand you his heart, it was there, alive and beating in his hands and all you had to do was reach out and take it. All you had to do was say the three words back to him that you knew you had been feeling for years. But you couldn’t.

“Brock, we can’t.” Was all you managed to get out, your head hung down in shame. You didn’t see how his face fell, because you didn’t let yourself. You told yourself this was for the best, that Brock deserved someone better than you. Brock deserved to be with someone who he could give the world to, who could be waiting for him no matter where he went, and someone who he would be proud to show to the world. You felt your throat closing up and tears pricking the corners of your eyes. You weren’t even strong enough to face him, knowing what you were doing to him.

“Oh.” He said, turning his head to look at you. He felt like his world crashed right in front of him, the best thing he could ever have just out of the reach of his fingertips. A lingering taste from the one bite of you that he got to take. You were starting to cry, and for the first time in the years that he had known you, he was at a loss for how to help. Everything felt murky between you, the lines blurred together past the point of visibility, a comforting touch felt like too much now that he had opened his heart, unrequited.

He had thought this summer with you had been different, a shift in the trajectory of your friendship, built up feelings finally coming out into the open. You looked at him differently, glances lingering past the point of friendship, dancing along blindly in what he thought were reciprocated feelings. Brock was never good at reading the signs, but something in the way you gravitated to him over the past month disillusioned him into believing what he felt was mutual, that the sex the night before meant something more to you. He had never felt more sure of anything than he did as he kissed you, only to wake up the next morning and have you rip it all away. A dirty mistake that it seemed like you couldn’t wait to forget.

---------

The first few weeks back home you spent locked away in your apartment, ignoring every phone call, every text, any attempt at contact that wasn’t Brock. You didn’t expect him to call, but you wholeheartedly wished he would, because if you could, you would take it all back. You knew that stepping onto that plane you were burning down the best bridge you had ever built, and now here you were, broken and battered, walking along the edge of steel beams as you tried to forge it back together. But you knew you couldn’t, that bridge was built by two sets of hands, not one.

It took three weeks before Holly showed up at your door, baby in tow, demanding you get dressed and come with her. You did as she asked, carefully showering for the first time in days, putting on the slightest bit of makeup to attempt at hiding the dark puffy skin under your eyes, an indication of your lack of sleep since you returned to the city.

Your head rested on the window as she drove you out of downtown and closer toward East Vancouver. You didn’t have to guess where she was taking you as the familiar scenery passed by. When she parked outside of your favorite brunch place, you sighed quietly, appreciative of her efforts even if you weren’t hungry. You waited patiently as she grabbed Gunnar, buckling him up into the stroller before walking into the restaurant. It was a small hole in the wall place, with an outdoor seating area with white metal awning, decorated in lights and ivy, and earthy atmosphere as strangers chatted away eating their breakfasts, mimosas steadily flowing.

You sat down, listening to her catch you up on things with Bo and the baby, an obvious attempt at trying to distract you from your own thoughts. You appreciated her effort, you really did, but you weren’t ready to be outside of the safety of your apartment just yet. You nodded and hummed along as you listened to her talk, feeling nauseous once your food was placed in front of you. Your mind drifting back to the time you took Brock here, and the two of you got drunk on a Sunday from mimosas, having to walk around the neighborhood for hours before sobering up completely enough to drive back home.

“Okay, something happened with Brock. I’ve gathered that much, and I’m worried about you. Talk to me.” She finally tried, a reassuring look on her face. You didn’t know if she knew the whole story, if Brock had told anyone what happened, you had to guess that he was feeling bad enough to contact Bo about it, you had really messed him up. You slipped into the story, telling Holly about how you felt, and how you hurt the best person to have ever been in your life, tears settling into your eyes, threatening to spill out as you reopened the painful wound, still fresh from the weeks before.

“I don’t know how to fix it.” You whispered to Holly, looking down at the table setting in front of you. You twirled the fork in between your fingers, food remaining untouched on your plate as you sat in the restaurant with Holly. She sighed and shook her head softly at you. You could tell by the purse of her lips and the look in her eye that she was preparing to tell you something that you likely wouldn’t want to hear. You were okay with that though because, at the end of it all, you were the one who hurt Brock. You left him in Minnesota, and while you wanted to fix it, you had to come to terms with the realization that some things are beyond repair.

Holly set her fork down, leaning into the stroller that was sitting to the right of her. You watched as she picked up Gunnar, who was fussing. You hated that your mind instantly went to Brock. Knowing that if you hadn’t have let your fears outweigh what you felt in your heart, that he would have been it for you. You knew that. Deep down you knew that it was always supposed to be him.

Brock poured his heart out to you that morning after in Minnesota, sharing the most vulnerable pieces of himself with you. All you gave him in return was nothing but lies, and the image of you packing your suitcase, going back to Vancouver without him. The worst part was that as soon as you stepped foot on that plane, you knew what you had done. You knew you had broken the only person you had ever loved, and you still didn’t stop yourself.

It was like you were outside of your own body, watching as someone else sat on the tarmac, music softly playing in their headphones, head leaned against the airplane window. You left Minnesota as a different person, someone who was broken beyond belief, but it was at the hand of your own actions.

Holly cleared her throat, bringing your head back into the moment.

“Bo said he’s never seen him like this before and I don’t think he’ll see you, not right now.” She started, a solemn silence between you as she chose her next words carefully. You perked up at this, not knowing that Brock was back in Vancouver yet. You knew it had to be any day, with how training usually went for the team, but something about knowing he had returned and gone to Bo broke your heart even more, and you wondered if he found himself walking around the city as empty-hearted as you were.

“You know I love you, right? You’re one of my best friends. But, what you did, If I were Brock I wouldn’t forgive you either.” It was harsh, and it stung hearing it come from her lips. But you knew she was right, and if you settled into a thought where Brock had done that to you, you probably wouldn’t give him a chance either.

Your eyes welled up with tears. You avoided Holly’s gaze, bringing the sleeve of Brock’s sweatshirt that you were wearing up to wipe your eyes. It was the only thing of his you had managed to hang onto, something old from his rookie year, the 6 faded on the side, Boeser still clear on the back.

“I know.” Were the only words you could seem to find, your heart feeling heavy in your chest.

“Look, Brock loves you, right? He’s so in love with you, he has been for a long time, and God knows his heart is way bigger than all of ours. Just, give him some time.” Holly said. You tried to take her words as hopeful, but you worried deep down that you were permanently destined to live a life without him, nothing but an old sweatshirt and memories of your time together.

Brock had been feeling like the air hadn’t returned to his lungs since you left all those weeks ago. He couldn’t stop replaying the scene in his head, rethinking over what he said if he could have changed your mind, but most importantly why he even told you how he felt at all. He knew it was a risk to lay every card he had on the metaphorical table in front of you, but after that night on the boat, he thought he knew you would feel the same. He thought he knew you, and that it would end with your hand in his for the foreseeable future. Instead, the cards blew up in the air, disillusioned by the words you spoke, words he believed because you wouldn’t lie to him.

The worst part about it was that he wasn’t mad at you, how could he be? No person can help how they feel. A moment shared the night before, the lingering touches and your soft moans filling the room, didn’t mean to you what they did to him, and he could never have found it in his heart to be upset by that. But when you left that morning, he knew in his heart and mind that he couldn’t just go back to being friends with you. He couldn’t allow you to have any piece of him anymore, because all it did was confine his feelings back inside, shoved away for no one to experience but him. He was in love with you, and he didn’t know how to go back to being friends and make that go away. He didn’t know how to look at you without remembering how you felt beneath him, how complete he felt when his hands tangled in yours, lips exploring one another.

Brock spent those last few weeks in Minnesota trying to piece together how his life would look without you. He became a bit of a recluse, spending most of his days out on the water with his dogs, unplugged from his phone and friends, only answering if it had something to do with work. He let himself go through the motions as if it were a breakup because, in a way, it was. Losing a friend, especially when it was you, hurt him in a way that most other losses hadn’t.

You were there for him through every good or bad thing that had happened in his life since moving to Vancouver. Every win or loss, his injuries, every doubt he had as a rookie, every trade rumor, and every success. But it wasn’t just his career you had been there for, you were there through his life too. When he worried about his dad, you were the first person he would call. He smiled at the memories of you knocking on his door every time he felt anxious about his family, cookies, and wine in hand, ready to be the shoulder for him to cry on. You never questioned him or made him feel bad when he was upset. You just were you, and your comfort was all he needed to feel better.

You were such a part of his routine that it took him almost two weeks to stop opening your contact in his phone, willing himself not to call you. He hated that his first instinct most mornings was to check in on you, to see how you were feeling after all of it. He grew resentful, but only at himself for his own emotions. The resentment melted into sadness as the time for him to go back to Vancouver grew closer. He didn’t know what would happen when he came back. For the first time in his career, he dreaded going back, not because he didn’t want to play, but because it meant being back in the city where every step he took reminded him of you.

His condo felt different without your presence, and for the first time since you moved out of that building, he was grateful you no longer lived across the hall. He at least didn’t have to worry about seeing you in the elevator, or breaking his convictions and knocking on your door.

He took his time settling back in, slowly gathering any lingering items of yours and carefully placing them into a box. He’d been through breakups before, but nothing compared to losing someone like you. When he had finally rid his apartment of your belongings, he taped the box shut and set it by the door, trying to forget about it. Sometimes Coolie would sniff it, probably recognizing your smell from the items inside.

Brock settled into the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table as he opened the container of takeout that Elias had brought over. He fiddled with the remote, opening up Netflix to queue up the latest episode of Gossip Girl. He patted the spot next to him on the couch, motioning for Coolie to jump up. When he did, he settled in next to Brock, on top of the grey throw blanket that was draped over the cushions.

Elias took his time in Brock’s kitchen, scanning the apartment and looking at his friend. He knew Brock was miserable, and as much as Petey loved you, his loyalties were here. He carried his takeout container in one hand, the smell of the Thai food from down the street wafting into the air, two beers in his other hand and he walked to his spot on Brock’s couch. He set the beer down on the table, glass beginning to frost from the sudden change in temperature. He leaned back, eyeing the box by the front door suspiciously.

“What’s that?” He asked, pointing toward the object in question. Brock stiffened, glancing over where Petey was nodding toward.

“It’s all her stuff.” he sighed, not wanting to get into the subject. Petey knew what happened, as far as Brock was concerned, they didn’t need to divulge into the details once more. What Brock needed was a distraction from all of it, and Petey was happy to be there for his friend, even finally agreeing to watch Gossip Girl, which Brock had been asking him to do for months.

The pair sat on the couch in silence, eating and drinking while watching a few episodes of the show, before Petey left to return home, and Brock drifted into his bed. When he woke up the next morning, the box was gone.

---------

It was mid-October, three months since that morning back at his home in Minnesota. The season had just started, and the rain was starting to settle into Vancouver, a grey sky covering the city most days. He found himself settling into the familiarity of life during the season, but it didn’t feel the same. He woke up most days feeling like there was a hole in his chest where his heart should be, mourning over a loss that he didn’t know how to comprehend. You were still there in his mind, and while over the last few months it had become less frequent, he still wasn’t able to go any substantial amount of time without thinking about you.

He pulled his hood further onto his head as the rain started to come down harder. It was late morning on a rare day off. He was looking down at his phone as he pulled the door to the coffee shop open, the creaking from the worn-out wood filling the air.

“Oh god, sorry!” A voice startled him, one that sent him spiraling down a highway of memories he had spent the last three months trying to forget. He knew it was you, the voice unmistakable.

“Oh, uhm-” You started, and then cut yourself off. The two of you frozen there in the doorway, rain coming down. He hated every moment of this, an ache is his chest resurfacing harshly the longer time stood still with you in front of him. He looked at you, noticing that your hair was shorter, your eyes not quite as bright as they were before, a small frown settling on your features. You looked sad, and like you had been sad for a long time.

Brock often wondered what it would be like to run into you again, after having not seen each other for months. He wondered if it would happen organically, a chance run-in like the situation he was in now, or if you would show up to some event, knowing that his friends were still yours. For the first time since everything happened, he felt a different emotion seeing you, his heart clouding his head with resentment for what you did, the anger at your actions finally bubbling through to the surface.

You looked at Brock and saw a fragment of the boy you knew before, the one you ripped apart without a second thought, the one who invaded your dreams every night, haunting you of your past mistakes. You could have had a beautiful thing with Brock, and you let your fears overtake your mind and broke his heart in the process. You hadn’t spoken to Brock since the day you left, only hearing fragments about how he was from Holly when she was nice enough to share. She was the only one who would talk to you, the rest of your mutual friends cutting you out for what you did. You didn’t blame them, they were Brock’s family, not yours. But you couldn’t pretend that when Elias showed up with a box of your belongings, not uttering more than the words, “Brock wanted to give these back.” that your heart didn’t collapse with your body after you closed the door, letting the sobs overtake you.

You never opened that box, not wanting to relive any of the memories trapped inside, lingering in the belongings you had left with him over the years, the gifts you had given him probably tossed haphazardly in. You knew it was what you deserved, even someone with as big of a heart as Brock couldn’t forgive you for what you did, and you had to live with the consequences of that. Instead, choosing to see him only in your dreams, or scattered around the city in memories.

You knew living in the same area you risked the possibility of running into him again, especially since you two frequented the same places, the only difference now was that you did it alone. And while you thought about it, you never knew how it would make you feel to be in the same space as him again. It felt familiar, and almost every part of you longed to touch him, to reach out and push yourself into him and fix what you broke, but looking at him only confirmed the suspicions that you had that he wanted no part of your life anymore.

You stood in the doorway of the old coffee shop unable to move, your coffee securely held in your hand as you took in his appearance. He looked tired, his beard had grown out more than it usually was, his eyes dull. Your heart ached to know that you caused this, that all Brock wanted was to give you the world and you ripped it out from under him.

The moment only lasted a few seconds, with Brock turning his body away from you, no words escaping his lips as he continued into the shop, leaving you standing there on the sidewalk in the rain. Before the door shut completely, you opened it back up, figuring that if this was the only time you’d ever see him again, at least he would know that you were sorry.

“Brock-” you tried, grabbing onto his arm. You winced softly as he shook it from your grasp, eyes cold as he looked at you.

“I don’t have anything to say to you.” His voice was soft but harsh as he looked at you one last time, turning once again to leave you standing, stomach twisting, and eyes beginning to water. You’d never seen Brock so cold, and knowing you were the one that caused it broke you beyond belief.

You went home that day, the image of his face as he walked away burning in your mind as you curled up in bed and let yourself cry over the boy you were still hopelessly in love with.

Brock stood in that coffee shop for what felt like hours, agonizing over the small interaction before finally getting his coffee and leaving. He thought about it for the rest of the day, thinking of how different you looked, how you weren’t the same person he thought he knew inside and out. He thought about how maybe he was too harsh with you, seeing the broken look on your face when he said he didn’t want to talk, eyes filling with tears.

Brock went out to his balcony, sitting on one of the chairs, a place where he often went when he needed to think. You had basically become an intruder in his mind, invading his thoughts when he desperately wanted you erased. All he could think about was the summer, your hair blowing with the breeze while you sang loudly along to the radio, driving through back roads in his hometown. You were like a time capsule he couldn’t seal, instead he saw visions of you in old photographs taken on a disposable camera dancing through his mind, one by one, each a memory of him falling more in love with you. But the thing about photographs is they fade, the ink turns a different color when exposed to heat, and his confession ended up being the heat that warped the photographs of you, turning them into nothing but what was supposed to be fond nostalgia of the girl he loved.

He thought about you the rest of the week, living almost on autopilot as he shuffled himself from practice to games. His mind was so out of it, that he didn’t see a bad check coming from the Vegas player, sending his body curtailing toward the boards, head making contact with the ice as he fell. He managed to get up, limping back through the player tunnel to get looked at, every moment after that a blur.

He wished it was only that night where his game was affected, but the symptoms followed through practice the next day. He wasn’t skating as fast, he was missing calls, and fumbling over drills that were normally second nature to him. His teammates and coaches all noticed, frustrated with his lack of ability to separate his personal life from the game, but also worried that his lack of focus was going to get him seriously hurt.

Brock’s inability to disassociate from that short interaction was affecting his career, and when he spent the next game as a healthy scratch for the first time since playing in Vancouver, he was so broken that he couldn’t find the energy within himself to care.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when Bo appeared at his front door, his six-month-old baby strapped to him, a hard but concerned look on his face as he let himself inside Brock’s condo.

“Sure, come in,” Brock said harshly, wanting to be alone.

Bo looked around the room, walking into the kitchen to a scene he had never seen from Brock before. There were dishes piled in the sink, unopened mail piled up on the counter, empty take out bags piled up by the recycling bin. He sighed, unstrapping Gunnar from his chest and handing him to Brock. Brock reacted quickly, taking the baby boy into his arms and walking over to sit on the couch, holding him tightly to his chest.

He distracted himself with the baby as Bo silently cleaned the kitchen. He was sitting there, letting Gunnar bite on his fingers while he waited for anything from his captain, bracing himself for what was likely to be a long conversation, especially now that Bo had taken it upon himself to clean up the mess Brock left, not bothering to do it himself.

“You need to get your shit together,” Bo said, walking back over to the couch, wiping his hands on his jeans before holding his arms out, indicating he wanted his baby back. Brock handed over Gunnar, sighing softly as he ran a hand through his hair, unwashed for two days now.

“And take a fucking shower, you look like shit.” He added, words harsh but true. Brock knew he was a mess, his beard growing out, hair slightly greasy, but he didn’t care. He didn’t have the energy to deal with his physical appearance, and he didn’t feel like it mattered, it’s not like he had anyone to impress lately anyways. He didn’t say anything, he just let his eyes follow his captain as he sat down with the baby. He cursed Bo for bringing Gunnar, knowing it was a calculated move to ease into what was going to be a serious conversation, he knew Brock loved babies, and that it would soften the harsh words that were probably moments from coming.

“Look, you’re my friend above all else, I hate seeing you like this. But I’m also your captain, and it’s my job to keep your head focussed.” Bo started, Gunnar making soft noises while he spoke. Brock leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, bracing himself for the confrontation.

“I know.” Was all he managed in response.

“Holly had brunch with her a few weeks ago, she’s a wreck, Brock.” Bo softly said, hating seeing two people that he cared about hurting like this. While he was frustrated with Brock as a captain, wanting better from his teammate, he also realized that maybe right now Brock needed him as his friend.

Brock’s head shot up at that, hearing that Holly had seen you. Part of him felt a weird satisfaction that you were maybe just as messed up as he was, hurting over what happened still. Brock spent most of his time wondering why he seemingly wasn’t capable of getting over you, moving on, letting it all go. You didn’t feel the same way, and while he understood that, he didn’t understand why you left the way that you did, ripping apart the friendship that had been such a stable for both of you, or so he thought. But a small part of him, one that he wasn’t proud of, was feeling smug at the fact that you were likely not entangled with anyone else, that you were just as hurt as he was. Hearing that you were a wreck and not emotionless about it at least meant that you cared about him in some capacity, that maybe the friendship at least meant to you what it did to him before it all blew up in his face.

“Oh?” Brock questioned, unsure of if he truly wanted to hear just how bad you were doing, already feeling the guilt bubbling in his chest from moments before, his mind flashing back to the look on your face as he harshly pulled away from you, the memory causing a dull ache in his chest.

“I’m not here to tell you how to live your life, but she misses you. A lot. Holly didn’t tell me everything, and I know I don’t know fully what happened, but it might be worth hearing her out.” Gunnar started crying, interrupting Bo for a few moments while he soothed his baby, Brock mulling over the words from his friend.

Coolie came running out of the bedroom at the sound of Gunnar’s cries, a soft plush dog toy in his mouth as he jumped up to the couch, settling in near Bo and the baby, his tail slightly wagging, ready to make Gunnar feel better. Brock’s heart rate quickened, and he hated himself for his thoughts once again turning to you, an image of you holding a newborn, Coolie next to you on the couch as you rocked the baby to sleep. It scared him how you could hurt him so badly and yet he still imagined a whole life with you that would never happen because you didn’t feel the same.

“I don’t think it’s that simple, Bo,” Brock said, slowly beginning to feel like he could open up to someone. He hadn’t shared with anyone the true details of what happened between you, he never mentioned the night on the boat, or the morning after, simply telling them that something happened in Minnesota and you left.

“What happened? Why did she leave?” Bo tentatively asked, hoping that Brock felt okay enough to finally let someone in.

Brock took a deep breath, launching himself slowly into telling Bo what really happened three months ago, opening the wound that had been haphazardly stitched up with blood seeping through the bandages ever since he got back to Vancouver. Bo listened intently, never interrupting as Brock stumbled through some parts of the memories, not commenting when Brock’s voice became thick, or when he let the tears escape from his eyes, finally freeing himself of this problem he had kept locked away for months. It hurt to recount the entire event, but Brock also felt like a weight was lifting from his body as he spoke, freeing himself from the loneliness of overanalyzing each action you took and the word you said. It felt good to let someone into the mess that was his mind.

“You need to hear her out.” Was all that Bo responded with, a serious tone to his voice as he looked over at Brock cautiously, gauging what reaction might come from those words. Brock’s eyes widened a bit, a frown still evident on his face, slight hints of surprise filling his features at what Bo said. He wasn’t sure what reaction he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that.

“I don’t know what the outcome will be, I don’t know if it will fix things between you. But this?” Bo gestured to Brock’s state, a slight dig at his heartbroken and pathetic appearance.

“It has to stop. It’s affecting your game, and your ability to function. So call her, figure it out, get the answers you need and either fix it or move on.”

Brock glared at his phone that was resting on the counter. He spent the last few hours after Bo had been there cleaning up his apartment, metaphorically piecing back together some sense of normalcy. Then he took a shower, letting himself mull over the idea of calling you, wondering if you’d even pick up the phone. He trimmed his beard, not fully shaving it, blocking out that he knew you liked his beard, remembering your fingertips on his cheek before some event he took you to. The old photograph of the memory coming into view of you saying you liked how it made him look, a soft smile on your lips as you spoke, cheeks heating up from the compliments you gave. That was the first time he remembered that he realized the things he was feeling for you weren’t what a friend would feel for another friend.

It was late fall, the Canucks annual charity dinner in full swing. You had come as Brock’s date that night, meeting most of the team for the first time. They had all heard about you before, offering knowing smiles as you entered the event with Brock’s arm around your waist. Even if Brock didn’t know how he felt, they all did. They watched as his eyes lingered on you for a little too long, how he danced with you slowly, keeping his arm securely locked on your hip as if you were the only two in the room.

Brock slowly picked up his phone, fingers tapping methodically toward your contact, something he hadn’t opened in weeks but still came naturally, a muscle memory that he never lost. He wasn’t sure if it was Bo’s words that got him to this point, or if it was him finally accepting that maybe you deserved to be heard out, but as he thought back to that first night of realizing his feelings, his mind danced through the memories fondly, them sparkling bright like the stars that night on the boat.

You had just gotten off of an entirely too long conversation with your mother, one that had your head pounding and all you could think about was the bottle of red wine sitting on your counter and the hot bath that you were going to take. Between brunch with Holly that week, seeing Brock, and your mom, you needed to take whatever energy you had left and try to relax. You grabbed the bottle, foregoing the glass as you walked into your bathroom, turning on the water as hot as you could. Maybe if you made it hot enough, you’d feel something other than the ache in your chest.

Seeing Brock felt like a figment of your imagination, and even though you knew you got the reaction that you deserved, that didn’t mean that it didn’t wreck the already fragmented pieces of your heart. Things had been hard since you left him in his bedroom, eyes wide in shock, heart burst and bleeding on his sleeve. You hadn’t slept in what felt like weeks, barely getting through the motions of each day, walking around Vancouver, and feeling him around you. You didn’t dare step foot far enough into downtown where Rogers Arena was, you couldn’t handle being near the building for fear of what it would do to you mentally.

You ignored hockey completely, tuning out the team, only hearing the bits and pieces that Holly told you the few times you had seen or spoken to her. The Canucks were too much of a tie to Brock, and you couldn’t handle watching them, seeing him on the tv, so instead, you tuned it out. But none of that compared to seeing him again, at the old coffee shop you first forged a friendship with him in, the only place you still allowed yourself to sometimes go when you needed a small taste of memories of him that were happy.

You sat in the bath until the water went cold, slowly working your way through too much wine to be acceptable for one person to drink on a Tuesday evening. You allowed yourself to cry, letting the tears silently roll down your cheeks, bubbles slowly melting away in the water, telling yourself that this was the last time you’d let yourself cry about Brock. He didn’t want anything to do with you anymore, a notion that you were now acutely aware of, his harsh words echoing in your mind with each sip coming straight from the bottle.

You get out of the bath, tossing on a pair of soft shorts and a big t-shirt, swaying into the kitchen, in a wine drunken haze. For the first time in a long time, you felt an emotion that you didn’t think you’d ever feel, acceptance. It was okay how Brock felt, it was okay that he didn’t want to hear you out, and while you still felt regret over your decision, part of you started to come around to the idea that there would be a life without Brock. Maybe it wasn’t today, but someday you were going to be able to open up those years of memories with him and they wouldn’t hurt, they’d instead be looked at fondly. Brock saw a side of you that no one else got to, and even if it all went wrong, you don’t regret sharing just a small portion of your life with him.

You tapped on your phone, connecting it to your speakers in your kitchen, turning on a relaxing playlist. Before you could realize what you were doing, you opened the cabinets, carefully pulling out the ingredients for baking soft chocolate chip cookies, something you hadn’t done in months. Baking used to always be your escape, but when you left Brock, even that stress and pain was too much to get you to pull out the mixer. The heartbreak you felt couldn’t be fixed with chocolate chip cookies, not this time. But, as you stood there, wine drunk in your kitchen with music playing softly, you finally felt like you could bake again.

You were startled when the music coming from your phone stopped, the generic ringtone indicating someone was calling now coming from the speakers. You ignored it, letting the ringing continue until it sent whoever it was to voicemail, assuming it was your mom calling again, something you didn’t have the energy for. You were finally feeling somewhat okay, you didn’t need her in your ear about fixing things with Brock for the second time that day. When the phone rang a second time, and then a third, you resolved to the fact that whoever was calling must have had something important to say.

You picked up your phone, heart in your throat as it went to voicemail a final time. You froze seeing the bubble on your home screen indicating you had three missed calls, all from Brock. His name never felt weirder to see on your screen, the emojis he put in there still present, something that used to always be on your phone but had since vanished. You couldn’t wrap your mind about why he would call, let alone call three times, but your heart feared the worst. Maybe something happened to his dad, maybe something happened to him, or the dog. You didn’t know, but when your phone lit up again for the fourth time, this time a picture of you and Brock lighting up the screen, you answered almost immediately.

“Brock?” You said, tentatively, you didn’t know what the tone of the conversation would be, and your stomach was racing with nerves.

“Yeah, uhm, hi. Hi.” He stuttered, clearly nervous to be calling you.

You gulped, sitting down on the stool by the island, legs dangling down, fingers nervously tapping on the counter. The wine you drank seemingly evaporating from your system, your mind falsely clear as you took in his voice. God, you missed hearing his voice.

“Is everything okay?” You asked, worriness present in your voice. Brock picked up on it right away, reassuring you everything was fine and that bad news wasn’t why he was calling.

“I’m sorry about the other day.” He started, referring to your run-in at the coffee shop.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Brock.” You softly spoke, terrified if you said too much that he would remember that he was talking to you, and hang up.

“I do, that wasn’t fair of me to treat you that way, and I’m sorry for it.” He said, his voice was firm but still soft. You could almost hear the wheels turning in his head through the phone, picturing him, probably in his kitchen at the same place you were, running a hand through his hair as he spoke. Before you could say anything in response, he spoke again,

“I was hoping we could talk if you’re up for it?” Your eyes widened at his words, something you weren’t expecting to hear from him. Not that you expected a call from him at all, but let alone an invitation to talk.

“Now?” You asked, unsure if he meant on the phone or something else.

“If you’re free? I uhm, I got curry, from that place you like?” He offered. You couldn’t believe how small his voice sounded on the phone, so much weight held in an offer for curry, something that used to be a routine.

“I can’t drive, I had some wine.” You started, Brock exhaling in response.

“No, no, uhm, I can take an uber. Be there soon?” You said, not entirely confident in your voice or words but hopeful for what was to come.

“Yeah, yeah that works. Keycode is still the same, just, come up.” He said. The conversation felt awkward, two people who had been through so much, trying to navigate the broken pieces of a love that was almost everything.

You walked into his apartment nervously, for the first time since knowing Brock, you truly felt like you didn’t belong there. You felt as if it was something was off. Brock looked better than he did the last time you saw him, his beard was trimmed, his hair clean, and his eyes didn’t look as tired. You felt uncomfortable there, standing in his kitchen while you waited for him to speak. When he didn’t, you found yourself getting more anxious, wanting to do anything to break the silence as he looked at you.

“Brock, how did we get here?” you asked, instantly regretting the question as soon as the words slipped fom your lips. It was a question that you already knew the answer to, because it was a situation that had the blood on your hands.

Brock sighed, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, jumping right into the discussion that had been put off for entirely too long now.

“It was never me that didn’t know what they wanted. I told you that I wanted you. I meant it. And you left. You let me have you for one night and you left.” Brock said, eyes watering. He was standing across the counter from you and all you could think about was pulling yourself into his arms and trying to make it better. But you couldn’t, you lost that right the second you walked out all those months ago. You wiped the tears from your cheeks, leaning a bit on the counter as you smiled sadly at him.

“Brock, I love everything about you. You make everything better. You make me love the things I hate about myself because you’re you. And you love them, why wouldn’t I want to be with you?” You felt like your head was spinning with each word that you spoke, your heart beginning to beat faster as you wished he could put himself inside of it, feeling every emotion you felt, trusting that what you were saying was the truth. You knew you didn’t deserve that trust, you could only hope that Brock would see past your mistake, and remember who you were.

“I’ve never been in love before, not until you. All of those feelings were only for you. And there you were, giving yourself to me and it scared me. Brock, it scared me so bad that all I knew how to do was run. And I know that’s not fair, you deserve more answers than that, you deserve someone who isn’t scared. But that’s the truth, and you deserve the truth.” Your voice was cracking as you spoke, words pouring out of your chest that you weren’t sure made sense anymore. You watched Brock carefully, trying to piece together the expressions on his face that you couldn’t decipher. You felt like you didn’t even recognize him anymore, that you were just two people who knew each other years before, and you didn’t know how a few mere months could do that to two hearts that were so closely connected.

“I just don’t understand how you can say all that, but when I told you I loved you, you left.” He said, voice cracking, tone matching yours. He ran a hand over his face, bringing his eyes to yours. He was trying to think of the right words to say, letting his mind process everything you told him. He couldn’t even focus on the fact that you just threw your heart over the table because there was a part of him that wasn’t allowing himself to believe you.

“I never would have been mad at you for not feeling the same, but you tore apart everything. Feelings aside, you picked up our friendship and threw it overboard when you decided to leave. I would have gotten over my feelings, but you decided that wasn’t enough, and that our entire friendship no longer was worth saving.” His words were harsh, cutting you deep because you didn’t want him to think that you didn’t want his friendship. You were standing on the edge of the boat, trying to reel in all of your emotions and Brock came crashing into you like a wave in a storm, and every fight or flight instinct had you thinking the best course of an option was to throw yourself overboard.

“Brock you were everything to me. I fell in love with you almost a year ago. You were everything I ever wanted and then it happened and it was so good that it scared me, and I fucked it all up. I let every insecurity tell me that it could never work.” Your voice breaking, desperately trying to make him believe what you were saying. If this was the last time you saw him, you needed him to know you loved him. Maybe that was selfish, but after all this time you still did, and after what you did, he deserved the whole truth.

“I just need you, to be honest with me.” Brock sighs. Your words should have been enough, and his heart and head were colliding as he tried to figure out what to do. He hated seeing you cry, he hated that he was in a way doing to you what you did to him by letting you release every feeling you had, offering next to nothing in return. But, another part of him felt like it was fair, and that he shouldn’t feel bad for making you give him answers. He spent months trying to get over you, trying to comprehend how one night made everything go so wrong, and maybe the answers would settle the battle in his heart and he could finally forgive you.

“Honest about what, Brock? About how I’ve spent every day since thinking about how I let go of the best thing I ever had? About how I painfully relieve what it felt like landing back in Vancouver knowing you were thousands of miles away hurting because of me? About how I’m still so madly in love with you that it's just aching in my chest I can’t get rid of no matter how hard I try?”

“Did you regret it? Leaving?” Brock whispered.

“The moment I got to the airport, I haven't stopped regretting it since.” The tears were freely falling down your cheeks. You watched in confusion as Brock walked to you, coming closer than he’d been in a long time. Before you could process his next moves, he took your face in his hands, pressing your lips together in a kiss.

You responded quickly, instinctively kissing him back, it was different than last time, probably because of the intensity, both of you trying to communicate your love for each other in the moment. Brock deepened the kiss, lifting you up and setting you on the counter, hands digging into your thighs. You could feel all of him, and you wanted this feeling to last forever.

Brock pulled back, running his thumb along your cheek where a few tears were still there.

“Brock-“ you started.

“We have to do this right, I need to know you’re in, that you want to be with me. For real this time”

“I’m in, Brock. You have my whole heart if you want it.” You smiled.

He leaned in, kissing you once more. When he pulled back, he pressed soft kisses all over your cheeks, trailing down your neck before pulling you in close to him, holding you tight.

“I love you.” You said, unsure of if he would be ready to reciprocate, but you didn’t mind. You would wait for Brock for as long as it took if it meant that things would be okay, that you would be together.

“I love you too, always have.” When he smiled, it was bright, eyes crinkling, cheeks slightly flushed from the shared kisses. You would do anything to keep that smile on his face all the time.

“By the way, I owe Petey $100 now.” He laughed.

“Oh? Why’s that.” You hummed, threading your hands through his hair.

“He knew we’d end up together I guess.”

“Seems like a good investment.” You teased.

“Worth every penny.” He agreed, dipping his head down and kissing you softly once more. The feeling of his lips on yours was something you knew you’d never grow tired of, knowing that Brock was it for you, and you’d love him as long as he let you.

#brock boeser #brock boeser imagine #brock boeser fic #brock boeser story #canucks story #canucks imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine

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irondadgroupie · 6 years

Text

Lessons in drinking

Inspired by the marvellous irondadtexts.tumblr.com ! I had not written anything in two years and then this little plot bunny comes bouncing my way. Features an exasperated but concerned Tony, uncoordinated Peter and mentor protege dynamics on the night of having your first drink.

.......

The clock struck half past midnight, not that Tony Stark noticed it, he was too engrossed in the latest modification of the Iron Man suit. He tried to develop the air filtration system to better combat against potential biohazards. Call him paranoid but he’d rather be safe than sorry.

His phone chimed and he glanced at it: Whatsapp message from Peter. Yes, it was not unusual, they had not the time to meet every day, with their hectic schedules but they still stayed in touch, talking about this and that.

What was not usual was getting a message from Peter and that made him take another look and open the message. The boy could be injured outside of the suit, having nightmares or anxiety attacks or-

Peter: heeeeey mr t

Tony’s brows rose up.

Tony: Mr T?

He had a pretty good idea what was going on but for the sake of the kid, he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt

Peter: Mr s

Peter: S tark

Tony was giving this kid one more chance (he was going soft): Everything okay bud?

Peter: I havn t

Peter: veeen drinking

He was going to kill this kid! Kill and set the corpse on fire. But not before kicking his sorry ass to the next year!

He hit the dial button and luckily Peter answered.

“Okay so you’re drunk?”

Peter made a sound. Music blasted in the background and he could hear teens making noise, over what he did not want to know

“You’re drunk right?” He tried again.

“No.”

Smart kid, the man shook his head. One word sentences. But Tony had been the posterchild of troubled teenager and he knew every trick in the book.

“No! No! Would never get shrunk, I’m too young-“

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose as he walked out of the office and headed to his garage.

“Yeah, you’re damn right you’re too young to drink!”

Tony made a mental checklist and took in a deep breath: no use in yelling, Peter wouldn’t be remembering it, if his slurring was any indication of his cognitive state.

“Where are you? Why the hell have you been drinking?”

Being calm did not negate the use of curse words.

“Haven’t been drinking,” The kid valiantly tried to defend himself and Tony grit his teeth.

“Peter, I’m trying to stay calm until tomorrow when you’re sober and I can rip you a new one. But you’re making it difficult by lying to me.”

Peter whimpered pitifully: “Sorry Mr T?”

That name, Tony feels like screaming.

“I’m at a paartey.”

The boy let’s out a ‘whoo’, obviously because the song changes to a more uptempo one.

“A party?” Tony nearly stops in shock. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to a party tonight?”

No, he was not the kid’s parent but he liked to be on the loops. Especially considering the last time Peter went out, acting like a normal teenager, someone had spiked his drink and Ned had called Tony to the rescue. He had spent the night making sure the boy didn’t choke on his own vomit. Tony had been certain that experience would deter Peter from ever touching anything stronger than root beer.

“I goyta drink for science!”

For science, some kids chanted in the background like a group of mindless followers. Peter seemed to have started a cult.

“For science?!” Tony screamed and cringes as he heard drinks sloshing, he could only hope none was offered to Peter.

“I didn’t know if I could get drunk!” The boy screamed with a laugh. “Because I’m- you know- him!”

Thank god for the sense of censorship.

“Yeah, I’m well aware of your spandex clad alter ego.”

He made it to the garage and chose the car which is both fastest and easiest to clean up. He had been meaning to change the cushioning of his Audi anyway.

“Where are you, I’m coming to get you,” he directed the call to the sound system and started the car.

“Pataaay!” Peter shouts with other kids and quiets down. Please, don’t be doing shots, Tony prayed.

“Yea, I know a party but where!” He is too agitated to even roll his eyes. “What’s the address?”

He hears a thud, no doubt the phone has dropped to the floor.

“Mr Sss- I don’t,” Peter gulps heavily as he picks the phone up. “I don’t feel great.”

Tony wants to be mad with the kid but hearing his tiny voice, he can’t help but feel sympathy.

“Yeah, alcohol does that to you. Where’s the party, Peter? Do I have to call Ned and ask him?”

Was Ned even at this party? He doubted it, last time Ned had been very responsible and sober. He couldn’t imagine him watching from the sidelines as his best friend got so hammered.

“No, it’s same place as last time,” the kid forces out pitifully and groans. Tony sets the navigator to the last location and turns right. He remembered the place; it was luckily only about ten minutes from the Tower, on the part of the city with big houses and home to various stockbrokers.

“Mr T- I- oh no no I think I’m drying.”

Hell yes you are, the man felt like retorting back. The kid should know alcohol dries up the system and he was willing to bet everything he owned that Peter had not had a glass of water the entire night.

“You feel sick? Have a headache?”

The boy does not answer, all he can hear is that blasted music. Tony feels like making an initiative to ban all stereos in the State.

“Peter? Peter you still there?”

He waits, tries to hear any kind of sound from the kid. Had he dropped his phone?

“C’mon buddy, speak to me!”

No answer. He hits the accelerator, nearly running through a red light.

“You better be where you say you are because I’m on my way.”

Then Peter answers.

“Heeey mr T.”

Oh god kid, just let it go. He knows anything having the letter S is difficult to say when drunk but this was just humiliating.

“Yeah, yeah, kid, we’ve done that. “

He stops to let a young woman pass the road although he feels like running over her.

“Where are you exactly, Peter? Where in the house?”

The boy takes a while to answer, he hears shuffling. “Front uard.”

Peter is now noticeably struggling with words. He is grounding that kid until the next decade.

“Okay, stay there, I’ll be ten minutes.”

“Do you promise?”

Tony can’t help but pity the boy. It was his first time drunk and although it has been thirty decades, he can still remember how awful he felt when he crashed down. He could only hope Peter’s morning after wouldn’t include nearly choking when vomiting up half-digested hot dogs.

“Yeah, I promise,” His voice is much softer than before. “Peter, of course I do.”

“I don’t feel good,” The boy whispers and spits on the ground.

“Just talk to me, okay? Have you thrown up?”

He doesn’t know what he wants the answer to be. If Peter has vomited, it means less alcohol in his system but it is also a sign of possible alcohol poisoning. Honestly, he doubts the kid is coherent enough not to choke if his body decides to rebel.

“I don’ remebr,” Peter sniffles. “Are you angy with me?”

“I’m more concerned than angry, Petey,” the man says, using the nickname that is reserved for when the kid is under the weather or otherwise needs comfort. Peter argues he hates it but Tony always catches a glimmer in his eyes when he is addressed with it.

Peter lets out a choked laugh.

Tony takes a hard turn and drives by rows of familiar houses. The navigator informs he is getting close.

“I’m almost there and I’m going to bring you home and look after you until you feel better, okay?”

He can almost hear the kid nod his head: “Okay.”

“And then I’ll yell at you tomorrow,” The man can’t help to retort, he is so going to get back at the kid for making him worry so much. But after he has made sure Peter has had a long sleep, gallons of water and some bacon and eggs.

“I’m sorry.”

How can the words coming out of a fifteen year olds mouth affect him so much?

“I didn think I could srnk so I drank a- a- olt. A lo-t.”

“We’re gonna talk about it tomorrow, Pete. For now just focus on taking deep breaths and staying awake, can you do that?”

The party house is in his view. It’s looks the same as last time, even the same kids are hanging around in the balcony. Nothing seems to be different, there are same lights in the trees and same songs are blasting through the neighborhood.

“Yeh. I love yo- you- Mr T.”

Tony allows the moment to happen: “I love you too, bud,” He smiles. He parks the car on the curb and steps out.

“Just stop calling me Mr T,” He slams the door shut and locks the doors. He doesn’t trust the apparent seniors who oogle his car with hungry eyes.

“Okay, sorry Mr T.”

Tony takes in a calming breath and scans the scenery, the picnic table, groups of people and the miserable figure sitting against the wall, hunched underneath a window. How come none had noticed the half-lid eyes and pale skin was out of his comprehension. Had kids been that cruel and ignorant in his youth? He can’t remember.

“Okay, I see you, you big mess,” He walks closer. “I’m here now, you’ll be okay. After not being okay for a few hours.”

He ends the call and Peter doesn’t realize for a second. Then his brown eyes look upwards and a smile lit his face.

“Hey Mr T,” Peter cries with drunken eagerness and stands up only to fall flat on his face.

“Jesus christ, Kid,” Tony can’t believe what he is seeing. His Peter, his straight A’s, genius, superhero protégé was wasted off his mind. He had witnessed the boy do incredible gymnastic moves, had observed his performance in battles and now, the kid could not even walk, let alone stand on his feet.

Peter gets up on his elbows and flashes him a smile. His hair is a mess and clothes wrinkled and he reeks of vodka but at least there is no vomit on his face, it’s at least a small consolation.

“I love you,” Peter says and laughs. Tony rolls his eyes and helps the kid stand up. He has to take most of his weight and he ponders for a second if carrying him over his shoulder would be more effective.

“You’re the- best,” The boy points at his mentor. “I like you so so much. You’re just so-“

“Yes, yes,” Tony nods his head and looks around. “Is Ned here?”

Peter follows his gaze: “No, he was supposed to come here but got cold.”

That explains a lot, the man thinks and begins to haul the kid to his car.

“Hey mr,” Peter slurs his name so horribly it is not a sound a human should make. “Do you like me? Even a teeny tiny bit?”

“Peter, I came here in the middle of the night to drag your sorry ass to bed, we’re past the point of just liking.”

The boy didn’t seems to understand.

“Too many words,” he groans and sinks to a crouch. Tony struggles but manages to get the suddenly very dizzy boy to the passenger seat. Thank God he had parked with the right side towards the house. Peter leans against the backrest and breathes heavily, seemingly out of it until Tony starts to tie him in with a seat belt.

“What- What is-“

“Easy,” Tony guides the kid’s hands away. “Leave it be,” he buckles the belt in and makes sure is secure. As precaution he takes a plastic bag from the passenger side door and opens it.

“I hope you won’t throw up but honestly, you’re starting to look a little green.”

“I’m dizzy,” Peter mutters and sinks lower on the seat. Tony guides his head between his knees and encourages him to take deep breaths. The boy is coherent enough to obey but his skin loses more color.

“Peter, if you feel sick, just let it go, you’ll feel better.”

The boy shakes his head and straightens up valiantly, Tony has to admire him.

“Let’s just go.”

The man nods and rounds the car to his seat. The engine roams and Peter grimaces at the loud noise.

“You’ll be okay,” Tony rubs the boy’s arm in support, the way he wishes his father would have done.

The journey is silent, no music, no talking, nothing to make the ride normal. Tony misses the kid’s babbling, with rock music blasting from the stereos. Now all he can do is glance at the boy every couple of seconds to make sure he is still in the land of the living.

Peter’s eyes start to fall shut as his head nods against his chest.

“Hey!” Tony snaps his fingers in front of the boy’s nose and jolts him awake. “No sleeping until we are at the Tower.”

“I feel sick.”

As he says it, vomit starts dribbling down his chin. Peter tries to hold it in but his stomach spasms are too intense.

“Just let it out, Pete.”

The boy needs no more urging. He grabs the bag and retches. Tony winces in sympathy but luckily they are just at the garage. He parks the car and turns his head to the boy who spits into the bag and groans.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you were remarkable,” The man gets up and walks over to the boy. “Remind me to tell you of the time Rhodey and I went to this charity ball. They had the Lakers girls serving tequila shots. My car back then had orange seats, not after that night.”

Peter tries to chuckle but fails as tears fall from his eyes. Tony takes the bag and drops it into the garbage can. They make their way silently to the living quarters and there Tony faces a shock. He had hoped the kid would tire himself out but instead, throwing up seemed to have spiked up his energy.

“I love this place!” Peter runs to the windows and Tony has rush after him to ensure he does not open the balcony door.

“Now, let’s get you something to eat,” he takes a hold of the kid’s arm and drags him towards the kitchen.

“Nooo, it’s so pretty!”

“Yes, yes, sky is pretty.”

Peter steps into his way and locks eyes with him.

“You know what?”

“What?” He humors the kid. Peter is silent for a moment but then snorts.

“I forgot!” He bends over in laughter. The voice echoes in the hall and Tony shushes him.

“Oh!” Peter is in an ADHD episode, like a kid who had too much sugar. He runs to the bar and grabs a bottle. “I want this!”

“No!” Tony tried to be nice but this is where he draws the line. He snatches the bottle from him and places it on a higher shelf.

“Tooonyy!” The boy whines. “It’s good!”

“You are already in the verge of getting your stomach pumped.”

“Why? I feel great!”

“Peter, what comes up must come down.”

“I already threw up, I must have more,” Peter takes a whiskey bottle but before he take a swing, Tony forces it out of his grips, slams it to the table and turns his furious eyes to the boy.

“I’m not having you die under my watch!”

The boy’s eyes glaze over: “Would I fit there?”

The kid was lucky he loved him, there were very few for whom he would stay this patient.

“C’mon,” Tony guided the boy to the kitchen and sat him on the floor, he didn’t trust him with a stool, he would only crack his skull open.

“First lesson in drinking, Peter,” He took a pizza box from the fridge, his lunch, and sat down beside the boy. “Never drink on an empty stomach.”

He holds a slice of mozzarella-pepperoni pizza to the kid’s mouth. Peter is wary for a moment but then takes a small bite, so small he doesn’t need to chew on it to swallow.

“Nope,” Tony shakes his head. “Chew properly or it will be hell to bring it back up. “

Peter shivers and a tear slides down his face.

Tony doesn’t know what to do. Even after a year of knowing Peter, he is still very new to gestures of affection. He cares for the boy, there is no doubt about it, but the man is used to showing it through money and grand gestures and a witty comment here and there. Peter is different, from a completely different world, where people were open with their emotions because others could be counted on noticing them. Peter was a hugger, with a constant smile, and Tony wants to be able to return the gestures but he can’t.

There is a lock in his mind that he can’t bypass. Not for now at least.

The boy sniffles and takes the pizza slice.

Tony feels awful. He gets up and grabs a washcloth, he rinses it under the tab until it is warm. Peter’s eyes follow him as he gets on his knees and wipes at the tear tracts.

“You poor thing,” the man whispers and rubs the boy’s temples, trying to ease a building headache.

“Tony,” Peter says. “Do you hate me?”

What?

“No,” The man shakes his head and wipes away the tears that follow. “Why do you think that?”

“I don’t know,” Peter shrugged with half-lidded eyes. “Sometimes I get that feeling.”

“It’s just your anxiety speaking,” Tony stands up and fills a glass with water.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

Just what he needed, Tony rolled his eyes. He was well aware Peter’s self-esteem left a lot to be desired and honestly, he couldn’t understand why. He was a great kid, better than anyone.

“Sometimes it feels like the entire world is against me,” Peter cries softly.

Note to self, Peter is a weepy drunk. Never take him to a bar.

“Drink this,” He ignores the tears and holds the glass to the boy’s lips. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Peter gulps down the drink, obviously wishing it was something else. Tony takes the glass as the boy rests his head on his mentor’s shoulder. Tony smiles softly and ruffles the boy’s hair, easing out some tangles.

“You’re such a mess,” he chuckles in pity. Peter cries and eats the pizza.

“I am a mess. I made you come and get me. I’m such an idiot.”

“Peter, I know you are drunk but I won’t have you hating yourself.”

“I’m so sorry, Tony,” tears ran down his face.

“Kid, it’s alright,” The man rests his cheek on the boy’s head. “I’m not angry at you.”

“But you should be! You should have left me there! You’re so best at everything!”

He let the kid rant, only humming along in pauses.

“Tony, I think you’re the best there is. You’re the best person, and you’re Iron Man, Iron Man is best and you’re like a-“

“Okay, it’s your bedtime!” The man stood up and tried to drag the boy up.

“Tony, no!”

“Tony, yes.” He mocked and swung the boy over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

“Holy shit!” Peter shrieked as they made their way out of the kitchen towards the guest room. “You’re strong! Like Iron Man!”

“Yes, Peter, it’s kind of the point,” Tony adjusted his hold as the boy tried to jump off. Yes, he worked out but carrying Peter is no effort, the boy was like a small bird.

He kicked the door open and dropped the boy on the bed. His body bounced on the mattress and Tony moved over to unlace his shoes.

“Do you want to change clothes?” Tony asked as he took off Peter’s socks and stuffed them inside the sneakers for safekeeping.

“Tony,” Peter smiled as the man took off his belt, ”have I ever told you you’re the best?”

“Only like a minute ago,” the man muttered as he rummaged the closet for a pair of comfortable sweatpants and an overlarge Black Sabbath t-shirt that originally belonged to him. “C’mon,” he tapped the covers, “Sit up.”

Changing pants was no problem but shirt was a task, Peter seemed to have lost all sense of coordination. He got tangled in the sleeves.

“Okay, first head,” Tony rolled up the t-shirt and helped it on. “Right arm, no, your right.”

Peter slumped against the man’s chest and closed his eyes. His breathing was beginning to even out.

“It was fun,” the boy slurred. Tony gently laid him down and turned onto his side.

“Let’s get you comfortable,” he moved the boy’s right hand under his face. “I want to ensure there is no hindrance to your breathing. “

He pulled Peter’s left arm back to balance him. Covers slid over the boy’s body. The man took extra care that the pillow was supporting Peter’s head.

“There’s a trashcan right next to you if you get sick again. I’ll stay with you tonight so say if you need anything. Is your head okay?”

“Yeah,” the boy sighs. “The world is spinning.”

Tony brought his hand to the boy’s head and started caressing his hair. “Yeah, that’s no wonder. Is it bad?”

“Not really. Not like a concussion.”

“Alright, you’ll live.”

The man laid down behind the boy, his hand continuing the motion. Peter started breathing deeply in and out. Tony could still smell alcohol in the kid’s hair and it brought flashbacks to his own darker episodes.

It was just a one-time thing, he tries to reassure himself. Many teenagers drank and peer pressure can lead to unsafe behavior. This was not a sign of any deeper problem. Peter had issues, sure, but he was not suicidal. He made a mistake, had a few too many. It was just dumb luck that spider genes did not single out the effects of alcohol. In another reality, drinking this much might not have had ill consequences.

“Kid.”

Peter keeps sleeping.

“You would tell me if there was something wrong, right?”

Peter makes a sound in his sleep.

“You would say if you were depressed? If your thoughts suddenly got dark and life lost meaning? You would call me to help out? You wouldn’t make any drastic decisions?”

Maybe Peter needed therapy. He had obvious abandonment issues, Tony had read last month’s Psychology journal. Also the guilt complex was something they needed to work on. Before he met Peter, he had no idea word “sorry” could be used in so many contexts.

His thoughts were interrupted as Peter turned on his back and groaned.

“No, no,” Tony sat up. “On your side-“

His words were cut short as Peter gagged. In a second, Tony had him on his stomach, with head resting over the trash can.

“It’s okay,” he whispered as the boy coughed and emptied his stomach. Tony rubbed his back in circles while he held his forehead with his other hand. Peter whimpered as another gag hit him and Tony made sure he did not fall of the bed. Stench was overwhelming, Jesus what had the kid drank? Vodka was obvious, tequila, beer and yep, there was a piece of the pizza.

“Help,” Peter tried to keep his stomach in check but it was no use, he was puking again. Tony patted his back, making sure the kid did not choke.

“I’m helping, I won’t leave. You’re safe here.”

Almost as suddenly as they had started, gags stopped and Peter fell limp. The man rolled him back to the bed and set to emptying the bucket and rinsing it before the stench made them both sick. He returned the container to the same spot and sat on the bed. With gentle hands, Tony gathered the boy into his arms and set his neck to rest on the crook of his arm. Peter was spent and hovered on the border of unconsciousness. A glass of fruit juice sat on the night stand and he brought it to the boy’s lips.

“Peter, you have to drink,” the man ordered as the boy fought back. “You are getting dehydrated. Next step is the IV.”

Threat of needles always worked. The boy took a cautious sip and when his stomach stayed calm, Tony poured more into his mouth. Maybe he imagined it but Peter’s skin seemed to gain more color as sugar and vitamins were reintroduced to his system.

“Yes, the second lesson in drinking: water only worsens the hangover, I prefer sparkling water or juice and sodas.”

There were a couple of more lessons but they could wait until Peter was 21.

#irondad #drunk peter #peter tony #tony stark #peter parker #spiderman #tony worries a lot #peter does not see it #self-esteem issues #they need to work on their communication

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